Vital Blindside (Swift Hat-Trick Trilogy Book 3)

The lumpy clouds above Vancouver, British Columbia, groan into the sky before opening up to drown us beneath a heavy pour of rain. It wets my hair, making it stick to my forehead as I continue my morning run.

I’m on my seventh mile, and even though the weather just gave me the middle finger, my house is only a couple of blocks away. I can’t exactly stop now, even if that means I’ll have to listen to my twelve-year-old son scold me for bringing wet clothes into the house as soon as I walk through the front door.

Cooper loves to poke at the bear, as long as that bear is me. I can’t help but take complete responsibility for that. He learned at a young age that the majority of the time, I’m all bark and no bite, which only makes him enjoy picking on me like a little shit even more.

Our two-story craftsman-style house pokes its head around the eyesore of a spruce tree planted dead smack in front of Mrs. Yollard’s house. It’s almost the size of her entire front yard and looks like it hasn’t been trimmed once in its lifetime. I’ve tried convincing the widow to have it cut down, even going as far as to offer her my assistance, but she’s shut me down each time.

My persistence has no limit, however. I’ll get her to agree one of these days.

I jog past the neighbouring yard and toward my house, noticing the open garage door. Cooper’s bike is leaning up against my workbench inside, his Marvel-sticker-decorated helmet dangling from the handlebars.

Neither my son nor dog are anywhere to be seen, but I can only assume they’re close by. My kid wouldn’t dare leave his precious bike out in the open without protection, and Easton doesn’t move from his best friend’s side for a second longer than necessary.

Slowing to a walk, I move up the driveway, patting the hood of my Mercedes when I pass it. I maneuver around the array of hockey gear and dog toys scattered on the concrete pad in the garage before shaking my hair free of rain and opening the door that leads to the mud room, stepping inside.

The mud room is as big of a mess as the garage, with large piles of laundry stacked in front of the washing machine and a collection of shoes everywhere but the designated rack. I’ve been telling myself I’ll get this room cleaned up eventually, but I may have put it off a bit too long.

“Coop?” I yell, slipping off my wet sneakers.

Taking a step out of the mud room, I wince when my socks make a squelching noise and water seeps to the floor. With rushed movements, I pull off my socks and add them to a pile of dirty clothes before collecting all of it in my arms and tossing everything in the washing machine. I’m throwing in a pod of detergent when I hear the familiar click-clack of nails on the floor.

“You’re lucky Dad wasn’t home to see that, East. You would have had to sleep outside—” Cooper’s words cut off when he enters the mud room.

Chuckling, I start the washing machine and turn around. Easton, the ninety-pound German shepherd we adopted when Cooper was five, flops onto his back immediately, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and paws folded beneath his chin.

“Yeah, that’s not suspicious.” I snort and look at Cooper as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “What did he do?”

Cooper is the spitting image of me. Staring at him is like going back in time and looking in the mirror.

His milk-chocolate-coloured eyes have the same green flecks around the irises as mine do, and his puffed bottom lip twists to the right just enough to rest in a half-smirk that’s gotten me in trouble once or twice over the years. He’s tall for his age, coming in at just under five foot four—just like his dad was.

“Uh . . .”

“Cooper,” I groan. “Let’s do this the easy way, please. What did he do?”

His eyes roam around the room, focusing on everything but me. “He might have eaten one of the jerseys you had lying in that pile.” He points to the laundry on the ground.

“He might have? Or he did?”

Cooper gulps. “Okay, he did. But in his defense, he probably thought it was going in the trash anyway. It had been sitting there for at least a couple weeks.”

He’s not completely off base there. It’s been over a week since I brought WIT’s spare jerseys home to wash, and they have yet to see even a dollop of detergent. I’m sure they smelled ripe for the picking.

“Did he eat the entire thing?” I ask with a weighted sigh.

Cooper shakes his head. “No. Just the sleeve. And he puked it up in the backyard already.”

Flicking my gaze to the dog wrapped around Cooper’s foot, I give my head a shake. The troublemaker is smiling at me.

“Fine,” I say. “But make sure he doesn’t do it again, Coop. This room is off limits, yeah?”

“Got it, Dad.”

I nod before checking my watch for the time and muttering a curse. Cooper raises a curious brow.

“No bike today, bud. I’m gonna drive you before you’re late for school. Get your stuff, and I’ll meet you in the car as soon as I change.”

My boy doesn’t put up a fight, despite how excited he was to ride his bike to school. Instead, he raises his hand in a salute before grabbing his backpack from its hook and slinging it over his shoulder. Once he heads into the garage, I take off toward my bedroom.

