Page 37 of In Too Deep

Eli and I don’t bother asking for clarification. I glance at the Swede out of the corner of my eye and smirk as I catch the devious grin pulling at his plump lips.

“I can take care of it. You go get checked out, and I’ll see you in the locker room,” he says, not giving either of us a chance to respond before he peels off in the opposite direction.

Oli and I exchange a glance, my worry mirrored on his rugged face. The odds of Eli doing something ridiculously stupid and risky are very low, though we both know they aren’t zero.

Thankfully, we don’t have to wait long to figure out what the fuck Eli did. Oli’s appointment is quick, and he’s one week closer to getting back out on the ice for non-contact drills. He’s healing fast but still has to sit in on practices, even if he’s not traveling with the team on every trip. Eli rejoins us in the locker room as more guys file in and get dressed, and he does a great job at pretending nothing is out of the ordinary.

That all changes the moment the team steps out of the tunnel and onto the ice to start practice.

The first thing out of place is the cones already set up along the edges of the faceoff circles, followed closely by the missing nets. The second is Logan himself, skating in lazy circles around the ice, not even stopping when we circle up for stretches. His stare burns against the back of my neck, and there’s a flutter of danger in my stomach, like I’m being stalked and circled by a great white shark. And once stretches are done, Logan goes in for the kill.

“Bouchy. Kala. You’re with Decker in the hall. You’re gonna work on reflexes. The rest of you chucklefucks are with me,” he snaps, not a hint of amusement in his voice.

Everyone exchanges looks as our goalies glide off the ice to find Jason Decker, our goaltending coach, the silence in the arena deafening. There’s no press today, which is honestly for the best, given Coach’s mood. But that means no witnesses to whatever is about to happen.

“We’re doing peanuts. Count off by fours and then the ones line up by the far corner cone,” he says, skating away while we get organized.

I’m in the first group, while Eli ends up around the outside with the rest of the guys, shuffling nervously as we wait for the signal to start. I fucking hate this drill; weaving in and out of the cones over and over should be easy, but the required speed makes it more difficult, especially when you’re trying not to trip on someone’s stick.

“We’re gonna go until either one of you fesses up to switching out my blades, or they get broken in. Am I clear?”

I swallow, but mutter the obligatory “yes, Coach,” along with everyone, trying to look as confused as the rest of the guys. Taking off at the whistle, I fall in between Markus Dahlberg andWyatt Huges, moving together as a unit around the cones while everyone else starts to circle the outside.

“If I lap you, then you’re doing pushups. Move those feet!”

When I look up for a moment, I find Logan skating just inside the group on the outside, setting a hard pace and forcing everyone to keep up with him. But I don’t get to watch more, as I need to focus on what I’m doing to avoid blowing a tire on one of the tight turns. It feels like forever before the whistle chirps again, calling the second group to the peanut route while the rest of us make our way to the outside.

“I didn’t say stop and get in line! Let’s go!”

Careful to keep an eye on my peripherals so I don’t get lapped, I try to breathe through the motions. I’m fast, one of the fastest on our team, and it shouldn’t be difficult to outskate a man who hasn’t played professional hockey in over a decade. But he’s always right there at our heels, pushing us faster until everyone is breathing a little harder.

Group two switches out on the next whistle, and Eli heads to the center with the third group, but I lose track of him. Logan comes up level with me and starts skating backward, executing the turns perfectly without even looking.

“Was it you, BlackJack? I remember you pulled this shit back in Michigan. Admit it and I’ll stop this,” Logan taunts, sticking with me as we round the corner toward the benches.

“No, Coach,” I snap, pushing harder to get ahead of him.

Leaving me be for the moment, he calls out for the next change. The inner group stops dead and joins the outer circle, but I raise my eyes just in time to catch Eli’s wink to Oli on the bench, and then watch the plume of ultra-fine ice chips explode up from his skates and cover Logan in a layer of snow as they pass each other.

Logan lets out a fully alpha growl, but Eli doesn’t appear phased in the slightest. He just joins the rest of us in our laps, grinning from ear to ear.

“That was fucking stupid, and you know it, Jokes,” I mutter as we fall into step together.

“Yeah, but the look on his face was worth it.” He chuckles to himself.

“Do you have a death wish or something?” Dallas snarls as he comes up behind us, skirting around the outside to thump Eli on the back of his helmet.

“Or something,” Eli says, still laughing.

The drill goes for almost half an hour before Logan finally calls it and we move on to running plays. Not that he slows off the intensity of the practice or anything. My legs are screaming by the time we’re calling it a day, and no one speaks as we make our way back to the locker room. Oli’s on his feet, waiting for Eli and me at the back of the group. But before we can follow the rest of the team to the locker room, Logan blocks our exit, arms crossed over his chest.

“Logan—”

“It’s Coach while we’re on the clock, Jokinson.”

I shiver as Logan cuts over Eli’s attempt at speech, dominance rolling off his frame in fiery cinnamon-scented waves. I swallow hard, already worried, even though I didn’t technically do anything.

“Coach,” Eli starts again, over emphasizing the word, “it was just a joke. And besides, you were due for a blade change anyway. So, you’re welcome.”

---