Page 1 of Faking It with the Enforcer

One

Wolf

I slam my stick down on the ice in frustration as the wrist shot I fire at the net goes wide, bouncing off the boards with a loud clack that reverberates across the ice. I’ve missed the net.

Again.

I’m having the worst practice of my life. Which seems just about right, given how much I’ve struggled this season.

The Toronto Thunder’s captain, Kincaid Campbell, skates over to me, patting me on the shoulder with a gloved hand. “You good?”

“Fuck if I know,” I growl, digging at the ice with the blade of my skate.

Kincaid tilts his head, considering. “You want to know what I think?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to share anyway.”

He grins. “Cute.” He glances to where everyone else on the team is still running drills while Coach Ferguson occasionally blows his whistle or shouts instructions from his spot near center ice. “I think you’re too in your head, for whatever reason.You’re struggling, so then you start to analyze why you’re struggling, and it snowballs into athing.”

I look at him, one eyebrow raised. “You a shrink now?”

Kincaid rolls his eyes. “Don’t think about blinking.”

“What?”

“Don’t think about blinking.” He waits a beat. “What are you thinking about right now?”

I blink my eyes once, twice, and then wonder if I’ve always been this aware of blinking. Should I blink now? Or is it too soon? How…do I do this? “Blinking, obviously.”

“Exactly. Blinking, something you do thousands of times a day, now feels weird and strange because you’re too focused on it. You’re in your head about it.”

I suck in a deep breath of cold, dry air, absorbing Kincaid’s words. There’s a reason he’s the assistant captain of the team, and it’s not just because he’s one of the best players. He’s a leader, through and through.

Me? I’m just the muscle. I’m the guy who slams other players into the boards and starts fights to get the guys amped up. I’m not under any illusions that I’ve played professional hockey for the past ten years because of my hockey skills. I’m a mediocre player on my best day.

But I’m really good at rearranging faces and intimidating the fuck out of other teams, so, here I am, a thirty-two-year-old defenseman with a shit wrister.

“Loosen your grip,” says Kincaid, pulling me out of my head. “And stopthinkingabout it so much.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the net. “Try again.”

I take a deep breath and then pull another puck from the little pile beside me onto my stick. I loosen my grip and fire off the puck before I have a chance to think about it. It still goes wide, but by far less this time.

Kincaid eyes me with an assessing glance. “Maybe you need to blow off some steam. Relieve some stress.”

“I’m not exactly a yoga and meditation kind of guy.”

Kincaid laughs. “There are other ways to blow off stress,” he says, adding a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

“No offense, but you’re not my type, Campbell,” I joke, and he laughs. Kincaid’s happily engaged to our coach’s daughter, a situation you couldn’t pay me to find myself in.

“So whoisyour type? When was the last time you got laid? Went out and had some fun?”

I shrug. It’s been…years, honestly. It’s been so long that I have to think for several moments before I can even remember the name of the last woman I was with. I’ve had relationships and girlfriends in the past, but nothing recent. I got tired of the puck bunnies, never knowing if they were interested in me or the fact that I’m a pro athlete. Got tired of the games and drama of the dating scene.

And now, the idea of meaningless sex just feels hollow. No thanks.

Coach calls us back to center ice to go over some final notes in preparation for tonight’s game, and I try to shake the shitty feeling following me. It’s not just about my crappy shot, or the fact that I’m having the most challenging season of my career. It’s the worry that my best days are behind me. That I’ve peaked. That it’s all downhill from here.

Fuck. Have I lost my passion for the game?

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