Page 3 of Pucked On Camera

My thumb flicks across the screen, lighting it up again with a swipe. No new notifications. I shove the phone back into my hockey bag in the front seat floorboard of my teammate Zach’s small car, nestled between my skates and a wrinkled jersey. It's during these rides to The Blade's Edge, the Chicago Blades’ hockey practice facility, that I usually zone out, thinking about plays and what I can do to improve my game. I'm a center for the Chicago Blades, and hockey is more than just my job; it's my everything. But today, there’s this itch under my skin that just won’t let me be. All because of last night’s damn notification.

"Seriously, Cap, you've checked that thing like twenty times since we left your place," Alfie says from the back seat, his goalie pads crammed awkwardly against his legs in the tight space.

I lift my gaze to find Alfie's sharp green eyes watching me, an amused smirk playing on his lips. He's a solid wall on and off the ice, always deflecting trouble and keeping us grounded – not to mention his slapshot reflexes are the stuff of legend. His unruly dark curls are tamed beneath his cap, except for one stubborn lock that insists on springing free.

"Maybe he's got a hot date lined up after practice," Zach chimes in from beside me, elbowing my side gently. His sandy blond hair hangs just over his eyebrows, giving him that boyish charm that gets him out of trouble nine times out of ten.

"Ha-ha," I reply, dry as the air in the rink. "You guys are hilarious." My fingers twitch, craving another scroll through my phone, but I resist. Instead, I lean back, trying to shift focus to the upcoming practice. But the distraction is only temporary, the curiosity is about to drive me wild.

I angle my phone away, a sharp tilt of my wrist as Alfie's lean frame stretches across the backseat, trying to sneak a peek at my screen. His fingers almost graze the edge of my phone before I snatch it closer to my chest.

"Hey, man," Zach teases from beside me, his voice all careless grin and no substance, "what's so top-secret?"

"Nothing that concerns you two," I retort, locking the screen with a decisive click. The phone disappears into the depths of my jacket pocket, out of sight but not out of mind.

"Jeez, you'd think we were asking for state secrets," Alfie chuckles, settling back into his seat.

"You guys should've gone and hassled Jasper instead," I shoot back, a sarcastic bite in my tone. "At least then you could've raided his fridge instead of mine." I shake my head, smirking despite the annoyance nipping at my calm. "And for the record, I didn't ask for a ride. I could've driven myself. I have no idea why I agreed to ride with you."

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Zach grins, elbowing me again with an ease born of years on the same line.

Memories of college flash through my mind, the four of us—me, Alfie, Zach, and even Jasper—grinding it out on the ice, chasing pucks, dreams, and girls. The friendship was instant, the bond unbreakable, even when life after school and off the ice pulled us in different directions. Now, here we are, all signed with the Chicago Blades. It's a rare kind of luck, a shared path from scrappy college games to the gleaming ice of the pros.

"I still can’t believe it," I muse aloud. "From college rookies to the big leagues, and we’re all finally wearing the same jersey."

"Destiny or pure talent?" Alfie quips.

"Both," I say. "We're meant to be here, and we've worked damn hard for it."

"Chicago doesn't know how blessed it is," Zach adds.

"Damn straight," I affirm, as we cross over down into the underground parking lot of the Blades’ headquarters complex. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out only for Alfie to lean forward, hand extended.

"Watch it, Alfie," I snap as his fingers make a grab for my phone. The screen glows with the promise of forbidden pleasure, an indulgence I'm not about to share with anyone, least of all these two clowns. “I’m sure you can learn how to play goalie one armed after I chop yours off.”

"Come on, man, what's got you so hooked?" Alfie teases.

"Once again, it’s none of your business," I retort, slipping the device back into my pocket. There's a heat creeping up my neck. It's not like I'd normally be glued to my phone en route to practice, but last night's notification was a siren call I couldn't ignore—an extra live show that promised to be as intoxicating as it was exclusive.

"Fine, keep your secrets," Alfie laughs, but there's a note of defeat in his chuckle. They know when I've erected walls high enough to rival the rink's boards.

A pang of annoyance hits me as I recall the coach's text from earlier. An extra skate practice, just because we looked "too stiff" during morning drills. My body agrees with Coach, though. It craves the relentless push and pull of practice, even if I'm inwardly cursing the interruption.

"Extra practice, huh? Coach is really cracking the whip," Zach muses, breaking through my thoughts.

"Apparently we're a bunch of statues on ice," I grumble, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. As captain, it's my job to lead by example, to turn stiffness into fluid grace.

"Guess we'll have to show him how flexible we can be," Zach says with a wink, and I roll my eyes at the innuendo.

"Speak for yourself," I quip, trying to steer my mind away from the more carnal interpretation of his words. The last thing I need is my concentration shot before I even step onto the practice rink that's become our second home.

"Ready for this?" Alfie asks as Zach pulls into a parking space.

"Always," I reply. Because no matter what, hockey comes first. Always has, always will. And when the blades hit the ice, nothing else matters—not the teasing, not the secrets. Only the game. Only the win. Only the Blades.

With another check off, I shove my phone deep into my jacket pocket, cursing under my breath. The alluring promise of that extra live show now a pipe dream, thanks to the double whammy of Coach's impromptu practice session and the dynamic duo of disruption known as Alfie and Zach.

Speaking of which, Zach's slouched against the wall, lazily flipping his puck into the air and catching it with practiced ease. He’s got this whole California-surfer vibe going on, even thoughwe're miles from the nearest beach and buried in the heart of Chicago's concrete jungle. His sandy blond hair is always a mess, falling into his eyes in a way that seems careless but probably takes more effort than he’d admit.

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