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“I’m so screwed.”
12
REESE
No one in their right mind thinks playing hockey is relaxing. But if you need to work some shit out, and therapy ain’t for you, the high-speed, knock-’em-out adrenaline rush you get from sharp blades on the ice and throwing elbows into people’s faces is a pretty great substitute.
Out here, I’m not a new dad with a kid I didn’t want, a kid I didn’t even know about until she was dropped on my doorstep.
Out here, I’m not a fuck-up, the way my dad always used to say I was.
Out here, it doesn’t matter I haven’t had decent sleep because the tiny human living in my house has a sleep schedule conceived by Satan, or that I haven’t had sex in weeks, or that I can’t stop thinking about Olivia.
Out here, I’m just Reese fucking Dalton.
And nothing else matters.
The music of blades cutting across the ice fills my ears. Grunted breaths. The slam of pads and the thwack of stick on puck. It’s the first time I’ve been on the ice since my unexpected delivery, and honestly? I might be taking it out a bit on my teammates.
I’m the best at what I do. Period. Full stop. The team knows it, the fans know it, the whole damn league knows it. But just in case anyone was thinking of forgetting, I decide to remind them.
The dude playing center opposite me in our warmup game barrels toward me. I couldn’t tell you what his name is. I don’t remember the names of teammates who haven’t impressed me yet.
He’s got this determined look on his face. The one that says, This is the time I get one over on Reese Dalton. He’s hunched over, skates loud as he digs deep. He thinks he’s a bull, charging at his victim.
He’s wrong.
I’m the bull. Him? He’s just fresh meat.
He’s bearing down on me hard. I’ve got the puck on my stick. Waiting, waiting, waiting. At the last second, T-minus practically nothing until impact, I slide the puck from left to right and pivot gracefully out of the way. He gets a face full of the boards. I get a clear runway to the opposing goal.
I put my head down and start to sprint forward. Frigid rink air burns in my lungs and my muscles ache, but it’s the best kind of pain. I feel more alive dodging, weaving, gliding past my teammates than I have at any point in the last two weeks while trying to sort out the shitshow circus that is my life.
Goal up ahead. Goalie hunched down low, looking like a couch with arms in his practice pads. I make like I’m going top shelf, but when he overcommits, I slide the puck home right between his legs. Five hole. Point, Dalton.
I glide around the goal with my victory fist held high and a huge grin on my face. But when I turn back toward the rest of the practice rink, all I see is Coach looking sour as hell.
“Dalton!” he snaps. “You know the point isn’t to kill your teammates, right?”
No Name is still on his ass where I left him, clutching his shoulder like a little kid nursing booboos on the playground.
I roll my eyes. “Grow up.”
“Get fucked!” the guy shoots back. “I ain’t your punching bag!”
“Get good then.”
“Enough!” Coach’s voice rings out. “Warmup game is over. Line ‘em up, we’re running plays now.” He blows his whistle right in my ear just to make a point.
The rest of my team floats into place in three ragged columns at the blue line. No Name takes his place opposite me again. I’ve got Marcus Syndergaard to my left and Dante Stark behind me in goal. Bastian Duverger is lurking off to my right.
Marcus and Dante are my two best friends on the team. Bastian, on the other hand… Bastian is a bastard who wishes he was good enough to be the star that I am. I ignore him as often as I can. That G.I. Joe ass haircut is not something I want to look at any more than absolutely necessary.
“You gonna run the play right or you gonna showboat again, Dalton?” Bastian taunts as he grinds his stick against the ice. The sound of it makes my skin crawl.
“You gonna pull your weight so I don’t have to play two positions at once?” I fire back.
“Come on, guys, you’re both pretty,” Marcus scoffs, trying to break up the brewing tension. “Keep it off the ice.”
