Page 33 of Puck Princess

“For team members,” the rookie points out. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. But I answer, anyway.

“For friends.”

The room grows quiet with tension, but I don’t give a fuck. He can’t just walk in here and expect to be one of us. That shit has to be earned.

“What’s the difference?” he asks and I stop lacing. “When I was captain at MSU, you walked into the locker room on the first day and you became a team before you even put on the jersey. You were friends, you were brothers, you were family. That’s what hockey is all about. Brotherhood. Companionship.”

“That’s deep, bro.” Kason beats a fist against his heart.

“Yeah. Real deep. Like a sinkhole.”

“You got a problem with me already, Sharpe?” he grins, looking around like someone is going to back him. He’s forgetting whose team this is. But he’s going to find out real quick.

I can grin like that too. “No problem at all. I know who you are. I’ve seen your stats, and you were pretty good?—”

It makes him grin more, all while puffing his chest and looking around to see who’s paying attention.

“—for a college player who stayed in school an extra year to make the cut,” I finish.

And there goes the grin. Now, we are getting somewhere.

“Did you hear why the Scythes chose me? You know, while you were spending all your time researching me in the middle of the night.”

He thinks he’s gaining an edge, but I’m not worried.

“My dad, Rodger Santos? I’m sure you’ve heard of him,”

Heath points at the kid. “He’s that big wig millionaire whose grandfather pumped the ground and hit oil. And he pumped that money into the NHL. Man, I knew you looked familiar! We lost Solomon and struck gold!”

Fool’s gold, maybe.

I keep my expression neutral as Santos smirks at me.

“We didn’t pick you for money,” I say flatly.

“You might be right. Maybe your coach saw that you lost your best player recently and needed to bring in someone to save the team from floundering mid-season.”

I stare at him. He stares at me.

Meanwhile, everyone is watching. Waiting.

But I’m not giving this little prick the satisfaction of kicking his ass. Me overreacting, pissing off the coach and starting more shit, is exactly what he wants.

I wolf whistle. “Everyone, on the ice in five.”

Then I shove past him and make my way to the rink.

We warm up, going through the drills I laid out. Everyone plays their part and it’s like nothing ever happened. Part of me even thinks we might be better off without Miles.

I have to hand it to the kid, he’s not terrible. He’s a bit of a puck hog who thinks his shit don’t stink, but he could turn into a good enough replacement.

At least, that’s what I think until he starts getting in my way.

“Santos!” I yell out. “You might have been the center on your last team, but here, you’re a winger. Your job is to defend the puck, not parade it around like a cake.”

Even from across the ice, I can see him grinding down on his mouth guard. I ignore him.

“Alright! Circle back around and let’s try that again. We’re playing the Sharks next week and their offense is—” The wind is nearly knocked out of me when Santos slams against me as he passes.

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