Center Ice (Boston Rebels Book 1)

“That was a lucky shot, Jenkins,” Colt calls out to me after the puck sails right past his glove and into the net.

“Lucky, my ass,” I call out as some of my new teammates clap me on the back.

Despite being tired from staying out later than I should have with Audrey, and then spending half the night thinking about her and Graham, I’m on fire this morning. I stole the puck straight off the defenseman’s stick with what I’ll admit was a lucky swipe from behind when he thought he was secure in a breakaway. Then I sent the puck to the corner along the boards, where one of the wingers was waiting for it, and he slapped it back to me as I was skating full force across the blue line. But right as I went to shoot, the opposing defenseman got in my personal space. I managed to drag the puck, but it got ahead of me as I lost my balance. Falling, I reached out, and my stick made just enough contact with the puck to push it forward as I landed on my butt. It felt like everything was going in slow motion as I slid across the ice, but I noticed that Colt had come far enough out of position to leave a large opening between him and the net. I knew he wouldn’t have time to reach his stick out to stop a shot, so I grabbed the puck with the edge of my skate and kicked it toward my stick, then sent it toward the net with a one-handed backhand while sliding across the ice on my back, and scored. As I slid into the boards, Colt dropped to his knees in disbelief.

I glance over at Coach Wilcott, and he nods in acknowledgement of a job well done. Even though it was a once-in-a-lifetime shot, I don’t let it go to my head. I just skate back to center ice and line up for the next puck drop.

Later on, when I’m showered and headed toward the locker room door, Wilcott calls me into his office. I have the distinct notion that he’s been poised at his door, waiting for me to walk by.

“Close the door?”

I do as he asks, then take a seat in the chair he’s gestured toward. “What’s going on, Coach?”

“Wanted to talk about Colorado. Heard what happened there.” The man’s apparent inability to use pronouns is distracting me from what he’s saying.

“From?”

“McCabe.”

Why is Ronan McCabe talking about me to our coach?

“Before you get your balls in a twist, McCabe wanted to make sure nothing like that would happen here.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ve already made sure it won’t happen here.”

“How so?” he asks.

“I followed all my teammates on social media. It’s easier to avoid their wives and girlfriends when you know their names and what they look like.” I’m determined not to let ignorance derail my career like it almost did in Colorado. “Plus, the game is getting all my time and focus right now. There’s no time for women.”

Of course Audrey’s face pops into my mind, but I don’t allow myself to feel guilty because I’m not lying. She’s determined this is going to be a co-parenting relationship, so it’s not like we’re dating.

“You sure?”

I almost say, The only woman who will be taking up my time is my mom. But no one here knows about that. I didn’t want the team to think my reasons for coming to Boston were anything other than the team, or that my attention will be on anything other than hockey. I’ll tell them eventually, once I’m more settled here, and my position is more secure.

“Positive. Hockey is my number one priority, and I’m not doing anything to risk my position on this team.”

“Are you worried about your position?” he asks. I can tell it’s a genuine question by the curiosity I hear in his voice, but I’ve known plenty of coaches who like to use the last year of a contract as leverage to get the most out of their players. Even little comments like “Show us you want to come back next year” can load unimaginable stress onto players.

“It’s the last year of my contract and I’m new here. So yeah,” I say, giving him a lazy half-smile that I think probably hides my true fear, “I’m a little worried.”

“Don’t be. AJ wouldn’t have brought you on if she didn’t think this was the right place and you were the right person.”

That shocks the shit out of me.

“You have a lot of faith in her decision-making,” I say.

“I’ve never known that woman to be wrong about hockey,” he says. That’s damn high praise for any GM, though you don’t make it to the top in this industry without a cut-throat attitude, deep hockey knowledge, and a determination to be the best. I sense that AJ has that all in spades. “So don’t worry too much.”

When he asked me to close the door, I wasn’t expecting a pep talk. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Door’s always open, Jenkins. You need something, or something’s not going right, you let me know.”

I almost don’t know what to do with his offer. Having a coach who seems like he genuinely cares, after what I came from on my last team, will take some getting used to. “Will do, Coach.”

When I head out of the office, Zach Reid is still in the locker room. He’s showered and changed, but he’s sitting there with his eyes closed and his head leaning back against his hockey pants where they hang from the hook above his seat.

“You good?” I ask.

He opens his eyes slowly. “I’m good.”

“Why are you just sitting there?”

“Just soaking it all in. Trying to figure out the energy of this place, you know?”

“The energy?” Is this guy for real?

“Yeah. Every team has its own energy.”

“Sounds a little woo-woo to me,” I tell him.

“Everything is based on energy,” he says. “From the smallest building blocks of atomic elements to intergalactic travel. It’s all just energy.” His words are lazy and slow. It’s amazing to me how chill he is off the ice, given how fast and aggressive he is on it.

“So,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe, “what’s this team’s energy then?”

“Too early to tell,” he says decisively and stands. “You heading out?”

“Yeah,” I say, and he grabs his bag and follows me out of the locker room.

“So, how’s it feel playing for your hometown team?” he asks as we walk down the hallway that’ll lead us to the parking garage.

“It hasn’t really sunk in yet,” I say, thinking about the giant Rebels symbol on the ceiling of our locker room. I remember touring this new practice facility with my club team when it was built—back when I was in high school—so it’s a bit surreal to be playing here now. “Ask me when we play our home opener.”

“I will,” he says, and it occurs to me that this wasn’t Zach making casual conversation. He actually cares about my answer.

“How’s it feel to you, playing here?” I ask him.

“Little weird, not going to lie. I grew up in Canada, then spent the last seven years in Philadelphia.”

“Philly’s a pretty cool town,” I tell him. “But Boston’s better.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Figures you’d think so.”

“Because it’s true.” We chat about where he lives and what he’s done in Boston since he moved here earlier this summer. He’s an easy-going guy, and before I know it, I’m at my car.

“You going on Saturday night?” Zach asks me as I drop my bag into the trunk.

“Definitely.” When Colt invites you to a party at his place, you go. End of story. “You?”

“Feel like I need to go, you know?”

“You don’t want to?”

“The party scene just isn’t really my scene. I’m a morning person, so staying up all night partying really impacts my day.”

I shut my trunk and turn toward him. “Hey, you’ve played in the league longer than me, but as someone who’s had to switch teams more often, here’s a piece of advice. When the team is all going out, you go. Whether you want to or not.”

If I’d been less intimidated by Leland and his cronies in Colorado and spent more time with the team off the ice, it might not have taken them a full year to realize I wasn’t the douchebag they thought I was.

“Yeah,” he says in defeat. “I know. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” I tell him, then get in my car.

As I’m backing out of my space in the player’s section of the garage, my phone rings, and Jameson’s number flashes on my screen. I hit the button to answer it, and his deep voice fills the car.

“What are you doing Thursday night?”

“Uhhh…” I can’t tell by his tone if he’s upset, or if this is just his typical I hate everyone voice. “I don’t think I have plans?”

“Good. I have practice for the hockey team I coach, and my assistant coach can’t make it. Can you help out?”

This feels almost too easy, which makes me instantly suspicious. “Sure. It’s funny that you called about this, because I was about to call you to see if you knew of any youth hockey teams in the area who might like to have me volunteer. You know, getting myself out in the community, and all that.”

“Yeah. Audrey mentioned that and suggested you might want to help when I told her about my other coach bailing for Thursday night. I’m glad you can make it. It’ll give us a chance to talk about how you know my little sister so well, and why you’re going to stay away from her from here on out. I’ll text you the details about the practice,” he says, and the line goes dead.