Page 3 of Second Shot

“Horse and Hounddoesn’t count, you idiot,” Marlowe interrupts, and the resulting laughter from the guys echoes off the arena walls.

I find myself smiling despite my usual morning grouchiness. Even though I’d have preferred it if I had a bit more time to myself, this is what I love about this team, the easy way we fit together, the rhythm we’ve built over seasons of shared wins and losses. Even the newer guys like Max D’Angelo and Leo Antonelli have found their place in the ecosystem.

“Did you guys hear our new trade is arriving today?” Kincaid asks, joining our loose circle near center ice.

Niko, our starting goalie nods. “Yeah, I heard.”

I frown. “Already? I hadn’t realized they’d decided on anyone yet.” I don’t like it much when new people arrive. I know it’s a part of this life, but trades are scary because they can mess with the delicately balanced team dynamic.

“Pfft. I heard it’s a done deal.” Niko shrugs. “They already have the new guy signed.”

“What the fuck?” I mutter, scowling. “Who’d they trade for the new guy?” I knew a trade was coming. We all did. Part of me is relieved that it wasn’t me they moved, but it’sstill weird to think one of our teammates is now history.

“All I know is it isn’t one of us or we wouldn’t be here.” Niko grins.

Glancing around, Foster says, “You didn’t hear it from me, but they sent Dorian Cross to Philly.”

“Shit, they traded Dorian?” Kincaid bugs his eyes. “Seriously?”

Marlowe says, “Cross wasn’t producing, and he’s been griping about ice time for weeks. Cross acted like he was still top-line, but Matsuda’s been skating his minutes for weeks.”

“True.” Kincaid frowns. “Still. Guy’s been with us three seasons. I’m sure Cross is feeling like shit right about now.”

Marlowe shrugs. “Getting traded sucks, but he’s lucky he didn’t get fired. A trade was the most he could hope for.”

“Wonder who we’ll get in his place,” Foster mumbles. “Could be someone from Chicago. They’ve been trying to offload forwards.”

“Whoever it is, they need to hit the ground running.” Niko rubs his jaw. “Have anybody on a wish list, Jacobs?”

All eyes turn to me.

I stiffen. “I don’t care who it is, so long as they’re good. I don’t need coach jumping downmy throat because the new guy makes me look bad.”

“True that.” Marlowe nods, studying me.

“The front office will probably give you guys time to get to know each other.” Kincaid gives me an encouraging smile.

It’s nice of him to say, but truth is, whoever’s replacing Cross, we’ll be expected to sync up fast. The Right Wing’s relationship with the Left Wing is crucial, especially at the professional level, where chemistry isn’t just a bonus, it’s expected. We need to be able to read each other’s plays, anticipate movements, trust timing. That kind of connection takes months, no years, to build, and management’s going to want it in a week. But to be honest, Cross and I didn’t work well together. He wasn’t a team player. He was bullheaded and he liked to showboat.

But better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know, right?

Petrov might keep us anchored at center, but I’m the one who has to work the wall with this new guy, feed him at the hash marks, cover his zone when he pinches too deep. If he overcommits, I pay the price. If he chokes, I get the minus. And if he’s one of those flashy puck hogs, it’s going to be a long season. New blood means pressure for all of us until we sync up.

I hear Coach Donnelly’s gravelly bark echoing from the tunnel, followed by a responding voice I don’t recognize. Coach must have dragged the new guy to practice? My suspicions are confirmed when I hear a warm, self-deprecating laugh that bounces off the arena walls. Coach laughs like a bear in heat, so it’s not him.

“—been following the team all season,” says a vaguely familiar voice. “You guys are legit contenders this year.”

The world tilts sideways as I recognize that voice. My blood runs cold. I’msureI know that fucking voice. Older now, deeper, but unmistakably familiar in a way that makes fourteen years collapse into nothing. My teammates’ chatter fades to white noise as two figures emerge from the tunnel.

Coach looks exactly like he always does, stocky frame wrapped in a Seadragons windbreaker, clipboard welded to his left hand. But the man beside him...

Golden hair, perfect under the arena lights. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with that same easy confidence that used to make my stomach drop in sixth grade hallways. Green eyes that I’ve seen in nightmares for over a decade.

Ryan Caldwell.

Here.

On my turf.

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