“I'm serious, boys. Next game's a big one. We want to make the playoffs this year, right? Then it's time to start stringing some wins together. It starts today.”
The room quieted as the team strapped on their protective pads.
Captain Shea, sitting across the room, wore a coy smile.
***
Lance pushed his teammates hard in practice. The power of concentrated will coursed through his veins. Heneededto win that game, because losses had a way of spoiling your mood and ruining your whole night.
And if he wasn't in the right frame of mind to do what he planned to do, he knew his entire demeanor would be like a sad puppy's. Which would obviously turn her off.And then she'd probably say no. In front of everybody.
Lance galloped around the ice like a race horse, daring his teammates to catch him. He embarrassed Quinton Brooks by putting the puck between the towering defenseman's legs, leaping around his gargantuan body, and then sprinting ahead to score on a break-away.
Normally, he didn't want to make his teammates look bad in practice. Today, though, he didn't care. Everyone had to get better. Lance needed the team to be better. He needed every single member on the roster to reach their potential.
After line rushes, Shea slid to a stop next to Lance. The aging veteran bent over at the waist, sucking air. If there was one thing you could say about Shea? His body wanted to slow down, but his mind just wouldn't let it.
“That suspension really lit a fire under your ass, eh, Coots?” he panted.
Lance winked at him. “Something like that.”
“Keep it up. I like what I see.”
Lance whacked Shea's shin pads with his stick. “Pretty sure the boys hate me right now, though.”
The captain laughed. “Yup. That's part of the gig. I always thought that part would appeal to you.”
“I could get used to it,” Lance said with a smirk before he pushed off with an explosive stride and rejoined the play.
***
“Whew.”
That was a common refrain around the dressing room after practice, heard amongst the chorus of Velcro straps tearing apart. The boys were exhausted, many still wanting for air, and everyone moved slower and stiffer than usual.
“Good practice today, boys,” Lance said proudly.
For his own sake, a soreness throbbed deep in his muscular thighs. It was thegoodkind of soreness that let you know you'd put in a hard day's work.
Coach entered the dressing room, walked over to Lance's stall and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good hustle today, kid.”
After showers, the team dressed in their suits and, one by one, headed for the parking garage, where Wally would fetch their cars.
Lance stayed behind and waited for Shea. Shea was always the last Brawler to leave after every practice and game, thanks to an hour-long stretching routine that he needed to keep his 37-year-old body from seizing up on him.
Shea seemed surprised that Lance was still in the room. “You're still here?”
“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay. What about?”
Lance broke yet another one of Kip's rules and told a member of the team all about Paige and Irie, and how he intended to win them back.
Shea seemed stunned. “You sure you want to do that? You know this might blow up on you, right?”
“I know. I'm just telling you what I intend to do. So if you think I shouldn't do it, now's your chance to talk me out of it. It's still your team, after all.”
Shea scratched the back of his neck. “Remember when I told you that you had to find something outside hockey to live for?”
