Page 26 of Ruthless Blade

KAYDEN

The rink's cold air filled my lungs as I dug my skates into the freshly laid ice. Coach blew the whistle, and I lined up for the faceoff drill, catching a glimpse of the scouts sitting in the bleachers. One of them, a scout from the Houston Knights, had his stopwatch and clipboard ready, eyes locked on my every move. I leaned into the circle, focused entirely on the drop of the puck, determined to prove my two-way play was exactly what they were looking for.

You can do this. There’s no going back. Put it all on the line.

The puck dropped. I leaned low, wrenching my stick against the opposing center's shaft to win the draw clean to my defenseman. As the play transitioned, I accelerated through the neutral zone, my eyes tracking the open passing lane.

Noah, one of our defensemen, fired a hard, crisp tape-to-tape pass that caught me right in stride at the opposing blue line. Time slowed down, even as my legs pumped at a full sprint. Out of the corner of my eye, the scout shifted forward in his seat, leaning over the cold metal railing.

Liam, another defenseman, stood between me and the net, his stick extended to take away my shooting lane. Instead of forcing a shot, I used a subtle head fake to freeze him. I protected the puck with my body, and slipped a blind, backhand pass right through his legs. It landed perfectly on my winger's tape at the back post. Clang. The puck rattled off the iron and into the net.

"Good!" Coach barked from the bench.

I didn't smile, nor did I look at the stands. My skates dug into the ice, spraying a cloud of snow as I pivoted. I could only imagine what the scout was writing now; he doesn’t celebrate. Hustles on the transition. As I sprinted back to line up for the next drill, my lungs fucking burned.

I skated back to the line, my heart hammering in my chest. Out of habit, my eyes drifted away from the scout and noticed a tall figure coming to sit on the bleachers.

Dad.

The sight of him hit me harder than an open ice check. He hadn't been to a weekday practice since I was twelve. He worked twenty-four seven most days, and never had time to come to practice. He did, however, manage to remind me profusely how I couldn’t fuck this up. Seeing him sitting there made me nauseous.

Why the fuck did he have to show up?

"Center! You're up! Let's go!" Coach bellowed, his voice echoing off the ceiling. A whistle pierced the air. My muscle memory kicked in before my brain did, and I exploded forward into the zone for the breakout drill. My thoughts weren’t in the practice anymore; they were too focused on him and why he was here. Noah dug the puck out from behind our net and fired a rimmed pass along the boards. It was a routine play; one I could execute with my eyes closed. I leaned on the inside edges, reaching out to cushion the puck on my backhand to transition into a neutral-zone rush.

I glanced away just as the puck arrived. The black rubber caught the heel of my stick instead of the sweet spot. It skipped right over my steel, striking the boards and bouncing awkwardly behind me. In a desperate, clumsy attempt to recover and look good for the scout, I pivoted on my right skate.

Balance gone, my ankle rolled. Momentum threw my upper body forward while my skates trapped themselves beneath me, and I went airborne. A second later, I crashed shoulder-first into the boards; the impact rattling my teeth and knocking the wind completely out of my lungs.

The stick moved across the ice, stopping near the blue line. For three seconds, the entire rink went dead silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing as I lay on my side. My eyes looked up at the fluorescent lights, wishing I could rewind time and do that over again.

Fuck.

The cold from the ice bled through my hockey pants, instantly freezing my ass. I forced my lungs to expand, and rolled over onto my knees.

"Get up, forty-two! Skate it off!" Coach yelled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. I knew on the inside he was screaming at me to get up, especially with the way he had reminded me repeatedly of how special this day was. It could’ve been the fact that I had fallen, my mind fuzzy, but his tone sounded as if he pitied me.

That’s the last thing I needed.

I scrambled to my feet, right shoulder throbbing where it had absorbed the brunt of the boards. I retrieved the stick, hands shaking slightly inside my sweaty gloves. I skated back toward the blue line with a limp that left me uncoordinated. I refused to look up at the scout. I already knew what a mental error like that looked like from the stands. Unfocused, easily distracted, and poor situational awareness.

My eyes locked onto Dad, who hadn't moved. He wasn't trying to see if I was okay. He stood there, hands buried deep in his pockets, watching me with a completely unreadable expression.

As much as I want to hate him for it, it’s what I’ve been accustomed to. Lack of interest in anything I do.

"Hey, Star Boy!" Of course Garcia, our backup center, had to make himself fucking known. Asshole. He’d been hunting after my job all season, and as he leaned against the bench with a grin plastered on his face, I resisted the urge to punch him.

Fucking hell.

"Nice hands," he smirked, loud enough for the guys on the ice to hear. "If you're trying to impress the NHL, maybe try keeping your eyes on the puck instead of the bleachers. You want me to take over for you? Clearly, you aren’t focused enough to play."

“Shut your mouth, Garcia.” Someone hissed from the stands, having my back. The majority of guys on the team respected me because I respected them. I earned their trust. I wasn’t trying to steal it.

I tightened my grip on the stick until my knuckles went white inside my gloves, but kept my eyes forward. I didn't look at him. Reacting to a guy like him in front of an NHL scout would only prove I was undisciplined. A liability. I skated right past the bench, letting the silence be my answer.

"Next group, line it up! 5-on-5 situational play!" Coach barked, his whistle cutting through the tension. "Game down to the wire, one minute left. Let's see some urgency!"

This was the main event of the practice, the drill where the scout would really see who could handle high-stakes pressure. I skated out to the center dot, taking my position for the top unit. My fucking shoulder throbbed beneath my pads, and I was ready for this to be over.