Page 27 of Ruthless Blade

As I crouched into my face-off stance, I forced the image of Dad out of my mind. I pushed past the embarrassment. I stared down at the puck resting in Will’s hand, then looked up across the circle at Chuck, the opposing center.

The scout wanted to see my character? Fine, I’ll show him character.

The puck dropped. I drove my shoulder straight into Chuck's chest, boxing him out with pure leverage. Hudson scooped up the puck and chipped it back to the blue line.

"Cycle! Cycle!" I shouted, dropping low into the zone to support the play.

I became a ghost on the ice, entirely driven by instinct. When Liam fired a shot from the point, I didn't hesitate. I threw myself directly into the high danger slot, planting my skates right in front of Torin’s crease. Noah tried to cross check me out of the way, his stick slamming into my lower back, but I anchored my weight and refused to move.

The shot came in low. I didn't have time to think. I flashed my blade, deflecting the puck mid-air.

Thwack.

It redirected instantly, beating Torin over his blocker side and bulging the twine. The red light didn't flash. It was only practice, but the resounding snap of the mesh echoed through the entire rink.

I didn't celebrate the goal, and I pretended that Dad and Garcia didn’t exist. I turned around, tapped Hudson’s shin guard with my stick, and skated back to the blue line to play defense on the ensuing breakout. Up in the stands, the scratch of a pen against a clipboard started up again. This time, it didn't stop.

The long, shrill blast of Coach’s whistle signaled the end of practice. "Good pace today, boys. Hit the showers," he called out, his voice echoing off the glass.

A chorus of heavy breathing and the collective scraping of blades followed as the team shuffled toward the gate. My bruised shoulder throbbed with a steady ache as the adrenaline began to fade. I skated toward the bench, my eyes instantly darting up towards the bleachers.

Good, he’s gone.

I stepped off the ice, and began the long walk down the concrete hallway toward the locker room. The rest of the guys were loud behind me, reliving the drills, but I kept my head down.

"Hey, Forty-Two! Hold up a second."

The voice was unfamiliar.

I stopped right outside the locker room door and turned around. The scout was walking down the hallway, and up close he was even more imposing. He wore a navy scouting jacket with the official NHL shield embroidered on the sleeve. A thick binder was tucked firmly under his arm.

"Nice response out there," he said, stopping a few feet away. He didn’t offer a hand, but he evaluated me with intensity in his gaze. "A lot of kids fold after a hit like that. Especially when they notice who’s watching from the exit."

My chest tightened. He noticed.

"I like the way you handled Garcia on the bench," he continued, slipping a pen into his jacket pocket. "In the NHL, guys will try to get inside your head constantly. If you react, you lose. You didn't react. You went out, won the draw, and took ownership of the net. That deflection was pro-level."

"Thank you, Sir," I said, forcing myself to keep direct eye contact. "Your coach tells me your work ethic is consistent, but I wanted to see how you handle adversity under a microscope. You showed me something today. Keep playing the game the right way. We're keeping a very close eye on you."

He gave a tight nod, and turned on his heel. His head bobbed as he walked towards the lobby. I stood frozen, the weight of his words washing over me. There, Dad would be proud. I did what I was supposed to. Kept the scout’s interest.

As I went to turn the handle on the door, the relief quickly vanished. Why the hell was he here in the first place?

Chapter Thirteen

KAYDEN

Junior Year

I knew something was wrong the second I walked into the kitchen and saw my report card sitting open on the counter. Dad was standing, looking over it with his jaw set in that particular way that meant somebody was about to have a very bad night.

That someone was me.

"Sit down," he said through clenched teeth.

Fuck.

I dropped my gear bag by the door and sat, already running through the numbers in my head. I knew exactly which grade was about to be up for discussion. I was close to failing Chemistry with a sixty. I'd been drowning in that class for two months, staying up until three in the morning. I was trying to keep my head above water between practices and games, while also trying to have some semblance of a social life.