1
Theo
“Faster, Bouchard! My four-year-old niece can get past you the way you’re skating. Move, move, move!”
Coach didn’t have a four-year-old niece, but the message came through loud and clear. I squared my shoulders and pushed harder, blade biting the ice, but I was off. Everything was off. My stick felt heavier than ever, my right arm refusing to work like it should. Every pass I made was a reminder that last year’s final wasn’t just a bad memory. Not for me, anyway.
“You okay, man?” Hunter called from his line.
It was just a regular check, which meant I could lie freely.
“Are you?” I received another shot from down the ice and swept it back to Tucker, who was waiting for it. If anyone noticed me gritting my teeth and wincing, they didn’t call it. “We’ve passed the two-hour mark, and Coach isn’t showing any signs of letting up.”
He laughed, slapping his stick against his pads before assuming his stance in the posts. “I think he’s waiting for one of us to throw up on the ice.”
What Hunter didn’t know, was that I’d been suppressing a sickening wave of nausea since I got here. Mine had nothing to do with overexertion, though.
Mason and Grayson tore down the ice in a spray of manic whoops and hollers. The puck landed with Mason, who passed it to the rookie, and I started closing in. I wanted him. Barely half a season with The Surge, and the kid’s head was almost big enough to block his entry into the arena. He made sure to put on a good show for Coach, with his baby-blonde curls and baby-blue eyes, all wrapped up with a pretty little bow.
“Mine,” Shawn said, weaving steadily in Landon’s direction.
He’d called a straight line along the boards. Early Christmas. If I timed it just right, I could slam some sense into him.
“No, he’s mine,” I said, and Tucker immediately held off and fell back to cover.
I only had about three seconds to commit, and his body told me it was left all the way. So I rushed left.
And the little fucker faked me out.
He skated a tight circle around Shawn, spun off the boards, and stick-handled past three guys in a flashy arc before finishing with a toe-drag and a snap shot into the net. The rest of us exchanged glances, unamused.
“Show-off,” Shawn muttered as he went by me.
Coach clapped his hands loudly. “Reset! Two lines, everybody. Slap shots. Let’s go!”
I caught a pass clean, pivoted, and tried to fire it back down the ice. The puck wobbled, clipped my stick funny, and I stumbled, shoulder pinching like a motherfucker.
“Looks like it’s time to hang up the skates, Bouchard.” He skated by with a totally unnecessary spray of ice. “Leave the game to the ones who can actually handle it.”
“You don’t get to talk to me until after you stop shopping for gear in the kiddie’s section.”
He flipped me off and zipped away, laughter ringing in the arena. Hunter clapped a hand on my shoulder as we skated past. Pain flared searing hot, and I clenched my jaw against the sound that wanted out of me.
“Ignore him,” he said. “Rookies are Grayson’s problem, thank God. All we have to do is focus on our game.”
My game. Right. The same one that had cost my team the Stanley Cup last year. I just slapped his helmet and skated back into position for the next drill.
By the time Coach’s whistle shrilled for the final cooldown, everyone was sweating, red-faced, and grumbling. Three hours until our flight to Buffalo, and we were still trapped here.
“Physio,” McAvoy called, and the groans grew louder. He held up a hand to shut everyone up. It worked, kind of. “Ongoing fitness reports are gonna be par for the course now that we’re closing in on playoffs. I want you in and out, no messing around. We got a flight to catch.”
I cursed under my breath. Physio meant Reese, and Reese meant questions I didn’t want to answer. Not until my shoulder healed up.
Landon was the only one talking in the locker room, his excitement leeching the last of everyone’s energy. The guys were cooked. Stripping off gear, not looking around or talking. I slipped off my gloves, shoved my helmet into my locker, and made my move.
“Catch you guys at the airport.”
“Yo,” Hunter called as I made my way out. “What about physio?”
