Scoring Position (Hockey Ever After #2)

by Ashlyn Kane

STILL STICKY with sweat from his morning run, Ryan Wright sat at the kitchen table in his parents’ Vancouver home and dug into his bowl of Magic Spoon. His sister Tara would roll her eyes and call him a child for eating knockoff Cocoa Puffs—which she would be wrong about, because eating a high-protein, low-carb cereal that tasted like childhood was absolutely an adult decision—but Tara wasn’t here. Even the nutritionists wouldn’t complain. Mostly because Ryan didn’t tell the Voyageurs’ trainers about his breakfast choices. But he had texted his sister when the first boxes of cereal arrived in the mail. You’re an idiot, she texted back. Also, maybe you wouldn’t have to defend your adulthood if you didn’t crash at our parents’ house all summer, every summer. That was rude and hurtful on top of being incorrect. It was a month, max—the last of his off-season training and a visit with his parents before his return to Montreal for camp. Besides, plenty of hockey players spent large portions of their summers where they grew up. Staying with family isn’t childish, it’s practical. Mom and Dad are so busy, I’d never see them if I didn’t, he’d responded. Don’t be jealous because Mom loves me best. This was a blatant lie—Tara was the favorite, having split the difference between following in Mom’s footsteps as a doctor and Dad’s as a therapist by getting a master’s in genetic counseling—but Ryan preferred to pretend he didn’t know that. The truth was Vancouver was an overpriced metrop...

Ryan pulled out his phone to text her some vague chirping encouragement… and realized his notifications had blown up while he was out on his run. His heart sank. That many unread text messages, WhatsApp alerts, and pushes from theScore could only mean one thing—a trade. Ryan didn’t want to believe it was him… but he knew it was. However much a team appreciated the way he could get the locker room fired up, that wasn’t enough to keep him. Ryan was a middling center on a good day, and there was no loyalty in professional sports. Even Gretzky had been traded. Ryan just hadn’t expected he’d be eating breakfast alone at his parents’ kitchen table the first time it happened to him. He tried to set aside the sinking feeling in his stomach and the way his skin had suddenly gone cold. Then he opened theScore to view the damage. It would be easier than getting the news from a teammate. Still, a piece of cereal seemed to have lodged in his throat. Fuel Sends Lundström, Second-Round Pick to Montreal for Ryan Wright Fuck. Ryan’s head swam and he sagged in his chair. He’d thought he had at least another year with the Voyageurs—that was when his current contract expired, and his agent seemed to think they were making good progress negotiating an extension. But that trade? That was like offering up a brand-new Ferrari and a road bike for a three-year-old Toyota Corolla. Montreal would’ve been stupid to pass that up. Through uncooperative, disbelieving eyes, he skimmed the article, but the...

What did you think was going to happen, Ryan? He dropped the phone and scrubbed his hands over his face in hopes of silencing that nagging internal voice, but it was no use. He’d been living with Josh’s parting words in his head for the past four and a half years, and he’d probably be hearing them for the rest of his life. Josh had been headed for Silicon Valley, backed by his trust fund, his bachelor’s degree, and a determination to make his own mark on the world. If the timing had been different, Ryan might have followed. At twenty-one, he’d almost given up on the idea of hockey as a career. And then a scout showed up at his last college game to check out the goaltender on the other team, and Ryan was invited to a tryout in Montreal, and…. And obviously it had been stupid of him to think that just because Josh could do software engineering anywhere in the world, he’d want to do it where Ryan was. What am I supposed to do, huh? Pack my shit and make new connections every time you get traded? Ryan ran his hands through his hair and pulled at it until it stung. Getting traded was bad enough. He didn’t need to relive heartbreak on top of it. He swallowed as he thumbed out of the app and into his texts. Several teammates—former teammates—had sent unhappy messages filled with Fuck! and What?! and crying emojis. Bobby’s was a gif of a toddler throwing a tantrum. Ryan had been traded. To fucking Indianapolis, of all places.

still stunned, staring at his phone and the unanswered texts, trying to process just what had happened, when his agent called. Maybe she had good news. Maybe this was all some kind of bizarre press-office fuckup. He hit the screen so hard it hurt his thumb. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he said instead of hello. To her credit, Diane didn’t sigh. “I’m sorry, Ryan.” Fuck. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the skin between his brows. “The Fuel?” They played in the Western Conference, so Ryan had only played them twice a year. Three years ago they’d drafted Nico Kirschbaum, a first-round pick who was supposed to be the new Hockey Jesus or something, but so far it hadn’t done them any good. Other than the fact that they were terrible, he didn’t know much about the team. “On the plus side,” Diane said, “real estate is cheap?” Fuck, he was going to have to sell his apartment. Fuck, he was going to have to find a new apartment—with training camp starting in a week. He pushed away his bowl of cereal, his appetite gone. “Can you… I mean, I’m obviously a little blindsided. You would’ve told me, right? If you’d known this was coming?” “That is my job.” She had a real way of conveying meaning with tone, Ryan thought. It was just pointed enough to put him in his place for questioning her competence, but gentle enough to make him aware she understood he was hurting. Management didn’t always tell guys or their reps up front. “I didn’t find out until a few minutes ago. I just got off the pho...

I want to give you a few details about the transition. They’re going to want you to come in for entry interviews, PR, all that stuff. Most of it should be scheduled during training camp, but you might want to think about getting to town a couple days early. You know anybody on the team?” “Kind of. I played at Shattuck with Tom Yorkshire, but he was younger than me. We didn’t exactly keep in touch.” Boarding school was almost a decade ago. Yorkie had had to grow up fast when he became a dad at nineteen. Looking after a bunch of sweaty players was probably child’s play after that. Heh. Child’s play. “The captain’s not a bad guy to know, though, if you only get to know one person.” “Yeah, I guess. I’ll track down his number.” “Good,” Diane said approvingly. “Okay, I’m going to let you go. Expect front office to call sooner rather than later. Keep your eyes open for shenanigans and call me if something smells weird.” Despite himself, Ryan smiled weakly. Knowing Diane had his back was cold comfort, but it was better than no comfort at all. “I will. Thanks, Diane.” They hung up, and Ryan gingerly pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at the notifications. Twenty-seven. He hadn’t gotten that many since he signed his first contract—a one-year, two-way deal that saw him play the first half of the season with Montreal’s AHL affiliate. But there was no time to get nostalgic now. He needed to pack.

