Both of mine shoot up. “Jake’s back? No way. He told me he’d be in Jacksonville for another month at least.”
“Passed all his evals early,” Rooks says, grinning. “Starts no-contact skates next week.”
“And you just happen to have insider knowledge?”
He shrugs, still smug. “Walked in on Coach’s video call this morning.”
Jake is my preferred right winger. He went out with a shoulder injury during our playoff run last spring and has been in Florida recovering with family.
Most of the guys on the roster now are rookies or trades. Thorn fought to keep our core together, but management wanted fresh blood.
Now it’s just me, Rooks, Jake, our goalie (Name), and (other defender) holding down what’s left of the old crew. Everyone else is still finding their rhythm.
Tonight’s preseason game should be…interesting.
Thorn shuffled the lines yesterday, trying to get the third and fourth units to gel. He even bumped Colt up to my line to spark some competition.
“Dude, your phone’s ringing.”
I don’t look up. “Who is it?”
“Just a number.”
“You can silence it. Spam call. That number doesn’t go out to anyone,” I say, glancing his way.
Rooks nods and hits the side button, tossing the phone back onto my duffel. A door slams somewhere down the tunnel, followed by Thorn’s whistle.
“Let’s move it, Voltage!” he calls.
Practice kicks into gear fast as we jump into warm-ups, line drills, passing sequences, but my head’s not in it. The scrape of blades against ice usually clears everything out, but today it’s just noise. Every turn feels half a second late.
I dig my edges harder, trying to skate the thoughts away.
Rooks flies by me with a chirp. “C’mon, old man!”
I flip him off on the next pivot and fire the puck toward the boards. It ricochets too sharp, smacking into the glass right beside Thorn’s head. The whistle shrieks again.
“Bench. Now.”
I coast to the boards, chest heaving. Thorn’s eyes narrow, but before he can start in, Rooks skates up holding my phone, the screen lit.
“Si,” he says quietly. “Same number’s calling again. Not spam this time.”
A chill crawls up my spine. “Who is it?”
Rooks shakes his head. “No caller ID. Just says it’s a Georgia number. Want me to answer?”
I snatch it out of his hand and turn my back to the ice, pressing the phone to my ear. “This is Harrison.”
The line stays quiet long enough that I think it’s a wrong number. Then a voice I haven’t heard in fifteen years slides through the receiver like oil.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You actually answered your phone, boy.”
Every muscle in my body goes tight. “Who is this?”
“You know damn well who it is,” the man drawls. “Heard through the grapevine you’ve been playing daddy. Figured I should check in on my kids.”
My knuckles whiten around the phone. The arena noise fades until all I hear is my own pulse hammering in my ears.
