Scoring Chance (Carolina Comets)

“Come on, Miller. Get those fucking legs moving. We need speed, speed, speed!”

I clench my teeth and push my legs harder at Coach’s request. I know I can do it. I can get to where he wants me to be, but, fuck, my legs are tired as hell.

It’s always grueling getting back into the game after taking time off. Not that I actually take time off, but when it’s not hockey season, my time on the ice is significantly reduced, and right now, I’m feeling it everywhere. My thighs, my ass, my lower back—all of it is aching.

But I need to push because we have a lot riding on this season after our first-round exit last year. We need to prove to everyone that we aren’t just a one-Cup-and-done team. We need to prove we can do it and are here to stay at the top of this league.

“That’s it! Tape to tape, boys,” Coach hollers when I smack the puck to Lowell and it lands on his stick effortlessly. We’re in sync, which is a good damn start for our first day back at it.

Lowell takes the puck to the net, trying to get Greer to bite on it. He does, and that’s when Lowell sends the puck my way, then I shoot it straight to the back of the net.

Lowell skates over to me with his glove out, and I bump mine against his. “Nice fucking play, kid. A perfect read.”

It was, especially considering we didn’t practice this at all. While I’m damn proud of what we just did, I’m a little worried about Greer biting on the fake-out. Those are the small things that can really blow a game for us.

Greer doesn’t look happy about it, but in typical fashion, he doesn’t let it show beyond the glower on his face. Even under pressure and when he fucks up, he takes it in stride and keeps pushing. That’s what keeps my hope up that just maybe we’ll be okay.

“From the top!” Coach yells, and we all take our positions again.

We run the play once more. This time, Greer’s ready for it, and he beats us glove side.

The next line hits the ice, and we take our places on the bench.

“Fuck, my legs are killing me,” Rhodes, our biggest and meanest defenseman, comments as he gulps in breath after breath.

“Dude, you’re telling me. This shit is exhausting. Remind me again why we do this?” says Wright, another defenseman and Rhodes’ partner.

“Because we love the hurt,” Lowell answers. “And money.”

They all grin, because our captain’s not wrong. That’s exactly why we do it.

I still remember the first time I stepped onto the ice. Well, step is a nice way of putting it. I fell, like immediately went down on my ass. It hurt, but the embarrassment that crossed my father’s face hurt more. So, I didn’t say shit. I just got up and tried again. I went down so many times that day, but I never gave up. Instead, I asked to go back again sometime. My dad liked my determination and took me. This time there were some older kids playing hockey. They invited me over and handed me a stick. Even though I’d never played or even watched a game before, I went all in. I loved every damn minute of it.

It took me a bit to get used to it, but once I was in, I was all the way in. And I wasn’t bad at it either.

When we wrapped up the game, one of the other dads said to mine, “I don’t say this lightly: that kid has potential—big potential. I’d get him on the right path if I were you.”

That’s how it all started. Afterward, hockey became everything to me, and the bragging rights and money that came with making it pro became everything to my family.

Even knowing now that all I am is a pawn to them, I wouldn’t trade it, because I really do love the game that much.

“How the hell are you even out here kicking so much ass with a baby at home?” Wright says to Lowell.

“Because my baby momma is a fucking rockstar and is killing it.” He grins, looking so damn proud of his girlfriend, Hollis. “And because my daughter is an angel.”

Rhodes huffs. “I beg to differ.”

“You’re only saying that because she spit up on you twice,” Lowell says. “If you’d stop scowling at her, maybe she’d like you more.”

“I don’t scowl at her,” the man in question argues…while scowling.

“You do too, but you can’t really help it. It’s just your default setting,” Wright tells him. He shakes his head. “I still have no idea how you and Ryan got together. She’s like the polar opposite of you.”

Just the mention of Rhodes’ wife has his infamous scowl turning into a grin. He’s so smitten with her. But it really is just like Wright says—they’re opposites in every way. She’s the Beauty to his Beast, and it works for them.

“Unlike you and Harper,” Lowell says to Wright. “You’re basically the same weird horror-obsessed people.”

“Hey, she’s way more into it than I am. You won’t believe her latest request and what she wants me to do with that Michael Myers mask. She—”

Lowell holds his hand up to stop him. “Nope. Don’t want to hear about anything you do with Hollis’ sister. That’s my daughter’s aunt. I’m good.”

“Yeah, but you used to love hearing about all our weird shit before you got with her sister.”

“And now I don’t. It’s just…weird. You’re too much like family.”

“Did you just call me your brother?”

Lowell scowls at the idea, and I laugh, which draws some attention my way.

“What about you, Miller? We all got taken down by love. When’s it your turn?”

I try not to react or slink back in my seat. I’m still trying to forget that conversation with Greer yesterday about the sad state of my love life.

Wright nods toward Smith, who is staring intently at what’s happening on the ice. “Even the old grump found someone.”

