Chapter Two

The Next Day

Reeve

It's the last few seconds of the game.

The scoreboard is tied, and we're in overtime.

My eyes lock onto the left wing of the opposing team. He's hauling ass straight for me with the puck in his possession.

He's leaning forward, skating full speed toward the goal, his eyes menacing and focused through his face mask.

This is the game-winning goal for them if I let this slide past my defenses—we both know it. There won't be time left on the scoreboard for retaliation by the Hawkeyes to get in a goal of our own.

I watch his eyes dart side to side, searching for my weak spot. He only needs a sliver of space to sink that three-inch puck into the net. He doesn't need much, just for me to fuck up by a mere few inches.

His defense is doing their job to keep my players off their left wing, and he gets out in front where my team won't reach him in time.

It's between me and him.

These are the moments I live for.

The moments that drive me to practice more hours on the ice than any other play on the Hawkeyes team.

The reason why I study every millimeter between goal post to goal post and practice stopping a puck in every possible pocket of open space until it's all just muscle memory.

A hockey puck can travel at speeds of over one hundred miles per hour, and with ten players out in front of me, of which five are trying to play hot potato with the puck so that I can't keep track of who has possession before they take their shot, muscle memory isn't just my best defense, it's my only defense.

I have to be able to react without even thinking.

Every one of my senses has to be acutely aware of my surroundings if I want any chance of stopping the other team from scoring.

I prepare for his assault.

Readying myself for the moment that he wields his hockey stick, taking a shot while aiming the puck in the direction that he thinks he sees a lack of coverage.

I widen my stance, my skates shifting under my weight on the ice, preparing myself to move in any direction to block the puck no matter where he decides to deposit it.

He pulls his hockey stick back and takes his shot.

Before I can even think to move, my body does it for me. I drop down to my knees stopping the puck with my pads before it can pass through between my legs.

Everyone scurries around the net, attempting to take control of the puck.

The goaltender for the other team skates further out front, almost as if he's expecting to celebrate with his team but he stops when he realizes that the puck didn't make it past me and their victory isn't secured.

He's too far off the net for comfort and I can already see him retreating—heading back for home.

The second I look down I realize that I could easily take possession. With only two seconds left on the clock and a clear shot at a defenseless goal on the other side of the rink, I make a split-second decision to do something I've only ever attempted in practice.

I take a deep breath, pull back on my hockey stick, and slap the puck as hard as I can. I can almost hear the sound of the puck whizzing through the air.

I watch in slow motion as the biscuit flies over the heads of the other players.

All ten of them immediately turn on their skates and start bolting for the other side of the rink as if their lives depend on it.

It might not be their lives, but our paychecks and our bragging rights sure as hell do.

In my peripheral, the entire stadium leaps to their feet, including all the players and coaches sitting in their respective boxes. The rink goes eerily quiet as everyone watches the puck fly over the ice, headed for its intended target.

I hear the faint sound of the opposing goaltender cursing out something like "Oh shit" as he tries to make a mad sprint for the net, which he left completely exposed.

In his defense, he couldn't have thought I would have taken that shot. It's only ever been pulled off a few times in the history of the NHL during an in-season game. It was a desperate attempt, but with two seconds left on the clock and an entire off-season of practicing the shot by myself in this exact same rink, I had to try.

The second that the puck drops onto the rink, everyone watches with bated breath as the puck slides into the net.

"SCORE!" the announcer yells over the loudspeaker, and the home crowd erupts in celebration. Meanwhile, the away team fans stare at the puck sitting against the net in disbelief.

The Hawkeyes team in the box go crazy, throwing whatever hockey gear they have in their hands up into the air. Hockey sticks and helmets fly everywhere as they jump out onto the ice and skate full force towards me, yelling at the top of their lungs, trying to compete with the cheers of the fans—but there's no chance they can yell over the sound of thousands of fans spraying beer everywhere and ripping their jerseys in full hulk mode as they lose their ever-loving minds over the goal I just made.

I glance up to see the scoreboard change from 3-3 to 4-3. The jumbotron shows my team picture with large letters overtop.

"GOAL!" it reads.

Within seconds, Lake Powers slams into me first and engulfs me in a bear hug. "What the fuck was that?" he yells, a giant smile stretched across his face.

Then Brent, Briggs, Slade, and Kaenan all join in. Soon, Seven and the rest of the team surround us, cheering and slapping me on the shoulder, back, and helmet… However, they can reach me.

We won another game.

But we still have a long way to go before the championships.

After exiting the showers, I head for the locker room.

Lake, Brent, and Seven are already pulling on slacks and buttoning up dress shirts for the press waiting for after game interviews.

"That was some impressive shit out there tonight, Reeve," Seven says.

I've looked up to Seven since before I ever made it to the NHL. He's not one to say much to anyone, let alone praise, unless it was an exceptional show of talent. But he's different ever since he started dating his new girlfriend, Brynn.

He seems happy.

