1
PATTERSON
The New York Angels’ practice facility smells like sweat and ambition. Early morning light filters through the windows, catching the frost on the rink’s surface while the cold bites through my gear. I push off, feeling the burn in my thighs as I speed down the boards. My legs are strong, and my shots have been dialed in. I carve a sharp turn around the goal and spray ice at Wyatt King, our rookie winger, who’s trying way too hard to keep up with me. This is the only place where I feel untouchable.
“Cross!” Wyatt shouts. “What the hell?”
“Trying to teach you how to skate, kid,” I call over my shoulder as I circle back toward center ice.
Hunter Matthews, our smart-ass left winger, laughs from the blue line. “Leave the rookie alone, Patty. He’s still recovering from that bottle-service girl you set him up with last night.”
“Nah, wasn’t a setup. I just made the introduction because she was into him.”
“Thanks for that,” Wyatt says with a smirk. “I owe you one.”
Smiley, also known as Ryan Brady, glides past us with his million-dollar smile, living up to the nickname. “Speaking ofintroductions, I saw a photo of you leaving some club with that influencer chick last weekend.”
“That was three weeks ago,” I tell him. “It’s old news at this point.”
“Coach catch wind of it?” Hunter asks.
“Yeah. It’s almost like one of you assholes is delivering stories to him on a silver platter,” I mutter with no actual concern.
My off-ice antics have never affected my game because I always show up, perform, and win. Being cocky doesn’t matter when you’re as good as you act. The more I’m talked about, the more people are magnetized toward me, and this season, I have the top merch sales in the entire fucking league. I’m exactly what the owners want these days. I have virality. A fan club. Brand deals. Nobody does it like I do. I’m in a category of my own, on a path I forged myself.
Callan Riddick, the team captain, approaches, and everyone shuts their mouths. He is older than us, has been in the league longer, and carries a no-bullshit energy that keeps this team from imploding. After Nick Banks retired because of an injury, Callan took over. He’s no Banks, but he’s a great captain, and nothing gets past him.
“You done showing off?” Callan asks.
“Me? Never.” I flash a smile. “I’m building morale, Cap. Setting a high standard.”
“Or maybe you like being a gigantic pain in my ass?” He taps his blade against mine. “Let’s run the drill one more time. Coach wants to see it again.”
I fall into line with adrenaline humming through my veins because my body knows exactly what to do without thinking. We’re locked in and focused as Callan feeds me a pass, and after a quick maneuver, I bury it in the top corner without hesitation.The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net is satisfying as hell.
“Beautiful,” Hunter says. “I don’t know how you consistently do that.”
“Practice and putting the sport over my personal life.” False modesty isn’t my style.
Hockey is the only thing that matters to me, but even playing this game is temporary, like everything else in my life. That’s why when I’m on the ice, I perform like it could be my last time out here. At least when I’m at the end of my days, I’ll be able to say with my full chest that I have no regrets.
Wyatt pulls up beside me. “You think Coach is gonna let me get more ice time before the season ends?”
“Depends. Can you stop falling on your ass every time someone breathes on you?” I give him a playful shove. “You’ve got potential, kid. Stop overthinking it. My stats were the same as yours, my first year.”
“I’m gonna beat your records, Cross.”
“Yeah? I’m gonna beat your ass,” I throw back at him.
I like Wyatt.
He reminds me of myself when I first got signed, hungry and desperate to prove I belonged among players who’d become legends. Except I was better at hiding my insecurities and talked shit with the rest of them. The older guys made me better because they constantly pushed me. I try to return the favor to the younger generation.
“Cross!” Smiley calls out. “Twenty bucks, you can’t make that same shot from center ice.”
“Twenty bucks?” I scoff. “Make it interesting. A hundred.”
“Five hundred,” he quips.
