Page 1 of On Ice

Chapter One

Evan

We need a win tonight.

It doesn’t matter that my head is pounding and my thigh muscles already burn like Mount Vesuvius because the first two periods of the game were brutal. My team is on a four-game skid. We’re in danger of becoming a laughingstock in the league.

We need a fuckingwintonight.

My skate blades bite into the fresh ice as I circle center, waiting for the face-off. The familiar scent of the arena fills my lungs, that sharp mix of refrigeration and sweat, with undertones of popcorn and beer wafting down from the stands. Coach called a timeout with two minutes left in the third, and my body is humming with adrenaline. We’re up 3-2 against the Bay City Blazers, and my nemesis on the other team, Davidson, has been out for blood all night.

I glance at the bench where our rookie, Torres, is leaning against the boards, towel pressed to his mouth while the trainer finishes closing a cut. He’s already telling Coach he’s ready to go. Our rookie defenseman took a nasty elbow from Davidson in the second period, a cheap shot that, of course, the refs missed. The kid’s tough though. He hasn’t complained once. That’s the kind of player we need on the Ice Hawks, especially with playoffs on the line.

“Time to earn that C on your chest, Riley.” Davidson skates up to the face-off dot, tapping his stick against my shin guardwith a hollow clack that grates on my nerves. “Or are you gonna choke like last season’s playoffs?”

The ref doesn’t say a word about his taunting, he’s heard worse. But the memory of that moment makes my gut clench: game seven, overtime, my shot going wide. We missed the playoffs by a single point. I’ve replayed that moment in my head at least a thousand times since.

Fuck you, Davidson, for reminding me of it.

“You know what I love about you, dude?” I adjust my grip on my stick, feeling the familiar ridges of tape under my gloves. “You’re never petty. Oh, wait. Yeah, you are. You’re the pettiest asshole out here on the ice, Slash.”

His eyes narrow at the nickname. James “Slash” Davidson. A name earned through years of dirty plays and “accidental” high sticks. “I ain’t petty.”

“Bullshit. You gave Torres a fat lip because you were pissed at me for blocking your shot earlier.” Davidson has been in the league three years longer than me, and I’ve never seen him drop his gloves against anyone his own size.

His smirk is clear even through his visor. “That was an accident.”

“Sure it was,” I mutter.

The ref hovers over us, puck in hand. Around us, fifteen thousand fans in Seabrooke Arena hold their breath. The constant hum of the cooling system seems louder than usual in this moment of anticipation. Up in the stands, I catch a glimpse of my older brother Matt in his usual seat behind our bench. He hasn’t missed a home game since I made captain three years ago. But knowing Matt, he’ll take off after the game without sayinghi. He’s just like that since his time in the Marines. He drives the hour it takes from his city to mine to watch my games and then high-tails it out of the parking lot without as much as a “Howdy, bro.”

“If you’re so worried about Torres, tell that shrimp to stay out of my way,” Davidson mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. “It would be a terrible shame if his first season ended early because of an injury.”

My blood boils, making me clench my jaw so hard it hurts all the way up to my skull. “Careful, Slash. You go after him again, and it’s me you’ll need to worry about.”

He snorts a laugh, and the puck drops.

Thank God I win the draw clean, one quick snap that sends the puck back to Mills at the blue line. Davidson would’ve gloated all game if he’d won the face-off. Still, it’s not like he’s giving up just because he lost. He tries to clip me as I push past him, but I’m already gone, my skates cutting sharp grooves into the fresh ice as I accelerate toward the offensive zone. The cold air burns my lungs with each breath, but I barely notice it anymore. Sixteen years of hockey will do that to you.

Mills holds the puck just long enough to draw their forward out of position, then feeds me a perfect pass. I can feel the vibration of it hitting my stick blade even through my gloves. Davidson is on my tail, cursing loud enough for the angels to hear. I spot Torres back on the ice, breaking toward the net on my right, and Davidson’s head snaps toward him. I know what’s coming.

“Torres, head up,” I shout, but Davidson’s already changing direction, zeroing in on our rookie like a shark smelling blood.

Asshole.

I cut hard left, throwing my weight into a direction change that sends a spray of ice into the air. The move I’m attempting is risky, if I lose an edge at this speed, I’ll crash hard enough to feel it for a week. But Davidson reads the play wrong, thinking I’m going to pass to Torres. Instead, I pull the puck back, watching his eyes go wide as he realizes his mistake. He’s out of position now, scrambling to recover.

The goalie, Macey, a veteran who’s stonewalled us more times than I can count, drops into his butterfly stance as I approach. Top shelf is open on his glove side and he’s cheating right, expecting me to pass. The sound of my skates digging into ice echoes in my ears as I load up for the shot.

Davidson slashes at my hands, living up to his nickname, but I’m ready for it. I lift my stick at the last second, letting his blade whoosh harmlessly under mine. The crowd’s roar builds as I release the shot, a wrister that flies past Macey’s glove and pings off the crossbar before hitting the back of the net.

The arena explodes.

The goal horn blares as my teammates mob me, their excitement vibrating through my body as we crash together in celebration. Over Mills’s shoulder, I see Davidson smash his stick against the boards, and I can’t help but grin. That’s game over. 4-2 Ice Hawks.

“Fucking golden boy got lucky again,” Davidson growls as he skates past us toward his bench. “Better watch your back, Riley. Season’s not over yet.”

I ignore him, focusing instead on Torres, who’s beaming despite his swollen lip. “Nice decoy route, kid,” I tell him, bumping his helmet with my glove. “You pulled their D-man right where we wanted him.”

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