CHAPTER FOUR

T hree days earlier

Noah

I squeeze into the luxurious elevator of the four-star hotel that team management booked me and meet the side eye of six designer-clad guests. They clearly find me too scruffy.

I fiddle with the sleeve of my hoodie.

I'm not in Boston on some vacation.

I'm here to start my life. The life I've been dreaming of since I first learned what hockey playing was and first learned some people made a career of it.

I'm in the fucking NHL.

I eat my egg white vegetable omelet and sip my bitter green juice, shoveling as many nutrients as possible into my body before I meet the team. My gaze flickers to the TV screen on one wall. Isaiah's face and name flashes on the screen. The presenter bemoans that I've been called up, and that some guy on the second line will be Isaiah's replacement.

My picture—not my best shot—flashes on the screen. One of the people from the elevator gives me a curious glance, and I answer with a tight smile. I gob the rest of my breakfast, then leave the hotel.

I cross the Charles River to Cambridge, where the Blizzards' training facility is. The new arena is easy to spot. The Blizzards' logo spans two stories. Bostonians are sports crazy, but only one team is owned by a super-rich Japanese billionaire. The building consists of glass, steel, and the warm red brick found all over the city. Solar panels glint from the roof. If I didn't know better, I might think it part of MIT or Harvard. A line of high school students and their teacher slinks down one side.

I explain to the security guard who I am, and he explains to me where the correct door is for the players. Equipped with a map and a few dubious looks—okay, I know I am not Isaiah, I find a wood-paneled hallway that exudes expense, then knock on the door of my new coach.

"Noah Fitzpatrick." Coach Holberg shoots me a wide smile, emphasizing the "o" in my name with more force than most, and reminding me that he is from Sweden.

I can tell he's a former athlete, but unlike other retired athletes who turn coaches, his figure is trim, his short beard immaculate. His eyes are a clear blue that don't miss anything.

The man's office is awesome. Slatted oak panels cover the walls, which is so much cooler than paint, though the best feature is the floor-to-ceiling view of the Charles. I would be casting wide smiles about if I had an office overlooking the water, too.

"Nice to see you, Noah. "Welcome to the Boston Blizzards."

I stammer something about being grateful for the opportunity, then stammer something else about how I absolutely won't let him down.

He gives a soft smile. He's probably used to my speech.

"I'll introduce you to the guys," he says. "Training is optional today, but we'll find some of them wandering around."

"Thanks." I nod more times than necessary, conscious of the way my stomach twists. I wonder if Finn Carrington will be here.

Ice water with lemon wedges sits in sleek water dispensers at regular intervals. Even the air here is fancier, clean, and crisper than any other locker room I' ve ever been in, no doubt due to superior air fresheners and circulation systems.

It's strange to contemplate meeting one's hero. I sort of wish I hadn't watched every video Finn ever made, listened to every podcast interview, viewed every sports documentary with him in it, and, yes, watched every game he ever played too.

I know his clothes, I know his apartment, I know his every smile and every frown. Though Finn has way more smiles than frowns. The man exudes joy.

And yet, I don't know him at all.

Coach gives me an odd look, and I hope I haven't missed anything.

"Do you have a significant other back in Providence?" he asks. "The train between South Station and Providence is decent."

"No. I split from my girlfriend last year. No one since."

"Well, no long distance is good."

"I'll be 100% focused on hockey," I assure him.

I was also 100% focused on hockey when I was with Abby, but I don't tell him that. We would have broken up sooner if she hadn't been a medical student and been too busy on her own work to notice I wasn't around.

Laughter rumbles through the locker room, and my new coach leads us toward the sound.

Okay, so it's happening now. Those must be the players, and probably not sneaky tourists who snuck into the locker rooms.

My gaze bounces over the locker room, admiring the golden glow of the fancy-ass lights under the leather benches, before landing at the bold snowflake painted on the floor.

This is a huge deal.

I'm a member of the Boston Blizzards.

I'm supposed to be here.

There's nothing I've ever wanted in life more than playing for the Blizzards. It was a dream I said often and frequently. Most of my relatives thought it was cute when I was little. No one sat me down and told me how unlikely it would be to break in. Gradually, my relatives saw it as possible, not merely the nonsensical ramblings of a boy who hadn't had his first double-digit birthday, and now, here I am.

This is my chance.

I turn the corner.

A group of players sit together. I know who they are. I've watched their every game for years. Finn Carrington himself sits between Luke Hawthorne and Troy Maddox. Laughing blue-gray eyes under golden-brown curls find me, and I smile into his gaze, even though I'm too late to hear the joke.

Coach Holberg slaps a hand on my shoulder.

"This is the team. What I can find of it." Coach Holberg looks around as if he half expects players to be lounging under benches or something. "Please say hello to Noah Fitzpatrick. He's fresh from Providence. He'll be helping us out while Isaiah is out."

"Finn Carrington," Finn says, even though most people in the US who don't play hockey, but wander onto Sport Sphere Network, know his name.

He's a star; somehow, I've found myself in his presence.

Part of me wants to explain this is a mistake. I'm not supposed to be here. Not like the others. Dreams aren't supposed to come true. The people in my first-grade class who wanted to become firefighters, presidents, and surgeons, are now accountants and electricians.

And yet, here I am.

I force a smile on my face. I'm going to savor this moment. I don't know how long I'll be here or how long it will be until I'm sent back to the AHL.

My heart races, and I barely manage to wave at these hockey heroes.

Coach Holberg frowns slightly, probably worried I'm going to freak out once I get on the ice.

But this moment is huge.

"Can you show Noah around?" Coach Holberg asks in the general direction of the other players.

And then they're nodding, and oh my God, I can't believe this is my life.

"Sure. I'll introduce you," Finn says easily, as if there's any way I wouldn't know the name and record of each guy here.

"This is Luke Hawthorne." Finn points to a startlingly handsome blond man with large, innocent eyes and abs that would make people with mere six-packs blush in shame.

Like me. I'm blushing.

Luke waves to me and flashes a perfect grin. He looks like he sauntered straight off a movie set where he was playing the lead. Hollywood actors must be relieved he went into hockey.

Then Finn gestures at the man with dark curly hair beside him. "This is Troy Maddox. He's Luke's roommate and our new goalie."

Troy's face and towering frame have been splattered on every newspaper. He was traded from Nashville, and so far, he's been doing fantastic. Boston has had multiple shutouts.

"Nice to meet you, man." Troy gets up and fist bumps me, and I do my best to pretend this is all normal, and that I meet NHL players all the time. "You up from Providence?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Cool."

The conversation ends. Troy shoots a wary look at Finn.

"I'll show you around," Finn says easily, nonchalance itself. Then his eyes brighten. "I can put you in my vlog."

He holds up his phone before both of us. "Hey guys, this is my newest teammate. Say hello, new teammate!"

"Hello!" I only somewhat squeak.

Finn shuts off his phone and smiles. "I'll edit you in."

Troy presses his lips together. "Don't scare the new guy."

"I don't mind," I insist, but my voice wobbles.

"Of course, you don't mind," Finn says. "You're a hockey player. Hockey players don't get scared."

I grin, even though I'm totally terrified, and Finn shows me around the locker room. His golden-brown hair glints in the light, his perfect biceps, covered in a sweaty sheen, bulge, and he emits a happy, deep laugh that makes my insides lurch like a puck ricocheting after a hard slap shot.