CHAPTER ONE
The puck slammed into the back of the net with a satisfying crack, and Tarmek's stick was back in center position before the mesh stopped shaking. Three hundred wrist shots every morning to the same spot—top corner, glove side. The goalie's weakness on seventy-two percent of NHL rosters.
He retrieved the puck, placed it precisely on the hash mark, and fired again.
Crack.
His muscles burned with the familiar ache of discipline, sweat dripping down his temples despite the rink's frigid air. The Emerald Enforcers' practice facility sat empty at 6:47 AM—exactly how he preferred it. No distractions. No small talk. Just the echo of rubber on ice and the rhythmic scrape of his skates.
Crack.
Two hundred ninety-eight.
The arena's overhead lights hummed their steady fluorescent drone. Outside, Greenwood Hollow was probably just wakingup—humans shuffling towards coffee shops, the trolls in the industrial district starting their early shifts, the pixie-run bakery on Main Street filling the morning air with the scent of cardamom rolls. He had already been awake for two hours. Protein shake at 5:15. Dynamic stretching at 5:35. Ice time at 6:00.
Crack.
Two hundred ninety-nine.
He set up the final shot, exhaling slowly through his nose. The net waited patiently.
Crack.
Three hundred.
He allowed himself one moment of satisfaction before gathering the scattered pucks into the bucket. His routine demanded efficiency. Morning drills, shower, team breakfast, film review, afternoon practice, recovery session, dinner, sleep. Every element was calibrated for optimal performance. Control was the foundation of everything.
He was halfway through collecting pucks when the side door banged open. The sound ricocheted off the empty bleachers like a gunshot, and his jaw tightened.
"There you are."
Sam Watley strode across the rubber flooring towards the rink's edge, tablet tucked under one arm and a travel mug steaming in her other hand. Her heels clicked an impatient rhythm that seemed personally offended by the early hour. Her blonde bob was perfectly styled. Her tailored cream trousers and matching cream cashmere sweater were pristine. She looked like she'dwalked straight out of a magazine shoot and into his carefully constructed silence.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," she said.
He raised an eyebrow and skated towards the boards. "I'm here every morning."
"At—" she checked her phone, "—six forty-nine? That's insane, Tarmek."
"It's consistent."
"In your case, it's the same thing." She took a long sip of coffee as if fortifying herself. "Anyway, I need five minutes."
He stepped off the ice and put on the blade guards that were waiting on the bench where he'd placed them exactly forty-seven minutes ago. "I have our team breakfast at seven-thirty."
"Plenty of time." Sam fell into step beside him as he headed for the locker room corridor. Her heels struggled slightly on the rubber flooring, but she kept pace with determination that would've been admirable if it weren't disrupting his post-drill cooldown window. "This won't take long. I just wanted to give you a heads up about a new initiative we're launching."
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Initiative?"
"Community outreach. Well, partly community outreach, partly arena beautification, partly..." She waved her free hand vaguely. "Branding exercise? My father's been on my case about making the team feel more connected to the town. Apparently owning the only professional orc hockey team in a hundred miles isn't enough civic engagement for him."
They passed through the double doors into the main corridor. The arena's interior was a maze of concrete hallways and fluorescent panels, functional and utilitarian. He appreciated its straightforwardness.
"Get to the point," he said.
She shot him a look that could have frozen the rink. "I hired a mural artist."
He stopped walking.
