Page 17 of Crossing the Top Line

But my thoughts come to a halt as McQueen blows the whistle again, and the team starts organizing themselves into lines in the defensive zone. Three forwards and two defensemen moving together to practice carrying the puck through the neutral zone and into formation to take shots on goal. I use the viewfinder on my camera to get a better look at the combinations Coach has set up, and my lips pull down as I see that Eli and Oli are the wingers on Spencer’s line.

Eli’s chattering with the other guys on his side as they wait their turn, though I notice that he keeps glancing over his shoulder at me whenever he can get away with it until he’s at the front, waiting for his turn. Then he turns to look at me, winking.

“I can’t decide if you watching is a good distraction or a bad one. But at least I’m wearing a cup so the rest of the team can’t see—”

I rip the headphones away from my ears before he can finish, my face hot enough to fry an egg. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to figure out how he was going to end that sentence, and I’ve been cursed to have a very overactive imagination on the best of days. The omega instincts in my belly are squirming with glee, happy in a weird, primal way that an alpha notices me and has such a strong reaction. I wrestle that part of my mind back into its cage, setting my jaw and glaring down at Eli, even as he gives me the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen.

Once Coach blows his whistle, I figure it’s safe to put my headphones back on as the trio takes off down the ice, gliding as a unit. Once they cross the offensive blue line, something palpable shifts in the air, obvious even across the distance between me and them.

“Here,” Eli barks, tapping his stick on the ice once.

And without even looking, Spencer passes the puck, Eli not needing to break stride to control it and then make a quick pass right between the opposing defenseman’s legs, all the way across the ice to Oliver. Spencer skates hard, straight up the center of the ice, almost on a collision course with the goal. He keeps his head down, stick on the ice like he’s guiding the puck. A fake out, sold even harder when Oliver passes the puck in his direction. But it slips through the gap between Spencer’s stick and his skates, instead landing back in Elijah’s control. Spencer winds up like he’s going to shoot, and Jari bites, dropping to his pads in the center. But it leaves the upper right corner completely open, and Elijah’s shot sails right into the top shelf, Jari only noticing a little too late.

Elijah lets out a whoop as he glides past the goal line and around the back of the net, bumping shoulders with Spencer and Oliver like they scored an actual goal.

“That was slick as fuck, boys,” Spencer laughs, bumping fists as they make their way back to the bench to let the next set of forwards take their turn.

The others laugh their agreement, hopping over the wall to sit on the bench. McQueen goes over to them, moving out of the way for the next advance.

“That’s not what we discussed,” he chides, his voice barely detectable on the mic clipped to Eli’s shoulder.

“Yeah, but it was slick as hell,” Spencer says, not even hesitating for a moment.

McQueen lets out a deep sigh. “Slick, yeah, but risky. We aren’t playing pond hockey,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, you’re right. We’d never get away with that in pond hockey. The ice wouldn’t be smooth enough,” Eli jokes, nudging Spencer with his shoulder.

McQueen shakes his head and turns away, blowing his whistle for the next set to go.

“How’d that look, Tor? I scored that for you,” Eli mutters into his shoulder, so low I’m not sure if the others next to him hear it.

He looks up at me, eyes nearly white in this lighting. I purse my lips for a moment. I’m not supposed to be a distraction or interfere with any of the practice process. But he keeps staring at me, silent for the first time since practice really started. I roll my eyes and lift my fist ever so slightly, giving him a little thumbs up.

Eli laughs. “Oli can get on my case all he likes. But it’s hard not to show off when a pretty girl’s watching,” he practically purrs.

I sigh and drop my hand, shaking my head again. I’ve done that a lot today. I curse my cheeks for getting warm at his compliment, and vow vengeance on my pussy as it flutters hollowly.

“Will you come to some of the Krewe games if I get sent back down? I would hate to never see you again,” Eli asks, what can only be a joking pout to his voice.

“What about you getting sent down?” Spencer asks.

For the first time in years, I’m grateful for Spencer Black. He distracts Eli enough that I get a few moments of peace, especially when McQueen calls everyone over to start the next portion of practice: special teams. He starts dividing the remaining players up into groups of four—two forwards and two defensemen—and five—four forwards and a defenseman—to practice the penalty kill/power play. The next hour or so goes by in chunks of two minutes, with a minute break between groups. Everyone remains hyper focused, even Elijah as the opposing sides face off, implementing the different strategies McQueen lays out for them. I check my watch and blink in surprise. The morning has flown by, and it’s almost time for the two-hour lunch break.

I stop my recordings and pack up my equipment, moving slower than normal as I watch the action on the ice. Something feels different about these practices than last season. There’s a new energy, new focus, that I don’t remember seeing before. Most of the players left after last week’s cuts are young, with the exception of the core group of talented veterans. And the energy is just…different in a way I don’t know if I have the ability to quantify yet.

But this is just practice, I have to remind myself. The rubber will really meet the road this coming week in our first regular season game.

Unable to delay any longer, I sling my bag over my shoulder and make my way out of the stands and down into the tunnels, waiting for the players to leave the ice and head back to the locker room to undress for lunch break. I greet a few of the facilities staff who I recognized as I go, but I stop short as I see a disturbingly familiar figure standing at the lobby entrance to the locker rooms.

Mark Henderson is typing away on his phone, leaning against the wall next to the door, unaware of my presence as I slow to a stop thirty or so feet away. He’s dressed in his usual black-on-black interview attire, a canvas messenger bag crossing his chest. I’m about to turn and find one of the other entrances to the tunnels when he looks up and notices me. Unable to avoid him without looking like an ass, I slap a polite smile on my face and approach him.

“Good afternoon, Mark. Have you been enjoying practice?” I ask brightly once I’m within polite conversation distance.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s certainly been an experience, that’s for sure,” he says, throwing me an ironic grin, like we’re old buds sharing an inside joke.

He’s tried this tactic before with other members of my department, and I can see right through the act. I’d be willing to bet most of my paycheck that he’s got a recorder in his chest pocket, and he’s trying to catch me saying something bad about the team or the players that he can run with in his next article. And while I may have been born at night, it certainly wasn’t last night.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Is there something I can help you with?” I ask, keeping my tone bright and bubbly despite my stomach churning at his metallic-tinged scent.

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