Chapter 1

Austin

"Austin, you're on," Coach Moss says as he draws up the play. "Sutton, Svensson, and Kemp—you're joining him."

I'm exhausted, but I'm grinning at the opportunity. The score is three-three and there's less than a minute left.

It's been a hell of a game. The Halifax Icebreakers want this as badly as we do. They're pushing us hard.

My entire team is gathered around, except for Tucker McKinstry who's sitting in the penalty box by himself.

The crowd is singing Mr. Brightside by The Killers.

This whole year has been surreal.

I'm halfway through my rookie season and I'm still awestruck by it all. The arena is packed and every single person is on their feet. People out there are wearing my jersey. Gambill. Number Nine. I still can't believe it.

I pictured these moments when I was a ten-year-old boy skating on the frozen pond back home in Michigan, practicing my slap shot, still out there long after the other boys had gone home for hot chocolate and cookies. I was always the last one on the ice, out there until my dad came and dragged me off, fingers frozen and ankles aching, but still begging for five more minutes.

All I wanted was to be a hockey player. I wanted to be like the Flamethrower. I wanted to be the great Harris Sutton.

And now, I'm standing beside Harris as the coach draws up the play.

Too bad he hates me.

"McKinstry is coming out in sixteen seconds," Coach Moss says. "You're going to be down one player until then. You'll have to hold them off."

I'm feeling nervous and excited and every other emotion possible. Meanwhile, Harris looks calm and cool like it's just another day at the office. I guess when you've been in the league for ten years like he has, it is.

"Kemp, you bring it into their zone and if you have the shot, you take it," Coach Moss says. "If not, Z-Back formation. They're going to be expecting the slap shot from Sutton, but Gambill, you're going to take it."

Edvard smacks my shoulder with a grin on his face as the excited, nervous energy rippling through me comes to a boil. This is my chance.

The referee blows the whistle, which means our timeout is over. I skate to the circle with the boys as the best players on the Icebreakers skate over to meet us.

I can feel the tension in the air. The home crowd is on the edge of their seats. They want a win and I want to give it to them.

I've been feeling the pressure all season long. I was the number one draft pick and I've been trying to live up to the title, but it's hard. These guys are no joke.

I'm having an okay season. Hardly what I had hoped for, but I'm trying to improve. I'm surrounded by so much talent on this team and I'm trying to take it all in.

I was ecstatic when I learned that I'd be on the same team as Harris Sutton, but that hasn't gone as expected either.

When I was a kid, I had The Flamethrower's posters on my wall. I wore his jersey so much the letters wore off. The back said Su n.

I practiced his moves and when the Hyenas played a game in Boston, I made my dad drive me over there. We waited outside the arena for four hours until he came out. He signed his hockey card for me and I still remember exactly what he said when my dad told him I was a hockey player.

"I can't wait to watch you play one day, kid."

That was my fuel for years. All through the junior and collegiate levels. All those early wake-up calls and grueling practices. Those words spurred me on. They kept me going. The great Harris Sutton was going to watch me play. It was all I cared about.

And then, I found out I'd be Harris' teammate? I'd be skating beside him? I'd be passing him the puck? I couldn't believe it.

But then I got here and he didn't want anything to do with me. He was curt when I introduced myself and blew me off every time I tried to talk to him.

I don't think he likes me and that's been tough. It seems like I can't do anything right around him.

Don't meet your heroes, folks.

Lately, he's been nicer. I see him smiling more. He seems less angry.

He recently found out that he has a five-year-old boy and he got back together with the mother, which I think is having a lot to do with it. It's taken the edge off him.

Adrenaline starts ripping through me as the referee skates over with the puck. Sebastian is taking the face-off, because he's the best. I'm playing left wing, Edvard Svensson—the Nordic Wonder—is right wing, Harris is left defensemen behind me, our team enforcer, Tucker McKinstry is in his usual spot in the penalty box, and our goalie Nolan Barlowe is ready in front of the net.

Everybody holds still as the referee lifts the puck over the red circle.

This is my favorite part. The second or two of frozen tension before the puck hits the ice and everything explodes into action.

It always feels like a grenade dropping down.

Calm, calm, and then BOOM.

