Still there. Still solid. Idiots.
That locker room memory hits out of nowhere. Brody smirking like a gremlin, Bishy and Thumper saying it deadpan like they’d just diagnosed me with terminal hair loss.
Assholes.
But I seriously do miss Thumper, though. Miss his dry sarcasm, the way he never smiled but always made you laugh. Quiet but deadly on the ice. That kind of teammate sticks with you.
Then Bishy.Shit. That one’s raw. I know I screwed it. Said things I shouldn’t have. Did things I definitely shouldn’t have. Have to fix that. Somehow.
My bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and phone from the dresser. I head downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. At the front door, I pause with my hand on the knob.
Another flashback, Cassy last night, barefoot, laughing, her mouth tasting like burnt wine. Her thighs around my hips, whispering my name like it was the only word she knew.
I shake it off.Can’t let that distract me. Not today.
And McCullum? Well, that's going to be a whole other war zone.
Outside, the truck’s parked where I left it, the sun already heating the metal. I unlock it, open the driver’s door, and toss the gear bag onto the passenger seat.
The smell of old tape and energy drinks hits me like muscle memory. I slide into the seat, crank the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life.
Time to see if I’ve still got a job left worth fighting for.
As I turn onto Frank Sinatra Drive, the Silver State Arena cuts up into the skyline like a punch in the gut. That building’s seen me bleed, win, lose, and lead. And now? Now I’m the guy who threw a punch at the head coach...Cassy’s father.
The security barrier comes into view, and my grip tightens on the wheel.
Come on. You're still that Captain. Time to bite your tongue and dig yourself out of this pit you've dug.
I drop the window as the security guard steps forward, his grin already in place. He’s a stocky guy, name’s Mason or Miles or something with an M. He’s been here longer than most rookies. I reach into the glove box, grab my ID, and hand it over.
He scans it and gives me this amused little smirk.
“I've got to give it to you…” He passes the ID back. “That stunt with the plane yesterday? You've certainly got some balls. I’ll give you that.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything that won’t get quoted out of context later.
As I drive through the barrier, my jaw tightens.
Yeah, and let’s hope McCullum doesn’t decide to give them a good, hard kick when I get in his office.
The parking lot’s already filling. Brody’s just pulling off his helmet next to his Harley, that smug grin already forming. A few feet away, Peters and McAvoy are roughhousing like idiots while Jett stands between them like he’s the substitute teacher trying to keep the peace.
And Bishy. Yeah. He’s there too. Arms folded. Watching me.
I park and kill the engine. Grab my gear bag and swing the door open. The sun hits me square in the face. I take a breath and start walking toward them.
Brody steps away from his bike and comes to meet me halfway. His face says it all: Don’t do anything stupid.
Peters gives a half-assed “Hey.” McAvoy adds a nod. Jett, nice guy but don't really know him yet, strides over with his hand out.
“Morning. Looking forward to drills?”
I take his hand, give it a solid shake. “Kind of.”
My bag hits the asphalt with a dull thud. I don’t break eye contact with Bishy.
The look he gives me could strip paint. “What?” he snaps. “You wanna go again, do you, Mitchell?”
