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“Basky, lead us to victory!” Greck roared, and I exhaled like a bull, tapped my mask, and thundered out to the ice. Warm-ups had been a little tense, and yeah, I knew some of that was on me, but now it was all go. No glaring down at Marcus as he stretched or made jokes with his team. His glove hand was fast as lightning but so was mine. Mind on the game, I skated to center ice to give the fans a wave—as did the others—for opening night. Then it was time to wipe the sappy smile from my face and get my serious mug in place.
I worked the ice with my skates, scraping it up into small mounds. I patted the pipes. Touched my water bottle and looked up at the rafters and then down at the blue under my blades. Then, and only then, did I let my sight wander over the crisp new ice. Down at the other end, two hundred feet away, stood Marcus Newley in his blue and yellow gear, a glowing comet on the front of his sweater, his butterfly stance tight. Yeah, he was ready, but so was I.
Or I thought I had been. A lot of the game for a goalie is mental. I know that, Liam knows that, and our goalie coach August Miles knows that. When you allow something—or someone—to jam up your happy brain radio waves then you can’t…well, I don’t know what people do with radios because I don’t think I’ve listened to one since I was a little boy in Bangkok being bounced on my grandfather’s knee but whatever a jammed radio wave did it had to be bad.
Marcus was jamming my waves. Maybe hacking into the mainframe of my brain was more my generation. Ten minutes into the first period, I’d let two goals past me on four shots.
“Hey, you feeling okay?” Deandre asked after a puck went over the glass and play had been called while the refs conferred if it was on purpose or not. Greck and Bean were jabbering at the refs’ backs while I tried to find my game. My sight locked on Newley at the other end of the ice, taking a drink of water. His long throat bared, his mask resting atop his net. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I replied shortly. DJ gave me a concerned look. “Sorry, no need to snap at you, man. I’m just rattled.”
“It happens. First game back on the ice after a long summer off. I’m just making sure you’re okay. Coach Miles is studying you like a drop of alien goo on a slide.” I glanced around my teammate and yep, sure enough, Coach Miles was looking at me with that confused expression. I gave the goalie coach a short wave to indicate I was good, but that was a lie because I wasn’t good at all. I was screwing this up. “Hey, man, you need something?”
“Nope, I’m good.” I took a moment to redo the small topknot I wore to keep my hair out of my face. My scalp was soaking wet with sweat. Once the mass was pulled back, I gave DJ a jerk of my chin. “All good. Just had to fix the hair.”
“You and your hair,” he teased, gave me a rap on the shoulder, and skated off. I ignored the concerned looks from Coach Miles and Liam, who was suited up and ready—probably eager—to take my spot. Which he would if I didn’t get my shit together. There were two other tenders trying out for spots on the team, younger guys, both from the league under us, but Liam was the one slated to relieve me halfway through the second period, which was standard for preseason games.
Hunkering down, I shook off the memory of those two goals scored. Yes, they had been soft, totally on me, but DJ was right. First game back there were bound to be ugly goals scored on rusty goalies. Even though we trained and played all summer and had training camp, it took some time to get your skates back under you. I’d be fine. So what if Marcus looked good down there? Our offense was shaky too. Everyone on the ice was sloppy. It was fine. Who cared if Newley was sparkling down at the other end of the ice? Once our skaters got their heads out of their asses and took some good shots things would turn around.
Or not.
Thank all the hockey gods preseason games didn’t count. For my part, I did settle down after those first two goals and didn’t let the Comets score again on my watch. Liam let a wobbly one past in the third, and our shooters did manage to get a puck jammed past one of Newley’s skates, so the final score was 3–1.
Exiting the ice, Coach Miles called me into his office. I thumped along after him, wishing I was in the showers and not about to be grilled like a trout.
Coach Miles had a small space, but he’d made it his own. Lots of personal items like trophies and photos of him when he played for the Cayuga Cougars and then Boston. Most of the images on the two thin wall shelves were of his husband and him. Various places. Seashores, forests, and homey-looking rooms.
