Page 19 of Scarred

SEVEN

CAYDEN

My eyes don’t lose focus as I keep track of the black disc headed my way. My body is on high alert as I grip my stick tighter, analyzing and anticipating the next move.

I ignore the sweat dripping down my neck and the fast beat in my chest as I hone in on the puck being passed back and forth—my teammates waiting for the perfect moment to try and get past me.

The stick slightly raises, and I brace for the impact as it sails through the air, aiming straight for the upper left-hand side of my net. My glove shoots out at the precise moment, feeling the thud as the puck slams into the leather of my glove.

“Fuck,” I hear McCormick mutter as his blades stop abruptly, spraying ice onto my leg guards.

Grinning, I drop the puck at his feet and lift my mask onto my head.

“So close,” I tsk, knowing I’m pissing him off even more when I see his scowl. “But, not close enough,” I grin.

“Fuck you,” he breathes, as he cups the puck with his stick for another go around, knowing he’s not going to stop until he gets past me or the coach pulls us in to end practice.

Laughing, I pull my glove off with my other arm, keeping it secure against my side as I reach for my water bottle sitting on top of the goalie net.

“Your left shoulder gave you away,” I say, taking a deep pull of water before continuing. “I knew exactly where you were aiming because of the slight shift of your arm.”

“How the fuck could you possibly know that from a shoulder movement?”

“It’s my job to know that. Why the fuck do you think anyone rarely gets past me? Ninety-nine percent of the time, I know the play before the puck even touches the stick.”

Flipping my mask down, I put my glove back on and crouch down into position.

“Try again, but this time, don’t be so obvious with your body language until the very last second, and it’s too late for me to react.”

He nods slightly and takes control of the puck, skating away before stick-handling back toward me. My eyes stay locked on his movements as I pick up on the slight adjustments, trying to narrow down what his body language is telling me.

When he shifts slightly to the right, I prepare for the bottom corner as the puck makes contact with his stick. Dropping down, I cover the opening it’s headed for, but at the last second, he flicks it toward the center, sending it shooting straight between my legs, giving him the perfect five-hole goal.

Turning my head sharply, I see it land behind the red line just as McCormick appears, grinning like an idiot behind the net.

“Nice one,” I laugh, standing to full height. “It’s been a minute since someone got a five hole on me.”

“I’ve always wanted to get one past you that way,” he grins, tapping his stick to my leg pads as he skates by.

“Don’t get used to it,” I call after him as I hear him chuckle.

I do a few more rounds of one-on-ones with the rest of the team before Coach Goldman blows his whistle signaling us in.

“We’ve got a big home game tomorrow, boys. Carolina has been on a winning streak lately, and we need to end it here. I expect you all to be rested and ready.” He eyes us all huddled in a circle around him, making sure he’s getting his point across.

“We’ll be ready, Coach,” Stone grins with excitement, always up for the harder challenges. I have no doubt he will lead this team to a win tomorrow. Being the top-scoring NHL player in the league, we were lucky to get him as our captain this year. He’s a damn good leader, and if we keep playing like we have been, the Stanley Cup is as good as ours this year.

“Let’s see that you are,” Coach nods before going over a few more of his notes he made during practice. When he’s finished and satisfied that we all understand what needs to be done tomorrow night, he dismisses us to the locker room. “Blade, stay back for a second,” he says when I make a move to skate away.

Once we are alone, he takes off his dark reading glasses and slides them into the front of his Bolts pullover.

“Don’t forget you have that session today. I expect you to be there,” his brown eyes hold mine as I try not to roll my eyes in annoyance.

“I’ll be there,” I grunt, wishing I didn’t have to waste my afternoon with some yoga bullshit, but I promised him I would go and at least try it out.

“Look,” he sighs. “I know you think it’s pointless, but regular physical therapy is not working. Lots of athletes do restorative yoga and have seen great results.”

“I promised you I would go, and I will. Not sure how lying on a mat and aligning my fucking chakras will help, but I guess it won’t hurt to give it a try.”