Even more terrifying than the rookie players was their head coach, Briar Sullivan, who had a brilliant mind for hockey and was the perfect person to lead the Citadels. She had been a star player herself on Vancouver’s PWHL team but had recently retired due to a shoulder injury that put her out of the game permanently.
Riley respected the hell out of her. Being the first trans woman in hockey had already been a progressive step forward—but being the first trans woman and the head coach of a new team? Fucking impressive.
Riley was so entranced by the scene unfolding in the locker room, watching Coach Sullivan gather her red hair into a neat ponytail to secure it before tightening her skates, that he didn’t hear Sloan sneak up behind him.
“The fuck are you doing? Practicing your pylon moves off the ice? Get out of the way.”
A lot of guys looked up at the sound of Sloan’s obnoxious voice, their eyes flicking between them and the Citadel players like they were bracing for a fight. Riley couldn’t afford to draw negative attention to himself, so instead of turning and punching Sloan in the face like he wanted to, he went to his cubby and sat without saying another word.
Sloan was all sneers until his one brain cell computed his surroundings, but by then, Coach Sullivan was giving him a flat, unimpressed stare.
“Skates on, Sloan. Today’s the day you put your money where your mouth is,” said Coach Sullivan. “Or do you need to hold hands with your friends and get your big feelings out before you hit the ice?”
Sloan walked to his cubby and sat down, keeping his gaze locked on the floor. “No.”
Riley had never seen anyone neutralize Sloan so fast. Either he was trying to behave around someone who might soon be his head coach, or he was intimidated by the fierce woman challenging him, but it was nice to hear the silence.
Riley put his gear on and left the room to escape the suffocating tension that was sucking the oxygen out of the building. More Citadel guys were showing up, and he had a feeling that this was going to be a frenzied joint training session to assess chemistry and skill sets.
To say he was terrified was an understatement, but the adrenaline moved him forward as his blades touched the ice and he pushed himself into a sprint down the sheet. Riley did a lap to warm up and then found a spot by the red line to stretch, giving his muscles time to get on board with whatever was about to happen.
Bannerjee and Carr were the next ones out, talking curtly with each other as Carr grabbed a puck and started doing passes toward the net. Riley had heard about them and their rivalry because the story had been played no less than a thousand times since they had made it on the Citadel roster, but seeing it up close was next level.
They weren’t being friendly, and they obviously thrived on outdoing one another as the passes became more intense, but it was ahealthyrivalry.
Anyone watching would think that Carr and Bannerjee had been playing together for years. The way they could read eachother’s moves and anticipate the next pass—and they weren’t even practicing for real yet.
Riley scoffed and glared at the ice under his gloves. He knew he was no star player, but he would give anything to have a tiny piece of what those two had. Not the fame and the skills, but the exhilaration of playing with someone who moved like an extension of his own body.
Jake had been that person. It was Jake who had lit the fire in his soul to play hockey, and without him there, it felt…
“You could have at least waited for me,” Sloan growled, sounding like an angry mutt as he dropped to the ice beside Riley. “What’s the point in having a roommate who works with you if they take off before you get out of bed?”
“Oh, gee. It sounds like your roommate hates you and was purposely avoiding you,” Riley said, switching legs and angling his body away from Sloan’s before he had to look at him.
“I shared my hamburgers with you last week,” Sloan bit back, sounding like a whiny child. “That was a truce, you bastard.”
Riley whirled around and narrowed his eyes at his smirking tormentor. “You made hamburgers withmymeat! How is it a truce if you’re stealing from me?”
Sloan’s left eyebrow went up, and Riley’s anger faltered. “Your meat, eh?”
There was more noise now that the majority of the guys were on the ice, but Riley still glanced around to make sure no one had overheard their borderline sexual conversation. When the coast was clear, he turned on Sloan again, weighing the outcomes of busting his lip.
The smug asshole.
“What’s the deal with you?” Riley snapped. “You butt heads with me constantly and then cry whenever I hint that I don’t like you. What reaction do you expect to get out of me when you do nothing but harass me?”
Sloan whipped his helmet off, like his glare would be more effective with his visor out of the way.
“You East Coasters aresoft. You can’t take a little ribbing without crying about being bullied, and you think minus twenty is cold. Fucking grow a beard and stop being a bitch.”
Riley wanted to snap his stick in half and impale Sloan with the sharp end, but again, he didn’t want to go to jail.
“Oh, and you think out west is better?” Riley pushed onto his skates and spat on the ice in front of him. “You call me soft, but didn’t you come here because you weren’t a good fit for the Edmonton team and they pushed you out? Sounds like someone left because no one liked them. I can’t fathom why.”
And then Sloan was on his feet, and Riley couldn’t believe he had once thought the guy was pretty because he was wearing an ugly expression now.
“Speaking of getting pushed out, I hear that shitty beer league is calling you. Why don’t you go play hockey with that washed-up forward you were givingpick-mevibes to and stop wasting everyone’s time? We both know this is the highest level you’re going to reach.”
