Page 77 of Crease Collision

I keep my eyes down. “Better than letting a shot through because something is wrong with my gear.”

Chuckling, he leans against the neighboring stall. “Had any video time with your mystery lady back in New York? Can help break the tension.”

My fingers tighten on my chest protector, and I hope my grunt passes for an answer.

Last night I wrote Kai, “Missing you, baby. We’ll see each other soon.”

Thinking of him makes me feel like a liar for not telling the truth.

Carson tries again. “The old right hand feels a lot better when you can see her.”

I press my lips together so I don’t snap at him. I haven’t been with the team long, and I cannot afford to make enemies.

“We’re keeping in touch,” I say. “It’s been hard to talk for the last few days because we’re both busy.”

“I hear you,” Carson says, oblivious. “I’m going to find some local company after the game. You’re welcome to come with.”

I clench my teeth until my jaw aches. The conversation is getting uglier, and I want out.

Once I’m sure my blocker is in good shape, I face him. “Aren’t you with someone at home?”

He looks like I punched him, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter. “She’s only a friend with benefits. I wouldn’t cheat, Olly.”

The surprised look on his face convinces me he’s telling the truth.

“Sorry,” I say. “I misunderstood. But we are seeing if we can make something work at home, so I will not go with you later.”

“Got it.” He still seems friendly. “Good luck, man.”

I step around him and go to the visitor’s lounge to find a snack. Kai’s face flashes through my mind, followed by the memory of how his hand feels in mine—big, a little rough, trusting.

Jävlar.

After finishing a protein bar, I stretch for a while, then warm up on a stationary bike. Hand-eye drills are next. Before long, Kendrick finds me and says it’s time for the kickaround, which the Fury guys refer to as “sewer.” I’d rather have some quiet time, but team bonding matters, especially since I’m new. I grew up playing what Americans call soccer, so I put my skills to work.

“Watch out, boys,” Marco, one of the young forwards, calls out. “Olly’s got moves.”

“Grew up with this,” I say, trapping the ball with my foot and passing it to a teammate.

Jokes fly around the dock, mostly chirps about the disaster in Nashville when we blew a two-goal lead in the third period. After we have our bodies moving and laugh away some tension, it’s time to go back to the locker room. Tonight is about to get real.

Time passes in a blur as we have a team meeting, dress out in game gear, and go out for the warm-up. Then we’re back in the locker room, waiting for game time. I put my head down and remind myself of all I have to be grateful for, and all I need to remember.

New team. New country. Same ritual. Same me.

And Kai.

The buzzer sounds for us to line up, and the roar of the crowd washes over us as we take the ice. Time for business.

Chaos erupts as soon as the puck drops. St. Louis wins it, and their winger charges up the ice toward me. Our men are on him, and I track the puck through the swarm of bodies, keeping my head moving.

It cycles low, then comes back to the point. Slapshot.

I snap my glove up and catch it clean, feeling the impact buzz through my arm while the crowd groans.

The next rush comes even faster. One of the Sting’s wingers tears down his lane and cuts across the blue line. I track every move as he draws back, and his shot rockets toward my blocker side.

I kick it out, but their center charges in for the rebound. Sliding across the crease, I throw my glove hand out before I can turn my head to look. The puck smacks into the webbing as I’m falling backward, and I clamp down hard enough to feel it in my wrist.