Chapter Two

JENSEN

Sinking into the tub full of ice and water, I immediately feel my muscles seize but then start to relax. I rest back against the metal tub’s side and release a long breath. Yeah, that’s the stuff. My aching limbs thank me as I soak in the freezing water. Practice today was rough but intensely satisfying. My body is feeling it, though.

I’m feeling good about the team this year. We’re working well together. All the guys love being on the ice together. We’ve got real team spirit — no anchors. I close my eyes and let the cold seep deeper into my tired muscles, pushing out exhaustion and making room for rejuvenation. I can hear the faint echoes of my teammates' laughter from the locker room next door.

The icy water laps against my chest as I think back on our practice. Wilder and Jayce, both agile like cats, maneuvered the puck like it was an extension of their own bodies. Cruz, our sturdy left defender—whose strength rivals that of a bear protecting its young—is a force to be reckoned with, along with Zander, our right defender.

Though we have multiple people able to play multiple positions, these four were part of the team's starters and the few I considered my closest friends. Guys that were at the top of their game, having worked hard to get to where they are.

Of course, we wouldn’t be anything without our star goalie…who was not present on the ice today. I grit my teeth in annoyance. Why wouldn’t Carson tell me he wasn’t going to be here? He told the coaches he had a family thing, but I’m his captain and best friend, damn it. He should have let me know, so I wasn’t so caught off guard when I arrived this morning and he just wasn’t there. With an annoyed sigh, I rise out of the water and reach for my towel nearby. Once I get home, I’m going to call Carson and rip into him about his responsibilities to this team, or at the very least for his lack of communication. That’s not like him. He’s usually much better at keeping me in the loop about things.

As I dry off, I start to make my way toward the showers, but before I reach them, I hear Coach calling my name from the office area down the hall.

“Reece! When you’re done, come to my office. We need to talk about some strategy before you go home.”

I give him a thumbs-up and reply, “You got it. Give me ten minutes.”

I don't waste another second. I briskly stride into the showers, changing the dial to an almost scalding temperature. The hot water contrasts sharply with my previously ice-numbed skin, sending a jolt of waking energy through my body. I feel invigorated, yet relaxed—this is exactly what I need after a long day of practice. In a matter of minutes, I rinse off, dry, and dress efficiently in my casual attire: blue jeans and a black sweatshirt emblazoned with the Night Hawks’ fierce logo.

My heart pounds rhythmically in my chest as I make my way toward Coach's office, my mind already whirring with possibilities for strategies and potential formations. I have always found these quiet moments before strategic talks most engaging, like the calm before a storm.

The coach's office is tucked away at the far end of the locker room hall. A small plaque reading “Coach Sullivan” adorns the door. Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles can connect with the heavy wood, his gruff voice beckons me inside.

As I step into his dimly lit office, filled with the smell of old coffee and hockey gloves, Coach Sullivan stands behind his cluttered desk studying a whiteboard filled with Xs and Os. He’s a hulking figure of a man, with broad shoulders and the softened muscle structure of a former athlete who’s not as active as he used to be. He’s bald, with dark eyes that I always feel are cutting straight into my soul, especially when he’s pissed. It’s my second year with Coach Sullivan, but I feel we’ve built a good rapport with each other. He trusts me with his team, and I appreciate the years of experience and wisdom he’s gathered throughout his career.

“Close the door, Reece," he orders without looking up from the whiteboard. "We’ve got some work to do.” I shut the door and move to stand next to him in front of the whiteboard.

Together, we stare at the markings on the board, each circle and line representing a player and their potential moves. Coach Sullivan, with his decades of experience, is a master strategist, yet he values my input, understanding that I have a deep, innate connection with our team on the ice.

He taps a blue X representing Wilder and looks at me. “Alright, this is a play I’ve been working on. I want you to win the faceoff and then quickly pass to Wilder. Once Wilder gets the puck, he’ll drive hard towards the net. Then you’ll be ready to follow up and support Wilder if he needs it.”

I study the board again, visualizing the play.

“That could work,” I say after a solid minute of thinking it through. “We could use Jayce’s maneuverability on the wing to create a distraction for Cruz and Zander to push deeper into our opponent's defense.”

With a nod of agreement, he erases an X and replaces it with an O, implementing my suggestion. We fall into a rhythm, debating and designing plays well into the evening. Our ideas flow seamlessly into one another until we have multiple new strategies to introduce to the team. Draped in silence once again, we both admire our handiwork on the whiteboard.

“Good job tonight, Reece," he says, breaking the quiet with his raspy voice.