“Yeah, someone he definitely wasn’t supposed to be looking for,” Lowell mutters.

“Can you imagine what it’s like sitting around that dinner table? With your former coach turned colleague, who also happens to be your girlfriend’s uncle?” Rhodes shakes his head. “I can’t even imagine that dynamic.”

“Like you’re one to talk, Beast. Now you have to explain to your future children that you drunk-wed their mother in Vegas.”

“Well, technically…” Rhodes starts, but Wright waves him off.

“Technically my ass. At least Harper and I have a normal story to tell our nieces and nephews.”

“First of all, there was nothing normal about how you and Harper met,” Lowell says. “Secondly, are you and Harper still in the No Kids camp?”

“Yep,” he answers proudly. “We’re good being the fun aunt and uncle. Which reminds me—we bought baby Freddie this adorable little glove with knife hands.”

Lowell huffs. “She’s named after Freddie Mercury, not Freddy Krueger, you weirdo.”

“Semantics.”

Not that I’d admit it out loud or anything because the guys would roast me until the end of time, but I kind of love watching them talk about their women. It’s refreshing. My dad never talked about my mom the way these guys talk about their ladies. He’d always roll his eyes or have something shitty to say about her, and then degrade her in some way. She’d take it out on me, of course, but that’s a whole other box of shit I’m not ready to deal with right now.

And I wouldn’t dare say this either, but I think a big part of why I haven’t been able to just lose my virginity to any random woman is because after watching these guys fall in love one by one, I don’t want her to be random.

I want what they all have.

“On the ice, fellas!” Smith calls out, interrupting us.

It’s still so weird to see him behind the bench, especially when we were just out here playing with him a few months ago. I know he’s going to be missed this season. Whoever is coming into his position has some big skates to fill.

We pile back over the boards and take our positions at center ice. We run through a few more drills, working on some plays but mostly just getting a feel for being back on the ice and together again.

It’s exhausting, but it’s fun. It feels damn good to be out here playing the game I love so much with the guys I’ve grown to consider family. I don’t have any brothers, so this is the closest I’ll ever get to having them.

We wrap up practice for the day, then hit the weights for a quick thirty-minute workout. After that, we gather in the meeting room to go over all the not-so-fun stuff we need to get done this season. I really thought hockey was just going to be about playing the game, but there’s so much more that goes into it.

“And that brings us to our annual start-of-the-season fundraiser. As usual, all proceeds will go toward Kid Comets. We’d like to beat the total we donated last year by at least ten thousand. The black-tie charity event is in three weeks, and everyone is required to attend. Plus-ones are not mandatory, but it is encouraged since we need those donations. So bring your dates and bring your checkbooks, boys.” Coach stacks his papers together and closes the cover of his notebook. “Practice is at eight sharp tomorrow. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

With that, he heads for the door, leaving us to ourselves for the day.

“You going to bring a date?” Greer asks, popping up beside me. “If you can get one, I mean.”

I glare at him. “I can get one.”

“That’s not what your track record says.”

I glance around, making sure nobody is paying any attention to us. “Shut up.”

“Why? Afraid they’ll learn you’re not the ladies’ man you claim to be?”

All right, fine. So maybe all the guys on the team think I date around more than I let on. And I guess I do go on a lot of dates with a lot of girls I never call back. When the guys ask about it, I always give them a cocky grin and say I never kiss and tell.

But the truth is, there’s never anything to tell because nothing usually happens on those dates.

Greer laughs, clapping me on the shoulder and steering me out of the room. “I’m just screwing with you, man. I’d never say anything about…your thing.”

For some reason, I believe him. Greer may be an asshole and he may love fucking with me, but I also trust him.

“I think we’re going to hit up Slapshots. Guess it’s tradition or something. Want to come?”

Going to the hockey-themed bar downtown is a team ritual, but today I have something I have to do first.

“I’ll meet you guys there later.” For a moment, I contemplate telling Greer where I’m headed, but I don’t want to field the million and one questions he’s going to have, especially after yesterday.

“Sure, man. No problem. Text me when you’re on your way.”

I nod, then head in the opposite direction. In the parking garage, I climb into my gray Porsche 911 Turbo S, firing it up and relishing the way she purrs to life under me. I’ve never been a big car guy, but the moment I saw this beauty, I knew I had to have her. Besides, me spending the money on myself really pissed my dad off, which made me love the car ten times more.

I send the gate guard a wave as I squeal out of the garage and head toward my destination. Less than ten minutes later, I’m pulling into the makeshift parking lot and throwing the car into park.

I grab my trusty Comets baseball cap and tug it down over my head before hopping out of the car. The place is empty for the moment, but I’m sure people are going to start showing up any time now for their midday pick-me-up.

I head straight for the person I came here to see, and the moment she spots me, she lets out a long, exaggerated sigh and lifts her eyes skyward.