Despite the chaos that is our laundry room, the rest of the house is clean and organized. I’ve never been a messy person, but being a single father is no easy feat. Between chauffeuring Cooper to band practice four out of seven days a week, art lessons another two, and owning and managing a booming business, I’ve allowed myself just one room to not give a crap about. One room where I can shove everything I don’t want or don’t have time to deal with away where I can’t see it.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

My bare feet thump against the cold wood planks lining the hallway before meeting the plush carpet in my bedroom. The walk-in closet is too extravagant for my taste, with the built-in maple shelves and drawers and collection of mirrors that make it impossible to avoid staring at yourself, but it came with the house, and I haven’t had the time to change anything yet.

I quickly change into a pair of black track pants and a hoodie, both featuring the White Ice Training logo, before slipping on a pair of socks. Stepping in front of the mirror beside the rack housing my suit jackets, I shake my hair out again and run my fingers through the brown curls.

Every day that passes where I don’t find a grey hair on my head is a day to celebrate. Knowing that my father went grey in his early thirties has been hanging over me like a piano on a thin wire since the day I turned thirty. It’s been three years since, and every day, I count my blessings.

The beeping of my smartwatch has me quickly flicking off all lights and jogging through the house to the garage. Easton watches me run down the hallway from his place on the couch, and I flip him off before heading outside.

Cooper is already waiting for me in the car, and when I slide into the driver’s seat, he levels me with a disapproving stare that makes him look far older than he is.

“Are you finally ready, beauty queen?”

With a quick burst of laughter, I reach over the console and ruffle his hair. “Careful, tough guy. I might drop you off on the side of the road and leave you there.”

“I dare you,” he sniffs, slapping my arms.

I pull back and start the engine. “Triple doggy dare me and you have a deal, bucko.”

White Ice Training is a hockey arena located a few minutes from East Vancouver, housing a half rink, a full-size gym, and several rooms specialized for position-specific training.

We coach over a hundred athletes, with ages ranging from five-year-olds learning to skate, players in their late teens preparing for their chance at the big leagues, and anywhere in between.

Besides Cooper, WIT is my pride and joy. My blood, sweat, and bucketloads of tears. I’ve put everything I am and have ever had into building my company, and it still feels like a dream come true to stand here—a handful of feet away from the entrance—and stare up at what I’ve built in utter awe.

I pull open the heavy glass door and step inside, welcoming the slight chill that settles on my cheeks from the busy rink. I’m very late this morning, and after having to call Banks, my second-in-command, and deal with his chiding when I asked him to come in early and open the building, I’ve already determined it’ll be a hellish day.

“Good morning, Adam,” Brielle, one of our front desk workers, greets me with a smile.

“Hello, Brie. How was your morning?” I ask, closing the gap between us and leaning my forearms on the half wall separating me from her desk.

Brielle is a young single mother of triplets. Her ex-boyfriend left before the three girls were even born, and although she has a lot of help from her parents, I’ve offered to help her out whenever necessary.

Usually, a couple of days a week, I pick her girls up for school since I’m already taking Coop in that direction, but she’s been adamant recently that she can handle it on her own. It’s not my place to push her on it. Lord knows I didn’t love taking handouts when Cooper was young, even if that’s not what I’m offering.

Brielle smiles warmly. “It was pretty good. I think we’ve finally worked out a good morning schedule for the four of us. One that doesn’t have me rushing out of the house with my hair still up in a towel and three six-year-olds wearing Halloween costumes.”

I toss my head back and laugh. “That’s great. But I’m sure they’re the life of the classroom in those costumes.”

“Oh yes. I’ve heard all about how much their teachers love chasing child-size hot dogs and pickles around during morning announcements.”

“I remember when Cooper was in the third grade, he went to school on Halloween with one of those Scream masks that was filled with fake blood. The tubing attached to the pump ended up ripping open, and whatever they used to create the blood squirted all over his math teacher. I received quite the scolding from the principal that day.”

Brielle covers her mouth with her hand and giggles.

“I know, I know. I’m a cool dad.” I wink.

She shakes her head, her lips tugging at the corners. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

I push myself back and plant my hands on my hips. “I better get to work before Banks sees me slacking off. There are three interviews on the schedule today. Just page me to my office when the applicants get here, yeah?” It’s been a long search for the perfect addition to our team, and at this point, I’m losing hope that we’ll find anybody worth hiring.

She nods. “Sounds good, boss. Good luck with Banks today. He’s already nearly thrown down with Brooklyn Danvers.”

Great. One of our best clients and an Olympic gold medalist. Mornings and Banks don’t mix, so as much as it might annoy me, I’m not surprised.

“Thanks, Brie. I’ll see ya later.” I throw her a grateful smile before spinning around and heading for my office.

As I walk through the busy halls of WIT, I can only hope to make it out of this day in one piece.