4. Royal

four

What a joke, these ass clowns couldn't skate their way out of a wet paper bag. There's no way we're going to win the championship this year.

I'm so fucked.

Number thirteen is the only promising one out there, but his shady behavior has raised my suspicions. Who hides their face during tryouts? I don't like it, and I definitely don't trust him. He looks like trouble, and that's the last thing I need this year. My reputation barely survived last year. I don't need another scandal to completely ruin my chances of getting drafted into the pros.

Shit, just thinking about last year pisses me off. It was one mistake. A small lapse in judgment. I shouldn"t have to spend the rest of my life paying for it. Coulter and Fin are the only two who know the truth about what happened. I tried to defend myself, but it was impossible. Even when the charges were dropped, everyone still wanted to believe the worst in me, especially my stepfather.

My asshole teammates had to throw a party last night. All I wanted to do was relax in my own room by myself, but I couldn't even do that. Not with all the puck bunnies hiding around every corner trying to land themselves a potential future professional hockey player boyfriend.

I'm not interested in any random hookups this year. It almost cost me everything last year. My plan is to keep my head down and focus on winning another championship, graduating, and getting drafted. And nothing or no one is going to come in my way.

What about her? The girl in the white dress from last night.

I fight with my conscience, struggling to wipe the image of her big brown eyes blinking at me as I told her to get out of my way. Or how her body felt against mine in that split second we touched when I brushed past her on my way to my room to get away from the conniving puck bunnies, all vying for my attention.

She didn't deserve my harsh words, but her nearness was wreaking havoc on my body and my vow to stay away from women this year. Just thinking about her makes my body tense with unstrained desire. Luckily, I won't have to be around her again, and I can stick to my goal of not letting anything distract me from winning the championship.

I successfully block her from my mind and turn my attention back to the ice and the players doing the suicide drill, finding only one of them left skating.

Of course, it would be number thirteen. He looks good out there, and his form never falters, even after running the drill for over seven minutes. I snap my eyes back to the scoreboard's timer and then lean forward in my seat. No one but Coulter, Fin, and I have ever done the drill for eight minutes, but now this newbie looks like he's about to beat our record.

Just as the clock hits the eight-minute mark, Coach Johnson blows his whistle, stopping the drill. Number thirteen stops on a dime, his blades cutting into the ice as he instantly comes to a halt, a spray of ice coating his skates. Damn, he's good.

Coach Johnson calls for everyone to take a ten-minute break, but when the other four guys trying out skate to our side of the rink to get their water bottles, number thirteen glides across the ice to where the three girls have been cheering him on all day long.

He'd better not let them distract him, or I don't care how good he is. His ass will be off the team.

I watch as he lifts his mirrored visor, straining my neck to get a glimpse of his face, but the girls are huddled around him so close I can't make out his features.

I glance back at the four other guys trying out for the team, finding each one lacking in one way or another. Whether it's their lack of real skill or the smirk on their faces, I can't see any of them contributing anything to our team and our goal of another championship.

It looks like number thirteen is our only hope. I sigh and slump back in my chair. The thought of never playing hockey again and working full-time at my hometown's box factory sours my mood even more.