I think I’m supposed to be offended by how unhappy she is to see me, but I can’t be, not when I know Scout doesn’t really hate me. She wants to be my friend, and I want to be hers. Outside of my teammates, I don’t really know anyone else here, and it would be nice to talk to someone about something other than hockey sometimes. Hell, even all the girls I’ve tried dating are only interested in one thing—the game. For once, I want to talk to someone who doesn’t just see me as a hockey player. I want them to just see me, and based on the way she doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck about who I am, Scout just might be that person I’m looking for.

I laugh, then send her a wave. “Heya, friend. How’s your day?”

She gives me a pointed glare. “Still not friends, Miller.”

“Sure we are, and as your friend, I’m here to support your small local business. Can I please get a black coffee with—”

“One packet of sugar and a shake of cinnamon.”

“How did you—”

“Know?” She lifts her brows. “I remembered.”

The corner of her lips twitch like she wants to laugh at her own joke, and part of me is dying to see it. In fact, I kind of want to see her really laugh, like throw her head back and just let it all out.

She punches my order into the tablet, then swings it around for me to pay. I make sure to tack on a twenty-dollar tip for the three-dollar coffee.

When she turns it back around, her eyes narrow on the screen for just a moment, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she tucks her lips together and spins around to grab my drink.

“Busy today?” I ask her, flipping my hat around and leaning my arms against the truck.

I’m used to food trucks sitting high up off the ground, but she’s lowered this one just a bit. I wonder if she did it to make it less intimidating for customers and kids.

“Yep.”

That’s all she says, but at least it’s an answer, which is a hell of a lot more than I’ve gotten out of her in the last two weeks.

She turns around with my coffee in hand, securing my lid on the top before sliding it over to me. Then, she does what she usually does: ignores me.

She starts rearranging things, moving bowls around and stacking trays. I stand and watch the entire time, not saying a word.

As the seconds progress into minutes, her movements become more and more relaxed, like she’s growing used to me standing there. I’m not sure if I should be flattered that she’s feeling comfortable in my presence or offended that she’s so easily able to pretend I don’t exist.

A good five minutes pass before I start getting antsy and just have to say something to her.

“Got any plans for the rest of the day?”

She pauses, then peeks up at me.

Okay, she didn’t jump, so maybe she didn’t forget I was standing there.

“You’re still here? I forgot all about you.”

Ouch.

“Really? I thought you had such a good memory, though,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. It’s scalding hot and tastes like someone bottled sadness and served it over hot coals. She must not miss my wince, because she holds her hand out for it. “What?”

“Your coffee. Hand it over.”

I heed her command and slip the cup into her hand. She sets it to the side, then grabs one of the clear cups I’ve seen her use for iced coffees and grabs a pitcher from the fridge. She fills it about three-quarters of the way up, then dumps some ice into it before emptying one packet of sugar and adding a splash of milk to the mix. She caps the drink, gives it a shake, and hands it my way with a straw.

“Here. Try this.”

Eying the cup with skepticism, I pull the straw from the wrapper and stick it into the lid, then take a small sip. And it’s good—so much better than the hot coffee I’ve been drinking every time I come here.

“I notice you make a face every time you take a sip of your coffee.” She shrugs. “I’m guessing you don’t like hot coffee and cold brew might be more to your liking. The milk helps cut down on the bitterness that can occur.”

I’m surprised. Coffee has never been my favorite thing to drink, but it gets the job done, so I always suffer through it. I’ve tried to doctor it up with the sugar and cinnamon, but it’s never good. This may just be a game-changer for me.

“I take it you like it?” she asks after I’ve taken my second drink.

I nod. “It’s good. No offense to whatever that other stuff was, but it’s not for me.”

“No offense taken. Not everyone likes hot coffee. I think it tastes like burnt water, but that’s just me. Give me a vanilla cold brew any day of the week.”

This is the most Scout’s ever talked to me and certainly the most she’s ever revealed about herself, though I’m not about to point that out because I’m terrified she’ll stop talking to me again.

“Can I try the vanilla tomorrow?”

Just like that, her scowl slides back into place. “I thought you were joking about coming here and bothering me every day.”

“Am I bothering you?”

She doesn’t answer immediately like I expect her to. Instead, she chews on her bottom lip for a minute, contemplating that, likely wondering how honest she should be right now, eventually settling on a quiet, “No. You’re not bothering me.”

I grin, and her scowl deepens, causing me to laugh.

“Okay, now you’re bothering me. Go away. I have to get ready for the lunch rush.”

As she says this, two cars pull into the parking lot, and I know from experience that this place is about to be loaded with people looking for their midday caffeine fix and sugar high to get them through.

I shake my cup at her. “Thanks for this.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything else.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, friend.”

She grunts, and I laugh again.

“I’m going to wear you down, Scout. You’re going to love me.”

She scoffs and mutters something that sounds a lot like, “In your dreams, Miller.”

I can’t seem to wipe the smile off my face as I walk away.