Updated Preseason Rankings By Neil Wilson, Cassandra MacTavish, and Eric Doyle August 25 With training camps starting next week but kids not yet in school, we need an excuse to lock ourselves in our offices. Also this week featured some truly wild trade news, and if we don’t talk about it we’ll explode. So the Athletic team jumped on the Slack channel and posed the question—after the last week, who’s moved up in our preseason rankings? And who’s moving down? Cassie: I say we start with the obvious: the trade that made hockey fans test their coffee for hallucinogens. Eric: Let me preface this by saying that I’m a Montreal fan and I love Ryan Wright. Tons of fans do. Sure he’s no superstar, but I’ll take him to anchor my bottom six any day of the week, and that’s without the fact that everyone in the room loves him and he’s one of the only hockey players who’s actually got a personality in an interview. Call it off-ice intangibles. But…. Neil: “But” is correct. Cassie: But, Lucas Lundström and a pick for even a very charming and charismatic 3C is absolutely bonkers. Neil: Forget checking the coffee for hallucinogens. I’m checking the Fuel GM to see if he’s a pod person.

Cassie: It’s clear what Montreal was thinking. Wright for Lundström alone is a no-brainer. Even if you don’t need an excellent cheap young defenseman—which Montreal does—turning around and flipping him would be laughably easy. Add in a pick as a sweetener and they’d have had to be crazy not to take that deal. But Indy…. Eric: What is in the water down there? Because GM John Rees is drinking it. I would say he deserves a prize for making the most baffling trade of the summer and tanking the Fuel’s chances… except they are already the worst team in the league. Neil: I don’t wanna be that guy, but are you thinking what I’m thinking? Cassie: I feel like none of us want to be the first one to bring this up, so I’m just going to say it: The only way this trade makes any sense is if, for some reason, they think Wright is the piece they need to fix the team’s most glaring problem. Eric: That’s not fair. With Lundström gone, their defense is also a shambles. But sure, let’s talk about Nico Kirschbaum. Neil: Number one draft pick going into his final year of ELC, and Kirschbaum has failed to produce more than middling numbers. He should be close to a point-per-game player. Instead he’s got 79 points in 130 games. He has incredible flashes of brilliance and then… nothing. Very streaky. Cassie: In fairness, he did break his radius at the end of last year, so there’s no telling what numbers he might’ve put up healthy. Eric: The Fuel need Kirschbaum to step up. At this point, they have ...

“So let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?” Ryan wasn’t sure how to answer, but before he could bullshit something appropriate, Rees continued. “You’ve probably heard a rumor or two, or read an article about how I’ve lost my mind.” He offered up a smile that was almost lost in the mustache. “I was particularly fond of the one that suggested I’ve been replaced by a pod person. Does any of this ring a bell?” He didn’t look like an evil villain, but something about the words felt like a trap anyway. Ryan sidestepped as best he could. “Well, sir, I try not to read too much of my own press, so I’ve avoided looking into it too closely. But now that you mention it….” “Why did I trade a twenty-year-old right-handed defenseman who basically shits takeaways for a forward who might score fifteen goals in a good year?” At least he was a straight talker. Ryan relaxed a little. Whatever else was going on, Rees seemed to have realistic expectations of him… so far. Maybe he did actually know what he was doing. “It’s been on my mind,” he said diplomatically.

“Do you know Nico Kirschbaum?” And just like that, Ryan’s newfound optimism evaporated. Nico Kirschbaum was a guy with hockey in his blood—his father had been the best German player in the league, once upon a time—a guy who should have been tearing the league to pieces. “Not really. I mean, we haven’t met or anything, but I obviously know who he is.” Rees opened his top desk drawer, pulled out a tablet, thumbed it, and slid it across the desk to Ryan. “His highlight reel.” Okay, so they weren’t here to talk about Ryan. Still, curious in spite of himself, Ryan hit Play. On the screen, the player in the orange 17 jersey toe-dragged the puck off an opponent’s stick—a move Ryan would have said was next to impossible. Then he weaved through four white jerseys before taking a shot. The goalie blocked. Number 17 picked up his rebound and passed across the net to a teammate who’d finally caught up with him, and that player tipped it into the wide-open net. No wonder they wanted a therapy dog for this kid. Jesus. Ryan had goose bumps. The rest of the six-minute clip featured more of the same—absurd takeaways, goals from ridiculous angles, plays Ryan never would have believed in a million years. And this kid hadn’t even come close to winning Rookie of the Year—hadn’t even been part of the conversation. Because he could do this… but most of the time, he didn’t. Ryan stopped the video and pushed the tablet back. “Impressive.” “Oh, I agree.” Rees nodded. “And frustrating. You can see w...

SWEAT DRIPPED off Nico Kirschbaum’s nose as he pedaled harder. He’d hopped onto the bike after his run-in with Rees an hour ago, filled with a restless resentment that he couldn’t think of any other way to burn through… short of punching his GM in the nose. But his mother always said there were some acts people couldn’t forgive. Ironically, his father might actually have praised his initiative. Either way, pissing off the GM wouldn’t get him more ice time. All he could do was stare at the bike’s readout until the numbers blurred. His fingers ached where he’d clenched them on the handlebars, and his legs burned. He was an adult. He didn’t need a keeper. He gritted his teeth and dialed up the bike’s resistance. He had no idea what the fuck Rees thought he was doing bringing in Ryan Wright, then calling Nico into his office and asking him to make friends with the guy. And Nico didn’t think it was a coincidence that they’d asked him, the other openly gay guy on the team, to do the friending. This was all so stupid. And possibly homophobic. Nico did not need management to trade friends for him. Anyway, if that was that they wanted, then why had they sent Lucas away? Lucas had actually understood Nico’s sense of humor. He knew when to leave him alone and when to drag him out to socialize. And unlike many other guys in the NHL, Lucas had never had Nico’s dad on a pedestal and had no problem badmouthing him when he and Nico were fighting.

It was the day before training camp was due to start, and Nico had arrived at the ADESA Arena that morning to get in some last-minute summer conditioning. After last spring’s broken radius had knocked him out for the rest of the season, Nico didn’t want to miss a moment by not being 100 percent. And he was so tired of losing, tired of not being able to break games open like he knew he could. There was no reason for the Fuel to be perpetually at the bottom of the standings, and Nico knew he could pull them out of it if he worked hard enough. He had to, or he’d be stuck on a losing team forever. “I’m pretty sure the beeping noise means your time is up.” Nico whipped his head around to find Tom Yorkshire standing next to his bike. He was dressed in clean gym clothes and holding a blue Gatorade loosely in one hand as he watched Nico with a mild, steady gaze. “It’s fine.” Yorkie raised one eyebrow and continued to watch. He was kind of ridiculously good at the whole judgmental-disappointed-captain thing. Nico slowed, torn between reluctant respect and the embarrassing impulse to like the fact that Yorkie seemed to care. It was his job to care, Nico reminded himself. He was the captain.

