2. Devon

Devon

T-Mobile Arena is always so fucking loud.

The floor beneath our feet rumbles as we walk toward the locker room, even though we're four hours out from the start of the game. Outside the stadium, fans are already congregating, drinking, and waiting for the free live music.

I'm staring at Sammy's sneakers as we march toward the locker room, ignoring the probing gaze of the camera. Grey, our coach, claps a hand down on my shoulder and gestures for me to peel off from the rest of the team. I try not to look at the camera that swings around, capturing our split from the rest of the team. I can already hear what the announcers might say when the clip goes live.

Looks like Coach Grey Aldine is taking Chambers to the side—no doubt trying to inspire him into a better game.

Sure, but we're clearly not going to get it from him. If you ask me, this is a rebuilding season for the Vipers. Ease up on the game, take the L, do great in the draft, and come back swinging next season.

Grey motions to the assistant coach and then focuses his attention on me.

"How are you doing, man?" he asks, his eyes scanning my face like he can read how I'm going to play tonight.

"Just peachy, man," I grumble, hefting my duffel bag on my shoulder. "Loving that I'm fucking everything up."

"Hey," Grey says, his hand landing on my shoulder again. "Listen, it's a lot of pressure, man."

Pressure was one word for it. This season—and the few I have left—were supposed to be cake. I'm a right-winger. Until last year, Grey was my center. When Grey retired, Brett Ratcliffe was supposed to take his place. We'd been practicing like crazy in the off-season, finding our rhythm, trying to become as good a line as we'd been with Grey. And we were close.

Until Brett had to go and break his leg in a water-skiing accident.

Obviously, I'm glad he didn't get hurt worse, but when I heard the news, I was furious. What kind of asshole goes water-skiing one week before the season opener?

Now we have some second-liner running as center, and our flow is fucked. Each game has been worse than the last, and Grey keeps asking me to step up—like that's something I'm just choosing not to do.

I've always been content as a team player—the guy who's there to pass, defend, and get the puck where it needs to go. I've never felt the need to be the guy who's always scoring. I love hockey because it's like a dance: fast-paced, elegant, and precise. That's not how most people think of the sport, but I do, and I like how I fit into the team.

Until now.

"I just need you to step up," Grey says as if he hasn't been asking for this since Brett came hobbling in on his crutches. "Be more aggressive, man. You have to stop looking for the pass and start going for the net."

"Yeah, easy for you to say," I mumble, giving him a sarcastic glance. "You always had the great pass coming in."

"I sure did," he laughs, though it comes out more like a grumble. "But you're going to have to deal, man. I can't look like a chump my first year as a coach, especially after winning the cup last year."

"Yeah, yeah," I mumble, and Grey seems to give in, clapping me on the back and gesturing for us to keep walking toward the locker room. As we walk, I think about the idea of it—stepping up into the spotlight, all those eyes on me.

Of course, as a professional hockey player, there are eyes on me, but it's nothing like what Grey got when he played. He's the kind of player who goes down in the history books as a legend. I'm the kind of player people mention in relation to others—like Jagr and Lemieux, Pippen and Jordan, LeClair and Lindros.

I'm not Wayne Gretzky; I'm Mark Messier. And I've always been okay with that role.

When we hit the locker room, all the players are split off, some stretching, some jogging up and down the halls. I'm about to put my headphones on and review some film when my phone starts to buzz.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Chambers, thank you so much for taking this call. I know you're just about to go into a game, and I'm sorry for bothering you, but I thought you'd like to know the administrative team has come to a decision about the youth camp you proposed this summer."

"Oh?" I reply, switching the phone to the other ear. Dole and Eddie were fucking around, but they quieted down when they saw I was on the phone.

"Yes," the lady says, clearing her throat, and I already know before she finishes her sentence. Fucking admins don't want to do anything unless it makes them money. "Unfortunately, the board has declined your proposal for the free youth camp."

"Let me guess," I grumble, dropping my voice. "The board would much rather bring in a bunch of rich, spoiled brats and charge their parents a thousand dollars than put on a free camp for the kids who could really benefit from it."

"I understand you're upset about this," she says, and to her credit, she does sound genuinely upset. "Just so you know, I was rooting for the camp. I thought it was a great idea."

"Thanks," I say, then hang up before I can get pissed and tell her off. She doesn't deserve that. She's just the messenger. When I look up, the guys in the locker room are staring at me. "It's not happening," I snap before pushing out of the locker room and looking for somewhere to clear my mind.

***

The Vipers lose the opening face-off, of course. The new center, Jerry, from last year's second line, didn't move fast enough, and the VGK player rocketed the puck across the ice, pushing it immediately into our defensive zone. It was like stumbling back on our heels, starting the game already trying to defend.

Luckily, they didn't get the puck in the net, with Eddie blocking a few shots and Sammy intercepting it before they could take another shot. After sitting by myself for an hour before warm-ups, my head should be clear, but I can't stop thinking about that youth camp. My hands are still shaking with anger. Playing professional sports is a blessing, sure, but they never let you forget that it's all about the money.

I grew up on the ice, and it saved my life. All I want to do is give other kids that opportunity.

My game just gets worse and worse. I freeze the puck, I take a penalty and send VGK into a power play, giving them the opportunity to score, and then I slide out when fighting for the puck and have to climb back to my feet while the play takes off without me.

Skating hard, I rocket across the ice and get my stick on the puck, giving it a hard slap shot. I know the second I hit it, it's off, and it whips through the arena, hitting the barrier on the other side and instantly shattering the glass. At first, I start to groan and drop my head to my chest, but then a scream like one I've never heard before rips through the stadium.

It's almost mesmerizing. With how loud this stadium is, it's impossible that a woman's scream can cut through the music and the cheering, but it does. Every head in the stadium turns toward her.

My head turns toward her.

She's gorgeous—that's the first thing I notice.

Even absolutely buried under a mountain of Knights merch, including two blankets, a beanie, and a huge set of mittens, it's obvious she's beautiful from my vantage point on the ice.

The announcer calls out—they will need at least thirty minutes to replace this glass. I realize I'm skating closer, wanting to get a good look at her. When I get to the barrier, I see one man laughing hard, his hand pressed over his mouth, and another looking at least halfway like he's trying to comfort her.

It's like the entire arena quiets when she turns and meets my eyes. Hers widen immediately, and the guy with his arm around her turns to look, too.

She's crying. That shot must have really scared her. I raise my stick at her.

"Sorry about that, little lady," I call out with a wink, and even from where I am on the ice, I can see her blush. The crowd lets out an appreciative noise, and when I look up at the jumbotron, I see it playing the moment, zooming in on the way she covers her face, smiling through her hands.

"Chambers!" Grey hollers. "Get the fuck over here, you idiot!"

I give her a wave, then turn around and skate to the bench. Looking over my shoulder, I can see she's still staring at me, her mouth wide open. Something in my chest warms, and I rub the spot, willing it to go away.