Page 13 of For Crosby

When the whistle blew again, the guys skated over to the bench and grabbed their water bottles. A few pulled off their helmets. Their cheeks were red and their sweat-drenched hair hung in their faces. Hockey was clearly more intense than I gave it credit for. My eyes snagged on the inky black hair of my nemesis. His eyes were pinned on mine.

I lifted my hand, as if to wave at him, but turned it instead, bending all but my middle finger.

Mr. Hockey laughed. The bastard laughed.

The coach blew his whistle again, and the guys skated back out onto the ice.

Crosby

“Oouff.” I shook off yet another hit and skated after the puck in our end-of-practice scrimmage. I was determined like hell to show the amateurs on the team, and the Ice Queen who sat in the seats, what a real hockey player looked like. Forget my opponents, if I was gonna get the shit beat out of me on the ice by my own teammates, I was gonna make damn sure they looked like they weren’t fit to clean my skates.

I’d been the top scorer on my team in Texas for the past three years. Pro scouts had been talking to my coaches. And, I’d just been named captain.

Then shit hit the fan and I ended up in Alabama.

Now my teammates back home—my brothers—wanted nothing to do with me, feeling like I abandoned them when we had a shot at the championship. I didn’t blame them for feeling that way, but I did blame them for deserting me and not having my back when I needed friends more than ever. Of course, some of them had reason to want nothing to do with me. My father had chummed it up with their parents, persuading them to invest with him. We all know how that turned out.

Somehow my new teammates caught wind of my successes on the ice. They also knew I already had one foot out the door, planning to enter the pro draft after this season. And they hated me for it.

I couldn’t help that I was skilled. I should’ve gone pro this year, but I’d promised my mom, after everything she’d been through, that I’d graduate before entering the draft. And since that’s all she had to hang on to, I needed to stay true to my words.

But I had news for my new teammates. Their jealousy and quest to make my transition to the team difficult were not standing in the way of me getting drafted. I would take what they dished and stay the fuck off the dean’s radar.

All I needed to do was graduate. Then I could leave Alabama and everyone in it behind.

“I like what I’ve been seeing out there,” Coach said as we formed a circle around him at the end of practice. “I have no idea where this newfound intensity’s coming from, but I like it.”

Half the team’s eyes suddenly avoided Coach’s. I should’ve turned around and shown him the big bullseye on my back.

“Just remember,” Coach continued. “You guys are on the same team. You can practice with intensity, but I don’t want anyone hurt, especially before next week’s game. Go hit the showers.” He looked to me. “Crosby. I wanna speak with you.”

The others filed off the ice. More than one shot me a glare.

Assholes.

Once Coach and I were alone, he pegged me with his eyes. “Anything you wanna tell me?”

“Nope.”

“So, you’re fine with your teammates resenting your skills?”

“Didn’t realize they felt that way.”

He cocked his head, not buying the blatant lie. Even though I hadn’t ratted out the team for the tree stunt, everyone—even Coach—assumed it had been my teammates. “I know things have been tough for you. And if you’re feeling like they’re not treating you like one of their own, you need to let me know.”

“I’m twenty-one. Not five.”

He nodded. “I get that. But I don’t want anything outside the game affecting you. You’ve stayed consistent on the ice despite everything that happened in Texas. I don’t want guys, who aren’t playing this game as a potential career, hurting your chances at the pros.”

I shrugged, though I doubted he could tell with my pads on.

“I’m serious, Crosby. Make it through this season playing like you have been, and the draft is within your grasp.”

Sabrina

I checked my watch. Jeremy knew I was there, gesturing to me to wait as he hurried into the locker room.

I watched as Mr. Hockey spoke to the coach. Was he being reprimanded for having a poor attitude or something else? Because the post-practice lecture couldn’t be about his skills on the ice. Given his fluid movements out there and the ease in which he handled a stick, the guy could seriously play—despite the hard hits he took from his teammates.

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