“what brings you into the Wreck Center the day before training camp?” Nico shrugged and refocused on the bike’s readout, watching the numbers of hypothetical distance slowly climb. He did not want to have this conversation. If Yorkie already knew, then he was either there to add to the party line or offer pity. Nico didn’t know which would be worse. And if Yorkie didn’t know, then Nico sure as hell didn’t want to tell him. He was mortified enough. “Just wanted to make sure I was ready.” Yorkie chuckled. “Dude. After those videos you posted on Insta”—Nico was immediately grateful that he was already overheating and thus his blush would be undetectable—“I’m pretty sure most of the internet is aware of how ready you are for the season.” “My friend did that,” Nico mumbled, though he wasn’t sure that the truth was less humiliating. Somehow “my best friend since childhood created an Instagram account for me and enjoys posting embarrassing videos to ‘promote me’” sounded more pathetic than “I am indeed the kind of guy who thinks it’s a great idea to post my workout videos and shots of food and beaches for fans.” But Ella thought it was fun, and he knew his dad would hate it, so he gave her free rein. Entertaining her was the least he could do when she’d given him such a convenient excuse to get away from Berlin for a few weeks last spring and “accompany her” to Malta. Still, maybe he should revoke her access to that account now. She might be his sister in all but blood, but sibli...

let’s say I believe that you’re just here to keep up with the summer training,” Yorkie said when Nico pulled the bottle away to breathe. “That doesn’t explain why you’re punishing yourself on the bike.” He lifted his eyebrow again. “Or maybe you’re trying to punish someone else?” Nico looked down at his Gatorade to avoid Yorkie’s eyes. Punishing yourself. Just the words Nico had used for it, but he hadn’t expected anyone else to catch on. Yorkie sighed and leaned back against a treadmill. “I heard you had a chat with Rees this morning.” Nico gulped more Gatorade. “Does this have something to do with Ryan Wright’s imminent arrival?” Sometimes, like when he was trying to fill teammates’ helmets with shaving cream, it was easy to forget that Yorkie was a dad. Other times, it was hard not to remember that he’d had a kid and gotten married at nineteen. Yorkie had freaky dad powers. “Why would you say that?” No way was Nico telling anyone anything they didn’t already know. “Look, I’m not exactly into the idea of trading for guys based on whether or not you think they’ll be BFFs with your current roster.” Nico snorted. Rees made Ryan sound more like a support animal than a potential buddy.

Doc’s pretty great.” “You know him?” Nico blurted. Just because he didn’t want the guy anywhere near him didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. “Yeah, we went to Shattuck together. Well, not quite together. We’ve been texting the past week. Guy’s pretty shook about the last-minute trade.” Reasonable, considering he’d been in Montreal since he’d made it to the NHL. Not that Nico knew much about him beyond that. Well, that, and also that Ryan was gay and already out when he graduated college and signed with the Voyageurs as a free agent. The year Nico was drafted, Ryan made a Twitter splash when he was photographed at a Pride parade with rainbows painted on his cheeks, a rainbow-flag cape, and a loose tank that read Let Me Be Perfectly Queer. “He’s a good guy,” Yorkie went on. “Easy to get along with.” Nico’s mouth twisted bitterly. “So I’ve been told.” “I’m pretty sure he’s just looking to play hockey. Whatever plan management has concocted, Ryan wasn’t in on it.” “Doesn’t change the fact that they—” Nico blew out a long breath. He wasn’t even sure how he wanted to finish that sentence. That they think I need minding? That they don’t think I can handle the pressure? That they probably wish they never drafted me? Maybe he couldn’t handle the pressure. But Nico couldn’t think like that, because… then what? What would his life even look like? He’d been groomed for this since he was a kid. They’d moved back to Germany when his dad retired from the NHL, but by the time he was sixteen, h...

Nico’s dick would shrivel up and fall off if he found out the GM traded a right-handed defenseman to get him laid. Nico also had a right hand. It operated f...

“I get it. It’s no fun to feel like the team problem child. Believe me, I’ve been there.” And then he got over it, got the girl, won the Calder, became a dad, and got his Cup ring just a couple years later. Kind of hard to equate their situations. “I managed because the guys on my team stepped up and talked me through it.” That was nice for him, but accidentally knocking up your girlfriend and failing to live up to your promise as a first-overall draft pick didn’t seem like comparable problems to Nico. The truth was, he didn’t even know what his problem was. He played good hockey—great hockey, even. Just not during actual NHL games. Frustrated, he blew out a breath and broke Yorkie’s gaze. “Yeah,” he said. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say—in any language. At least Yorkie hadn’t sent Misha after him. Small consolation not to be coddled by a giant defenseman who might or might not have an issue with Nico’s sexuality, but was willing to put up with him because at least he spoke Russian. The captain waited around a few more seconds, but when it became clear Nico was finished with the conversation, he shrugged and got on his own bike. “If you change your mind,” he said. Changed his mind about what? Wanting to get out of this excruciating conversation as quickly as possible? Unlikely. “Thanks,” Nico told him. Then he made a strategic retreat to the showers.

he stood under the pounding spray, he carefully avoided stupid English idioms like drowning his sorrows. He was pretty sure that meant alcohol, not hot water. But he had to admit that this was probably his last chance. He’d underperformed for two years. If he didn’t step up this year, the Fuel would lowball him and he’d probably have no choice but to accept. No other team was going to offer-sheet him since they’d have to give up draft pics. If the Fuel didn’t offer, he might be able to sign elsewhere, but it would be humiliating not to get a qualifying offer. He was supposed to be this stupid team’s shining star, and he knew it. More humiliating than having the team trade him a handler, though? A handler who was—and Nico felt guilty for thinking this, but it was true—not worth what they’d traded to get him? Like, he was sure Wright was a decent person. Nico had done some preliminary googling before he realized Ryan was supposed to be his… crutch. He was outspoken and kind and participated in all kinds of charitable causes. No one seemed to have anything negative to say about him outside of his mediocre on-ice skills. Then John Rees had called Nico in for a meeting and told him all about the new guy they were bringing in and how they hoped they’d be friends and he’d be a great listener if Nico ever felt like talking to someone. After all, Wright had gone to college, so he had life experience— Okay, no, he couldn’t do another round on the bike, no matter how his muscles were...

He walked straight into a wall where there shouldn’t be one and dropped the towel in his hand. Only, it wasn’t a wall that he’d run into. It was Ryan Wright, who was standing in front of him in basketball shorts and a brand-new Fuel T-shirt, blinking. He was shorter than Nico expected, maybe 172 centimeters—definitely shy of his official 5’9”—with an open, friendly face and brown hair and eyes. Nico would have been surprised he hadn’t knocked the guy over—Nico had half a foot on him and had spent the off-season gaining muscle mass and apparently becoming an unwitting Instagram celebrity—but the wall comparison also wasn’t totally inaccurate. “Um,” he said. Why did he have to run into the guy who was hopefully not his team-approved gigolo while he was naked? He didn’t deserve this. “Hey,” Wright said, breaking into a textbook professional smile. “Sorry, I was just giving myself a tour. Didn’t expect anyone to be in here.” “Me neither.” Especially not you. “I’m Ryan.” He stuck out his hand. Nico looked at it. It would be rude not to shake it, but the towel situation was precarious. Awkwardly, he grabbed the towel around his waist with his left hand and shook with the right. “I know.” Would Wright get out of his way now? Apparently realizing he was blocking the doorway, Wright moved back so Nico could push past him. Nico did so, praying that he was still red from his shower. Wright didn’t need to know that his mere presence pissed Nico off, made his skin feel hot and his shou...

