Page 9 of Playmaker

It just didn’t get any better than this.

You don’t know what you’re missing, Dad.

I wished I didn’t care so much that he didn’t care. I wished I didn’t miss him. Or, well, it wasn’t that I missed him. I missed theideaof him. The idea of a supportive dad cheering me on from the stands. I’d had teammates whose dads were so loud, you could sometimes pick out their voices even over the glass.

That would never be my dad. It was a sad, heavy thing to accept, but it was reality. Sometimes I imagined looking over and being startled to see him sitting there after all, beaming with pride. I didn’t know what I’d do if that ever happened. Cry? Forget how to play hockey?

It wasn’t going to happen, though, so I didn’t dwell on it.

Fortunately, hockey was always a good distraction from just about anything, and right then, Coach Reilly blew the whistle. I grinned as I skated over to join my teammates.

Training camp. Here we go.

We were divided into three teams based on our jersey colors—black, white, and gold. For today, the gold team would be on the other rink while black and white stayed in this one and practiced together. Tomorrow, my team—black—would be separated while gold and white were together. Over the next three days, the coaches would put all of us through drills, conditioning exercises, and scrimmages, and from there, the team would be whittled down to twenty: two goalies, twelve forwards, and six defenders.

A lot of the prospects would be heading back to their college or major junior teams, and this was mostly an opportunity for development. They weren’t likely to make the roster yet, butthere was nothing quite like training with the pros to develop their skills. I envied them that chance; there hadn’t been a pro league during my major junior days.

Of the rest of us, some would be sent to the minors while others made the roster. There were a few who were essentially shoo-ins for the roster—especially for the top lines. I’d been told in no uncertain terms that I was on that list, but as far as I was concerned, I was here to prove myself just like everyone else. Nothing bred resentment more than someone who half-assed camp and practice because they knew they were guaranteed a spot. I’d earned my place with the front office and coaching staff, but this was where I had to earn it with my teammates.

And besides, what good did it do for the prospects to practice with veterans who weren’t giving their all?

It didn’t hurt that I thought practice was fun as hell, even during the chaos that was training camp. The drills were intense and the coaches were demanding, but I enjoyed it. Probably because even after all this time, I still loved playing hockey.

“Mac!” Nora called out to me during a battle drill. I turned toward the sound of her voice, and she fired the puck right onto my tape. One of the opposing players tried to body me around and separate me from the puck, but I shouldered her off me and passed the puck to Nora.

A heartbeat later, someone else checked me into the boards.Hard.

I recovered quickly—it wasn’t fun, but she hadn’t hit me at full speed, and I was decked out in protective gear—but irritation flared in my chest. What the hell? This was a drill, not a game. Yeah, we were supposed to get physical, but checking like that seemed unnecessary, especially when I didn’t have possession.

I looked up as the other player skated off, and my temper surged as I read the name across her lower back.

Hamilton.

Of course it was Lila fucking Hamilton.

I rolled my eyes and continued with the drill. My momentary distraction had only cost me a handful of seconds, but every heartbeat counted in hockey.

And when I found the right second, I was going to pay Hamilton back. This was the third time she’d messed with me since practice had started. Earlier, it had been an unnecessary hip check during a defensive drill. After that, stealing the puck from me when we were supposed to be playing on the same side.

“Oops,” she’d said with a smirk after I’d called her out on it.

I’d just rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth, but now I was pissed. First chance I had, it was payback time.

That opportunity came during the next battle drill, and I shamelessly took it. Hamilton had the puck. I could’ve easily poke-checked it away, but screw that—I slammed her into the glass,thenstole the puck.

The muttered “bitch” barely registered because I was halfway across the ice by then, and I just grinned behind my visor as I continued through the drill. I passed the puck to Laws, who shot it into the net behind Anya. Laws and I shared a fist bump, and then we both tapped Anya’s pads because this was a drill, we were teammates, and there were no hard feelings.

“I hate you both,” she said, laughing behind her mask.

“Nah, you don’t.” I grinned, skating backwards away from her. “We’re just sharpening your skills for the real thing!”

She rolled her eyes and held up her blocker. “You can’t see it, but I’m giving you the bird.”

I returned the gesture, confident that my bulky glove hid my upraised middle finger from the fans watching us behind the glass.

Coach Reilly blew the whistle, and we all headed to the bench for some water. After we’d caught our breath as much as anyone ever did during hockey practice, Coach called out, “Hams. Mac.”She beckoned to Lila and me. “The rest of you…” She nodded toward Lynnie, the offensive coach, who was standing at the whiteboard beside the bench. While our teammates skated over to listen to her lay out the next drill, Lila and I exchanged caustic looks, then skated over to our coach.

A safe distance away from the rest of the team, Coach lowered her voice to an irritated growl. “Is there something going on here that I need to know about?” She flicked her eyes back and forth between us. “Or was that just some overly enthusiastic checking for training camp?”

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