Page 4 of Pucking Never

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs. “I’ve missed you.”

I wrap my arms around his waist and squeeze him back. “I’ve missed you too.”

Pulling back, he looks down at me with a small smile and says, “All right. I’m on the fourteenth floor if you need anything, okay? I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, and don’t forget to call mom and tell her you got here safe and sound. She’ll be blowing up my phone otherwise.”

Soft laughter flows from me, as I nod. Our parents have been happily married for, well, god knows how long. The two of them are more in love than I’ve ever seen anyone, and honestly, it gives me hope. Hope that one day I will have the kind of relationship they do. Which means my standards are high, because I’ve seen the kind of relationships some of my friends have had, and I won’t settle for less when it comes to looking for love. Not that falling in love is anywhere on my radar right now.

“I will, don’t worry,” I assure him, patting his arm. “I’m just going to get unpacked and relax so I’m ready to hit the ground running tomorrow.”

He seems hesitant to leave, but I walk him to the door and he tells me goodbye one more time before leaving to go to his own apartment. I shut the door behind him and turn around to press my back against it and release a long breath. Okay. I’m here. I’m doing this. Pushing away from the door, I cross the apartment to the large windows and stare out at the cityscape. My heart begins to race with excitement and my lips curl into a wide smile.

This is my new life, and despite my hang-ups about hockey, I’m actually looking forward to seeing where this new chapter takes me.

Chapter Two

JENSEN

Sinking into the tub full of ice and water, I immediately feel my muscles seize but then start to relax. I rest back against the metal tub’s side and release a long breath. Yeah, that’s the stuff. My aching limbs thank me as I soak in the freezing water. Practice today was rough but intensely satisfying. My body is feeling it, though.

I’m feeling good about the team this year. We’re working well together. All the guys love being on the ice together. We’ve got real team spirit — no anchors. I close my eyes and let the cold seep deeper into my tired muscles, pushing out exhaustion and making room for rejuvenation. I can hear the faint echoes of my teammates' laughter from the locker room next door.

The icy water laps against my chest as I think back on our practice. Wilder and Jayce, both agile like cats, maneuvered the puck like it was an extension of their own bodies. Cruz, our sturdy left defender—whose strength rivals that of a bear protecting its young—is a force to be reckoned with, along with Zander, our right defender.

Though we have multiple people able to play multiple positions, these four were part of the team's starters and the few I considered my closest friends. Guys that were at the top of their game, having worked hard to get to where they are.

Of course, we wouldn’t be anything without our star goalie…who was not present on the ice today. I grit my teeth in annoyance. Why wouldn’t Carson tell me he wasn’t going to be here? He told the coaches he had a family thing, but I’m his captain and best friend, damn it. He should have let me know, so I wasn’t so caught off guard when I arrived this morning and he just wasn’t there. With an annoyed sigh, I rise out of the water and reach for my towel nearby. Once I get home, I’m going to call Carson and rip into him about his responsibilities to this team, or at the very least for his lack of communication. That’s not like him. He’s usually much better at keeping me in the loop about things.

As I dry off, I start to make my way toward the showers, but before I reach them, I hear Coach calling my name from the office area down the hall.

“Reece! When you’re done, come to my office. We need to talk about some strategy before you go home.”

I give him a thumbs-up and reply, “You got it. Give me ten minutes.”

I don't waste another second. I briskly stride into the showers, changing the dial to an almost scalding temperature. The hot water contrasts sharply with my previously ice-numbed skin, sending a jolt of waking energy through my body. I feel invigorated, yet relaxed—this is exactly what I need after a long day of practice. In a matter of minutes, I rinse off, dry, and dress efficiently in my casual attire: blue jeans and a black sweatshirt emblazoned with the Night Hawks’ fierce logo.

My heart pounds rhythmically in my chest as I make my way toward Coach's office, my mind already whirring with possibilities for strategies and potential formations. I have always found these quiet moments before strategic talks most engaging, like the calm before a storm.

The coach's office is tucked away at the far end of the locker room hall. A small plaque reading “Coach Sullivan” adorns the door. Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles can connect with the heavy wood, his gruff voice beckons me inside.

As I step into his dimly lit office, filled with the smell of old coffee and hockey gloves, Coach Sullivan stands behind his cluttered desk studying a whiteboard filled with Xs and Os. He’s a hulking figure of a man, with broad shoulders and the softened muscle structure of a former athlete who’s not as active as he used to be. He’s bald, with dark eyes that I always feel are cutting straight into my soul, especially when he’s pissed. It’s my second year with Coach Sullivan, but I feel we’ve built a good rapport with each other. He trusts me with his team, and I appreciate the years of experience and wisdom he’s gathered throughout his career.

“Close the door, Reece," he orders without looking up from the whiteboard. "We’ve got some work to do.” I shut the door and move to stand next to him in front of the whiteboard.

Together, we stare at the markings on the board, each circle and line representing a player and their potential moves. Coach Sullivan, with his decades of experience, is a master strategist, yet he values my input, understanding that I have a deep, innate connection with our team on the ice.

He taps a blue X representing Wilder and looks at me. “Alright, this is a play I’ve been working on. I want you to win the faceoff and then quickly pass to Wilder. Once Wilder gets the puck, he’ll drive hard towards the net. Then you’ll be ready to follow up and support Wilder if he needs it.”

I study the board again, visualizing the play.

“That could work,” I say after a solid minute of thinking it through. “We could use Jayce’s maneuverability on the wing to create a distraction for Cruz and Zander to push deeper into our opponent's defense.”

With a nod of agreement, he erases an X and replaces it with an O, implementing my suggestion. We fall into a rhythm, debating and designing plays well into the evening. Our ideas flow seamlessly into one another until we have multiple new strategies to introduce to the team. Draped in silence once again, we both admire our handiwork on the whiteboard.

“Good job tonight, Reece," he says, breaking the quiet with his raspy voice.

"We'll see how these go down tomorrow at practice," I reply as I turn toward the door.

Coach Sullivan gives me a firm pat on the shoulder as I leave his office. "That we will, son. That we will."

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