Page 2 of The Perfect Snipe

Wyatt skates past and throws an arm over my shoulder, his blond hair sticking out from under his helmet. “Still angry at me?”

Yeah.

But I don’t say it, just roll my eyes and skate back toward center ice. Plus, the guy knows I’m not touchy feely. Swear he does this shit on purpose.

“How come I don’t get that much affection?” Mykyta dramatically pouts, his voice a theatrical whine, as he lines up to my right. “Come to think of it, you guys only slap me upside the head. No hugs, no cuddles. Just slap, slap, slap.”

He emphasizes his last words with a deep sigh, shoulders and head dropping.

“Someone needs to zap, zap, zap fucking Mosquito,” Garrison Lund, one of our defensive players says.

My lip twitches the slightest bit. Lund stands with his skates planted shoulder-width apart, muscles coiled beneath his gear. If Mykyta mysteriously vanished one day, my money’s on Lund finally snapping.

Roan Morrow, the left winger on Wyatt’s line, smirks. A rare occurrence for him. The kid’s struggling with something. And like Wyatt, he’s not talking.

Mykyta’s gloved hand flies to his chest as his mouth hangs open. “You’re so mean.”

But he can’t hold the mock hurt expression for long. Swear that kid doesn’t have a serious bone in his body because two seconds later he’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over.

Lund lifts his stick, examining the tape on his blade, as if it’s more interesting than his teammate. “Must be nice to find yourself entertaining. Not sure why you and Clanton aren’t best friends. Think the two of you should’ve went to drama school instead of the NHL.”

“Last time I checked, this isn’t a kids team. Now get your fucking heads out of your asses and focus!” Coach Kinnear’s face is red. “Hartman, I expected better from you.”

Some days—most days—I wonder why I’m captain.

The weight of the ‘C’ on my jersey feels heavier than ever, a constant reminder of the responsibility I have to my team. One I’m failing at. Like the fact I should be trying to figure out a way to help the team grow close, to bond and form that unbreakable bond.

But how the hell am I supposed to do that when I can barely deal with my own life?

I snort to myself, the irony not lost on me. Here I am, expected to bring everyone together, when I can’t even let myself get close to anyone.

The only reason Wyatt became my best friend is because we were forced together, and my daughter meddled. Wyatt is also stubborn, so once Stella opened her mouth, it became his mission to be my friend.

Then he brought in Hudson, who was already his best friend. Those two leeched onto my walls until they were melted down with some kind of friendship acid. But opening up to the rest of the team—it’s a lot.

Murphy’s law also decided it’s the perfect time to add to my plate.

Because my kids' nanny Bella quit. Luckily, it occurred during bye week, so I was able to stay home with the kids. But I still haven’t been able to find a quality replacement, leaving me with the one option I’ve tried to avoid at all costs.

My mother.

While I am fortunate she lives an hour and a half away, the woman is overbearing. Points out every way I should improve as if I can never do anything right, and she always has to make sureto impress everyone. From how big her house is, to fancy parties, even using her children’s successes to benefit her status.

But I’m stuck and have no other option, a reminder of how precarious my balancing act between hockey and being a single father really is.

Coach blows the whistle and the scrimmage starts. Wyatt wins the face-off and barrels toward Smitty again, but this time Hudson’s there and clears the puck. “Nice try, Virgin.”

Hudson hands it off to me, and I skate it past the center line before dumping the puck into the offensive zone. Mykyta chases after it, fighting Morrow for control. He sends it along the boards around the net.

Skating hard toward the board, I’m there just in time for the puck to hit the sweet spot of my stick, the reverberation traveling instantly up my arms as it rockets forward when I fire off the shot.

Perfection.

While Kinkaid’s big body blocks most of the net, the puck sails through the small opening right above his left shoulder and into the net.

I give one quick fist pump, my face impassive. My snapshot’s art, but I'm no showboat.

“Fuck, yeah, Cap.” Mykyta skates by, clapping me on the shoulder. “Perfect fucking snipe.”

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