If he calmed down and tried to evaluate the situation objectively before he spoke, he was less likely to say something he’d regret. “Okay. So I don’t want you here. You don’t want to be here. Probably best if we just stay out of each other’s way, then.” Wright watched him for a long moment, brows slightly furrowed in an expression Nico couldn’t interpret. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah, probably a good idea. We wouldn’t want people to talk.” Nico understood that by people, he meant the media. And no, neither one of them particularly needed this to become a story. “No.” Wright said nothing, so Nico stood and kept dressing. He was uncomfortably aware of Wright’s eyes on him. Assessing him. For the first time in a long time, he felt naked in the locker room. Once again dressed in shirt and pants, Nico looked over to find Wright still staring. “Did you need something?” Wright snorted and shook his head. “Not from you. See you around, Kirschbaum!” He gave an annoyingly perky grin and wave before he left. Nico wanted to punch him right in the smile.

RYAN WAS in a pickle. His first meeting with Kirschbaum had gone… predictably. He’d felt obligated to tell Rees it was going to take time to get Kirschbaum to stop resenting his presence, and not to expect progress on the friendship front for a while. He’d thought Rees might be angry or disappointed, but he took it in stride: “Probably should’ve seen that coming,” he chuckled. “You’ll figure it out.” But right now, after practice, Ryan was just trying to figure out the locker room. Some folks rolled their eyes at the idea of acquiring players who were “good in the room,” and Ryan could see their point. Who cared if you were good in the room if you sucked on the ice? But he had always been comfortable in locker rooms, with the guys. He knew these spaces, how to read them. He had a knack for pumping up his team before a game or between periods, keeping them from getting frustrated when games got chippy, and cheering them up after a loss. He liked it so much, he’d studied sports psychology. But Ryan had no idea what to do with this room. He knew that Rees had brought him down here hoping he’d do some Freudian shit on Kirschbaum and get him performing like they wanted him to—like the kid was a dancing monkey instead of a real person. But even if Ryan could do that, that was only the beginning of this team’s problems. No training-camp locker room should feel this oppressive after a practice. The boys were as tense as a team after a game six loss. Dealing with this sort of thing...

Yorkie stood and opened his mouth—presumably to say something kind and bracing and Dad-like, as if he were talking to his daughter after she missed a pass—when Coach breezed into the room. “Well, I hope you all enjoyed yourselves this summer.” Yorkie pressed his lips together and sat back down. Ryan watched a blank mask settle over his face and turned his own gaze back to the coach. A former player who had racked up more penalties than goals, Chuck Vorhees would have been considered an intimidating size in any other setting. He snapped his chewing gum between words. “’Cause it doesn’t seem like you were doing much work. What was that, guys? I’ve seen six-year-olds put in better efforts. You’re slow. You were supposed to be packing on muscle for the season, not fat.” His icy blue gaze shot over to Kipriyanov, a formidable defenseman who weighed well over 200 pounds. Given that he was also 6’4” and that he was as fast as any other defenseman Ryan had met, Ryan didn’t think that was a problem. “Now I know some of you have been working out and showing off”—across the room, Kirschbaum curled into himself—“but clearly no one ever taught you the difference between working hard and working smart. Tomorrow we start working smart, or some of you won’t be happy when it comes to the opening-night lineup.” Vorhees turned and left, still snapping his gum. Well, that wasn’t… the worst. Sure, he singled out two of the better players on the team to put them down, but he wasn’t wrong that p...

Ryan wrangled a spot next to Yorkie near the end of the table and gauged the emotional temperature of the group. It had definitely come up a few degrees. Ryan might have ended up in the NHL by a fluke, but now that he was here, he loved it. He just wanted to play hockey. Maybe he’d never be a superstar, but he was good enough to be on the ice. A whole year of being on the ice with a team that seemed to be held together with stick tape and a prayer, however, did not sound like a fun time. If he could make it any more bearable, he would. He just had to figure out how. No pressure. Just a situation twenty-something other guys, plus various management and coaches, hadn’t figured out how to fix in the past two years.

“So….” Ryan kept his voice low. No one else on the team needed to overhear this. “How bad is it?” Yorkie huffed. “Bad enough.” He cut Ryan a sideways glance. “Not, like, Chicago bad.” So they weren’t in “call the police immediately” territory, but the fact that Yorkie had to qualify it…. He took a long sip of his mimosa. “Coach is… difficult to please,” Yorkie hedged. “He’s quick to point out what you’re doing wrong—I mean, obviously that’s his job—but it’s also hard to earn his praise. Like, almost impossible. It feels really old-school.” He stopped talking as their server came by and deposited a huge platter of tacos. “If he likes you, you can do no wrong, and if he doesn’t, you can’t win no matter what you do.” Naturally. Ryan would bet he could guess which guys he’d like too—not the elite players, guys like Grange who could turn the game around in a second, who on their good days couldn’t be touched, never mind stopped. No, he’d like the guys who reminded him of himself—tough guys. Though these days that meant more grit and determination than bare-knuckle brawling. Guys like Ryan, probably, unless the coach was also a homophobe. Sometimes assholes came with special bonus features. “Sounds like fun.” Ryan took a taco. Whatever else was going on, he needed to fuel up. Yorkie copied him. “It’s been like that for a while now. I was pretty surprised we traded for you, actually.” With some effort, Ryan managed not to flinch. “Not because you’re not good, just….” He took the ...

The rhythm of the team was different from what he was used to, but at least it didn’t feel like a brand-new pair of skates anymore. He was getting used to it. Soon it might be almost comfortable. He could do this—spend a couple weeks settling in, let things with Kirschbaum settle, try again to build a rapport. Despite the elephant in the room, no one was treating him weird. He didn’t know if that was Yorkie’s influence or if they were all too busy worrying about Vorhees, but he didn’t mind having one less thing to deal with. Just find a place to live, find his place on the team… find a balance between pleasing Rees and steering clear of Kirschbaum…. That last part might not be as hard as it should. Down at the far end of the table, Kirschbaum sat between Kitty and one of the rookies—what was his name? Chenner? The kid was still growing out his unfortunate juniors haircut, complete with orange-bleached ends. Kirschbaum looked uncomfortable, and Kitty kept bending his head to talk to him, nudging his arm. Was he giving him a hard time? Ryan couldn’t tell. “Tough two years on him,” Greenie said, obviously having followed Ryan’s gaze. “More on Kersh than everyone else?” Grange licked a glob of sour cream from his thumb. “No question he’s under a lot of pressure, and it sucks that Lundström got traded. I get that they’re friends. But he’s not doing himself any favors.” Ryan wasn’t going to ask what he meant. Greenie frowned. “Give him a break. Kid’s just awkward.” Was he? Maybe...

