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“If I want to stay in Vancouver,” I add, “I need to keep Ward happy.” I rake my hand through my hair. “And Ward’s the only guy I want to play for.”
A decade ago, Tate Ward was one of the most promising players in the history of professional hockey—until he blew out his knee and ended his career. His posters were all over my bedroom wall. Besides me, he’s the only other guy to have beaten my dad’s stats.
“Ward’s different,” I tell Jamie.
Every coach I’ve played for, including my dad when he took over the peewee team Streicher and I played for, used aggression and intimidation to motivate players. Ward doesn’t yell. He barely fucking talked during this week’s practices. He explained the plays and watched. Once in a while, he’d bring a player over to the side and give them quiet notes.
I’ve always been a sucker for fatherly approval, and I want to make Ward proud.
Jamie makes an acknowledging noise in his throat as we reach the elevators to the parking garage.
“And, uh, now that you and I are good again,” I hit the elevator call button, “I like playing on the same team.”
We don’t talk about what happened—the seven-year stretch where Streicher and I didn’t talk because I was stupid enough to listen to my dear old dad’s advice.Don’t be friends with guys on the opposing team, he said when we were drafted.
Rick Miller’s never been an expert on any type of relationship, but it took me a while to figure that out.
We listen to the sounds of the elevator changing floors, and Streicher nods. “I’m happy you’re here, too, man. So is Pippa.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, the grumpy fucker’s version of a full-blown smile, and something eases inside me.
Maybe this captain thing is the kick in the ass I need. Maybe this is what finally fixes whatever’s broken in my head. A new challenge.
“I thought you just took the trade so you could bug Hartley all year,” he adds.
I crook a playful grin at him, thinking about the way she yawned tonight. What a fucking brat. “Maybe a little.”
I think about playing for another team and not having someone to tease, and I get that flat, uninspired feeling I had after I scored the goal tonight.
“I can see it. You being captain.” He hits the button on the elevator panel again, impatient.
I know I’m not the right guy, but it lit that flare of competition and challenge in my blood again. I have to try.
Our phones both chirp.
“That’ll be the announcement,” I tell him as he pulls his phone out.
“Yep.” He scrolls, reading the email. “Rory Miller, new captain of the Vancouver Storm.”
The elevator finally arrives and we step in, Streicher still reading as I hit the button to bring us to the parking garage.
“There’s a new trade,” he mutters.
“Who is it?” Between the juniors and our years in the league, we’ve played with or against almost everyone.
“Connor McKinnon.”
I freeze, gaze snapping to Streicher’s as a bad feeling moves through my gut. “That’s—”
“Yep.” He glares at his phone, rereading. “Hazel’s ex.”
My shoulders tense. I fucking hate that prick.
Yes, I’m a cocky, antagonistic asshole who needs to be the center of attention. But McKinnon? McKinnon is fuckingscum. He went to our high school. For two years, I watched Hazel make goddamned heart eyes at him while he barely cared. He talked down to her. Dismissed her. On and off the ice, he’s aggressive and entitled.
Pippa said they broke up sometime toward the end of Hazel’s first year at university. I don’t know what happened, but Hazel doesn’t date hockey players anymore.
Protective instincts rage through me. I don’t want him anywhere near her.
