AllFreeNovel
Share Us
In that moment, I could almost hear the distant cheers, the sound of blades cutting through the ice, and the satisfying thump of a puck connecting with its mark.
I took a deep breath, the salt tinged air mingling with the distant hum of the city.
And for the first time…my fingers tingled with anticipation.
Let’s go, boys.
* * *
I ambled into the Cobras locker room, the colors assaulting my eyeballs like a fashion disaster at a circus. Seriously, who decided that purple and yellow were the ultimate power combo? My inner fashion critic went on strike right then and there.
But, I had to begrudgingly admit, the place wasn't a dump. The lockers shone like they were auditioning for a toothpaste commercial, and the gear was so neatly arranged, one of the employees had to have a raging case of OCD.
As some enthusiastic voice from the front office droned on next to me about team history, my mind decided it was a great time for a mini-vacation. My feet, however, were on a mission of their own, leading me down the locker-lined path like they knew something I didn't. Maybe they thought there was a hidden treasure chest of snacks at the end of the line of jerseys.
I caught bits of the presenter's spiel about team dynamics and the upcoming season. Yeah, yeah, synergy, chemistry, blah, blah. My brain was pondering more important matters, like how in the world I'd ended up in this fucking locker room. But there I was, surrounded by the scent of sweaty balls and Lysol.
And therehefucking was.
When I turned the corner, John Soto was leaning against one of the lockers, my rival extraordinaire, or as I liked to call him, the poster child for "bad hair dye,” looking like a mole on someone’s left ass cheek.
Not my left ass cheek, obviously. There was only perfection there.
But someone’s…
“Do you need anything before practice, Mr. Lancaster?” The office minion finished his spiel, staring at me hopefully like he was going to get a tip after one of the more boring experiences of my adult life.
Maybe he’d accept a stick of gum. That had worked for Kevin McCallister, after all.
“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Lancaster,” Soto drawled then, yanking my attention away from bubble gum tips, to his ugly face.
The trade had just happened, so I’d missed most of preseason training.
But fuck my life.
Hopefully, Layla knew how to make cookies because I would deserve several panfuls after my sacrifice this year.
Blake, not Layla—I needed to remember that was her name now.
Soto chuckled, temporarily pulling my thoughts away from my soulmate. I shivered in mock disgust as I stared at him. Reddish hair that could probably be seen from space, a nose that seemed to have been designed by Picasso during his abstract phase, and eyes that were more watery green than a kiddie pool at a summer camp—Soto was a walking masterpiece of genetic mishaps.
It was like the universe decided to throw all the quirky features it had in storage and mash them together into a character that even a caricature artist would hesitate to sketch.
Other members of the team were watching us, and I gave them a little salute, because I was classy like that.
“Hell must have iced over, boys. Ari Lancaster is in the house,” Soto droned.
Soto's voice, I swear, was like a high-pitched car alarm that got stuck on repeat. You know those cartoons where a character inhales helium and starts talking like they're auditioning for a chipmunk choir? Well, Soto must have had bad helium for breakfast, because his voice would have made those chipmunks weep.
“Someone had to class you up,boys,” I drawled, surveying the team, mentally cataloging what I knew about them from playing against them the last few years.
First up was Callum, the human wall they called a defenseman. I had to hand it to him, the guy had a wingspan that could probably block out the sun. His nickname could've been "No Entry Zone" with those arms, but for all his defensive prowess, he moved like a glacier in the Sahara. Give that guy a GPS tracker, because he could use some directions on the ice. He’d be relegated to second line now that I was here, but he wasn’t glaring at me, so props to him.
Then there was Tommy, the sniper with a shot that could probably take down satellites. His accuracy was like a heat-seeking missile, and he had the kind of poker face that would make Lady Gaga proud. But get him into a fight, and he turned into a deer caught in headlights. I guess body checks weren't part of his playlist.
And let's not forget Frankie, the speed demon on skates. Seriously, if he went any faster, he might turn into a blur and disappear into another dimension. The guy was like a caffeine-fueled cheetah, darting around the ice like he was late for a date with destiny. But his focus sometimes took a vacation mid-game. I swear, he'd be zipping along one moment and then suddenly doing the ice equivalent of interpretive dance the next.
My gaze flicked back to Soto. He had no strengths. Only weaknesses. And I didn’t want to hurt my pretty brain going over them.