NICO LOOKED forward to the routine of game days. The predictable pattern of where to go and what to do next soothed him. For a few hours, he didn’t have to think about anything. Not thinking used to be the best part about hockey. With skates on his feet and a stick in his hands, he could let instinct take over. He could just react. He didn’t have to think about whether this was what his dad would’ve done, whether he’d be scolded for passing instead of shooting or the other way around. He’d never wanted to play like his dad—he’d even purposely chosen to play forward instead of defense—but Nico could never escape the comparisons. Pregame TV broadcasts still threw up images of Nico and his dad, side-by-side in their full gear, with their stats on display as if to underscore how badly Nico was failing to live up to his heritage. Unfortunately, in the past year and a half, it had gotten increasingly more difficult to not think during games, so he had to enjoy the pregame ritual for the mindless meditation it provided.

he wound his way to the locker room and stumbled upon several of the guys playing two-touch. A pang of longing hit Nico low in the gut. Last year, Lucas might have eased Nico into the group and acted as a buffer. Even when they used to play together in tournaments as kids, they joked that Lucas was a Nico-to-human translator. Maybe if Nico had been a better player or if he hadn’t missed so much of last season with a broken arm, he would remember how to fit in with the rest of the team. Now the idea of joining in seemed impossibly awkward. He should move on, but curiosity got the better of him. Wright stood in the middle of the group, calling out encouragement and PG-rated trash talk. His energy and volume made him difficult to ignore. Nico’s eyes kept tracking back to him. Greenie butted the ball toward Chenner, a rookie who would probably spend some time in the minors, and he whiffed spectacularly. Maybe his unfortunate hair was in his eyes. He caught his foot on the ball on the backstroke, then wobbled and stumbled backward. Nico cringed in secondhand embarrassment and held his breath as Chenner did a self-check after his fall. “You okay, kid?” Wright held out a hand to pull Chenner to his feet. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled and rubbed his ass. “Sweet moves, rookie!” Greenie hollered. Chenner blushed and mumbled something Nico didn’t catch under the noise of the catcalls. And he couldn’t hear what Wright said when he reached out and placed a hand on the back of Chenner’s ...

The thing about preseason games, Nico thought bitterly, was the lineup was so full of call-ups and rookies that nothing was predictable. That was how Nico found himself at center ice, facing off against Nashville’s third line with Wright on his wing. Not even Vorhees would pair Nico with Wright on the regular—they both played center. It made no sense. Sure, they might share the ice now and again in a pinch, but that was it. But in the preseason, coaches sometimes just threw things at the wall to see what stuck. And tonight, that thing was Nico. The ref dropped the puck and they were off. Nico won the faceoff and got the puck to Wright, who took it left and up the ice, and Nico gave chase. Halfway through the first period, neither team had scored and Nico had spent more than one shift awkwardly aware of Wright on his wing, calling for the puck and getting into the face of whichever opponent was closest. Nico needed to tune him out or at least turn down the dial on his own annoyance. But he couldn’t, and his frustration built. Wright tapped his stick on the boards and called out encouragement to Chenner as he skated past. Nico gritted his teeth against his mouth guard. Why did he have to be so loud? By the time Nico slipped back over the boards for his next shift, his annoyance had shifted into anger. He took the faceoff in Nashville’s end, snapped the puck from under the nose of the opposing center, and sent the puck straight to Wright. Wright sniped it to Chenner, who brou...

the night’s celebration should be optional. Or so Nico thought… until Yorkie stepped into the room. Coach had already finished his postgame lecture full of backhanded compliments, so Yorkie just had to whistle once to get everyone’s attention. “Since this is the last night of the preseason…,” he said. Nico’s heart sank. It was going to be a mandatory celebration after all. “Hit the showers and let’s get this show on the road. I want to see everybody at O’Malley’s by eleven.” Nico averted his gaze before Yorkie could make eye contact. If he kept his head down and got out of the locker room fast enough, he knew he could get away with sneaking out before anyone could corner him with an individual invitation that they wouldn’t really mean and he wouldn’t be able to refuse. Half an hour later, he pulled into the garage of his modest suburban bungalow and turned off the engine. Then he just sat for a moment, breathing deeply. It wouldn’t be like this forever. He was good at hockey. He knew in his bones he was. Last season, before he’d broken his arm failing to avoid a hit, he’d finally felt like he’d hit his stride. He’d had points in five straight games—a personal record at the NHL level. Now, he was back, and his body was stronger than ever. He could get back to where he’d been. He just needed to shake off the rust. Just a little more practice and he’d be back playing like he knew he could. Maybe then he could go out with the guys and feel like he deserved to be there.

RYAN LET the clock tick over past eleven thirty before he turned to the guy closest to him and asked the question that had been on his mind since the second period. “Kitty. Buddy. Friend.” Kitty—he was Kitty to everyone on the team except Kirschbaum, who called him Misha—gave him an amused look from behind one of his many shot glasses. “Doc,” he echoed. “New guy. Very annoying. Lots of questions.” He nudged Ryan’s shoulder to show he was teasing. If Ryan hadn’t been a professional hockey player, he’d have gone flying out of the booth. “What?” It was probably a direct result of the alcohol he’d consumed that he said, “What is Kirschbaum’s deal?” Kitty said something under his breath in Russian and flagged down the server for more vodka. Which did not surprise Ryan. Nico Kirschbaum seemed like a situation that required booze. “I’m not gossip about teammate,” Kitty said. “Kolya is good kid.” He narrowed his eyes. “You leave him alone.” Ryan put his hands up. “I am! I am honoring the agreement.” The agreement he shouldn’t be talking about. While there was plenty of speculation about Rees’s motivations for bringing Ryan onto the team, Ryan didn’t feel like confirming it.

Something had made Kirschbaum look at their little goal celebration like it was the dessert table at a wedding and he’d brought the team nutritionist as his date.

Kitty put a hand on his arm. “What agreement?” Ah… shit. He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not important.” Kitty was still giving him the gimlet eye. He was going to have to explain if he ever wanted his arm back. “He resents that Rees traded his friend for me, and I get it, so I’m giving him space.” The server dropped off four more vodka shots, and Kitty released Ryan’s arm and pushed a shot toward him. “Drink,” he advised. Ryan knew better than to argue with a Russian about vodka. He drank. “Now you tell me again,” Kitty said. “Small words. You drunk.” Well someone was projecting. “We’re avoiding each other. He feels like management brought me in to babysit, and it pisses him off. I don’t want to be a babysitter. So. Avoidance.” Kitty looked at the remaining shots of vodka, then neatly tipped them back, one after the other. He muttered something in Russian again. This was not looking good for Ryan getting any answers out of him. At least not comprehensible ones. “You both mad at management, so you are avoiding each other?” When he put it that way, it did sound kind of stupid. “It’s complicated,” Ryan asserted.

