Page 8 of Faking the Shot
But instead of adjusting like any competent player would, the idiot keeps a straight line, oblivious to me angling toward the same spot. Before I can even blink, we collide—full-on, shoulder to shoulder—sending both of us sprawling onto the ice.
“Fuck,” I growl, the sting of the impact shooting up my side as I hit the cold, unforgiving surface.
Meanwhile, the Vipers seize the moment, charging down the ice like their lives depend on it. The puck is already halfway to our net.
I slam my picks into the ice and push myself upright, adrenaline and rage pumping through my veins.
“Cool it,” Linus snaps as he scrambles to his feet. “You’re not the coach, and this isn’t The Killer Craw Show. I’ve got this.”
The words hit like a slap. Fire erupts in my chest, hot and uncontrollable. The Killer Craw Show? At least he’s using my nickname instead of throwing out nepo-baby like he did last time. Maybe because two games ago, I punched him so hard, he saw stars and couldn’t remember his own name for half the period.
Fuck, this is really not going well, is it?
But the thing is that anyone else might shrug that off, maybe even laugh it away. Not me. I’ve had pressure riding my ass since the moment I was born.
Two Hall of Famers for parents? Yeah, that comes with baggage. Every move I make is dissected, analyzed, judged. Everyone’s watching. Always. My name isn’t just my name—it’s a fucking headline. And Linus? He probably knows exactly where to jab to make it sting.
Instead of chasing the puck, I whip around, fully ready to drop gloves with my own damn teammate. My fists curl, and my jaw tightens as I stomp toward him.
Before I can get there, Hemming cuts between us, circling the net and shoving himself into the brewing storm. His helmeted head jerks toward me, his glare so sharp it could slice ice.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Crawford?” Hemming barks, loud enough to carry over the din. “I understand you’re new to this team, but you can’t start shit with your own teammates. That’s not how we do it in Boston. Are you trying to hand them a power play? Focus on the fucking game.”
He skates off, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
I force down the anger, biting the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood hits my tongue. My shoulders heave as I take a breath, then another. Hemming’s right—I can’t lose my head out here.
Linus gives me a smug little smirk, and it’s all I can do not to skate over and knock it off his face.
Instead, I pivot and shove forward, carving into the ice as I fall into my spot. My chest tightens as the play continues. I push harder, hoping to fix this mess.
But it’s too late. The puck sails past Hemming and into our net.
The horn blares, mocking us as the fucking Vipers celebrate.
“Fuck.” The word rips out of me, echoing in my helmet as I slam my stick against the boards.
I look around at my teammates, scanning their faces for even a shred of urgency. Instead, half of them are waving to the fans like we’re in a charity game, like being down two goals is something to smile about.
Unfuckingbelievable.
The ref’s whistle pierces the air, signaling a stoppage in play. Our coach waves us off the ice, motioning for a line change. I skate toward the bench, my pulse pounding in my ears, every muscle in my body coiled tight. If this is how they want to play, fine. But me? I didn’t come here to fucking lose.
Chapter Five
Kaden
How Not to Handle a Breakup
In the end, we scraped out a win. Just barely. And now? Time for the ritual.
Back in San Jose, you finish the game and head home. But here? It’s different. After a game, the team heads to the nearby bar to celebrate with some of the local fans. It’s been a traditionsince my father played for the Barracudas back in the 80s and, of course, I’m expected to be here.
I remember coming a couple of times for Sunday games when Dad brought us along during family time. He was already retired, but was working for the GM. It felt special then. Now? Not so much. Tonight it feels like we’re giving a prize for a job barely done. We don’t deserve it—this.
Still, not my place to tell them what they should be doing. I just plant my ass and ask for a whiskey. The bar hums with life—the clink of glasses, the low thrum of music, and the overlapping buzz of too many conversations competing to be heard.
My teammates have claimed a corner booth, surrounded by a mix of familiar faces and hangers-on. Puck bunnies hover nearby, laughing way too hard at every lame joke like they’ve never encountered a hockey player before. Across the room, the WAGs huddle together, probably dissecting skincare routines or some other mystery I’ll never understand.
