Page 3 of Unrivaled

He used to love getting back to work. Each season was like a freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, waiting for his mark. But that was the problem too—at the end of each season, the Zamboni went by again and any impression Grady might have made was erased. Without that big win, or even just a handful more wins than losses.

He tried not to think of it that way. He couldn’taffordto think of it that way. But it had been years since the team did more than limp pathetically into the playoffs for a first-round exit. Usually they didn’t even get that far.

Grady was a gifted hockey player. When Philadelphia drafted him, they were supposed to turn a corner. But they kept driving straight toward the cliff’s edge, and they’d taken his career with them.

He liked to push himself, but he didn’t have the drive to push a whole team.

He was thirty years old and he was tired of bearing the brunt of the expectations of a perennially disappointed fan base. If they couldn’t turn things around by November, he’d told his agent to request a trade.

They might not give him one, but his contract expired at the end of the season, and he wouldn’t extend his stay in Philly. If they didn’t trade him, they’d lose him for nothing.

The request would probably make him a pariah. Fans hated players they saw as disloyal, but what was Grady supposed to do? They were tired of losing, and half the time they blamed him. There was only so much he could do on the ice.

So he trained hard all summer, but he wasn’t eager for training camp. A few years ago, management had tried to make him captain, but he’d declined, and now everyone looked at him like he had one foot out the door. Like he thought he was too good for them.

Okay, noteveryone.

A familiar hand clasped his shoulder. “At least pretend you’re optimistic.”

“I’m too old to have to fake it.” But he pasted on a smile for Cooper, who’d taken the C instead. Grady wasn’t a people person. He’d learned his lesson back in juniors. For him, being captain would’ve been a nightmare. Coop’s mix of cockiness and approachability made him perfect at the job.

“Your acting skills aren’t up to it anyway.”

No shit.

Grady half turned toward Coop on the bench. If they were having this talk, the least he could do was face it head-on… more or less.

“So. This is the year, eh?”

Grady let out a long, slow breath. “Looks like it.”

Coop nodded. “We better make it count, then.” He rolled his shoulders and then tapped his stick against Grady’s leg. “Come on. Fresh ice awaits.”

If Grady was going to set himself up to be trade bait, he needed to be in top form. He stood. “Let’s do it.”

Player Profile—Max Lockhart

By Natasha Chu

As part of our series leading up to the World Cup of Hockey, we’ll be profiling players to watch from every team. Today it’s left-winger Max Lockhart’s turn.

If your team plays in the Eastern Conference, you already know him by reputation. Lockhart plays a major part in the powerhouse New Jersey Monsters lineup. To put it bluntly: he’s a pest.

No, that’s not fair. Lockhart is a gifted goal scorer in his own right and has been a contender for all the NHL’s major scoring trophies. He’s had multiple hundred-point seasons. That’s part of what makes him so annoying. He makes you mad, and then he makes you pay, and he grins the whole time.

I go into our interview expecting he’ll make me mad too. As a dyed-in-the-wool Shield fan, I’m no stranger to hating on Max Lockhart.

So of course the first thing he does is turn my expectations on their head.

There’s a formula to how these interviews generally go. I meet players in the bar at the hotel they’re staying at. I offer them a drink. The ones with the serious image—the ones who don’t eat sugar during the season and drink kale smoothies three times a day—order water. The more casual guys order beer or, occasionally, Jack and Coke.

Max Lockhart—“Hey, I’m Max”—orders a frozen margarita and asks if I want to go halfsies on a plate of nachos.

He’s casual in jeans and a Raptors T-shirt, his dishwater-blond “hockey hair” somewhat windblown. His blue eyes are very bright, and he smiles a lot. He’s not handsome, exactly. But something about him is magnetic. It makes it hard to look away.

I already like him more than I expected to. Though I suppose that could be the margarita talking.

“You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” I have to ask.

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