We passed a set of double doors markedRink Access, and Kevin pushed one open. We stepped into the arena proper, and I had to pause for a moment to take it in. The rink was regulation size, surrounded by seats that could probably hold four thousand people. The ice was pristine, marked with fresh lines and the Mavericks logo at center ice. Above us, banners hung from the rafters: conference championships, tournament appearances, retired numbers.
“Impressive facility,” I said, taking in the arena. The ice looked perfect, ready for practice to begin.
“It’s not the biggest, but it’s ours,” Kevin replied with obvious pride. “We’ve had some good years here. Some great players too.” He pointed to one of the retired number banners. “That’s Jake Morrison, class of ’15. Still holds the single-season scoring record, but Adan came close last year.”
I studied the banner, wondering if Adan would eventually join those ranks. From the footage I’d reviewed, he certainly had the talent for it.
“The team takes pride in the history,” Kevin continued, leading me around the rink. “These guys know they’re part of something bigger than themselves. Most of them, anyway.”
“And Adan?”
Kevin’s expression shifted slightly. “Adan respects the program, but he’s focused on his own future. Can’t say I blame him since he’s got legitimate NHL prospects. But sometimes, he forgets he’s still got things to learn.”
I hummed in response.
He checked his watch. “The players will start filtering in in about fifteen minutes. Most of them show up early to get ready. Adan’s usually one of the first ones here.”
That was a good sign, one he was eager. “What would be the best approach with him?”
Kevin stopped walking and turned to face me. “Honestly? Just be yourself. Don’t try to impress him with credentials. He’ll see right through that. Show him you know the game and earn his respect the old-fashioned way.”
“And if he challenges me?”
“Whenhe challenges you,” Kevin corrected with a slight smile. “Answer his questions, but don’t let him push you around. Kid’s got a good heart, but he needs to know you’re not intimidated by him.”
Through the arena doors, voices echoed in the corridor. Players were starting to arrive.
“You ready for this?” Kevin asked.
I straightened my shoulders, falling back on the composure that had been drilled into me since childhood. “As ready as I can be.”
But as we headed back toward the lobby, my heart was beating faster than it had any right to. Three days ago, I’d been making small talk with other heads of state and fellow royalty. In a few minutes, I would meet Adan Rivera face to face. Time to see which required more diplomatic skill.
2
ADAN
I laced up my skates with the same routine I’d been doing since I was eight years old: left skate first, pull the laces tight through the middle eyelets, then the right. The locker room hummed with the familiar sounds of twenty guys getting ready for practice: the thunk of equipment hitting the floor, the scrape of skate blades on rubber mats, the endless chirping that never seemed to stop.
“Yo, Rivera!” Tank called out from his locker three down from mine. His real name was Cole Monihan, but everyone called him Tank, and that was what his jersey said as well. “You ready to meet your new babysitter?”
I shot him a look that could’ve melted the ice. “He’s not a babysitter, asshole. He’s supposed to be some kind of skills coach.”
“Same thing,” chirped Danny Martinez, our right wing. “Coaches don’t hire special help unless they think you need fixing.”
“I don’t need fixing.” The words came out sharper than I intended, but whatever. These guys knew me well enough to know when I was pissed off. “I’m leading the team in goals and assists. What exactly needs fixing?”
Tank held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Chill, dude. We’re messing with you. You know we got your back.”
I did know that. Tank had been my roommate since freshman year, and he’d seen me through everything: the homesickness, the pressure, the late-night phone calls home when my parents worried about money. He was solid, the kind of defenseman who’d throw his body in front of a slap shot without thinking twice.
“It’s bullshit,” I muttered, yanking my jersey over my head. “I’ve been playing hockey since I could walk. Never needed a personal coach before.”
And that was the truth. I’d dominated at every level: peewee league, high school, junior hockey. I’d earned this scholarship, earned my spot as the team’s leading scorer. So why the hell did they think I needed some European guy to come in and tell me how to play?
It was insulting, that’s what it was. Like they were saying all my success up to this point didn’t matter. Like I was some raw talent who didn’t understand the game.
“Maybe it’s different at this level,” suggested Marcus Webb, our captain. “NHL scouts are watching now. Different kind of pressure.”
