Page 6 of Iced Out

Who knows, today might be that day. Starting…now.

Here’s to hoping, right?

Needing to channel this frustration into something a lot more useful, I head out to the rink after the dickhead, knowing one thing’s for certain.

I’ll feel better once I’m on the ice. I always do.

As far as the first game of the season goes, I can’t complain about how the team is performing as a whole. The chemistry is there, most lines working together seamlessly, both offensively and defensively.

The problem is Quinton…and me.

We don’t mesh on the ice. Never seem to be on the same page, and sometimes, it feels like we don’t even play on the same team. Then again, with all that time we spent as opponents rather than teammates, I guess it’s a little hard to train out of us.

All I can do is hope that the kinks get worked out as the season goes. Or we figure out how to stay out of each other’s way while being on the ice at the same time. And that appears to be working well, actually.

Except that Quinton’s version of staying out of my way entails acting like I don’t exist altogether. And by doing so, he also ignores me when I’m open to take a shot on goal, instead taking it himself—which only ends up being blocked by the goalie—or turning the puck over to the other team before he gets the chance. Either way, we miss out on a chance to score. Something kinda important to, I don’t know, win a game.

And it doesn’t just happen once, either. There are multiple occasions over the initial forty minutes of game play, and by the time we’re skating our way off the ice for a second intermission, I’m frustrated beyond belief.

And here I thought hockey players outgrew being a puck hog by now.

He goes to skate by me after the rest of the team, and in my irritated state, I make an irrational move, grabbing his arm to stop him in his tracks.

“What?” he snaps, harsh blue eyes locking with mine.

Deep, calm breaths. Don’t bite his head off, just offer a suggestion.

It would work except the suggestion comes off a little bit more like an insult.

“You’re not the only player on the team who can score, de Haas. You do know that, right?”

His nose wrinkles, giving me a look that reads a little something likeare you fucking stupid.“Obviously. I’m not a child, Reed. I know how to share.”

I almost laugh at that.We’ll have to agree to disagree, I guess.

“Okay, well, pass the damn puck if you see I’m open.”

He continues staring at me for a moment, then just skates off to where the rest of the team is heading to the locker room without another word.

Okay then…

There’s no use getting into it with him here and now, so I just keep my trap shut and follow him to the locker room. But much to my pleasure, I overheard Coach pull him to the side on our way back out for the third period and rip him a new one for not passing the puck when Rossi and I are open.

“You’re a leader, now,” Coach bit out. “And leaders know sometimes you need to let others step in.”

While hearing Coach’s snappy comment made me preen a little, considering I had told de Haas the same fucking thing fifteen minutes ago, it also gut-punched me in the most unexpected way.

I’ve always done my best to embody what it means to be a leader and team player, not just playing well and doing my part on the ice but being someone the rest of the team could look to as an example. Something a captainshouldbe.

And clearly, everything Quinton is not.

The guy’s talented, as much as I hate to admit it. He could make it big—I’m talking NHL big—if he wasn’t such a hothead. Or a raging douche canoe. But his habit for using his fists on the ice as much as his stick makes him more of a liability than an asset. Which is something Ithoughtmy uncle might’ve realized isn’t the makings of a good captain.

Guess I was wrong.

If it wasn’t for the hit I took at the end of last season—resulting in a broken collarbone and tear in my rotator cuff—I’d probably be the one leading this team. Hell, every person on the damn team knows it should be me. Yet here we are, with the title I’ve coveted for myself in the hands of the one person who shouldn’t have it.

My sworn enemy.

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