Why doesn’t he come for drinks? Why didn’t he celly with us?” Why did he perpetually remind Ryan of Charlie Brown right before Lucy pulled away the football? And why was Ryan fixating on him? It should’ve been so easy to hate Nico. A first-overall pick, the son of a former player. A guy who’d won the lottery, hockey-wise, while Ryan had to scrape and claw his way into the league. Even his parents didn’t think he’d get drafted. They encouraged him to play college hockey instead. It should’ve been easy to hate Kirschbaum, but it wasn’t. You couldn’t hate a guy who was obviously trying his best and floundering—one who so obviously needed a hug. “Kolya is good kid,” Kitty repeated, but now he looked troubled. “Is hard for him. Lots expectations, and two seasons now he’s injured. Can’t play like he wants. Now you say team brings you to babysit.” Okay, that would be hard on anyone’s ego. “But the cellies—” “You’re so interested, you find out why he doesn’t celly. You fix problem.” He gestured down the table. “We all try. He won’t let us help.” “He hates me.” “Yes,” Kitty said. “Because you very annoying. Too much questions.” He pushed Ryan’s beer closer to his hands. “Drink, Doc. This too serious talk for celebration.” And they needed to celebrate while they could. Ryan got it. He lifted his beer in salute. “Cheers.” He didn’t even realize he kept glancing toward the door until Kitty made an exasperated noise a few minutes later. “Doc. He not coming.” Ryan snapped his gaze back ...

NOTHING could ever be simple or well-timed, Rees wanted to see Ryan in the ten-minute window before the game started. “Ryan! You look good in orange.” Maybe Rees had bad eyesight? It could explain the moustache. “Thanks. Uh, you wanted to see me?” They were standing in a small players’ lounge a few hallways down from the locker room—Ryan in full gear, Rees in a suit with an orange tie. It didn’t look good on him either. “I was hoping to get an update from you before the game started. How’s our project?” Ryan wished he would stop referring to Nico like that. It seemed dehumanizing. But how’s it going making friends with that guy I told you to make friends with wasn’t much better. “It’s coming,” he hedged. “He doesn’t look at me like he wants to set me on fire anymore, at least.” “Good, good.” Rees smiled. “I’m hoping you’ll have a little more luck now that the season’s started. Close proximity and all that. You should have more opportunities to build rapport.” Ryan was doing fine with that with everyone other than Nico. Speaking of… maybe Ryan could get some insight from Rees. With another GM, he’d hesitate to ask, but Rees seemed invested in the team’s emotional well-being, even if it was in a weird way. Hopefully it wouldn’t come across as insubordinate or questioning a coaching decision—or if it did, Rees would let it slide. “Hey, do you know why Coach scratched Eric Chen tonight? His whole family flew down from Nova Scotia to see his debut. He’s pretty bummed.” “I don’t...

It was weird standing in the wrong color jersey for a home game, hearing the wrong anthem playing over the speakers. But it was already less weird than it had been in the preseason, and Ryan knew he’d get used to it in no time, just like he was getting used to the different style of hockey here, which was slower and more conservative than Montreal’s. Part of that was the lack of depth on defense—Ryan didn’t want to disparage his teammates, but Kitty had to hold the blue line pretty much by himself—and part of it was the team’s aging core. Greenie was thirty-five. Grange was thirty-seven. Old men in hockey years. But tonight they were playing well. Grange and Kirschbaum centered the first and second lines, and Ryan’s line—supposedly a checking line meant to frustrate their opponents—held their own, though Ryan felt Chenner’s absence. They were down 1–0 after Columbus sneaked one under Greenie’s pads when Ryan took a stupid high-sticking penalty and ended up in the box. He was chewing his mouth guard in agitation at himself—he was one of the team’s better penalty killers—when Kirschbaum streaked off the bench with a face like a thundercloud. The second he set foot on the ice, he intercepted a sloppy pass at the blue line. He had the defensemen on their heels as he weaved around them as if they were pylons. His zone entry was flawless. Ryan was standing to get a better view before he even registered what was happening. Nico toe-dragged around the goaltender and had him beaten...

exhausted and disappointed, thinking that at least he’d be able to sleep. Instead he found himself jolting awake, his pulse thundering in his ears and his chest so tight he had to remind himself three times that there was nothing physically wrong with him, that he could breathe. The adrenaline that flooded into his system would make it impossible for him to sleep for at least the next twenty minutes. But now Ryan was awake and thinking about the look on Nico Kirschbaum’s face after the game, the dejected slump of his shoulders, the snap of his stick as he slammed it on the ice when Columbus’s shot went in. The hollow, hunted look of doubt in those pretty, thick-lashed blue eyes. If anyone should look like that, it was Ryan. He was the one ...

His phone buzzed once and went silent—a text, not a call. School is boring! Ella had sent with some creative gif choices. Nico liked the sleepy baby faceplanting into its dinner. Take up knitting, he wrote back. He watched the “typing” notification appear on the top of the screen and waited. Knitting is a terrible idea! I’ll give myself carpal tunnel and how will I write my papers then? Nico snorted. Then go trainspotting or stamp collecting. Your lack of hobby is not my problem. We can talk about why you’re avoiding me instead, Ella offered. Nico dropped his phone with a curse. He hadn’t been avoiding her on purpose. Just, whenever they texted for more than a few minutes at a time, Ella prodded at how the season was going. What was Nico going to tell her? I’ve scored three points in eight games, only one of which was a goal, so Coach scratched me? Boo-hoo. The goal might have been worthy of the highlight reel if Nico had any other goals this season to compare it to. And it had felt good. Nico had roared with it, slamming himself into the boards… but his teammates’ enthusiasm left him lukewarm. He got a helmet bump from Yorkie and a shoulder pat from Misha and that was it. He hadn’t bothered skating past the bench for fist bumps. I’m not, he texted. Sorry it seems like that. He was hoping that would be the end of it, but his phone rang. Ella wasn’t going to be put off any longer. With a sigh, he picked up. “I’m not avoiding you.” “Obviously, since you answered my call.” El...

