Page 3 of Offside

Everyone finished getting changed quickly, heading out to the ice to start brutal training all summer.

In a normal situation, seasoned players would only have to attend a few weeks of training, but my situation was anything but normal. I had to be here all summer because I needed the time to gel with the other players and bond with them.

Which was easier said than done.

“Shit,” a rough voice cursed, clutching his chin and turning away from me.

We’d been doing shooting drills right next to a group of guys doing skating drills–bad mix.

I skated up to the guy I’d just hit when my puck hit the crossbar and deflected off.

The last thing I wanted was to make a bad impression on anyone, so I was silently hoping it was Wes or Drew.

But the teal 46 on his practice jersey made that hope die out quickly.

“I am so sorry,” I rushed out, resting a hand on his shoulder while he bent away from me.

He didn’t respond–didn’t even acknowledge my presence–but spat a little bit of blood onto the ice. I felt even worse at the sight, trying to form more words than just an apology.

Only it really didn’t matter.

Before I could say anything else, the guy straightened up, readjusted his sharp jaw, and glared back at me with cold eyes–I could tell they were blue, but in that moment, they were almost black.

Everything about the guy was pretty intense–hair like ink and skin like ice–I would put money on the guy being a vampire. He was bigger than me–a lot bigger–I had to look up at him when he stood straight, and I was already a respectable five foot nine.

The guy was just a friggin tower.

There was just a small cut on his lip once my eyes focused on it, dripping a little blood and…I mean, I knew it was just a caring action–something I’d do for my brother if I'd hurt him–but why did I suddenly feel so weird about wanting to wipe it for him?

Honestly, the bigger question was why I was so worried at all. I’d never questioned wanting to help a teammate before.

Why was I suddenly overthinking everything?

Without a word, the man skated off and stepped off the rink, disappearing down the tunnel. I tried to shake it off–I really did–but that was the worst first impression I’d made in a while.

An interaction that couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds felt like it dragged on forever–who was that guy?

He wasn’t on the team when I was here–that's for sure.

“Don’t stress it,” Wes spoke up, spooking me at his sudden appearance behind me in line for shooting. “That’s Landon–he's a little…eh–”

“Don’t be mean–he's fine,” Drew huffed, waving Wes off. “Landon’s a good guy. A little more to himself–a lot like you, actually. He may look terrifying, but ask him a single question about Star Wars and he turns into an excited puppy.”

“I didn’t mean to hit him–”

“And he knows it,” Drew assured me, spinning a finger to make me turn around and focus on being next in line.

“Don’t stress too much, Karts. I really think this is your season.”

Chapter 2

Landon

“It’s not bad, Lando,” Macey sighed, holding some gauze to my busted lip. “I’ve stitched up worse on you.”

Macey–one of our team's medics–was always my favorite. I'd only been with the Sharks for two seasons now, but I’d learned a long time ago to make friends with the staff–it served you better long-term.

Making friends with the team might have stopped me from getting traded so much, but making friends with the staff got me really attentive care when I got my concussion last season.