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“That’s him,” I say, gesturing to the ice.
Luke Ryder skates over to the blond that Cami is still making starry eyes at and another guy with close-cropped dark hair. I catch a glimpse of Ryder’s chiseled jawline before he slips his helmet on and turns away.
He’s still as attractive as I remember. Only he’s not a lanky fifteen-year-old anymore. He’s a grown man, filled out and muscular. Sheer power drips off him.
I haven’t seen him in person since that youth camp my dad ran five or six years ago. To this day, I still bristle when I think about the way he disparaged me. Told me I didn’t belong on the ice. Assumed I was a figure skater, to boot. And he called me prom queen. Dick. It had definitely been fun wiping that cocky grin off his face when we ran a two-on-one drill later, and I outskated him and another boy to score on net. It’s the petty little things that make me happy.
“He’s fucking sexy,” Whitney says.
“It’s the slutty bad-boy dick magic,” Cami pipes up. “Makes them hotter.”
We all snicker.
“Is he a slutty bad boy?” Whitney asks.
Cami laughs and says, “Well, the bad-boy thing is pretty self-evident. Just look at him. But yeah, he’s totally got a reputation for hooking up. But not, like, in a conventional way.”
I poke her in the back, grinning. “What does that mean? How does one hook up unconventionally?”
“Meaning he doesn’t go out of his way to get laid. Doesn’t chase anyone, doesn’t do the whole cocky player routine. My cousin saw him at a party last year, and she said this guy just stood there brooding in the corner the entire time. Didn’t say a word to anyone all night, yet somehow there’s a swarm of thirsty chicks throwing themselves at him. Boy basically has his pick of hookups.”
A whistle pierces the air. On instinct, we all snap to attention and it’s not even our practice.
Coach Jensen skates onto the ice, trailed by two assistant coaches and Tom Adley. He blows his whistle again. Two sharp blasts.
“Line up! I want two lines at center ice.” His voice carries in the vast arena.
Helmets and face masks are slapped on, gloves readjusted as the team lines up. There are fewer guys here than I expected.
“Didn’t Eastwood have a roster of almost thirty?” I ask Whitney.
She nods. “I heard he’s splitting training camp into two practice groups. This is probably just the first one.”
I give a wry smile when I notice how the team lines themselves up. Briar guys standing shoulder to shoulder. Eastwood guys doing the same. Ryder is between his two buddies, jaw set in a rigid line.
“All right,” Jensen barks, clapping. “Let’s not waste any time. We’ve got a lot to cover this week in order to finalize the roster. We’re going to start with a basic dump-and-chase drill. Get some of that energy out, all right?”
The other coaches herd everyone into position behind one net. Because of the way they lined up previously, most of the player pairs feature one guy from Briar, one from Eastwood.
This should be fun.
“First player to get possession, I want you to take a shot on goal. Second player, I want to see you forechecking to get that puck back.”
He blows the whistle again to get things going. It’s one of the simplest drills there is, yet a thrill still dances through me. I love this game. Everything about hockey is pure exhilaration.
Jensen dumps the puck in the corner behind the opposite net, and the first pair races along the boards toward it. Their jerseys don’t have names or numbers, so I don’t know who I’m looking at.
In the second pair, though, I clock Case instantly. Not for his looks, but his trademark style, that quick release. Case Colson has the most accurate shot placement in all of college hockey. He could probably give most NHL goalies a run for their money too. There’s a reason he was drafted by Tampa.
“This is way more boring than I thought,” Whitney grumbles. “Where are the fireworks?”
“For real,” Camila chimes in. “Let’s just bail—”
No sooner do those words leave her mouth than said fireworks go off.
It starts with a hard forecheck from Jordan Trager. Just like with Case, I’ve watched enough Briar games to identify Trager’s aggressive style. He lives and breathes the goon life. He’s also a raging asshat, so when the other player starts giving the aggression back good, I know Trager’s running his mouth as usual.
Before I can blink, the gloves are off.
In a real college hockey game, fighting isn’t allowed. Both these dumbasses would be thrown out of the game and benched for the next one. During practice, it would normally be frowned upon and likely disciplined.
Today’s practice?
Jensen lets it play out.
“Damn.” Whitney hisses through her teeth when the Eastwood player takes a powerful swing at Trager, connecting with his left cheek.
