Page 1 of The Prince and the Puck
PROLOGUE
JULIUS RAMON - ICE CLEANING MACHINE DRIVER
Ahh,there was nothing like a new season in the Wombats Arena. Something about cleaning the ice before that first game was like a rebirth. There’s the sharp scent of the ice itself, clean and slightly metallic, with a hint of fumes lingering from the resurfacing. The air is cool and dry, carrying the faintest whiff of rubber from the fresh game pucks.
But beneath that scent of new crispness is the earthier side of hockey—the unmistakable tang of sweat-soaked gear from the players getting ready in the locker room, the faint musk of damp gloves and pads that have seen one too many practices. There’s the subtle but ever-present scent of the boards, a mix of scuffed plastic, wood, and the faint traces of tape residue from sticks slammed against them in frustration or celebration.
If you’re near the benches, you might catch the sharp, minty smell of fresh stick wax, mingling with the salty, buttery aroma of popcorn drifting in from the concession stands.
It’s a heady blend—and one that feels like home to me: the perfect mix of ice, sweat, adrenaline, and anticipation. It’s the smell of hockey—the smell of my entire life.
And this season is a whole new world of opportunities for the Wombats. New faces, new challenges. But the men I’ve come toknow bring a sense of powerful brotherhood into the rink every time they lace up their skates, and I think that’s what brings me back here, season after season. No, I don’t get to play anymore. And my nephew is no longer on the team…
But Wombats Arena is my home, and I have a feeling this season will bring just as many surprises as the last few…
CHAPTER 1
DECK GILLESPIE
HOCKEY PLAYERS DO NOT DANCE
“Quiet down, you jackwads,”Coach Merritt said, looking down the line at the Wombats sitting along the bench, bent over with hands on knees, huffing and puffing, and standing expectantly against the boards. “Those LA turds aren’t going to take it easy on you Tuesday, and I sure as hell haven’t this week either. You guys deserve your day off and it’s been a long week, so I won’t keep you too long, but we need to talk about one thing.”
“Wasn’t too bad, always worth it when we get to see Corny yak,” Rock Stevens called out, earning dirty looks from both the coach and from Tyler “Corny” Cornwall, who was finally getting some color back in his face.
“Look, I need to give you a guys a heads up is all,” Coach went on.
I exchanged a look with John Samuels, our starting goalie. Last time we got a ‘heads up,’ we found out Mizzoni was leaving and Samuels was becoming the youngest starting goalie the FHL had ever seen. It turned out to be a good move. Maybe this news would work out well too. I hoped so—this team was more than just my job. It was my family and my foreseeable future.
“You ever heard of the Savannah Bananas?” Coach went on.
“Like…the dancing baseball guys?” Sly Remington asked.
“Exactly,” Coach said. “Had you ever heard of them before they were the dancing baseball guys?”
I did not like where this was heading one bit. I couldn’t dance to save my life. If that was going to be a new prerequisite for being on the team, I was in trouble.
“Sir,” Cade Simpson interjected, his deep baritone coming from somewhere within his massive red beard. “Are we going to have to dance while we play hockey?”
Coach scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “Lord, I hope not,” he said. “Listen, first of all, this was not my idea. Second, you’re all going to be good sports and comply.”
“He’s totally making us dance,” Solamentes said. “But it’s okay. I got moooves.” He gyrated his hips as he said this and for a second I thought Corny might not be the only one to lose his lunch today.
“No dancing!” Coach roared.
We immediately shut up, all the little side conversations cut off abruptly. No one wanted to be sent back out to do Herbies until we did puke.
“The thing is, I guess the owner thinks we have a publicity problem,” Coach continued. “And he’s brought in some kind of consultant to help us fix it.”
“PR problem?” Samuels asked, voicing what we were all thinking. “What does that mean?”
The coach looked up to the ceiling and then let his gaze slide around the empty stands in the arena. “Honestly? I have no clue. But I don’t ask questions that might put my job at risk and I suggest you yahoos don’t either. This PR guy is coming in to help bolster the image of the Wilcox Wombats, and you’re going to cooperate, whether that means dancing on the ice or signing more autographs or kissing babies, or whatever.”
“Kissing babies?” Panther Aspen mouthed, looking bewildered.
“The rep will be here tomorrow morning to do some initial interviews,” Coach finished. “Be nice.”
With that, the coach turned and headed back to his office, leaving us to exchange confused looks and get ourselves cleaned up to go home.