"We'll see how these go down tomorrow at practice," I reply as I turn toward the door.

Coach Sullivan gives me a firm pat on the shoulder as I leave his office. "That we will, son. That we will."

Back in the locker room, I grab my bag and glance at the clock. it's late, but despite the time, my mind is still buzzing with plays. I head out through the arena to the private parking lot reserved for the players and staff. Before I reach my car, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see my brother’s name flashing across the screen.Furrowing my brow in surprise, I answer the call.

“Hey Tyler,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Jensen,” he replies in a cheery tone. “Just thought I’d check in and see how things are going. The season off to a good start?”

“Yeah,” I answer, my tone heavy with suspicion. Apart from our yearly trips together, my brother usually only calls when there’s family drama or it’s near a holiday. “Things are looking solid with the team. That’s not really why you called, though, is it?”

“What?” he exclaims in a voice that’s more high-pitched than normal, a dead giveaway that he’s up to something. “Can’t I call my little brother just to see how life is treating him?”

“You could, but you never do. Just spit it out, Tyler. I’m tired and need to get home.”

Tyler sighs and confesses, “All right, all right. You got me. I told Dad I’d reach out and ask why you’re ignoring his calls.”

I roll my eyes and groan. “Christ, the old man’s getting desperate, huh? Well, you can tell him I’m tired of every one of our conversations dissolving into him criticizing my hockey career and telling me I need to focus on my future with his company, which he still thinks is going to happen despite my continued insistence that it’s not.”

"Well, you know how Dad is," Tyler says, a tinge of sympathy in his voice. "He's just worried about your life after hockey. You know, the steady job, the wife and kids, the white picket fence..."

I laugh humorlessly. "Yeah, I'm quite aware of the 'American Dream' he has in mind for me. Just wish he'd realize that this is my life, and I'm not him."

There's silence on the other end for a moment before Tyler speaks again. "Just give him a call, Reece. He means well. You know that."

"Yeah," I admit grudgingly, leaning against my car. Our father may mean well, but sometimes it feels like he’s more interested in living vicariously through us than supporting our own dreams and aspirations. It wasn’t always like this. My dad and I used to be close. My mom passed away when I was only a baby and dad had to raise Tyler and me on his own. Dad was great when we were kids. Loving and supportive, though he was still strict and expected a lot from us. He encouraged me when I initially showed an interest in hockey. It wasn’t until I actually started pursuing hockey as a career that things changed. His support dwindled and he grew colder and colder when it became clear I wasn’t going to follow the plan he’d laid out for me.

My gaze wanders over to the arena, looming large in the dim light. Its magnitude, its energy… on game nights, it feels like a living entity, as its heart throbs with cheers and cries of thousands of fans. This is where my passion lies, and where my future belongs.

“You can’t ignore him forever,” Tyler continues. “You need to stand up to him sooner or later. You know that.”

"I know, Ty. I know," I concede. "It's just...it's not that easy."

"What's not easy?" he probes, his tone gentle but laced with a challenge. "Ignoring him? Or disappointing him?"

"Both," I mutter.

"I’ve been there, Reece," he assures me, his voice softer now. "Remember when I first wanted to pursue football? Dad gave me so much grief for it —saying it wasn't steady, it wasn't reliable, but look at me now! I’ve got one of the highest-paid contracts in the NFL."

"I remember," I reply. Still, Dad was never quite as against Tyler’s football dreams as he’s always been of my hockey goals. I think he doesn’t see hockey as lucrative in the USA as football, but it’s still messed up how much of a pain in the ass he is about it. Plus, Tyler’s not putting up as much of a fight about working for dad after he retires. He doesn’t have any interest in coaching or anything like that after he’s done playing, but I do.

"You just need to remind him that you're doing what you love and you're damn good at it too," Tyler instructs. "He'll come around."

I rub my hand over my face, feeling the stubble scratch against my palm.

"Yeah, maybe you're right.”

"Of course I'm right," Tyler says with a chuckle. "Now get home. It’s past your bedtime"

I feel a smile tug at my lips.

"You’re not my coach,” I joke. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Tyler laughs again before bidding me goodnight and hanging up. The harsh beep of my car unlocking breaks the silence of the night, and I slip inside, cranking up the heat. As I pull out of the parking lot, I push Tyler’s concerns out of my head. I appreciate that he wants to maintain peace between me and our dad, but I know it’s going to take more than yet another conversation with the old man to convince him to support my career.

I’d rather focus on the plays I discussed with Coach, and so as I continue to drive toward my apartment building, I fill my mind with Xs and Os so there’s no room left for my father’s disapproval.