Page 1 of Wrong Score

Chapter One

Bex

The sharp slap of a hockey stick echoes through the stadium pulling me back to the present. Briggs Conley, our right wing, sends the puck rocketing toward the net, a streak of black against white ice, and barrels past Reeve Aisa, our goalie. He dives for it, fully committed—but it’s no use. The puck slams into the back of the net with a dull thud, followed by the shrill sound of Ezra’s whistle cutting through the cold air like a warning shot.

Aisa sprawls out on the ice, punching at it with his padded glove, his frustration clear from every angle of the rink.

He glances up, catching my eye, already bracing himself. He knows damn well that I won’t be pleased, but there’s a tight line between what I can expect out of him so soon out of rehab.

It’s been two months since Aisa was cleared to return to the ice after his injury, just in time for Thanksgiving. Although he’s allowed to practice with the team, he’s not yet approved for games. His progress has been steady—at least until this week.

Something’s been off with him the last few days–I can feel it.

This isn’t his usual energy on the ice that I’ve come to expect from him.

The rest of the team, scattered all around the rink, turn back, looking in my direction expectantly for instruction or critique.

"Oi!” I yell out toward Aisa, tossing up my hands. “What the bloody hell was that? You know this play better than anyone. How did you miss the shot?" I call out, my voice echoing through the Hawkeyes stadium.

“Sorry, Coach!” I hear Aisa yell, dressed in full goalie gear, his facemask blocking most of my ability to see any facial expression from here. “I got it now–I’m good. Let’s run it again. I won’t miss this time.”

I shoot a look at my assistant Coach, Ezra.

He’s been my assistant coach since I started six years ago. We’ve worked together long enough that we don’t have to exchange a word. He knows I’m not happy with the play and he also knows that I’ve been considering changing out Reeve for Seven this entire week. But with Seven retiring after this season, I need Reeve to get stronger and to get as much practice time as possible. Because unless I can convince Seven to stay on as the special team’s goalie coach next year, Seven plans to move him and his girlfriend Brynn down to Mexico permanently.

Ezra gives me a nod, in agreement with Aisa to run the play again.

"You heard the lad, let’s run the play again,” I say with a deep sigh, knowing well enough that I’ve got a soft spot for Aisa, especially after I spent an entire night in the OR waiting for him to get out of surgery after a hit and run took him out one rainy night in Seattle. Ezra knows I worry about favoritism—letting my concern for a player personally cloud my judgment that could cost us the playoffs. “This time, I want to see sharper passes and quicker transitions. And Aisa?” I call out, his eyes locked on mine. “You’d better guard that net with your life."

He gives a curt nod. He knows what I expect.

All of my players do.

Lake Powers, our team captain and our left wing takes the lead, calling out the play again.

As the team repositions themselves, I inexplicably glance up at the rows of stadium seats behind me, not surprised in the least to see the same woman sitting in the third row, seat seven, and directly behind where I stand in the home box. The same seat she’s always sitting in during practice.

Rowan Summers.

A reporter forThe Seattle Sunriseby day, but I'm fairly certain she spends every other waking hour plotting new ways to piss me the fuck off.

I watch as her eyes skim over the rink from right to left, taking in the players on the ice, undoubtedly scrutinizing every move, probably jotting down notes for her next riveting article, that’s sure to include what Ninja Turtle Briggs' most relates with and if Kaenan ever wished for a pony on his third birthday.

I should be watching my players instead of wasting a second wondering what she writes in that notebook of hers. And why the hell doesn’t she bring a tablet or laptop like all the other reporters do? And for Christ’s sake, why the hell is she determined to catch her death of cold out dressed like it’s game day in trousers, a thin blouse and a suit jacket. I shouldn’t give a shit that she’s shivering half the time behind me or rubbing her hands together to keep her fingers from freezing solid.

It's entirely inconvenient the way her golden blonde hair catches the overhead lights, making her hair look as soft as spun silk. And how utterly distracting the way her full pink lips demand my attention whenever she speaks, even when she's spouting complete nonsense in my direction.

And her laugh. Fuck… her laugh echoes through the rink when a player says something funny during their interview that has her amused. My head whips in her direction no matter where she is in the stadium, whether I like it or not. It's as if I don't have any control over my body's reaction when it comes to her.

Any misguided interest in her can easily be stifled due to the increasing marks against her. For one, she's still a reporter that I don't trust and she's also eighteen years younger than me, which is enough reason on its own to keep my distance. Her eyes shoot from the rink down to me, locking with mine. I turn quickly, breaking the connection and try to focus back on the players out on the ice.

Ezra moves closer to me, his eyes still on the team running the play. There's a whistle between his fingers, ready to end the practice run if needed, and a clipboard in his hand. His breath forms small clouds in the cold air. "I know you didn’t want to make that call but you’re not going easy on Aisa by keeping him in."

I don't take my eyes off the players either. "We need the team ready for the upcoming away game. Making the call to keep him in could cost us the playoffs."

Ezra nods. "He’s come a long way. I honestly thought his career was over after the accident but he’s been performing above what any of us thought he’d be able to. This week is an off week… so what? It’ll get better."

I frown, my gaze zeroing in on Aisa as he skates back and forth between the front of the net, waiting. He’s right, Aisa’s been through a lot. My memory flashes back to four months ago when I burst out of Oakley’s Bar the second I heard commotion inside the bar that Reeve had gotten hit by a car.

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