“I’ve been watching the games, you know.” Ugh. “So you know we’re 2–5–1.” Translation—abysmal. “Why are you punishing yourself?” “Maybe I just miss your sweet face. You haven’t been updating your Instagram.” “I’ve never updated my Instagram.” “Never mind, I didn’t call to talk about Instagram. Tell me what’s happening with the team.” Nico pulled his knee up to his chest. One of his quads still wanted some stretching. “Vorhees is being Vorhees. You know how he is. He scratched me last game. And he’s got it in for Chenner.” “No change there, then. How’s the other new guy?” Nico almost couldn’t believe she’d waited this long to ask. Desperate for something to sensationalize, the media had been all over him about what it was like to have another gay guy on the team. Two years ago, before Nico’s confidence had been ground to dust under the weight of two losing seasons, he’d probably have blinked innocently and said, “Oh, is Wright gay?” “He’s fine. He’s a good penalty killer.” Ella made a frustrated noise. “Stop being diplomatic and tell me what he’s like.” She paused. “Is he cute?” “Ella.” She could use Google as well as the next person. “He is! But that’s a total overreaction. What’s going on that I don’t know about?” Nico released his knee and flexed it a few times, exhaling and trying to dispel the tension. “Did you know he has a degree in sports psychology?” “Oh, a college boy.” Maybe Nico didn’t need to make any more friends. The one he already did have was terrible. “Ree...

“You never told me why you won’t see the mental-skills coach.” Sometimes Nico hated being right. “I don’t really want to tell you now either.” “Nico, I worry about you. Everyone needs to talk to someone, you know? You don’t think there’s anything wrong when I talk to my counselor. It’s not good to bottle things up.” Nico felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. He’d never considered that she might take his own reluctance as disapproval. “I know there’s nothing… I don’t think less of anyone for going to therapy.” He knew he was in trouble for the inflection even before Ella said, “You don’t think less of anyone.” “Ella—” “I swear to God, I’m going to punch your dad in the face.” Nico’s face burned. “It’s not—” “Not because of him?” He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “How long have we known each other? I have met your dad. You would eat nothing but pickled beets for a month”—Nico hated pickled beets—“if you thought it would help you with hockey, but you won’t go to therapy. Forgive me for thinking he might have something to do with it.” Unfortunate...

“I tried it once. Talking to someone,” he amended. “Remember?” He’d told a teacher at school that he thought he was gay. He was twelve at the time. His parents hadn’t been homophobic—not really—but he hadn’t been ready to tell them. That hadn’t mattered to Frau Schmidt, though. Ella had been there afterward, when Nico had been so angry that he hadn’t cared about coming out to someone else as long as it meant he had someone to talk to. He should’ve just talked to Ella in the first place. Instead, he’d had to deal with Frau Schmidt calling his parents, and coming home to discover that his parents knew. He couldn’t remember that day without feeling that bone-deep fear that shook him after the moment they mentioned her phone call and before they told him what they thought about having a gay son. “She was so out of line.” “I know.” “Right.” Ella blew out a long breath. “I know that you know that, but do you know it?” “Ella,” Nico grumbled. Did that even make sense? “Well, it’s not like your mental-skills coach is going to be calling your parents to give updates. You’re twenty-one.” So maybe it did make sense. Ella had a point. Nico did know that a therapist wouldn’t call up his dad a...

“You’re just jealous of my sandwich game.” He jabbed his fork, now with pickle on the end, toward the camera. “Yes. I’m seething with jealousy,” she deadpanned. “Damn right you are. Now, why did you call me?” He sliced the pickle and began placing it on his sandwich. “I assume it wasn’t to diss my sandwich. I have a Mute button and I’m not afraid to use it.” “As much as I would love to continue mocking your food choices—seriously, do you ever listen to your nutritionist?—that’s not why I called.” “Good.” Ryan did not feel up to defending himself right now. It was a day off and he wanted to decompress from the shitshow that was his job. It turned out that Nico—it was hard to think of him as Kirschbaum when he did such a good impression of someone who needed the world’s softest hug—looked progressively sadder with each passing loss, and barely cheered up when they won. Either way, he was laser-focused in practice—first one on the ice, last one off—and the same way in the gym. But nothing he did was good enough for Coach.

The look on Nico’s face when he’d been banished to the press box made Ryan want to wrap him in a blanket, feed him hot chocolate, and pet his hair.

“Tell me about your new team. I mean the good stuff, not the, you know, horrible win-loss record. Sorry about that, by the way.” He snorted and walked her through the highlights—the way Yorkie worked with the call-ups, the animal magnetism that Kitty seemed oblivious to, and Chenner’s first game, which Yorkie had quietly paid for his family to attend. “They don’t sound so terrible,” she teased. “But I notice you haven’t mentioned the progress with your protégé.” In one of his fits of frustration, he’d texted her about his assignment with Nico. Ryan shook his head. “There’s not much to say. I’ve never seen someone work so hard for so little payoff. It’s gotta be in his head, but he won’t talk about whatever’s bugging him, so….” He shrugged. “So you’re giving up?” “No!” he protested. Sure, he could’ve written the guy off as impossible, but he didn’t think he was. He just needed to wait for the right moment. “Just… biding my time.” Now she narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “And there’s nothing else going on?” Ughhhh. Ryan groaned. “Tara. Not you too.” She threw up her hands. “Well, he’s good-looking! And gay. You can’t blame me for wondering. Especially since I found out from Facebook that you broke up with your boyfriend.” Now Ryan was completely confused. Not about Nico being hot; “tall and milkshake-thick” was basically Ryan’s type, though he’d go to the grave before he admitted it to his team. But—“When I what?” “Mathieu?” Tara prompted. “The guy you dated in Montreal?” Ryan...

stop trying to distract me from the point.” “What is the point?” “The point is that you broke up with your boyfriend, who was a totally nice guy. And not, like, the internet kind of nice guy. Why?” This was dangerous territory. “Uh, because he wasn’t my boyfriend, and we’re no longer in the same country, let alone area code?” She blew out a breath and arched her eyebrows. “Lots of people do long-distance.” Well, she was asking for it now. “It’s not really worth doing long-distance for a casual physical relationship.” He had told her at the time that he and Mathieu weren’t serious. “So it wasn’t because of your thing?” Something told Ryan he’d fallen right into her trap. “My thing?” “The thing where you don’t even try if you think you’re going to fail.” Fuck. She wasn’t pulling punches. “Just because I haven’t met anyone”—Tara huffed, unimpressed—“doesn’t mean that I’m refusing to.” He’d learned the hard way that he could have hockey or he could have twu wuv. Only one of them paid the bills. “Ryan?” Tara sighed in exasperation. “Can you hear me now?” She always said that when he spaced on a call. He shoved another bite of sandwich into his mouth to cover the fact that he hadn’t heard what she’d said. He probably didn’t want to hear it anyway. “Mmm.” “As I was saying. You weren’t always like this. I remember when you had that boyfriend at Shattuck. You were nuts about him. And then in college… nothing.” “Tara….” Ryan had had enough media training to hold a pretty good poker ...

