1. 1

1

Robbie McGuire

I take a left, rubber soles on the tile, leaving a metronome squeak in my wake. The hall is deserted. A doorway breaks a stark white wall as I round the corner. The door is solid and heavy, made of dark timber, Eastern black walnut or ebony maybe, and it’s been varnished to a gleaming satin finish. There’s a gold medallion inlaid into the wood. A shield and the letter S with a viper coiled loosely around it, head drawn back, jaws wide open, ready to strike.

The Seattle Viper’s logo.

A tremor of excitement runs up my spine as I raise my arm to touch it. The medallion is a little bigger than my hand if I stretch my fingers out as wide as possible, which surprises me. I thought it would be bigger. The metal is cool to touch, the etching done in relief, bumpy and gnarled as I trace over the viper, smooth over the letter and shield .

For the first time in a long while, I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m in the wrong place. Like I’m trespassing. It hits so hard that I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see security headed my way, ready to throw my ass out.

No one’s coming though. Of course no one’s coming.

I belong here.

In fact, my team is waiting for me.

My team.

Holy shit, the Vipers are my team.

Technically, I should be pissed that I got traded, and sure, on some level, I am. No player would be thrilled about being traded from a team that did well in the playoffs last season to one that hasn’t qualified for the past three years. It’s not ideal and I have mixed feelings about it, but the thing is, the Vipers are my team. They’re the first team I ever loved. The first team I rooted for. The team that changed my life, my physiology, and made my heart pump ice.

They’re still that team to me.

I mean, yeah, he’s here—Ant Decker. Number eight. The Vipers’ first-line right-wing and asshole extraordinaire. And when I say asshole extraordinaire, you better believe I mean it. The man is a total dick who, for reasons I’ve always struggled to understand, decided to make me his archrival when we were little more than kids.

It’s one of those weird, annoying things the press got wind of and ran with.

Fucking Decker plays up to it. Every single time a reporter asks him about me, he gives them a no-holds-barred critique of my performance.

“He’s a clown with a fetish for hogging the puck.”

I kid you not. Decker actually said that—on ESPN.

It was played on repeat for over a week.

It makes my blood boil, but I’ve always managed to keep my response to a slightly forced smile and a nod, using every ounce of my restraint to deny any and all knowledge that our rivalry exists.

Rising above, that’s what my mom calls it.

I’m not saying I don’t go out of my way to beat him. I do. I study his plays and know his stats as well as my own.

In case you’re wondering, they’re close, but I’m better.

As long as you don’t count last season.

It’s not a big deal or anything that I do this. It’s just that I’m a professional athlete. Of course I’m competitive, and even if I wasn’t, when someone takes particular joy in beating you, it’s hard not to want to beat them back harder. So yeah, I admit, victories against Decker leave a sweet taste in my mouth. Unlike him, though, I don’t go out of my way to give him, or his assholism, a lot of head space, and I’m not about to start doing it now.

I can’t say I’m overjoyed to be playing for the same team as him, but I’m a born and bred Seattleite, and this is the Vipers, so I’m mainly pumped. The first live game I ever watched was the Vipers vs. Montreal Mounties. I was seven. My dad and I took a bus to the arena. We walked the last couple of blocks to soak up the atmosphere, and my dad held my hand as we waited in line to get our tickets punched. For once, I didn’t mind. We took forever shuffling through the crowd to get to our seats. When the sea of people parted and I saw the rink for the first time, everything around me went quiet. People were everywhere, thousands cheering, laughing, waving towels, and holding up banners, yet, for me, it was as though the ice had absorbed every sound in the arena.

I didn’t close my mouth once for the entire game. Hell, I hardly blinked. Some people feel close to God at church or in nature. For me, it’s an enclosed space with boards, bright spotlights, and water you can walk on.

The blare of the first buzzer heralded the beginning of an obsession with a beautiful, brutal game .

An obsession that’s yet to abate.

I shoulder the door, and as it opens, a discordance of sights and sounds envelops me. The low hum of deep voices, the crash of a locker slamming shut, and the soft, rough rip of Velcro coming apart. A large oval room with a heavy-duty navy-blue carpet on the floor and the same almost-black timber for benches and stalls. It’s a dark, ominous space, broken only by the starkness of the white-and-gold practice jerseys hanging below each player’s number.

