Page 1 of Lawson

CHAPTER 1

LAWSON

“To me,”I say, holding up my glass filled with the bar’s signature rum cocktail. It’ll be the only alcohol I’ll allow myself tonight. “Because I'll be the one leading us to victory this season. You’re welcome.”

I glance over the array of faces looking at me in disbelief. There’s a decent mixture of newly acquired players—myself included—and Bangor Badgers veterans.

We crowd one of Bangor’s oldest and most popular bars,The Queen’s Rum. The local hotspot is nestled in a historical brick building perched along the Penobscot river, not two miles from the town’s beloved statue of Paul Bunyan. I’ve only lived here a little over a week, just after I got drafted, but I'd be lying if I said the statue didn't freak me out. I blame that terror on Stephen King.

“You really think you’ll be the one to break our losing streak?” Nash Stokehill asks. He’s one of the Badgers’ veterans.

“They drafted me first, didn’t they? Couldn’t resist my college stats, which include eleven goals and thirty-nine assists just last season, pushing me toward playmaker of the year, in case any of you didn’t Google me.”

“Stats don’t mean everything,” Nash fires back. “And neither does vying for having the biggest dick in the locker room.” He rolls his eyes, looking like he’ll say more, but two beautiful brunettes walk past our group, making their way to the indoor miniature golf course set up across the bar, and his entire demeanor changes. He flashes the women a smile and a wink, making them giggle.

Huh, guess the rumors about Stokehill being a legendary fuckboy are true. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but my focus is on winning this season.

“For those of you like me who are new this season,” I continue while I still have the attention of most of the team. “I get where you’re at. We were drafted onto the worst NHL team in the league, and most of us would accept a trade deal to just about any other team in a nanosecond, but that changes now. I don’t know what’s been happening the last few years, but I’m ready to bring in some wins. It’s what I’m used to. So each and every one of you better bring your A game. I’ll be damned if my talent is wasted.”

Several of the new recruits nod and voice their agreement. They all have a hunger in their eyes that matches mine, but a low, gruff laugh sounds to my right, and I cock an eyebrow that direction.

“Already talking like you're the fucking captain when you'renot.” Clay Kiplin—the Bangor Badgers’ resident asshole—flashes me a glare that’s enough to make me stand up a little straighter and hope to fuck he doesn't notice.

Heisthe Badgers’ captain, and I respect that.

But he's been captaining a losing team.

I'm not saying it all falls on him, but I won't know what the fuck is wrong with this team until I get on the ice with them.

“We've had plenty of cocky little shits stumble onto the ice and say they're the key to turning this team around. Seen lots of cocky little shits get traded too. Maybe save your bravado for practice tomorrow.”

“Can you even really call it practice?” I fire back.

We'd all been summoned to Bangor, Maine, weeks ahead of the regular practice schedule. The new owner made it mandatory that we attend a little impromptu training camp before actual practice starts in anticipation for pre-season. The e-mail mentioned something about a new skating coach and drills the owner wants us to master.

“Yeah, I can,” Clay says. He sits rigid in his chair, his back pressed against a wooden pillar, his drink untouched on the little table before him.

The fucker is nothing if not upholding his reputation. Even just sitting there, he looks like an asshole. His black hair is as unkempt as his beard, and it matches the ink curling down his neck and beneath his leather jacket.

I'd bet good money that he came here on a motorcycle, looking like he could fit in more with the Sons of Anarchy rather than an NHL team. But I’ve seen plenty of his gametime footage and I completely understand why he’s captain. Of course, now that I’m here, he may actually get some wins while he wears that title.

“If Coach calls it a practice, it's practice to me,” Pax Ritchford says, nodding toward Clay.

I don’t know much about Pax other than that he’s a three-year veteran left defenseman who apparently is loyal as fuck to his captain and veteran teammates.

“Fine,” I say, finally bringing my drink closer to me. “To winning. Let's just start there.” I quickly take a drink, surprised at how tasty the rum concoction is.

Several of the newbies smack the tables in front of them before taking their own drinks, their eagerness evident on their faces. We may have respect for the veterans on the team, but we’re the fresh blood hungry to take this team further than it's ever gone before.

I'm pretty sure I hear Clay grumblefuck offbefore he takes a sip of his drink, rising from his chair to follow Nash, who is not surprisingly heading toward the miniature golf course where the two brunettes are.

Pax follows them shortly after with a few other veteran Badgers, including Baylor Torrington, a left wing that looks more like a stacked professional wrestler. Pretty sure that guy lives at the gym, and I’m a little shocked he doesn’t have a pair of dumbbells in his hands right now.

I sit back down, observing the not-so-subtle shift in this mandatory fun meeting. The groups are split between veterans and newbies, and a sense of wariness bubbles in my gut. I may like to talk a lot of shit, but I know a divided team will never win. Is that the reason why Bangor sucks so bad?

A wave of injustice washes over me, and not for the first time. When I heard the Bangor Badgers scored the first-round draft pick, I had hoped to fuck they didn't realize how good I was.

With my skills, I deserve to be on a top-five team—the Seattle Sharks or the Carolina Reapers were my dream teams. Definitely not Bangor fucking Maine. I’ve wanted to be a Shark since I was six years old, and I’d done every visualization practice I could to try and score a spot on their team.

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