The arena is very nice. It’s only a few years old, and they had a huge budget. It’s just small. Really small. It seats a third of the number of people the Grays’ stadium can seat.
The ceilings are lower, the hallways narrower, there are fewer windows, and there’s less…shine. There are fewer fancy embellishments, less glitz.
None of that matters, of course. It just makes me feel a little claustrophobic. Or something.
For another, I realize that most of my socializing, conversation, time off the ice with my teammates happens in the locker room. Being in here alone is very odd.
I head for an empty locker—there are several—and toss my duffel onto the floor. I drop onto the bench and stare into the empty space.
I think I’m nervous. Holy shit. I’ve never been nervous about hockey before.
I’ve been revved up for a game for sure. I’ve felt adrenaline, anticipation, an I-want-this-one-to-go-well excitement, of course. But I’ve never been nervous about apractice. I can play hockey in my sleep. Everything about it is practically instinct at this point.
But I don’t think it’s the hockey, exactly, that I’m jittery about.
I’ve never started with a new team before. Not since I came to play for the Grays at age nineteen, and that almost doesn’t count. Declan recruited me. Everyone was excited to have me come. I was a hot shot, at the top of my game, and better than anyone else anyone was recruiting. And I was too young to know that I shouldn’t have been that cocky. But the next several years did nothing to quell that confidence. I never gave anyone reason to believe I was anything less than the best.
But that was before the injury. Before I realized I’m not invincible. Before other people surpassed me. Before people started talking about me in the past tense.
Now I am not only starting with a new group of players, I’m definitely not at one-hundred percent. I’m not the star I once was. And I’m starting over in a place that doesn’t want me.
Nora does.
That thought echoes through my head and settles in my chest.
Yeah, she fucking does. Nora wants me here. Sheneedsme. She said so herself.
That makes me shove up from the bench and start dressing for practice. Fuck these nerves. I’m going out to play hockey inpodunk Louisiana for a team that has a swamp wolf as a mascot for fuck’s sake. I’m fine.
Several minutes later, I make my way out of the locker room and down the hallway toward the ice. As I near the rink, I finally hear voices. At least I’m not going to be alone on the ice.
But now I’m faced with another first. Feeling strange about being the last to arrive to a party. That has never bothered me before. I don’t mind making an entrance.
Man, fuck feeling anxious. I hate it.
You’re Alex fucking Olsen. You’re a professional hockey star. You won the Cup last year.
They pay you millions of dollars to slap a puck around on the ice.
I grin to myself as Nora’s words come back to me. But she’s not wrong.
And Nora wants you here so much she dropped everything and sped to New Orleans to save you from the Old Man Posse.
I take a deep breath and skate out onto the ice with a big smile.
Several bodies turn in my direction, and one guy calls, “Hey! Alex is here!”
That causes everyone else to turn toward me as I skate up.
I give the group a grin. “Hey…everybody.” There are two women in the group. “I’m Alex.”
The guy who called out extends his hand. “We know.” His grin is large and genuine. “I’m Beckett. Beckett Moore. Welcome.”
Gratefully, I take his hand. “Hey, nice to meet you.”
I recognize him from the laminated page Nora gave me. He’s the left-winger for my team, the Revelers.
There was a page for each player on each team. There are two teams. My sister has aleague,not just a hockey team.
