Page 5 of One More Time

“Look, I’m not here to fuck with spiders. I won’t be late to practice. And you won’t see me rocking up drunk or hungover. I didn’t get where I am by slackin’ off.”

At first, I was met with silence. Wide eyes locked on me, until Colt burst out laughing. “Fuck with spiders?”

I rolled my eyes, realizing at that moment that it wasn’t a normal expression. “It means I am not here to mess around.” I forced an uncomfortable laugh as everyone began to mock my accent, which until now, I didn’t realize I had. Do I actually sound like that?

“Man, this is going to be great. Do you really ride kangaroos to school?” a preppy guy asked.

Just to get back at him, I decided to roll with it. “Yeah, for sure. But you have to tame one first, mate. Crikey, they can be wild. Have you seen the videos of them boxing? Google it.” I exaggerated my Aussie twang, sounding more like Steve Irwin than a country bloke from Perth. Which—unlike the rest of Australia—we don’t have that strong accent that drives Americans wild—or so I thought. I watched, amused as my teammates scrambled for their phones. Rolling my eyes, I turned back to my gear. The ice was calling my name.

Slipping into my skates was like pulling on a pair of my favorite worn-in sneakers. Though I tried not to compare mine to the others. I wasn’t poor by any means. Before her diagnosis, Mum was a successful author, giving us a comfortable life with her royalties alone. Dad’s life insurance money took care of most everything else, but we were still careful due to the unexpected fees of her treatments—though they were nothing compared to America.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice the boys around me had gear more expensive than my first car. I noticed a couple of second glances but brushed them off. With my training kit on, I hit the ice, the only other teammate to join me being Mr. Boston.

His unwavering stare followed me as he did some warm-up stretches. The combination of his intense gaze and the rhythmic motion of his hips made my body flush hot. Given our first meeting, my body seemed oblivious to the fact that he was off-limits. I moved to the other side of the ice to begin my stretches until the coach began calling the drills.

I wasn’t the tallest or the beefiest guy on the team by any means, but I put a lot of work into my body, keeping to a strict diet and workout regimen. Thanks to my rugby-playing grandad, I could handle hits like a pro. However, when we hit the speed drills, I knew it was my time to shine—even after being off the ice for two months. I was one of the forwards—and the only lefty—so I used that to my advantage. At least, that’s how I saw it.

I had two players as my competition: Mr. Boston, a towering defenseman with a muscular build, and Colton, a forward with speed to rival mine. I contemplated letting Colton win in the speed drills but quickly dismissed the idea. After all, I was a Riley, and we don’t shy away from a challenge. We tore our way up and down the ice, the delicious burn in my muscles keeping me going. I could see Captain’s intrigued gaze as I passed him, but I refrained from teasing him.

“Shiiiiiit Aussie!” The preppy guy—Mouse—called out. “Cap’s the fastest in the college league. You showing him up?”

I shrugged.It wasn’t my intention, but I would be lying if I hadn’t liked the competition. It was one of the many reasons we played sport, wasn’t it? But I also had something to prove. My speed was my asset, and I was going to have to make use of it if I had any chance of getting noticed in this league.

“It’s all good being fast, but can he use that speed with a puck on his stick?” Mr. Boston chortled.

Coach clapped his hands to draw our attention, “Okay, good work! let’s finish up with a little skirmish to see where we’re at.”

He broke us up into teams, aiming for a balanced mix of age and skills. “Aussie, you could captain your team for this round, given your experience as captain last season.” I nodded, but my stomach churned under the pressure. I wanted to work my way in and get to know the guys before being thrust into the spotlight. From what I’d learned, guys didn’t appreciate a new face stealing the limelight.

As I faced my team, their jilted expressions didn’t escape me. But having lived with a teenage brother, that was easy to ignore. I was relieved not to find Mr. Boston on my side of the blue line.

I’d kept a close eye on each player, sizing up their skills during practice. I didn’t just skate; I dissected their every move. Game tapes from past seasons were my playbook, and aside from the other freshmen, I knew these guys’ skills like the back of my glove.

With that wealth of knowledge, I rallied the team, bringing them together to lay out my game plan. To my surprise, they all nodded in agreement, some even throwing in their two cents about the other team’s weaknesses. With a few taps on the back and a word of thanks, we were ready to hit the ice.

“Look, I hope there were no hard feelings about the captain gig. In my previous team, we worked together—no hierarchy, just respect and a shared goal to win. So, on three, we aren’t here to fuck with spiders.” I extended my hand, watching everyone’s lips curve in amusement. Hands met mine, and on three, we yelled loudly, the sound getting my blood pumping. The coach covered his mouth, clearly hiding a smile though he tried to pass it off.

I met Colt on center ice and scanned his team placements, nodding in acknowledgment of his good choices on the first line. From what I’d seen of him in previous games, I hoped my plays matched up. I nodded to him, signaling that I was ready.

“Stay on two feet, Aussie.” A familiar, husky chuckle came from my left wing. “Falling on your ass won’t win you the game." Despite the annoyance that threatened to bubble up, I shot him a smile, not missing the raised brow from Colt.

The whistle blew, and the puck hit the ice. Colt was fast, but I was faster. My shorter stature gave me an advantage I swiped the puck, tipping it to Jarman—the player hovering behind me. The play was officially in motion. I slid to my mark, feeling the puck’s solid weight against my stick. My blades carved through the ice, my focus sharp on the brooding, amber-eyed man shadowing my every move. His build was bulkier, but damned if he didn’t almost match my speed stride for stride. A cheeky challenge played in my mind. “Think you can catch me, Boston?”

I called his move before he made it. I ducked, passing the puck to Mouse. He gave me a goofy grin before effortlessly snapping it back. The crisp, satisfying sound of a perfect tape-to-tape pass reverberated through my stick, making my arm buzz and my pulse race.

Colt hustled to close the gap, but he was caught in my jet stream. I had my eyes locked on the goal. Only Mr. Boston kept up the chase. With a flick, the puck flew. The goalie leaped, their hand stretched out—but they were too slow.

The puck flew into the top right corner, missing their glove by a hair. A triumphant grin pulled at my lips, fuelled by the rush of the play.

The game unfurled like a rhythmic dance. I deciphered the play, orchestrated my team, and led us straight into the win. It was a fever dream of perfection. By the final buzzer, sweat dripped down my face, and my grin mirrored the satisfaction of a cat with a bowl of cream. The boys on my team collided with me by the boards, celebrating with bum taps and helmet knocks. Even if it was just a scrimmage match, I felt the coach’s intention. He wanted me to prove myself, to show the guys I could be both skilled and supportive. A whisper of hope lingered, setting the tone for all the games to come.

Mouse clapped me on the shoulder. “Ausssieeee! Where the hell did you learn to do that?” I shrugged, unsure of what the answer truly was.

I headed toward the lockers, only pausing when the coach beckoned me over.

“Good work, kid. If you keep playing like that, you could find yourself on the starting line this season.”

I flashed a smile and nodded. “I’m just getting started, Coach. Got something to prove.”

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