Chapter One
Mollie
Hockey breeds a special kind of closeness. Closeness among the fans, joking as they watch their favorite sport. Closeness among the puck bunnies, primping and wearing the jersey of the player they hope to catch.
And then there’s the closeness among the players. Skating hard, out of breath, clashing with the opposing team, all of them trying to get the puck into the goal just one more time.
They’re close, whether they actually like each other, or not. It makes no difference whether it’s an NHL team vying for the Stanley Cup, or a beer league playing a pickup game for fun.
Hockey is the stitching that joins all the different quilt squares into a great big blanket.
It's addictive and fun.
It’s also how the players earn their money; by bashing and stealing and shooting.
For the true adrenaline junkies, that means even in mid-June.
We’re three weeks out from a loss, and the facility has that specific off-season energy; loose and a little aimless. But not for guys like my brother Beck. He’s the oldest on the team, turning thirty-five this fall, and he’s a D-man. His body has to stay in perfect shape for him to be able to slam the opposition into the boards every night for seven-to-nine months a year.
I stand on the side of the practice rink and watch him while holding up my phone. I'm not shooting videos of their practice because I'm a fangirl. Or at least, not only because of that.
After a career-ending injury pulled me out of competitive skating, I landed here. Yes, I did allow my big brother to get me a job as the team's social media coordinator. Yes, I am a nepo baby. Nepo sibling? Whatever.
Beck zooms by again, coming to a stop near me. I start a new video of him using the edge of his skates to stop short, and consider the other people on the ice with him. They're a mix of Seattle Havoc players, farm team players, some college players that the team has their eye on for future drafts, and a handful of coaches who just show up to stay fit for the season.
"Everybody warmed up?" Beck calls. He's the captain of the team. And right now, since the skate is informal, he has more authority than almost anyone else.
I see Connor Li and Theo Kozlov, two guys who have just graduated from being rookies, with twenty-five and twenty-seven games under their respective belts. There’s Moose Taggert, a veteran right winger who's older than my brother. Jamie Proulx, a green rookie who plays center, and Jett Huxley, the team's ace goalie, round out the players I know. Assistant Coach Ryan is also here, warming up with everyone else while dressed down in track pants and a Havoc-gray zip up jacket.
"Let's separate into teams," Beck yells. "No contact, short periods, short shifts. The goal here is just to get our heart rates up. Cardio, gentlemen, not endangering our ACLs."
A murmured chuckle is the reply as the players skate lazily toward one bench or the other. Beck turns to me, cocking a brow. "Mollie, got that?"
I hit end and grin at him. "Sure did. Thanks again for letting me follow you around filming essentially every day."
He inclines his head. "It's been getting a lot of attention from fans, just like you promised. So maybe I should be thanking you."
"Filming thirst traps of Connor and Theo stretching on the ice was getting old. Your stuff is more ‘competency porn,’ which drives the puck bunnies wild."
He snorts. "They should see me when I'm up all night with my four-year-old, covered in vomit. That would scare them off right quick."
I arch a brow. "I'm pretty sure it would do the opposite."
"You're dreaming."
Winking at me, Beck skates off to where Kozlov is holding the pen open for him. I film for a few minutes while they skate, watching them swoop and glide. It's a nostalgic moment for me. I've been watching boys rough each other up on the ice since I was old enough to walk. I was three years old when I got my first pair of skates so I could swoop and glide as well.
The sound of skates on ice brings up a sensation so sharp it takes my breath away.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I take a deep breath. I'm not thinking about that right now. This is not the time or place to get upset.
"Mollie bo bolly," Indie sings as she slings her bag down and collapses next to me. "Mollie, baby, sweetheart. What's up, buttercup?"
I can't help but grin. She has blue hair pinned up with chopsticks, a pretty dress paired with ripped tights, warm brown skin, and the biggest shit-eating grin. It's impossible not to smile in her presence.
"Indie bo bindy," I croon back to her. "I'm glad you made it. Did you make it through security okay?"
“Hey!” Indie gives me a quick hug, rolling her eyes. "You'd think they’d at least question me after I started a TikTok account named ‘HockeyStalker,’ but no. They’ll just let anybody in."
