4. Hayden

CHAPTER 4

HAYDEN

With twenty seconds left in the third period, we're tied with Chicago.

Blood rushes in my ears as Volkov and I chase the other team's forwards down the ice. As defensemen, we have one job: keep the puck away from our goalie.

My gaze back cuts to Darcy, where she's sitting with Hazel and Pippa behind the net, and a rush of determination hits me.

Miller rears back for a slapshot, and as the puck sails toward the net, I hold my breath. There's that feeling in my chest again, the one I haven't been able to shake lately. Like something isn't quite right.

The puck hurtles past the goalie, and the crowd explodes, roaring with noise.

"That was a beautiful play, boys," Miller crows, wrapping me in a bulky, back-slapping hug as the goal horn bellows and lights flash around us.

I grin, laughing as Miller jostles me, but it feels forced, and then I feel like a fucking asshole for it. My team scored; I should be over the moon. We do one last face-off that lasts three seconds, the game ends, and we shuffle off the ice.

Darcy catches my eye, giving me a shy grin and wave. Pride expands through me and I wink at her through the glass. It's nice having her here at games, watching me play and chatting with Hazel and Pippa.

The other night replays in my head, when she asked me to be her wingman. I've been trying not to think about it, hoping she'd forget about her request.

"Owens," Coach Ward calls as we skate off the ice. "No postgame press for you. Meet me in my office."

A weight thunks in my gut. If the coach wants to see you after a game? It's not good.

"I'm putting you on offense," Ward says, leaning back in his desk chair to regard me in that calm, quiet way of his.

I stare at him, wondering if I heard right.

Tate Ward is in his late thirties, young for an NHL coach and probably too good-looking, too, if you read the comments on Storm social media posts. A decade ago, the guy was a player for Vancouver, breaking records left and right, but after a knee injury ended his career, he went into coaching.

After a season and a half with the Vancouver Storm, he's becoming known for taking big swings based on his instincts. With only two and a half months left in the season and a decent shot at playoffs, though, moving a player to a new position is the biggest swing he's taken so far.

I stare at Ward for a long moment. "Until Kerrington's back?"

One of our forwards, Kerrington, was injured in a game a couple of weeks ago.

A subtle shake of his head. "Permanently. Kerrington's out for the rest of the season. I'm letting the team know at practice tomorrow. "

I blow a long breath out. No one likes to hear that their friend and teammate is done.

That doesn't explain why I'm here, though. Even with Kerrington out, Ward has thirteen forwards to choose from, and I'm one of the best defensemen in the league. My brows knit together.

I'm the support guy. I'm the guy who plays well with others and thrives with Volkov, the grumpiest asshole on the team. I'm the backup muscle, not the star.

"I've only ever played defense," I tell Ward.

His smile hooks higher. "Now, that just isn't true, Owens."

I think back to a month ago. The exhibition game we played against Calgary at an outdoor rink in Whistler. Miller suggested I play a shift as a forward as a last resort.

"The League Classic."

He nods once. "Yep."

"That wasn't a real game." It didn't count toward our regular season. "It was just for fun."

His eyes narrow as he studies me in silence, and discomfort twists in my chest.

"I'm not the star."

Ward makes a thoughtful face. "What if you are?"

I fold my arms over my chest, trying to summon my affable, good-natured grin, but I can't find it.

"It's your choice," he adds, still watching me, "but I think it's the right move, and I'd like you to consider it."

Playoffs are in three months, at the end of April, and we have a decent shot. Ward's always pushing us to play our role, focus on our positions to serve the team. Defense is the position I know and thrive in.

Am I thriving, though? Or am I just making it work? The game replays in my head, and the weird feeling in my chest when Miller scored resurfaces. Something's changed, and I can't put my finger on it, but I have an ugly suspicion that it's only going to get worse.

Across from me, Ward waits with his usual knowing patience. When he became coach, the Vancouver Storm changed for the better. Unlike the previous coach, he doesn't have an ego, and he works one-on-one with every player on the team, from first-line stars to fourth-line rookies. He knows every member of the Storm organization by name, even the people he doesn't interact with, like cleaning staff, accountants, and Zamboni drivers. For fuck's sake, he knows the people working the concession.

One team , he always says. I admire that about the guy, that he treats everyone with respect, makes everyone feel included and valued.

I rake my hand back through my hair. The trade deadline is in March, and I'm not interested in leaving. Volkov, Miller, Streicher, Hazel, Pippa—these people are my family. Darcy's here in Vancouver now, too, and the thought of having to move away from her again sends a streak of resolve through me.

I don't want to give Ward any reason to trade me, and even more, I want to make him proud.

"Okay." My chest is tight as I give him a firm nod. "I'm in."

"I was hoping you'd say that." A pleased smile breaks out across his features. "You start training with the other forwards tomorrow morning."