Baptiste
I’m entering the arena for our second practice, and if I’m being honest, we definitely need it. I wish we had more time on the ice, but both the men’s and women’s teams share the practice rink, so time is a scarce resource. We all have teammates we’re used to playing with here, but we’re never all on the ice at the same time, and adapting to the new dynamics has been a challenge. It’s like starting with a new team all over again, having to learn the strengths and weaknesses of your teammates, find chemistry on the ice, and hone our efficiency.
Even the coach’s orders are hard to catch sometimes, and we had a tough time getting it together yesterday. Hopefully, today will bebetter. Especially since Harper is going to be watching from the stands. At least, I think she will. She’s been living rent-free in my mind since yesterday, a sensation I both welcome and… resist. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about a woman this much. Not since I decided I’d been burned too many times and staying single was the best thing for me. It still is.
“Ready, Froggy?” Adler asks, slapping my back.
I jump in surprise. I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear him sneak up on me.
“Hope you won’t be this spaced-out on the ice, bro. What’s up?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his bag.
“Nothing.” I smile. “I’m good. Hoping for a decent practice. Better than yesterday, at least.”
“Oh yeah,” someone calls behind us.
We turn around to spot Beaumont and Miles walking up.
“You need to get it together,” Beaumont says. “Both of you,” he adds, glancing at Miles.
“What’s wrong with us?” we both say in unison.
“Haven’t been seeing that M&M magic,” Beaumont replies as we shuffle into the locker room.
The familiar smell hits instantly—sweat, detergent, rubber from fresh tape. Guys are talking over one another, stalls clattering as bags hit the floor, and beneath that, the low hum of skate blades being sharpened somewhere in the back.
“Yeah. Because we barely played together yesterday,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We just need to find our groove.”
Miles shakes his head. “And you haven’t exactly been a shining example either, Beaumont.”
We keep bickering and chatting, greeting the other guys with back slaps and fist bumps as we get ready for practice. Soon we’re tapping our sticks on the floor, changing tape, joking around to shake off the nerves.
Coach Sully Paul calls us on the ice, and we file out, blades hitting the frozen surface with that familiar, satisfying scrape.
There are loads of reporters stacked in the bleachers, and I have to scan the room for a few seconds before I spot Harper. She’s wearing a black hoodie, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Once again, she seems to be absorbed by her phone, not even bothering to look up.
Taz Houlihan, our Stripes captain, slaps my shoulder as he shreds onto the ice and skates past me, merging into position.
Warm-ups are soon underway: simple laps to get the blood flowing, stretching circles, a few edge-work exercises. Adler races Beaumont on the first lap—naturally—and Beaumont cheats by cutting the turn too tight. Adler yells, calling foul, and Miles laughs so hard he almost trips over his own stick.
Then the drills begin.
We run a breakout drill with mixed lines, me paired with a defenseman from Pittsburgh for the first rep. He’s fast, aggressive, dribbles the puck up the ice like it’s an extension of his hand. We quickly fall into a rhythm.
As we rotate, he offers me a two-finger salute and a smile. “Good read, Marchand.”
“Right back at you,” I answer with a nod.
Next, a 3-on-2 rush.
Adler is chaos incarnate—chirping mid-drill, testing out a between-the-legs shot he absolutely should not be trying while Beaumont oversells every deke like he’s auditioning for an energy drink commercial.
Taz Houlihan sends the puck to Wally’s cage. Our trusty goalie blocks the shot with a satisfied grunt.
I take a second to glance up to the bleachers, and my heart falls a few inches. Harper is still not looking at the ice. Actually, she’s…reading a book? What on earth? This girl never ceases to surprise me. Some of the other reporters are giving her a side eye, and I can’t really blame them. She’s not exactly the picture of work ethic right now.
Harper
Grandma’s right. If dying of boredom is a thing, I’m in serious danger. I can feel the judgmental glances of the other reporters, probably wondering why I’m reading a book instead of watching therivetingspectacle below us, but I can’t pretend to care. I honestly don’t understand what they find so interesting. An old guy is yelling at the jocks with skates and sticks, and they do what he says—big deal. The only thing cool in here is the AC. Yeah, I’m talkingcoolin the literal sense of the term.
