Page 17 of Gamechanger

I nodded and let go of the table. Sam was right. Finn was tough. Michaels surely wasn't the first on-ice thug he'd faced.

As the game came to a close, I made an internal promise. I couldn't fight Finn's on-ice battles for him, but I could be there for him when the game was over. Whatever he needed—someone to listen, lean on, or just vent with about jerks like Michaels. I could be that guy.

When the final buzzer sounded, we'd won. I stood and applauded. Sam clapped alongside me.

"Not bad for your first time, Moose. You didn't break anything, and you didn't try to jump through the glass. That's a win."

As I left the press room, a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I'd been "on" the entire time I sat by Sam. The constant pressure to prove myself and to make everything perfect overwhelmed me. I ducked into a nearby empty office and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.

My hands trembled slightly as I ran them over my buzzed hair. I fought against a familiar chorus in my head: "You're not good enough. You're going to mess this up. They'll see through you eventually."

I took a deep breath, working hard to push the thoughts away. "Come on, Moose," I muttered to myself. "Get it together."

I opened my eyes and left the office. Catching sight of my reflection in a nearby window, I didn't recognize the man staring back for a moment. He looked... scared. Vulnerable. I quickly averted my gaze.

Straightening my shirt, I plastered on a smile. I had to congratulate Finn. "Show time," I whispered, stepping back into the hallway, ready to face the world again.

Chapter six

Finn

Iwas uncomfortable in the away locker room as soon as I stepped inside. It had a low ceiling, making the overhead fluorescent lights oppressive. They cast sickly shadows across the faces of my teammates. Gone were the pleasing wood surfaces of our home arena, replaced by rough concrete needing touch-ups for the chipped blue paint.

It was cramped, too, and I dodged equipment bags and the outstretched legs of other players to reach my stall. As a rookie, I got the one wedged in a corner that was more like a cage than a resting place. The bench was too short, and the hooks were too high.

While I changed out of my street clothes, my thoughts drifted to Donovan Michaels. The echoes of his mocking laughter rattled inside my head. I wondered how often he'd sat on benches in this arena, making plans to terrorize smaller players.

Thinking about his sneering face made my skin crawl. I pulled my jersey on over my pads, acting like it was my armor against his attacks.

"Everything good, Finn?" Sergei's voice broke through my musing. "Are you sure you're not trying to strangle yourself with that jersey?"

I smiled weakly. "Everything's peachy. Does this place give you the creeps, too, or is it just me?"

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Just another rink. The ice is always the same—frozen water."

That was easy for him to say. Sergei was built like a Russian bear and had been in professional hockey for almost as long as I'd been alive. Goons like Michaels didn't mess with him.

With each breath I took, the locker room's foreign smell—unfamiliar cleaning products and decades of sweat—made my stomach churn. My swiftly tightening anxiety didn't help matters.

While we filed out toward the ice, Quinn leading the way, I wished Moose were in the stands, his reassuring presence cheering me on. I tapped my stick against my skates. I was in the big leagues now. I didn't have time to feel homesick or hope to see friendly faces in the stands. Squaring my shoulders, I skated onto the ice to the roar of a hostile crowd.

It didn't take long to spot Michaels; he was already glaring at me. Lurking near center ice, he looked like a predator ready to pounce. I kept my head down while warming up, concentrating on the scrape of my skates. Then, I skated too close. I was in hearing range of his ridiculous comments.

"Well, if it isn't the Lumberjacks' pet chihuahua." I glided past as quickly as possible. "Careful not to trip over the blue line, short stuff."

Don't respond, Finn. That's what he wants.

After the ref dropped the puck for the opening face-off, I darted for it while Michaels' stick tangled with my feet. Stumbling, I was barely able to stay upright.

"Oops, guess those little legs aren't so fast after all."

Every shift was like marching into battle. Michaels seemed to appear out of nowhere every time the puck came my way. He was always in my peripheral vision, lurking while poking and prodding with his stick, jabs that were right on the edge of being called for a penalty.

"Getting tired yet, runt?" he sneered during a face-off. "Do you need a booster seat over there on the bench?"

I gritted my teeth and did my best to let it all go in one ear and out the other. Unfortunately, he had an uncanny ability to toy with my deepest insecurities.

Late in the first period, I finally seized my moment. It was a breakaway, and I saw nothing but open ice ahead of me. I took off like a rocket, and then—

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