Page 27 of Full Body Hit, Part 1

He managed to make it to the line where his teammates stood without tripping. He took a deep breath of the cold air, soaking the moment in, letting it saturate every pore.

He’d made it. He was in the NHL.

Chase was on the third line, which wasn’t too shabby, considering how he’d been playing at camp. Coach had told him he was going to get his minutes, that the first two lines weren’t going to completely dominate. He’d be able to settle his legs and show them what he was about. It was a relief—everybody had heard of the cases of young players having stunted development because they were relegated to bottom lines and barely got to play.

Chase needed to be on the ice. If he wasn’t, he couldn’t make an impact, and he’d never get anywhere.

Only problem was, he was completely and utterly invisible out there.

He’d gotten his minutes. Gotten a taste of what a real NHL game was like—fast and brutal. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t known what to do, or that he’d made any glaring mistakes—he’d kept his head down and played as hard as he could.

He just hadn’t made a single difference.

By the end of the game, his line had neither scored a goal nor let a goal in from the opposition. They’d been purely neutral, keeping the play steady so that others could score.

The Spirits managed to win, a convincing 3-1 result, although that included an empty-net goal at the end of play. The locker room was loud with talk and music, stinky with sweat. Chase could only imagine what it smelt like to a normal nose, pheromones ballooning in the small space.

“Good game, rook,” Noah said from behind, giving Chase a few playfully hearty slaps on the back.

Chase wondered if every goddamn person on the team—except Auston—was lying to his face. “Yeah, thanks.” If he sounded weird, Noah didn’t pick up on it, bouncing to the next person happily.

Sammy was equally as enthusiastic, ribbing Chase the whole time. Chase’s linemates seemed happy, too, unbothered by the poor performance.

Chase sat on the bench in his stall, staring at his teammates, the degrees of separation so stark that it was as though he were in a different realm, peering through a looking glass at something he didn’t quite understand.

He knew exactly what his mom would say if she were there—what she would say the moment she called him.

What was the point of being on the ice if he couldn’t score? Was this all he was capable of? Being a filler on the third line all his life, a footnote on the story of other great players?

Chase swallowed roughly, undressing himself with rough hands. He was glad everybody was saving the celebrations for another time—they had an early practice the next day, the coaches not wanting them to get comfortable even if they won.

Chase was dragging his soul behind him as he got home. Every single atom of his body was exhausted.

He managed to choke down a protein shake, desperate to just crawl into bed and forget the day, but was too jittery to even imagine himself getting into bed on his own.

It was stupid, but he wished he’d been invited over to Sammy’s. Maybe the other Omega would offer him a soft blanket again. Maybe even a few pillows he could burrow into.

He wandered around his apartment, opening and closing cupboards, searching the linen closet. He pulled out the extra sheets and a few towels. They were scratchy, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve something soft.

He paused at the edge of his bedroom door. Putting the stuff on his bed would be too much. Too weak. He went to the living room instead, arranging the material as best he could on the couch.

He felt marginally better when he burrowed in. The structure needed to be stronger. Higher. Plusher. But that was silly—that was reserved for heats.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he opened Twitter, searching for his name. Apart from the announcement of his debut, there was literally nothing.

He might as well have not even played.

There was plenty about Auston, though. He’d had a great debut, with a primary assist and a good play that had led to a power-play goal. He’d been strong on the forecheck, the pundits said, showing no sign of injury. He was slower than in his prime, obviously, but his intelligent play made up for it.

Years of idolising Auston had conditioned him to feel a glow of pride in his chest, but the sensation soured quickly, shrinking, mouth turning bitter.

He’ll be a good veteran presence in the locker room for a young team, one tweet said.

Chase snorted. Yeah, right. If they only knew what a surly asshole the so-called veteran was.

Chase shut his screen off, putting his phone on the floor—he didn’t even have a coffee table—and then settled into his makeshift nest.

It was cold and silent in the apartment.