“Please, sit.” He motioned to a well-worn padded office seat in front of his desk. I took off my catcher and blocker, sat, and placed them on the floor by my skates. “Are you feeling well?” Coach asked as he sat down in a chair that squeaked loudly when he settled into it.
“I feel fine,” I told him earnestly.
“You seemed distracted tonight?” I reached up to yank out my ponytail holder, then gave my hair a combing with my fingers. “Is there something between you and Marcus Newley that I should be made aware of other than the normal rivalry that all teams have?” I shook my head, glad for the black mane of wet hair falling into my face. “Are you sure?” He prodded a bit more, his Canadian accent soft and subtle but still pleasantly there. “Greck tells me there is bad blood, but no one seems to know what exactly the problem is.” He tipped his dark head to try to see around my soggy locks. I flipped the sodden strands back from my face.
“It’s something personal. From our college days,” I firmly said, hoping my curt answer would suffice. I did not want to go there and dredge up the terrible thing that Marcus had said about me several years ago. I wish I could forget all about it, but that was impossible as I had to play against the man every damn year. Would it be too much to ask for him to be traded to a west coast team?
“I see.” He didn’t seem convinced. Leaning back in his chair, he pursed his lips before speaking. Gathering his thoughts. Coach Miles wasn’t a yeller. He was a quiet man who bordered on shy, with a kind smile and a wonderful way of getting his point across without barking or harsh discipline. I liked him a lot. He had a lot to teach Liam and me. “Well, since you feel fine, we’ll just chalk this up to first night jitters. Please do let me know if you are coming down with something, won’t you? I’d rather have you sit out a few preseason games than have you dog sick when the regular season starts.”
“Of course, Coach,” I said, pushing to my skates as I sensed the meeting was over. I bent down to get my gear, and when I straightened, his keen gaze was resting on me.
“Good. Also, and I know this is hard, but if there is bad blood between you and Marcus, you should strive to get past it before it becomes a problem on the ice. Mental preparation is as important as physical. Have you been doing yoga and meditation?”
“Yes, Liam and I practice together almost daily.”
He nodded, pleased at the reply. “Good, good. Keep doing that. And remember to stay in the now. That goes with resetting your mind after a goal as well.”
“Right, will do, Coach.” I backed out of his office, bounced off an equipment manager rolling a hamper of dirty towels to the laundry room, and slumped my way to the locker room. Liam was peeling off his padded pants when I arrived. I sat down next to him with a huff of disappointment. “So I just got called to the coach’s office.”
“Did he tell you to keep meditating and clearing your mind?”
A sock rolled into a ball soared overhead, crashing into a bottle of water that Chase Wheelen, one of the centers, had been sipping from. Chase barked at Greck, who lobbed another stinky sock in his direction. And so the sock wars began. Liam and I sat in a corner, talking like civilized men, while the others worked off the loss by pelting each other with disgusting footwear.
“Yeah, he did.” I didn’t relay that Coach Miles had asked about the thing with Marcus. Liam had enquired as well, as had a few of the others, but I kept that to myself. I didn’t want to have to even say what Marcus had said about me to that girl at that stupid party in my freshman year. “I’ll be fine next game, you’ll see.”
“Hey, I know you will be. First couple of games back on the ice are always off. Uncle Bryn says we should ease into the grind of playing full-time, but also maintain a rigid training schedule to ensure we are at peak.” I glanced at him with a raised brow. “Yeah, Uncle Bryn is hardcore, but you cannot argue with his technique or his stats.”
No, you could not. I strived to be half as good as Bryn Mettler had been in goal. “So work hard but don’t work too hard,” I joked softly and got a chuckle from Liam. “Like walking a balance beam wearing clown shoes.”
“Exactly,” Liam said as Bean walked up to us, bare-chested, wearing only his hockey pants and taped socks.