The Vipers call it the snake pit. When it was built, it was state of the art. I remember watching a show on TV once where Luddy gave a tour of the Vipers arena. I was a kid from a sleepy suburb who’d only crossed state lines a handful of times, so to say I’d been awestruck would be an understatement.

Time has knocked it around a little. There are chips in the timber here and there and the carpet is worn near the benches from years of foot traffic. Still, as I cast my eye around the room, I get the same feeling I had all those years ago. The same but worse, because, holy shit, it’s real, and they’re here. They’re all here. The whole fucking team is here. Vets and rookies alike. Greats like Katz, JP Jett, Mikhailov, and, of course, Luddy are right here, standing a few yards away from me in various stages of undress. Rookies are laughing and talking shit to each other as they strap their pads on. The chatter slowly dies and a couple dozen pairs of eyes settle on me. My throat dries when it occurs to me that I probably should have thought of something to say. Something witty, maybe, ideally intelligent, or at least intelligent adjacent.

But nah. I’ve got nothing.

I open and close my mouth two or three times, anxiety spiking rapidly as my mind forms a vacuum that erases my entire vocabulary.

Look, just say something, I tell myself. It doesn’t have to be intelligent.

“I, er, um. I’m a f-fan.”

I’m a f-fan?

Jesus Christ. Kill me now.

Before I have time to feel the full heat of my embarrassment, Bodie Thoms careens over, all but knocking me off my feet.

“Robbieeeee,” he bellows, lifting me in a bear hug that almost winds me.

“Bodieeeee,” I reply, matching his enthusiasm and exceeding it slightly. “Geez, been a while, bud. How you doing?”

Bodie and I came up together. He’s a solid defenseman. Damn solid. Taller now but still stocky. A brick wall with a big smile and the temperament of a dog with a bone. Not a wild dog or anything like that. A family pet that really likes bones.

We played for the same club when we were twelve or thirteen. He was a short, stocky kid, always red in the face from overexerting himself on the ice. Though the game has taken us in different directions across the country over the past decade, we’ve stayed in touch and have always gone out of our way to meet for a drink when we’re in the same city.

He’s the second person I called when my agent confirmed my trade. The first was my dad.

When he sets me down, I’m quickly surrounded by a handful of players I know and a bunch I’m meeting for the first time. Names are exchanged, backs are slapped, and fists are bumped. The circle around me clears, parting to make way for Luddy. In case you’ve been living under a rock, it’s Jean “Luddy” Ludovic, the Jean Ludovic, captain of the Vipers and an all-around living legend.

The urge to say I’m a fan again is almost overwhelming. I manage to suppress it with a constipated croak that almost sounds like my name. It’s not my best work, but comparatively, it’s an improvement, so I’ll take it.

“McGuire.” A large, callused hand clamps around mine and pale eyes crease at the corners. “Welcome to the Vipers.”

Without command or direction, the entire team gets to their feet. Right hands are raised, fingers tense and drawn into a point, and every man in the room emits a long, low hiss.

I swear, my soul nearly leaves my body. The snake song is a tradition that started when the team was established in 1932. It’s something I dreamed of experiencing as a boy, something I’ve seen in documentaries and promo clips. It’s something Bodie told me about when he joined the team after intense interrogation from me.

It’s something I never thought I’d experience for myself.

The deep, breathy sound rises half an octave, warbling slightly, and ends with a sharp, clipped tss .

A few players whoop and someone wolf whistles. Around me, faces slash into easy smiles. The face directly across from my stall, a man sitting beneath a large, gold number eight, is the notable exception. Thick dark brows are furrowed and a scarred lip is twisted into a scowl. Black eyes bore into me, judging me and finding me wanting .

He looks at his wrist pointedly and says, “Nice of you to join us, McGuire.”

It’s my first day and traffic was worse than I thought it would be, okay? I’m seven and a half minutes late.

Sue me.

I smile thinly and give a fractional nod in his direction.