Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)
Avery Keelan
CHAPTER 1
UNDER PRESSURE
TYLER
“Focus, Tyler!” My goalie coach’s yell reverberates through the empty arena.
Winter break with my family in Los Angeles hasn’t been much of a vacation. I’ve spent almost every day getting my ass kicked, and I’m about to hop on a plane back home where I’ll do it all over again tomorrow.
Giving my head a shake, I reset my position and wait for him to shoot. Mark has been running me through this puck tracking drill what feels like a fucking eternity. Shot-rebound-shot, over and over again. My gear is soaked with sweat, and my brain checked out ten minutes ago.
I block his next backhand, but he slips it past me on the rebound. Fuck. My molars clench, and my gaze darts over to the stands where my father and brother are watching. It isn’t that my dad will be angry if I don’t show up well on the ice—it’s that he’ll be disappointed, and somehow, that’s even worse.
Mark glides up to retrieve the puck from in the net. “Watch the shot come all the way in,” he reminds me sternly. “When it rebounds, stay locked on it, and follow it to completion. Don’t take your eyes off it even if you think it’s a routine save.”
I did have eyes on it, which is the most frustrating part. But rather than argue, I nod.
From in the crease, I watch him skate back to the top of the circle and stickhandle the white training puck while I track its every movement. It blends in with the ice, and it requires laser-like focus to separate it from the playing surface. Black regulation pucks practically glow in the dark in comparison.
The next few saves go more smoothly, and we wrap up on the rink before relocating into the fitness area for functional training. My workout is a grueling blur of one-legged squats, single-leg Romanian deadlifts, cable pulls, and side to side hurdles. I already know I’ll be hurting later, and by the time we move on to medicine ball throws, I’m tempted to lob the 40-pound ball at Mark’s head.
“Nice work.” He claps me on the shoulder, then pushes to stand. “You can take a five-minute breather before we move on to myofascial release and stretching.”
Breathing heavily, I wipe the sweat from my brow with my white gym towel. My eyes land on the far side of the room, where my father is standing with the phone to his ear. As a sports agent, he represents some of the biggest names in professional sports. It’s how I fell in love with hockey as a kid; he brought me to a client’s game when I was four, and I was immediately obsessed.
Realization hits me, and my skin prickles. If my dad was on a regular work call about someone else, he’d step out into the hall. The fact he hasn’t makes me think he’s talking about me.
My suspicions are confirmed when he waves Mark over and they huddle together. They’re too far away for me to eavesdrop, but their conversation is brief.
“What did he say?” I ask Mark as he strolls back into the stretching area.
He retrieves a black foam roller from the rack. “New York’s General Manager wanted to confirm that you were working on your puck tracking because they had some concerns about it going into Christmas.”
The fatigue weighing me down vanishes in a rush of adrenaline and worry. I was drafted by New York when I turned eighteen, and the team keeps close tabs on my performance and development.
“My puck tracking is fine.” I tip my head back, chugging my water. “It was just a fluke run of games. Bad puck luck.”
I got in my head last month and my performance went sideways for several straight games. I’m still the top goalie in the league, but it makes for a lot of pressure going into the second half of the season. If a first line forward or defenseman has a rough stretch, the worst that’ll happen is they get dropped to the second or third line temporarily. If I shit the bed, I’ll be riding the bench.
Mark gestures impatiently for me to move. “Adductors, Ty.”
Complying with his order, I position myself facedown on the mat, bracing on my forearms. Then I redistribute my weight to one side, placing the foam roller under my inner thigh.
“You can’t luck your way out of a slump,” he adds.
I hit a painful knot near my groin, inhaling sharply. “I know. That’s why I’ve been working my ass off.”
There’s a delicate balance between grinding and burning out, and I walk that tightrope constantly. I’m only human, but the team doesn’t care about that. The competition doesn’t care about that. There’s always someone who wants it just as badly, if not more than you—and if you take your foot off the gas pedal for even a second, they’ll overtake you in a heartbeat.
Once I’ve showered and gotten dressed, I find Jonah and my dad waiting for me in the hallway to take me to the airport. My mom and sister Elise are back home in Beverly Hills, and I’ve already said goodbye to them. With less than ninety minutes until my flight leaves, my schedule is tight. I’m starving, but I’ll have to wait to grab dinner until I get past security.
Dad pockets his phone in his suit jacket, giving me an approving nod as I walk up. “I rewatched some footage of your drills from this week. You’re looking sharp out there.”
“Not bad, bro.” Jonah punches my bicep. “Maybe someday you’ll learn how to do the butterfly.”