Page 16 of Wilder Puck
That’s the reality of Ryan’s position. It’s something that has always bothered him. But he is naturally talented on the ice all around. He’s always said that if something ever happened with hockey like an injury or if he’s dropped, his backup plan is to be a first responder. He likes the idea of a 9 to 5. He claims he’s saving that lifestyle for his future wife and kids. Lucky them. He doesn’t have them in sight, yet he’s already got it planned.
I hide a smile as I walk back to the bar with dirty cups, warmth spreading through my chest. Finding fans of the Wilders, especially Ryan, is always a bright spot. His family is fairly known in the sport. Just wait until the world sees his younger brother. That kid is an animal on the ice. He’s currently in his first year in college, so it’s just the beginning for him.Stay tuned, hockey lovers!
As if the universe read my mind, I glance up at the TV screens to see the Devils taking the ice for warm-ups. The sight of Ryan gliding across the rink in his gear makes my heart squeeze. It never gets old, watching him in his element.
The bar is already filled with Devils diehards and rival fans. The energy in the bar increases as soon as the puck drops to start the game. Sophia wasn't kidding – hockey nights are huge. We're slammed from the first whistle. And I barely have time to watch the game.
I lose myself in the rhythm of pouring drinks, running tabs, and keeping the customers happy. It's a rush, and I’m in the flow, feeling like I’ve been working here for months. Sophia compliments my work ethic. And I am invisibly kicking myself in the ass for not watching Ryan’s game in person. God, I need to make this up to him somehow.
Did I just become the worst best friend anyone could ever ask for?
No.
I won’t let the guilt get to me.
Too late!
By the time Sophia tells me that my first training shift has come to an end, my feet ache and my brain is fried, but a pleased buzz flows through my veins with the tips in my wallet.
Before I head out, I find an empty stool and order a club soda with lime, wanting to decompress a bit. My eyes drift to the closest TV and my heart sinks. We're down by two late in the third. Barring a miracle, the Devils won't be pulling this one out.
The seconds tick down to the inevitable conclusion. The horn sounds to end the game and the Devils skate off the ice in defeat. The cameras cut to Coach Wilder red-faced and shouting, jabbing his finger at the refs.
My concern turns up a notch. I've seen that look on Coach's face plenty over the years. Nothing good ever follows. If he's that angry, he'll be ripping the team to shreds. And knowing Ryan, he'll be internalizing every word.
I glance at the time, doing a quick calculation. If I leave now, I can swing by my place, bake him some cookies, makeus turmeric lattes, and then I will check on him to make sure he's okay. I mix up one of the new cocktails Sophia taught me tonight, carefully sealing it in a to-go cup. A little post-loss cheer might be exactly what Ryan needs. I close my tab and leave.
The drive is quick, the streets quiet this time of night. Before I know it, I have cookies baked for him and I'm pulling up to the Ryan Wilder estate.
Chapter 6
I storm into the locker room, frustration and disappointment burning in my gut after the colossal shit-show on the ice tonight. The familiar smells of sweat, rubber, and defeat hang heavy in the air. My gear feels like lead weights dragging me down as I slink to my locker.
“Tonight was bullshit,” Colton says as he walks to his locker.
Chase sits down next to me without saying anything. The rest of the team shuffles in but the room is dead quiet. Before the game, I was already in a bad mood because Addie refused to come to the game. I needed her support tonight, but she's too stubborn to accept help from me. It's not an excuse though – I played like shit, and I know it. My dad's been all over my case about how important this game was.
We all know the drill after a heavy loss like this, and that’s why no one is saying a word.
Andrew comes stomping in, hurling his stick furiously. “Fucking painful.”
Rich comes in behind him with a bad fucking attitude, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary. The guy’s a dick, and we stay out of his way. His performance was shit tonight, and I’m sure my dad will be laying into him later. The coaches have one goal in mind every year, and that’s the Stanley Cup. If we keep playing like this, we don't stand a chance in hell.
Coach Wilder enters, his face set in a scowl as he goes on about our numerous fuck-ups and missteps on the ice. We sit in silence, heads down, forced to listen to him point out our failures one by one. Then his icy gaze lands on me.
“Ryan. My office. Now.”
I heave a sigh and drop my gear, the sound echoing. Chase gives my shoulder a sympathetic pat as I stand. All eyes are on me as I walk to the office, knowing full well the ass-chewing that awaits me. The guys can hear everything through the thin walls. Same shit, different day.
“You weren't quick enough tonight,” Dad snaps before I've even shut the door. “The team counts on you the most when everyone else is playing like shit.”
I drop into the chair across from him and nod, my gaze drawn to the framed photos lining the wall. The one of us four kids in our skates and jerseys, tiny hockey sticks in hand, beaming smiles after our little team won a game. My sister stands out because she’s adorable. It’s too bad she doesn’t play anymore.
“Why is everyone playing like shit?” he asks.
“I don't know,” I mutter.
“What's gotten into you? You've been off all week – slacking in practice, distracted, and you played like absolute shit tonight.”
