Page 1 of Shift Change

1

mad dog

Early November

I racedto the parking garage entrance, rolled down the window, and jabbed at the keypad like my life depended on it. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing.

Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.

Not exactly the impression I wanted to make on my first day with the Warriors, rolling in late because of an accident on the highway. I grabbed my phone and scrolled frantically through emails, my pulse hammering in my ears. There it was, butgoddammit—I’d been punching in the wrong code.

After another round of curses, I entered the correct one, and—boom—the gate opened like magic. I whipped into a spot in the players’ section, killed the engine, and reached for my coffee. Lukewarm, of course. Forty-five minutes sitting in a traffic jam had turned it into a sad, tepid excuse for caffeine. It would have to do because I didn’t know if I could survive practice without it.

I jumped out, took my gear bag from the trunk, and booked it toward the entrance. Five minutes until practice. I hadn’t met anyone yet, had no clue where I was going, and was about to burst into my first NHL locker room looking like an absolute tool. This wasnothow I pictured my big-league debut.

Through dumb luck, I found the players’ entrance and asked the security guard where to go.

He pointed to the left. “Down the hall and around the corner.”

I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and took off. The weight of my gear dragged me down on one side, but I powered through, picking up speed as I rounded the corner. Voices echoed ahead, and I hustled toward the locker room like a man on a mission—because I was.

I barreled in like a car taking a turn without hitting the brakes, then slammed into a brick wall. Except walls don’t usually grunt like they’ve been gut-punched and yell, “The fuck? Shit, look what you did.”

I stumbled back, coffee sloshing wildly. The guy I’d body-checked reeled too, swiping at his now-stained white jersey. My stomach dropped.

“Shit, sorry,” I said as my brain scrambled to place him. Brown hair, sharp hazel eyes, solid build, and a neatly trimmed beard… Holcomb. Second-line center.Fuck.

I dropped my gear bag and dug into my pocket for the napkins I’d grabbed at the coffee shop. “Let me…” Like an overwound toy, I dabbed at his chest as if I could erase my clumsiness through sheer determination. But the damage was done; the coffee had already soaked in.

Laughter broke out as a few guys wandered over to check out the chaos, and my face went up in flames.Fucking perfect.One foot in the door, and I was already the locker room punchline. For an instant, I considered turning around, running to my car, and driving back to Syracuse. Maybe the Soldiers—the Warriors’ farm team—would take me back. At least my old teammates would get a laugh out of how fast I managed to screw up.

“Stop it. Just fucking stop.” Holcomb’s hands clamped over mine, pinning them before I could smear the mess around any more.

“I’m sorry.” My voice shook like I was afraid of my own shadow. I didn’t need to make enemies, but I didn’t want to look like a pushover either. “I didn’t mean to… You’re Holcomb, right?”

He scowled down at his jersey. “First you spill coffee all over me, and then you go to town on my chest like I’m a goddamn stain-resistant couch.” He raised his head. “What the hell do you?—”

He stopped mid-rant. His mouth was still open, but no more words came out. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and looked at me suspiciously.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “I’m Holcomb.” He still didn’t sound friendly, but at least he wasn’t yelling anymore. “You’re the new guy, huh?”

His calmer tone cut through my panic, and I remembered who the hell I was. I was Mad Dog, not some scrawny kid who curled up and died the minute someone got pissy. What was up with him, anyway, acting like I’d ruined his life over a little spilled coffee?Please.Screw going back to Syracuse because he was the one who looked like an idiot, standing there with his pouty red face and soaked jersey, acting like someone canceled Christmas. The Warriors probably had dozens of jerseys in a storage room, and it would take Holcomb all of thirty seconds to change.

I straightened, met his eyes—big, shiny gold-and-green eyes—and smirked. “Yeah, I’m the new guy, and I just marked my territory.”

Holcomb blinked and then, against all odds, laughed, a deep, rough sound that cut through the tension like a skate blade through ice. I let out a laugh of my own, and the guys chuckled too. They returned to their stalls since the drama was over. I gave Holcomb an upward nod and stuck out my hand. “Chuck Madison,” I said, “but call me Mad Dog. Everyone does.”

His mouth twitched as we shook. “Mad Dog? Now that’s a name to live up to.” He held my gaze as a half-baked smile worked its way across his lips. “I’m Nate Holcomb, but call me Holky.” Snickering, he added, “Everyone does.”

“Get out of the way, Nate. Let him in.”

Holky held up his fist, and we bumped before he walked away.

The new arrival picked up my gear bag, then nodded at me. “I’m the equipment manager, and I’ll take care of this for you. We have a practice jersey and other things ready in your stall.”

He left before I could say thanks, and another man walked toward me—young and instantly familiar because of his messy dark hair and sharp jawline, not to mention the easy swagger of someone who’d made his name in every NHL arena in the country.

Holy shit. Harper Blanton.

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