“There is something you’re not telling me!” she crowed. Then she grimaced. “Sorry, I’m assuming that since you haven’t told me, it sucks and you’re in your man pain about it.” He sighed. If he didn’t want to spend the rest of the season fielding questions, he might as well tell her now. Shoving the plate aside, he said, “Josh.” Tara blinked. “Excuse me?” “Not nothing. Josh. A software engineering major. We met my junior year.” Josh was smart and bitingly funny and not afraid to hang out with Ryan’s jock friends, and he had a killer smile. He also had a way of looking at the world like it owed him something and he was going to collect, but Ryan had liked that about him. It had only made sense to move in together their senior year. Ryan thought they were happy, thought they were on the same page… “And then he acted like I was stupid for thinking he’d want to stay with me when I moved to Montreal. And maybe I was.” It was a sanitized version of the story, but good enough for Tara, he hoped. He could barely look at her when he said it. He didn’t want to see her pity. Unfortunately that didn’t get him out of hearing it. “Ryan….” He took a sharp breath and cut her off. “I always knew ...

Ryan got sucked back into what she’d said earlier. He’d hardly let himself process the words at first. Now they were reverberating in his head. “Did you mean it?” he asked abruptly. “When you said I don’t try?” That was damning. Ryan didn’t like to think of himself like that. To her credit, Tara didn’t try to pass it off. “You didn’t put yourself in the draft,” she said instead. What did that have to do with it? Ryan frowned and crossed his arms. “If you remember, Mom and Dad encouraged me to go the college route.” What was he supposed to do when his own parents thought he couldn’t cut it? “Yeah, they told you to apply because they wanted you to have options. A backup plan. So that you wouldn’t be stuck with nowhere to play at your level.” She stared at him. “You don’t remember this?” Did he? He didn’t think he did. He could’ve sworn…. Well, it didn’t matter anyway. He was here now. Suddenly he was exhausted. “Can we stop poking my ego with a stick for a bit, please?” She softened. “Yeah, of...

everything went fine until the shootout drill. By rights, Nico should have hated shootout drills. He’d never scored in a shootout. The media brought it up every time a Fuel game went to one and Coach didn’t send him out—or he did and Nico fucked it up. Except Nico was really fucking good at shootouts… as long as they were drills. Everyone figured that would translate eventually. It never did, so Coach didn’t send him out unless things were dire. At least the drill was a familiar routine he could sink into, switch his brain off for a few more minutes. Maybe it would help ease some of the energy jittering under his skin.

It should’ve been Nico’s turn next. Nico always went after Grange, had done since his first week at Fuel training camp. But today Chenner was in the lineup, and he’d somehow gotten in line ahead of Nico. Greenie caught the puck and called something teasing out to Chenner, who shook his head and yelled back. Nico didn’t hear. He swallowed, grabbed the puck, and took his turn. Greenie was already in position, tracking Nico’s moves. The way Greenie always took Nico’s shootouts seriously was one of the few things Nico was proud of these days. He swept to the net, deked right, and shot left, high— Greenie caught it. “Better luck next time, Kirschbaum!” Greenie winked and tossed the puck back at him. Nico swept away from the net and tried to think of anything but that missed shot. He should have known Greenie would be hot on that side, after seeing Chenner’s failed attempt. He frowned at the ice. He might not be superstitious, but he should have known his stupid brain wouldn’t just brush off a break in routine. As he left the ice for the locker room, as he settled onto the bench, as the game started, he couldn’t help but replay that drill over and over. That missed shot felt like a bad omen. The fact that they weren’t losing after the first ten minutes of play did nothing to ease Nico’s foreboding. They weren’t playing their best, but neither was Calgary, and somehow they had kept the game scoreless. As the first period ticked toward the close, the Fuel had only managed three sh...

He lost the faceoff. Lefty managed to scrounge the puck back and shot up the ice. Nico and Mucker followed, up past the blue line, where an opposing player got into Nico’s face, pushing at him, blocking him. Nico shook him off, skated around him—and fuck, Lefty was running one of their drills. They’d practiced this move dozens of times, but Nico missed the memo—he’d gone the wrong way and wasn’t quite in position. Lefty passed, Mucker two-timed the puck, but no matter how Nico stretched, he couldn’t catch it. But their opponent did. Then Nico, Lefty, and Mucker were dashing back up the ice in pursuit. Bitterness choked Nico. He could see the pass, the shot, the goal, almost before they were made. He knew it was going into the net. Shit. Shoulders slumping, Nico firmed his mouth and skated back to the bench, where he avoided everyone’s eyes. He couldn’t do anything right tonight.

By the start of the third, Nico felt tight enough to snap. His shoulders bunched, his teeth clenched. He wanted to punch something. Then someone iced the puck, and the line change was slow and sloppy. Which meant Nico was suddenly on the ice with Chenner, who bounced all over the lineup but was rarely on with Nico. And who had apparently forgotten how to stay on-side, because he had their whole line moving back into the defensive zone for shitty zone entries twice in the same shift. By the end of it, Nico was fuming. He snatched up his water bottle as Chenner settled next him, his shoulders drooped and his head shaking. Ryan knocked their shoulders together. “What the fuck was that?” Nico snapped. “Didn’t you see me?” Chenner jerked and stuttered, “Um. Well—” “Hey,” Wright cut in. He put a gloved hand on Chenner’s head and wiggled as if ruffling imaginary hair. “Don’t listen to Oscar the Grouch over here. Mistakes happen.” On Wright’s other side, Lefty snorted. “Grouch. Kirschbaum the Grouch.” No. Nico clenched his fist. No, they weren’t going to— To his right, Granger bopped Nico gently on the head. “Doc’s got a point, Grouch. Mistakes happen, so unclench and focus on what’s next.” Grouch. “Don’t,” he muttered, but they didn’t listen. By the end of the game, the nickname had spread up and down the bench and even across the ice to the net. Nico nearly dropped the puck when he heard “Grouch! Grouch! Over here!” from his left. He passed right. They lost 4–1 with Nico sitting...

Nico contemplated the merits of drowning himself in the shower. He opted for a supply closet instead, where he could sit for five minutes and breathe and pretend he didn’t care that his team hated him. His self-imposed limit was barely up when someone knocked on the door. “Kirschbaum, come on. I know you’re in there.” Fuck. Wright was the last person Nico wanted to see when he was behaving like a brat. The more he looked back at the game, the more horrified he became. When was he going to grow up? He’d snapped at a rookie for a mistake he’d made himself hundreds of times. He’d spent so much time dwelling on what he did wrong that he made more careless errors—enough of them that Coach had benched him like a toddler. And Nico couldn’t even argue with the decision. He deserved it. He should just stay in this hole forever. The worst part was that he was starting to suspect he’d have been better off sucking it up and talking to Wright like management wanted him to in the first place. It couldn’t make him feel any worse than the way he played tonight.