Page 10 of Melting the Ice

“My youth—or what’s left of it—isn’t up for debate,” Coach said. “But your fitness is. Let’s run some drills.”

Zach proceeded to run them through a bunch of drills, starting with crisscrossing the ice, going both forward and backward, over and over again.

Brody’s knee protested a little at first, but he’d put his brace on, and the more he warmed up, the better it felt. Still, he was shaking sweat out of his hair by the end of that one.

Next, Coach led them through some shooting drills.

Finn traded off with their other goalie, Dominic, and they skated up, sending shots their way.

Finn was young and maybe a little nervy, but he faced them all head-on and seemed to do just fine in the moment.

He’d transferred mid-season last year, and Brody had liked what he’d seen of the guy, but he also worried because the goalie’s NHL pedigree might mask either mediocrity or anxiety—or both.

Four or five drills in, it seemed like Coach B wanted to find out if anyone had spent the summer on the couch instead of in the weight room. And it seemed that maybe a few of them had. Brody decided he was lucky he wasn’t one of them. But by the time practice ended, even he was feeling sweat run down his back, damp underneath his practice jersey.

“God, that was tough,” Finn said, wiping his face with his jersey as they staggered into the locker room.

“Don’t tell me you spent all summer sunning yourself in Europe,” Ramsey retorted lightly. “I saw plenty of pics of you out where, on your dad’s beachfront property in Italy?”

Finn frowned. He didn’t seem particularly happy that Ramsey had noticed that. Well, they’dallnoticed, and it wasn’t like Finn could possibly pretend that his dad wasn’t Morgan Reynolds.

He didn’t even try.

But he was frowning still.

“Yeah,” Finn said shortly. “That’s where the house is. Positano.”

“Nice,” Ramsey said. “No hockey rink there, though.”

“I spent plenty of time in the gym,” Finn argued.

“Right, of course you did,” Ramsey said smoothly.

But Finn’s color was up and there was clear exhaustion on his face.

Well, at least he wasn’t alone. Everyone looked pretty beat. Probably what Coach B had intended for their first practice, to set the tone.

At least, Brody thought, as he stripped out of his equipment and headed towards the showers, his knee felt good.

He’d make sure to ice it later, just to make sure, but it had held up, exactly the way it was supposed to.

“Hear you’ve got a hockey player roommate,” Wes said, tossing the ball back and forth between his two big glove-covered hands.

Even in Portland, notorious for its temperate and rainy climate, the Evergreens played football outside. Most quarterbacks avoided gloves, but Wes always practiced with gloves, and never played without them.

He was one of Dean’s best friends on the team. Probably one of his best friends, period, since he didn’t exactly have the extra time on his hands to go around making friends.

If they weren’t in his classes, on the field with him, or at his job, he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting to know anyone.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He wasn’t a guy who spoke up a lot. It always surprised him that he and Wes had gravitated to each other, because Wes was friendly and talked toeveryone. But for the last three years, he always seemed to end up right back at Dean’s side.

Without Wes, he’d probably be totally alone.

Mom didn’t give a shit about him—never had—and wherever his father was, Dean didn’t want him to crawl out of the hole he’d hidden himself in anyway.

He was just fine on his own, but hewasgrateful for Wes’ friendship, nevermind that he didn’t understand it.

Wes nudged him with an elbow. Tossed him the ball, and Dean nimbly plucked it out of the air. For a linebacker, he had pretty good hands. Not as good as Wes’ maybe, but Dean’s hands were there to give him the push he needed to destroy whatever lay in his path.

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