Page 13 of Second Shot

I relish the uneasy way he glances at me again, probably hoping for another smile. But Idon’t give him that. When my eyes land on the bandage above his eye, unwanted guilt nudges me. I have way too much fucking empathy, and right now it’s pissing me off. He doesn’t deserve my sympathy.

Ryan Caldwell deserves to be broken just like he tried to break me.

Empathy has no place inside of me right now. Instead of feeling sorry for him, I need to remember how I felt groveling at his feet, praying he’d take pity on me just once.

But he never did, and he won’t get pity from me either.

Chapter Four

Ryan

The T-Mobile Arena in Vegas is a cathedral of noise and neon. There are thousands of screaming fans creating a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest as I settle into position for the opening faceoff. The ice beneath my skates gleams under the blazing arena lights, unmarked and perfect, waiting to tell the story of my first game as a Seadragon.

My heart hammers against my ribs, but it’s good adrenaline. The kind that sharpens everything into crystal focus. The Red Rock Raptors’ home opener, their fans dressed in crimson and black, waving towels and banging on the glass like they can intimidate us through sheer volume.

I’m hoping they go home disappointed tonight.

“Ready, Caldwell?” Petrov glides up beside me, his voice calm despite the chaos around us. Our captain has the sort of calm energy that I envy. He doesn’t seem any more stressed than if we were just running drills. Problem is this isn’t a drill. We’re about to face down one of the league’s most physical teams in their house.

“Damn straight I’m ready,” I say, but it’s not true. I’ve literally only had days to practice with my new team and try to learn their system. Mere days of scrambling to find chemistry with linemates who are essentially strangers. Tonight, my addition to the team will be tested for real. It’s a make or break moment that makes me nauseous with worry.

I catch Jacobs’ eye across the ice as he settles into position on my right. For a split second, something flickers across his face. Not quite hostility, but not friendship either. More like... resignation. Like he’s accepted that we’re stuck together, even though he wishes we weren’t. I don’t get what his problem is with me. Does he feel threatened for some reason? But I won’t let it get to me right now. As long as he shows up when the puck drops, his personal feelings are irrelevant.

The referee raises his hand, and the arena holds its breath. Seventeen thousand people waiting for that first clash of sticks, that opening collision that will set the tone for everything that follows.

The puck drops.

Petrov wins the draw clean, sliding it back to Marlowe at the point. The veteran defenseman surveys the ice with calculating eyes before sending a crisp pass to Jacobs in the corner. I’m already moving, anticipating the play before itdevelops, and when Jacobs’ pass finds my stick along the boards, I can feel the chemistry clicking into place. Whether Jacobs likes me or not, we work well together.

This is what I was traded for. This moment, this feeling of inevitability as I curl around the Raptors’ defenseman and drive toward the net. Jacobs is right where he should be, trailing the play, stick ready. I draw two defenders before sliding the puck across the crease.

Jacobs’ one-timer beats the goalie clean, but rings off the crossbar with a sound like a gunshot. The crowd groans in disappointment, and I catch a flash of frustration in Jacobs’ eyes before he skates back to position.

“Next one,” I call to him, tapping my stick on the ice. He nods once, curt and professional, but there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read.

The game settles into a rhythm after that. It’s fast, physical, exactly what I expected from Vegas. The Raptors throw everything they have at us, trying to establish dominance through hits and intimidation. Knox drops the gloves with their enforcer midway through the first period, landing a beautiful right cross that sends the Sierra Point fans in the crowd into a frenzy.

But it’s the second period where everything starts clicking.

We’re on the power play, and Coach Donnelly has drawn up something beautiful. Petrov controls the puck at the point while I set up in the slot, Jacobs positioned perfectly on the far post. When the pass comes to me, I don’t even think. I just redirect it toward Jacobs with a backhand that somehow finds the only opening in a maze of sticks and skates.

Jacobs doesn’t hesitate. His shot is pure poetry, a wrist shot that finds the top corner with surgical precision. The red light blazes, the goal horn blares, and the moment is perfect. I skate toward him with my arms raised, expecting the usual celebration I’d have with any teammate who scores, but Jacobs’ reaction is muted. A quick nod in my direction, a tap of his stick on the ice, then he’s already skating toward the bench. Professional. Efficient. Cold as ice.

His rejection stings more than it should, but I push the feeling down. I had a hand in that goal, whether he wants to acknowledge it or not. My assist made it happen. This is why Sierra Point traded for me, not just to score goals myself, but to make everyone around me better. To find connections that other players miss, to create opportunities where none existed before.

We’re up 2-1 heading into the third period, and I can feel the confidence building on our bench. Foster’s chirping at their goalie every chance he gets. Marlowe’s laying hits that echothrough the arena. Even Niko seems locked in, making saves that look effortless but require split-second timing.

Then Vegas ties it up with seven minutes left.

Their captain, a grizzled veteran named Roberts who’s built like a refrigerator, deflects a point shot past Niko’s glove. The goal comes off a scramble in front of the net, the kind of ugly play that decides close games. Roberts raises his arms in celebration while our defense looks around for someone to blame.

The arena explodes. Towels wave, horns blast, and suddenly we’re not playing in a hockey rink anymore, we’re gladiators in a colosseum, and the crowd wants blood.

“Stay calm,” Petrov calls during the next timeout, his voice cutting through the noise in the arena. “We’ve got this. Play our game.”

But Vegas smells weakness now, and they press hard for the go-ahead goal. The final five minutes are a blur of desperate clears and blocked shots, Niko standing on his head to keep us alive. Every save brings a groan from the crowd, every rebound a heart-stopping scramble.

With thirty seconds left, we get our chance.

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