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Chapter 1
Chirper
Colby
I break into my trademark smirk as I bounce the puck on my blade like I’m paddling a ping-pong ball. I flip it at the goalie. “Think you lost something.”
The goalie sends an expletive-laden snarl my way as the puck hits his pads and drops onto the blue paint.
“Aw, why can’t we be friends?” I sing.
The linesman skates in and sends me a halfhearted glare as he scoops up the puck. He’s seen me get under a player’s skin before, and he gets it. Like him, I’m just doing my job. I try anything and everything that gives my team an advantage over the opposition in this battle we’re waging.
The linesman gives me a jerk of his chin, which is my cue to leave, so I glide toward my team’s bench. To get there, though, I pass the opposing bench.
“Put a fork in ’em!” I yell as I go by.
As expected, this elicits dirty looks and dirtier comments, which only make me laugh. One guy is particularly perturbed and whacks the back of my knee with his stick hard enough I feel the sting. “You’re an asshole, Chase.”
Pivoting, I take a slow stride toward him. “Really? I didn’t know that.” I plaster on my smuggest smile—the one worthy of an Oscar. “Tell me something. How’s it feel to be royally forked?”
I don’t pause for the string of insults he spews at me. I don’t need to. All I care about is that I’ve accomplished my goal; my work here is done.
When you’re not an elite goal-scorer, you grasp for any role on a team. Once you land it, you exploit the shit out of it and excel at it. Call it self-preservation. My superpower is my ability to agitate, to stir the pot, to get under the other players’ skin like a burrowing tick—and I’m more than willing to hit everything on the ice like a freight train crashing through a brick wall. I’m damn good at my job. Which is a good thing because that’s the only reason I’m here. In a league where only one in four thousand youth hockey players makes it to the bigs, I’ve got that reason locked in a death grip so I can keep playing the game I love.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted. It’s all I know.
Over my shoulder, my teammates shout at me to get my ass back to our bench. One voice, though, has a razor-sharp edge to it, and I know instantly who it belongs to.
I join my team, and they’re all buzzing about the goal our side just scored. That’s the third unanswered goal we’ve potted in this period alone, thanks to a sweet wrister by our star winger, Sam Durbin. The crowd is still chanting, “Dur-by! Dur-by!” and he deserves every show of admiration coming his way.
We’re in the midst of a TV timeout, so the boys are guzzling sports drinks and checking out plays on iPads while our top line waits to take the next face-off. We’re up four to one, with only six minutes left in the game. For a team that’s been in the cellar since the start of the season four months ago, this feeling is a fucking high—especially since the score is coming against our rivals sitting at the top of our division.
When my gaze sweeps over the faces of our opponents, I see they’re stunned. And I love it. Being on this side of the score sheet is so sweet it gives me a sugar rush.
The icing on the cake? Yours truly picked up an apple—an assist—on that last goal. I shouldn’t have even been out there, but Coach sent me in to take the face-off, and I won it, sending the puck straight to Durby’s tape. He didn’t hesitate, firing it before anyone could react, and it found the back of the net. As a fourth liner, any point I pick up is a rare gift. I’ll never be at the top of a stats list, unless the league adds a category like “Most Chirps.”
Can you blame me for taunting the goalie in my jubilation? Guilt sparks a slight twinge inside me. The kid is a rookie, and I know all too well how it feels to have your confidence shaken. But my team comes first, and if I can keep the goalie rattled, we might win this thing.
That very talent is why the Carolina Surge traded for me last year. Well, me and a D-man. They really wanted the D-man, but I like to think they were more motivated to do the deal when my old team threw me in.
Me, I’m still adjusting to the upheaval. I liked where I was before the trade. West Coast team, sunshine year-round, and a sweet condo on the marina where I could take my sailboat out anytime I needed a mental break. I’d been there six years, and it shocked me to the core when the GM told me I’d been traded to Carolina, of all places, where the weather is soggy and unpredictable as hell.
“It’s part of the business,” the GM said. My agent parroted the same bullshit. That’s what they always say as they’re yanking the rug out from under you. Like you’re supposed to think being knocked ass over teakettle is somehow good for you.
There is a silver lining, though. It’s close to the coast, and Peggy’s here. I’ve lived here long enough I have my favorite restaurants, a trusted dry cleaner, and a good mechanic. I want to stay.
They say trades are tougher on players with families because they’re uprooting a wife and kids, but the way I see it, they have a built-in support system. There’s a partner to do the heavy lifting during a move, which leaves the dude with one job: to figure out what’s expected of him on the ice. He’s not struggling to set the entirety of his demolished life upright while adjusting to new coaches, new systems, new teammates.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to fit in with teammates who aren’t sure what to make of me yet. They’re having to shift from hating me for my play on past teams to embracing me as one of their inner brotherhood. Oh, I’m part of the outer brotherhood. I was from day one. We all stick together and play the united front whenever the media shows up, but behind closed locker room doors … that’s where the real shit happens. But most of the boys are coming around—except the one guy I need the most if the Surge are going to extend my contract beyond this season. My future here depends on him, and right now he’d be happy to feed my ass to the sharks. If anyone gets traded in the next few weeks, it’ll be me. Never him.
“Hey, Chaser,” Durby hollers as I slide over the boards to take my seat on the bench. He’s a solid dude, an amazing player who’s having one helluva year, and already one of my favorite teammates. He elbows me. “Nice face-off win. Have you lost any tonight?”
I shrug. “Couple.” Inside, I’m not so nonchalant. I know the exact number, and I also know I’m at sixty-seven percent, which is phenomenal. See, what the Surge didn’t count on when they picked me up in that trade is that I’m damn good at something else: winning face-offs. I wasn’t always, but I’ve studied and I’ve practiced, and that work has paid off.
I’m not going to crow about it and look like the cocky asshole the other team thinks I am. That’s all bluster.
Durby laughs, and I grin in return. “What did you say to the goalie?” he asks. “He looks like he wants to smash his stick over your head.” Durbin—Durby, as the boys call him—is twenty-seven, like me. Also like me, this is his first full season with the team. Unlike him, I don’t get along with everyone, and I’m not signed for the long-term.
