Page 100 of Unrivaled

“In February!” Baltierra agreed. Max had never formally met the man, but apparently neither one of them was into introductions. “I love it. Too bad I’m just a short-term rental. You good to go?”

Yes, but…. “How are you driving us anywhere with that?” Max gestured to his right foot. He’d heard enough nightmares about LA traffic. It definitely didn’t seem like the kind of time to fuck around driving with a broken brake foot.

Or gas foot, for that matter.

“Oh, I’m not. Gabe’s out front. I call shotgun. You get to ride in the back with Reyna.”

Max had more questions but sensed they would not lead to satisfactory answers. “Lead the way.”

“Hi, honey,” Baltierra said when he opened the door of the SUV idling out front. “Look what I found.”

Max slid in the back and offered a wave to Gabe Martin, Baltierra’s husband and Max’s former Team Canada teammate. “Hey, Gabe. Thanks for the ride.” Then he turned his attention to his neighbor, a chubby toddler with bright brown eyes and curly hair. “You must be Reyna. I’m Max.” He held out his finger to shake.

Reyna ignored it, but she did yell, “Max! Max! Max!” so he couldn’t be too offended.

He hoped his teammates were as excited to meet him as she was.

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me,” said Baltierra from the front seat. “You can use my nickname around the team, but try not to around the kid. It gets awkward when strangers think she’s talking about my testicles.”

“Tetticles!” Reyna agreed loudly.

They stopped at a light. Gabe covered his eyes with one hand, and his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“See what I mean?”

Gabe took his hand away from his face. “Day carelovesus.”

Gabe dropped them off at the rink, and Baller limp-swaggered down the hallway to lead Max to the GM’s office for his introductory visit—security details and administrative stuff.

The GM took one look at Baller and developed an eye twitch. “Baltierra, what the fuck are you doing here? Go home and sit down. I said you could play chauffeur, not walk all over LA.”

“I’m going,” Baller said. “Going to go elevate it right now. Promise.” He left with a wink at Max, who didn’t believe him for a second.

The GM sighed, but he also shook his head fondly. “That kid, I swear. He’s lucky he’s so likable. Come in and sit down and we’ll get this over with so I can get you on the ice with the team as fast as possible.”

True to his word, the meeting took only a couple minutes. Max’s new coach came in at the tail end and introduced himself as Barry, shook Max’s hand, and said, “All right, time to meet the guys. You ready?”

Max wasn’t. He’d been a Monster his entire career. Management had made him believe he’d be there forever. Usually he knew at least one or two players on a team—guys he trained with, guys who’d played for the Monsters before, friends of friends, players from the national team. But here, the closest thing he had to a friend was Baller, who he’d met this morning. It made him wonder why the Piranhas wanted him in the first place.

But he pasted on a smile and said, “Let’s do it.”

Of course, all his apprehension was for nothing. The team was the same as any other team, except maybe a touch younger. Max fit in well enough. His new captain, a six-foot-eight center who went by Bishop, welcomed him to the team with a back slap that rattled his teeth. “Fresh Fish!” he bellowed to the locker room.

“Beware the Fish!” the rest of the team yelled back, stomping their feet.

Oh God, Max had joined a cult.

Bishop patted his shoulder, gentler this time. “Let’s see what you got.”

Practice went well enough. The Piranhas played a fast, offensive game that focused on puck movement to generate even-strength chances. It was a change for Max, who was used to a defensive game at even strength and a scoring strategy that focused on the power play.

“We’ll put you on third or fourth line a couple games until you get used to it,” Barry told him after his third set of line rushes. He side-eyed Max. “You look like you could use the rest.”

Gee, thanks, Max thought. But he couldn’t disagree, so he didn’t bother trying. “Okay, Coach.”

It wouldn’t be the worst if he didn’t get fifty new bruises every game.

They’d had a closed practice, so there were no reporters present to ask Max how he felt about the trade. For that he was grateful to the Piranhas organization, because he didn’t think he could do it without getting choked up. He’d feel more sure of himself after his first game in an unfamiliar jersey.

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