Page 7 of The Pucking Wrong Number

I was the best scorer on the team.

And the league.

No one would replace me any time soon. When my rookie contract expired at the end of the season, it was already a done deal. I’d be landing the largest contract in NHL history. Ownership had been breathing down my neck, trying to make it a done deal before other teams could start their offers.

If it were up to me, I would have signed it already…

“Fuuuck,” I growled as Peters almost laid me out. That was what I got for letting my fucking father fill my thoughts again.

“Daniels, where’s your fucking head?”

“Probably with some choice pussy,” Lancaster called out.

Coach growled and threw a puck at him. “Line up again!”

Shaking my head, as if that could undo all my issues, I gritted my teeth and refocused. Skating hard, I kept my eyes on the puck, listening as Coach ran through the play.

The whistle blew, and I skated forward, positioning myself in front of the net, ready to pounce. The puck came towards me, and I didn't fucking hesitate. I snatched it out of the air with my stick, spun around, and fired off a wrist shot. The puck sailed through the air, a blur of speed and accuracy.

"Don’t blink, motherfucker!" I yelled, as the puck whizzed past Bender’s glove and found the back of the net. I pumped my fist in the air, a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Bender cursed and threw one of his gloves.

“Got to be faster than that against Toronto, old man,” I crowed as I did another lap around him…just for fun.

“Yeah, yeah,” he growled

Coach’s face was wide with a grin, and he was nodding so hard he resembled a fucking bobble head. "That's what I’m fucking talkin’ about!" he shouted, pumping a fist in the air. "Nice fucking shot, Daniels!"

We continued the scrimmage for another thirty minutes, but once I scored four more, Coach sent me to the bench.

“You’re a fucking animal today,” Ari laughed, tossing me a water bottle as I wiped my sweaty face with a towel.

“It’s fucking fun, right?” I grinned, spraying water on my face to cool off.

“Yeah, Golden Boy,” Ari purred.

I rolled my eyes at the nickname the media had given me.

“Har, har. Douchebag.”

Ari snorted, and we watched as a new line faced off against each other.

“I think Dalton gets worse every play,” Bender commented, trying to catch his breath as he hoisted himself over the boards and plopped himself down on the bench.

“Hmm, how many did I score on you?” I retorted back.

Bender huffed and shook his head. “I stopped counting.”

Ari and I both laughed, and we finished watching the rest of practice.

Back in the locker room, after showers, Ari snapped me with his towel before going back to drying his wild black hair. “You never answered about tonight. I need to get laid.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I can help you with that, Lancaster. You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”

“Funny,” he sighed, before shooting me a wink. “Are you in? We can try that new bar on Emory Street.”

I brushed my hair out of my face and banged my head on the locker behind me with a groan. “I would, but I’ve got that fucking gala thing with Kara.”

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