The puck drops and Sebastian battles the other center for it. It slips back to the right and Svensson scoops it up.

He does a good job of killing time with the puck. He wastes about seven seconds before the other team gets it. Nine seconds left until McKinstry is back on and we're no longer outnumbered.

The Icebreakers bring it back into our zone and eventually shoot on the net. Nolan makes a wicked save and the whistle blows.

"Did you guys miss me?" Tucker asks in that deep growly voice as he skates over, his penalty finished.

"Yeah," Sebastian says with a grin. "We have thirty-seven seconds left. Think you can avoid going back in there?"

"No promises," Tucker grumbles as he rolls his giant shoulders while glaring at the biggest guy on the other team.

Sebastian quickly fills him in on the play as we get into position for another face-off.

My heart is racing. The pressure is on me.

I had a killer slap shot all my life. Almost every time I let it loose, it went in, the buzzer rang, the crowd cheered, I got swarmed by my teammates.

But here, amongst the best players in the world, aimed at the best goalies ever to exist, they're not going in.

The goalies are too fast. The game moves too quickly. I don't have that extra split second to line up my shot. I can't aim as well. I can't pull back and get full power.

It's been frustrating.

The puck drops and Sebastian passes it back to Harris. Tucker smashes some poor fucker into the boards as Harris passes it back to Sebastian.

We're all off, racing to the other net as our opponents try to get into a defensive position.

The goalie on the Icebreakers is damn good and he looks ready.

But he's got the best player in the league coming at him. Sebastian gets around the guy in front of him and shoots a beauty at the net.

The goalie shifts at the last second and the puck smacks off his stick. It bounces away—still live—and Svensson manages to grab it.

I get into position as we get ready to execute Coach's plan.

Fourteen seconds.

Svensson passes it to Harris, who fakes a shot on the net. He's so good, he gets everyone to react, then he quickly passes me the puck.

I pull back, ready to unleash a game-winning slap shot.

Come on, man.

With a grunt, I let it rip as hard as I can. The puck flies off my stick and heads right for the open corner.

For a split second, there's silence in the arena.

The silence is interrupted by the dull thud of the puck slamming into the goalie's shoulder pad.

Are you kidding me? Fuck!

The puck bounces off, still live as the crowd lets out a collective groan.

Tucker fights some big fucker for it and then passes it back to Sebastian.

There's no opening, so Sebastian passes it back to me.

Eight seconds.

I should take another shot. That's the plan, but I pass it to Harris instead.

The Flamethrower yanks back his stick and lets it rip with a devastating slap shot.

This time, the goalie doesn't have a chance.

The puck rips into the top corner of the net and the crowd explodes into cheers.

I watch with my stomach dropping as the boys swarm him. The spotlights are going, the crowd is roaring, and I want to join in the celebration, but I head to the bench instead.

"That was your shot to take," Coach Moss says as he gives me a disapproving look.

I drop my head. "Sorry, Coach."

The boys come skating back and just as I'm feeling lower than an earthworm, Harris puts his hand on my shoulder.

"That was a great pass, bud," he says with a smile.

"Oh. Thanks!"

I can't help but smile as he skates away.

We close the game out and it's a big celebration in the locker room.

Some of the boys are dancing on the benches. Some are cracking beers.

I sit down on the bench and text my dad. I always do after a game.

AUSTIN: I choked on the slap shot

DAD: You almost had it. You'll get into your groove. It's still your first year. Don't be too hard on yourself, you're doing great.

AUSTIN: Thanks dad

DAD: I'm proud of you son. Are you going home?

AUSTIN: Nah, big party tonight

DAD: Okay, don't party too hard and don't forget where you came from. Stay focused.

"We're headed to Carmella's tonight," Nolan says as I turn off my phone. He's only wearing a towel around his waist. "Big party. Lots of A-listers going to be there."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Edvard says as he puts his arm around Nolan's shoulder and takes a long sip from his beer can. "A few basketball players in town—Dennis Frazier, Steve Swoopes. Some huge rapper I never heard of, and apparently, there's a movie filming nearby so there's going to be some hot actresses popping by. It's going to be lit."

"You coming?" Nolan asks.

I grin. "Definitely."