"Yeah, when were you going to tell me that you could sink a puck into the net from across the rink? That would be some useful information for your captain to know," Lake teases.

"Not all of us spend our summers frolicking in Aspen with our hot girlfriends while volunteering at animal shelters. Reeve's been working on that shot on his off time," Brent jabs with a smirk.

I chuckle at Brent's comment.

Not because I found it comical, but because Brent isn't coming to my defense. He just likes to flick shit at whoever gives him the chance.

Locker room shit-talking isn't anything new. Most of the guys on the team are exhibitionists… looking for attention. It comes with the territory of playing game after game in front of large crowds of people.

After all, we're in the business of entertainment when it really comes down to it.

And being noticed doesn't hurt when it comes to jersey sales, contract negotiations, media attention and sponsorship offers.

I get it.

But I'm more of a spectator.

"I'm not apologizing for spending the summer locked up with Tessa in our Colorado house. We have a no-clothes rule the minute we walk through the front door. And have you seen that woman's ass?" he asks and then puts his fingers to his lips and gives a chef's kiss, and then sends me a wink.

"I'll have to take your word for it. As a rule of ethics, I avoid checking out any player's wives or girlfriends," I say.

"Good," Seven growls under his breath.

Yep, Brynn's a big change.

"Tessa's a workaholic. Between my away games and her work schedule, I'd never see her if I didn't ship her perfect backside off to Aspen to spend the summer with me."

"We get it. You've got a hard-on for your fiancé. Save it for the honeymoon," Brent says, throwing a towel at Lake's head.

Lake catches it just in time.

I pull my own suit out of my locker and start with boxers, then the slacks.

"Our schedules don't make relationships easy to navigate," I say, buttoning up my shirt.

This is why being single can be easier to manage, though it's lonelier when you don't have someone to call at the end of a game.

There's no one special waiting outside of the locker room for you to come out and jump your bones. No one waiting to pick you up with the team bus drops us back off in front of the stadium after away games.

Lake turns to me. "You're right, it doesn't. And though I appreciate your work ethic, probably more than most, you need something outside of hockey. Finding a partner like Tessa changed things for me."

"He's right," Seven says. "I never thought I'd say this, but you need someone to help you disengage for a couple of months before you burn out. Buying a beach house to get away for the summer wasn't enough as it turns out."

I want a wife and kids someday—the family that I never had after my parents divorced. I was too little to remember Christmas or birthdays as a family in Alaska.

It's in the long-term plan.

I'm not like Lake and Seven. Nothing in my past has sworn me off relationships, marriage or kids. For me, it's in the timing..

I've been fixated on hockey and my career to a level that some might consider unhealthy. But to be the best, you have to train like it's your life. At this point in my career, I'd make someone a terrible husband—I'd never be home.

If I thought Sam wouldn't kick me out, I'd probably set up a cot in the locker room and live, eat, and sleep hockey.

Call it an obsession,call it an addiction. Call it whatever you want as long as you call me the best that ever lived.

I want the legacy that Coach Bex, Sam Roberts, and Seven Wrenley all have.

When the day finally comes for me to retire, I want to be known as one of the best goaltenders to ever play the game.

And it's not as if I haven't dated. My last relationship ended a year ago, and we had been together for a little over eight months. She needed more attention than I could give her, so she ended things, and I was relieved. Being in a relationship while trying to focus on the playoffs was a huge distraction, which is why I'm steering clear of relationships until after I raise that Stanley Cup over my head at the end of this season.

Is it cold that I wasn't affected by our breakup? Maybe, but ever since I was young, I've only wanted one thing— to win a hockey championship.

"You ladies done checking yourselves out in the mirror yet?" Coach Bex asks, already dressed in his suit. "Media is waiting. Let's get out there. The sooner we're through with press, the sooner we can head to Oakley's. I need a drink after that overtime. That was too damn close."

Brent's completely dressed and walks up to Coach Bex, tossing an arm over Bex's shoulder.

"You're coming out with us tonight?" Brent gleams.

"If you take your arm off of me, I'll think about it," Coach Bex says.

Brent just chuckles.

Coach Bex is wound tight but for some reason, Brent thinks he's close to cracking. I'm not so sure.

I respect Bex Townsend.

We all do.

He has the most Stanley Cup wins of any player on this team. He won three championships as a player before he retired, and Phil Carlton begged him to come back and coach for him, offering him one of the highest-paying salaries for a coach in NHL history.

Before Coach Bex walks out with Brent, Bex turns to glance over his shoulder at me.

"That was a hell of a shot tonight, Aisa. You made your team proud."

It's all he says, and then he turns and heads out of the locker room's double doors.

Brent gives me a wink and a nod as if that was some confirmation that the days of Coach Bex being a hardass are numbered.

I'll believe it when I see it.

Receiving praise from both Wrenley and Townsend on the same night shows that staying focused on my career instead of my personal life is the right decision. It's where I should be.

Domestication can wait for when I can give a woman the attention she deserves.

And that night isn't tonight.

Instead, tonight, I'll celebrate with my team.