Page 13 of Pucking Secret

When we break apart, Carson claps me on the shoulder, “Man, it’s good to see you. Come on, let me introduce you.”

He begins taking me around the room, introducing me to the other players, who all greet me with smiles and firm handshakes.

When we reach the last four players all huddled together at some of the back lockers, Carson becomes even more animated.

“Owen, meet the other starters,” he says. “Jensen, Zander, Jayce, and Wilder.”

One guy with bright green eyes, dark brown hair cropped on the sides, and a closely-trimmed beard gives me a firm but friendly handshake.

“Hey there,” he greets me with a wide smile. “Jensen Reece. Team captain. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The next man, who looks like fucking Thor, moves forward and playfully nudges Jensen out of the way. His paw of a hand engulfs mine.

“Zander Caldwell,” he says. “Right defense. So, you’re Cruz’s replacement, huh? Taking the left defense position? Glad to have you here, buddy!”

Zander seems genuinely nice, and there’s no tone of malice in his voice to indicate he’s unhappy about me coming in to take his former teammate's place. That’s a relief. You never know how a group will accept you. Not that I had anything to do with Cruz leaving the team, but change isn’t everyone’s favorite thing.

“Gotta say, I’m glad I’ll have a bear of a man like you out there with me.”

He lets out a booming laugh and smacks me on the shoulder. I nearly lose my footing but manage to stay upright and not completely humiliate myself.

The third guy looks at me without getting off the bench. He’s somehow even bigger than Zander. With his long, dark, curly hair, thick beard, brown eyes, and bulging muscles, he’s giving off serious lumberjack vibes.

“Julian Wilder,” he says in a rumbling voice. “Right Wing. See you on the ice, canuck.”

“Thanks,” I nod, gazing up at him. “Appreciate that.”

He gets up and moves past me, clapping me on the shoulder so hard it hurts, before disappearing around the corner.

The last guy is shorter—meaning he’s about 6’ feet rather than 6’5”—and leaner than the others. With his light blonde hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin, he looks like he would be more at home surfing off the California coast than playing hockey in Denver.

“Hey.” He gives me a friendly smile as he grasps my hand. “The name’s Jayce Vaughn. Left Wing. Welcome to the Night Hawks.”

“Happy to be here.” There’s something about him that puts me more at ease. I think it’s the way he holds himself—shoulders straight, chin raised, gaze shrewd. It’s exactly how I’ve been taught to present myself in public as well.

Carson directs me toward an empty locker beside his.

“Put your stuff here. Better gear up. Coach isn’t a patient guy.”

“Got it,” I reply with a grin. “Thanks.”

I get changed and get my pads on. As I’m pulling my helmet in place, Carson shakes his head with a wide smile.

“Shit, I can’t believe you’re here. Did you request this trade for her?”

I frown, confused. “For who…?

“Get out to the ice, guys!” Coach Sullivan’s voice suddenly booms through the locker room, cutting me off. “Don’t make me wait all day!”

The guys file out of the locker room before I can ask for clarification. Her? Who is he talking about? There’s no time to wonder as I rush out to the ice.

Practice is exhilarating, and being on the ice calms my nerves at meeting the team for the first time. No matter where I go or who I play with, hockey is my comfort zone. I know exactly what I’m doing with a puck and a stick, and it feels good to push my body until I’m sweating and out of breath. Afterward, as I’m making my way to the locker room with the rest of the team, I start to overthink and over analyze every move I made. Was I fast enough? Was I strong enough? For some reason, I can never carry the confidence I feel on the ice with me when I leave it, and I’m always thinking about where I messed up rather than what I did well.

After I’m washed up and leaving the locker room, Carson flags me down in the corridor.

“Yo, Owen! Come say hi to the girls!”

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