Page 27 of Lace 'em Up

I don’t leave the house until I peek in and see that she’s firmly entrenched, not wanting to risk having to track her down again and piss off Jean-Michel for moving more than that inch.

So, it’s only when I find her full on in the groove that I leave for the rink.

Practice time.

I actually like it—something that might be a surprise to most people. The monotonous drills, going through the same shit over and over again until it’s just right, until it’s muscle memory and happens with game speed without thinking.

It’s routine.

It’s comfortable.

It’s planned and structured and good for me.

I may not be the best player, may not have the natural talent my dad did when he was playing, the same abilities as my brothers, the same beautiful instincts Annie had when she was competing for a gold medal, jumping and spinning in a way that I’ll never be able to—with grace and power and speed.

I’m big, but not the biggest of my siblings.

I’m strong, but not the strongest either.

Not the funniest or the most laidback or the most talented of the Bang athletes.

But…I can work hard.

And I like that practice allows me to do that.

“So.”

I turn, see that Pat—resident asshole on the Eagles, and unfortunately, there’s usually always one…but with this team, there’s plenty, so really Pat is the president of the assholes.

Do not engage.

I turn away, pick up the puck, start running through a series of stickhandling exercises. Toe to heel of the blade, up into the air, twisting to the side, then back down onto the ice and moving it around me, tracing a mental diamond on the ice, hitting some spots, dodging around imaginary obstacles, through my feet, back to front, side to side?—

Pat swings his stick at mine and?—

Crack.

My stick snaps in two, stinging pain radiating up my palms, my forearms.

See? Asshole.

Slashing—and breaking—my stick for some goddamned reason that only makes sense in Asshole Land.

Plus, I just retaped the blade, and it was a damned good tape job.

And yeah, we go through a lot of sticks every season, and the team pays for them and the rest of my equipment, but…

What the fuck?

I grind my teeth together, rotate on my skates just enough to meet his smirking eyes. “Did you need something?” I mutter, bending to grab the half of my stick that’s resting on the ice.

He waggles his brows. “Did you fuck her yet?”

I still, my gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the halves of my stick, wanting to turn around and send it like a spear straight into this asshole’s stomach.

Thankfully, I have more control—or more teeth to grind.

So, I just straighten, skate to the bench, stepping off the ice and dumping the broken pieces into a trash can before murmuring a “Thanks” to the equipment guy—who’s ready and prepared as always—when he passes a fresh stick over to me.

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