Page 10 of They All Puck Me

I glare at him. "Didn't have much of a choice."

"Right," he says, finally meeting my eyes. There's a mixture of curiosity and distrust in his gaze. "Well, you're here now."

"Yeah, I'm here." I start unpacking my gear, ignoring the tension that thickens the air around us.

Liam's still watching me like he's sizing up an opponent. "You ready to play by our rules?"

I snort. "Rules? Pretty sure Bergam is the coach, not you."

"He is," Noah says, standing up and stretching. "But we have a way of doing things."

I slam my locker shut. "Look, I'm here to play and win. That's it."

Liam steps closer, his voice low but firm. "And you better keep it clean on the ice. No more of that shit from your last team."

"Noted," I say through gritted teeth.

Liam and Noah exchange a look, one of those silent conversations that come from years of playing together. Liam stands up, his presence dominating the room. "Alright, let's hit the ice," he announces, pointedly ignoring me. The team files out, their movements synchronized, leaving me alone in the locker room.

I take a deep breath, the scent of sweat and old leather filling my lungs. It's familiar but suffocating in this new context. The silence is thick, pressing against my ears as I finish lacing up my skates.

"Fucking great start," I mutter to myself, standing up and rolling my shoulders. The locker room feels like a cage, and I need to get out of here.

As I push through the doors to the rink, the cold air hits me like a slap. The ice is pristine, reflecting the harsh lights above. The rest of the team is already gliding across it, warming up with fluid movements that speak of muscle memory and years of practice.

The ice is my domain. It's the one place where everything else fades, and it's just me and the puck. During individual drills, I’m on fire. My shots cut through the air with a sharpness that sends the puck screaming into the net. One after another, they find their mark, echoing through the rink with a satisfying thud.

"Nice shot Reynolds," Noah comments as he skates by, but there's an edge to his voice.

I nod, not breaking my focus. This is what I do best. I live for these moments, where my skill speaks louder than any words could.

But when it comes to team drills, things start to fall apart. We move into a passing drill, and suddenly it’s like I’ve got two left hands. My passes go wide, missing their targets by inches but feeling like miles. Every time I think I’m in position, someone’s already there or I'm just a beat too late.

“Reynolds!” Coach Bergman’s voice slices through the chaos. “Get your head in the game!”

I grit my teeth and push harder, trying to mesh with their rhythm, but it's like dancing to a song I don’t know the steps to. During a breakaway drill, Liam barrels down the ice toward me. I try to intercept him, but he pivots effortlessly around me.

“Watch it!” he snaps as he flies past.

I curse under my breath and skate back into position. Noah slides a pass my way, but it bounces off my stick and skitters away.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

Coach blows his whistle so hard it feels like my eardrums might burst. “Reynolds!” he barks again. “This isn’t a one-man show! Learn to play with your team or sit on the bench!”

My jaw tightens as I skate over to him. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” Coach says through clenched teeth.

Liam skates up beside me, arms crossed over his broad chest. “We don’t need another hotshot who can’t pass.”

I glare at him. “I can fucking pass.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Noah chimes in from behind him, though his tone is lighter than Liam’s.

Coach steps between us before things can escalate further. “Alright, everyone back to positions! We’re running this drill again until you get it right.”

I grit my teeth, aware of the smirks and whispers from the team. I can almost hear their thoughts, judging every misstep I make. I’m determined to prove them wrong, to show them why I was traded here. But the more I try, the worse it gets.

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