"It's bold of you to assume you'll have a choice." Rory tapped his stick against mine, flashed a broad smile, and then peeled off toward center ice.
I exhaled, rolled my shoulders, and focused on my first few strides—slow, measured. It was all coming back fast enough. I was a bit out of my element, but I thought I could hang in well enough to appear respectable.
The locker room door banged open again. Silas strode over to the bench on the edge of the ice, his skates over his shoulder. He wore a half-zipped hoodie, and his expression was unreadable. His clothes signaled he was here to play.
My pulse started to race.
Brooks glanced at Silas as he skated past. "Well, well. Look what rolled in off the tide. Any seaweed stuck to those blades?"
Silas ignored him, setting his skates down and stretching out his legs. "Figured I'd make sure Jack didn't break his neck first shift."
I tapped the ice with my stick. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
He looked up. "Only if you think you need a hand to hold out there on the ice."
Someone hollered from across the rink. "Are we playing today, or is this a damn talk show?"
Brooks clapped a hand on my shoulder. "C'mon, new guy. All eyes are on you. Let's see what you've got."
I pushed off, the cool air filling my lungs as I picked up speed. Silas rose from the bench and pushed off, following close behind me.
I didn't know why his presence made me feel steadier, but it did.
The first few shifts were chaotic in the best way—sticks clashed, pucks flew, and chirps cut through the chilled arena air. Nobody took any of it too seriously. Still, the skating and game-playing strategies on display made it clear that at least half of the guys had been playing each other for years.
I finished my first shift without humiliating myself. That was a win. As I approached the bench, my lungs were on fire, and my legs were heavy, but I was upright. Nobody had to carry me off the ice.
After my feeble first shot went straight into the goalie's glove, Rory skated past. He jabbed me in the hip with the butt end of his stick. "That all you got, St. Pierre?"
"Give me a minute." I panted for air. "Gotta pace myself."
Making it all look so slick and easy, Brooks intercepted a pass at the blue line. He deked once, twice, and then roofed the puck with a ridiculous backhand. "Pace yourself all you want," he called to me. "But don't expectusto slow down."
I didn't have enough oxygen to put together a solid comeback.
Suddenly, Silas was there. He appeared in my peripheral vision and matched my pace. He tapped my stick lightly with his. "Relax. You're fighting it."
"Not fighting… adjusting."
"Right. Well, while you're adjusting, try bending your knees more. You're stiff as hell."
I barely had time to adjust before he peeled away, making a smooth turn to catch a pass from Rory. He handled the puck like he was born with one in his crib. Brooks's professional play was on a different level, but Silas ranked as one of the best of the rest.
The puck came at me again. I let instinct take over. As I collected it, I quickly looked around and snapped a pass back to Rory. Our connection was clean, and he lifted his stick in acknowledgment.
Silas grinned. "See? Not bad. Not bad at all."
Was everything back in order? The easy tone in his voice did something to me—it made me feelanchored in a way I hadn't since moving to Whistleport.
Then, before I could think too much about it, I threw a few words back at him. "Not bad? That was textbook."
"Oh, was it?"
I nodded, trying not to smile. "I'd say so."
Silas snorted. "Okay, let's see if you can keep that up."
We cycled through more shifts, the rhythm coming easier with each pass and stride. It wasn't a coaching session exactly, but he did make sure I didn't embarrass myself. Brooks and Rory didn't cut me any slack, so I needed somebody keeping things as even as possible.
