Prologue
I’m hitwith the intensity of the crowd as soon as my blade meets the ice. Roars, chants, cheers, beating in my ears. Sure, more than half of them were cheering for the Buffalo Gaters—the opposing team tonight, but I still welcomed it.
We were the guests.
But still, anytime I’m on the ice. I’m home.
We weren’t far. Buffalo was a short six-hour bus ride north for us New York Dexters.The real New York NHL team.
And yeah, it was okay to get cocky at this point of my career. I was going into my third year after being drafted out of college—and already an All-Star, no longer considered a rookie. I’m good. Not ‘one of the best’ like all the sports announcers have been saying the past few months. But I’m good.
Better than most.
Faster than most, I’m definitely a flyer on the ice. I don’t take my eyes off the puck like some of these meatheads—too busy sizing up the competition, passing glances, scanning the crowd.
I don’t bother with any of that. None of it exists. You take your eyes off the puck, you’ll lose it.
Marty taught me that. He isn’t here tonight. But he was watching.
The arena is buzzing when the puck drops. Until it isn’t. Because I don’t hear it. My vision is razor sharp on where it needs to be. My ears only hearing the sound of my own breath within my shield. I fly across the ice, seeing my teammate, Nelson in possession. I block a Gater—maybe four from intercepting.
He scores.
Grinning, I return to position, shaking off the negative force I felt every time number twenty-three of the Gaters passed me. Harding. His scornful shots in my direction during each stoppage were pitiful.
I rolled my eyes as we changed lines.Just play the fucking game, asshole.
Guess the newly announced Captain of the Buffalo Gaters—youngest Captain in the NHL—was feeling the competition heavy tonight.
I don’t let it bother me. In fact, I switch lines again, on the fly and take my shot—score.
That one’s for you, twenty-three.
During intermission, I shake off the unfamiliar defensive territory I find myself in. I don’t get like this. But I feel it strong tonight.
The hostility.
The envy.
The hate.
My boy Ramsey of the Dexter’s flies across the ice, into the far corner. After it. Number nine of the opposing team swoops in to intercept. Hard. Too hard.
What the hell is up with this team?
Ramsey misses and falls flat.
Now I’m angry.
Adrenaline surges through my body and I hit the ice again hard. I scan positions, recalling moves of my opponents. My glances are only at my Captain, slapping my stick as a signal, and the timer. That’s all I need before I know my move—and the speed level I was going to do it.
We need one more and we’re it tonight. I had too much riding on tonight’s game. And next weeks’. I was heading to the all-stars again and I needed wins to back me.
Who knows, maybe I’ll come back and be named Co-Captain.
I get the pass from someone. I’m not even sure who. It doesn’t matter. I have it.
I gain momentum, heading toward the net. I’m almost there. Dexters are blocking, giving me a clear path. Someone swoops in with a steal, but I pull it back and swiftly fly around the net. Something is coming at me lightning fast. I don’t have time to look up or register his face to know who it was.
