Page 1 of Golden Goal

Chapter one

Holt

“Dinner tonight?” Wes, one of my best friends, asks as he pulls off his practice jersey.

“Can’t.” I shake my head as I plop down onto the bench next to him.

“Kat?”

He leans down and pulls off first one skate and then the other.

I grunt, leaning down to untie my own skates.

Wes blows out a breath. “Yeah. No problem, man.”

I look up just in time to see the hurt flicker in his eyes. I’m such a fucking liar. A terrible friend. I should come clean. Tell him Kat broke up with me months ago. I know I should. I just can’t make myself admit to my friends that I failed that relationship.

Add being a shitty friend to the long list of things I’m excelling at right now, like being a useless goalie. Might as well.

Hunter, one of our alternate captains and another of my best friends, walks over, his half brother, Elias, trailing behind him.

“Everything okay?” Hunter asks, glancing between Wes and me as he tugs his jersey off and sits next to me.

What a loaded question.

In more ways than one.

No, everything is not okay.

Not with me.

Not with the team.

It’s a few weeks into the season, and we’ve lost more games than we’ve won. Thanks to my lackluster performance in the net. I know it. Coach knows it. The guys know it. My mind isn’t in the game. And that’s a big problem for the guy who is the starting goalie for the Orlando Storm. It shocks the shit out of me every game that Coach puts me back in. I keep waiting for the day he tells me they’re shipping me to Upstate New York to our AHL team, the Mustangs.

Before either of us can answer, the door to our locker room opens, and Dr. Walt, our team physician, sticks his head in. “Are you boys decent? I want to introduce you to our new team physical therapist. She’s excited to meet you.”

The guys nod and call out that they’re dressed.

He pushes the door open and ushers a woman in ahead of him. She’s at least a head shorter than me, dressed in navy scrubs, her dark hair piled on the top of her head. She glances around the locker room. Taking it all in, I guess, or she’s trying to figure out who needs PT. Dr. Montgomery, our previous physical therapist, could always tell who was in pain and needed PT just by looking at us.

I wonder what this new doctor thinks of us. If she’s worked for another professional team before or if this is her first time working with athletes.

I run a hand through my hair.

Why do I care?

“Gentleman,” Dr. Walt says, and everyone walks over to where they’re standing. “Meet Dr. Rebecca Jansen. Dr. Jansen, the floor is yours.”

She tucks a strand of hair that’s fallen out of her bun behind her ear, a flash of something—nerves maybe—crossing her face before she schools her features, stands up straighter, and says, “Hello Team.”

She waves awkwardly. The old Holt would have been amused by her greeting, but the current me stays silent, crossing my arms over my chest. Some guys mutter a greeting in response, so at least it isn’t too uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you all. I’m sure we’ll get along swimmingly. I’m excited to be here and help you all stay in shape this season.” She pauses, shifting on her feet, her gaze dancing around the room before she meets my eyes, and I’m lost in a sea of chocolate brown. Something akin to electricity crackles between us.

Nope.

None of that.