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Something tugs around my heart as I watch Pippa blow a kiss to him. Behind her, Hartley’s already halfway up the stairs that lead out of the arena, ponytail bouncing with each step.
Sheiswearing the leggings, and her assdoeslook incredible.
“I think Hartley likes me,” I say to the guys over the arena music, keeping my eyes on her retreating form.
Owens laughs, and even surly Streicher snorts.
“Not a fucking chance, bud,” Owens crows, slapping me on the back as we skate off the ice.
My competitive, determined instincts roar to life, honed by years of hockey and training. I thrive on a challenge, and I hate losing.
Hartley not giving me the time of day sticks in my mind like a thorn. I like her, but I don’t know how to make something happen with her. I think, deep down, she likes me, too.
Hockey is everything, my dad always says.Hockey comes first.
Getting hung up on a girl is a dangerous game, but I can’t seem to forget about Hazel Hartley.
“Miller,” Coach Ward calls as I head down the corridor to the dressing room. “Stop by my office after postgame press.”
I nod and make my way to the showers, head still filled with thoughts of Hazel.
* * *
After my sit-down with Ward, I return to the dressing room, thoughts whirring. Streicher’s in there still, gathering up his stuff.
“Good game tonight,” he says with a nod.
I bite the inside of my cheek as the weird thoughts about feeling empty and the wins not being as sweet anymore threaten to spill out. Streicher and I have played hockey together since we were five years old, and I trust him more than anyone, but after what Ward said upstairs, I know I need to keep it to myself.
“Are you meeting Pippa?” I ask instead as we haul our bags up and head out.
She usually waits for him in the team’s private box upstairs with the other partners and family. Maybe her sister’s with her.
“She went straight home. She didn’t want to be out late tonight because of the engagement party.”
“Right.” It’s tomorrow night at a restaurant in Gastown, near their apartment.
We head down the concourse, nodding good night to the arena staff.
“What did Ward want?”
Anxiety spikes in my gut. “He offered me captain.”
Streicher’s eyes meet mine, flaring with the same surprise I felt. “Really?”
“Ward knows talent when he sees it.” I give him my cockiest, most winning smile, but my chest is still tight with uncertainty.
Clean up your act this season. Earn your spot, Miller, Ward said.Be the captain this team needs.
Last year when I played for Calgary, and before we patched things up, I started a fight on the ice with Streicher. During another game, I got pissed off at the fans and flipped them the middle finger, earning myself a penalty and a spot on the sports highlights for the rest of the week. Tonight, when the goal horn blared and the rest of the team was congratulating me, I didn’t care.
None of these things are in line with a good captain. I’m not the leader type. I’m the asshole. The superstar. The guy everyone loves to hate.
“You going to do it?” he asks.
“I have to.” My throat feels thick. “I’m on a one-year contract.”
When he started with the team last season, Ward traded for a handful of free agents, signing them for short terms, citing to the press that he wasn’t just acquiring players, he was creating a team. At the end of the season, about half of those guys were traded.
