I miss an assignment. Their winger—Martinez, a rookie with a wicked slap shot—is standing alone in the high slot, exactly where I should have picked him up. The pass comes across, clean and hard. He one-times it.
Goal.
The red light behind Wyatt explodes in rotation, sirens wailing. The goal horn blares—that deep, resonating sound that means failure. The visiting team celebrates, gloves and sticks raised, while our home crowd groans in disappointment.
Coach calls a timeout. Glares at me across the ice. The team huddles around him at the bench, but his eyes are lasered on me the entire time he’s talking strategy. Then, as I get up?—
“Kane, you’re done. Anderson, take his spot.”
I’ve been benched.
Seriously?
Conrad catches my eye from the ice during a stoppage. We’re talking after this.
Fantastic. Now I’ve got a pep talk to look forward to from Coach and King Con.
Third period. Coach doesn’t put me back in. I watch from the bench as the game slips away—another Firebirds goal at 8:34, then an empty netter with thirty seconds left when we pull Wyatt for the extra attacker.
We lose 3–2.
The final buzzer sounds like a death knell. The arena empties quickly, disappointed fans filtering up the stairs, leaving behind scattered popcorn containers and crushed beer cups. The ice is torn up, scarred with the record of the game.
In the locker room after, nobody looks at me. Guys strip off their gear. Shin guards hit the floor. Jerseys get tossed into the laundry bins. The usual post-game energy has been drowned out by tense silence. The only sounds are zippers, Velcro, and the occasional muttered curse.
Derek glances at me from two stalls down. “Congrats on the new girlfriend, Kane. Interesting timing.”
I look up, my chest tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He pulls off his jersey, revealing the compression shirt beneath, dark with sweat. “Just noticed you’ve been off your game for weeks. Then suddenly, you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“My personal life is none of your business.”
“It is when it affects the team.” He crosses his arms. “And when it involves my fiancée’s sister.”
Oh, this will be fun.
“Maya showed me the photos. From Ironclad.” He’s watching me too carefully. “Funny thing…Chloe’s never so much as mentioned dating. And now she’s your girlfriend?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with suspicion.
He walks away before I can respond.
I finish changing in silence. Pull on my usual tailored look—tonight it’s a Gucci crewneck sweater, pressed slacks, and a wool Burberry jacket. I thread my Rolex through my cuff.
The parking lot is nearly empty when I finally head out, the January wind cutting to the bone and my breath clouding in the security lights. Frost crackles as I pry open the door of the Shelby and slide in. The leather seats are freezing even through my slacks. I sit in the dark and defrost the windshield while the engine warms up.
I pull out my phone, the screen nearly blinding me as the contract fills the screen.
Section 7 stares back at me, the words highlighted.
Two-year non-compete clause.
Do I really want to do this?
Someone knocks on my window.
I jump, nearly lose my phone.
