“I sort of feel bad for the Eastwood guys,” I remark.
“I don’t feel bad at all,” Camila replies, smiling broadly. “They’re going to provide us with entertainment for at least a year.”
My gaze drifts to the ice. Not everyone has their helmets on yet, and a familiar face catches my eye. My heart stutters at the sight of him.
“Case is looking good,” Whitney says, a knowing lilt to her voice. It’s obnoxious.
“Yeah,” I answer noncommittally.
She’s not wrong, though. That’s what makes it obnoxious. My ex-boyfriend is stupidly good-looking. Tall and fair, with pale blue eyes that warm into the shade of a summer sky when he’s working the charm.
He’s talking with his friend Jordan Trager. He hasn’t noticed me and I’m glad for that. Last time we saw each other was back in June, although we texted a bit over the summer. He wanted to come see me. I said no. I don’t trust myself around Case. The mere fact that my heart did a foolish flip just now tells me I made the right call by denying him this summer.
“Oh my God, I’m in love.”
Camila pulls my attention away from Case and toward another new arrival.
Okay, wow. He’s undeniably hot. Dirty-blond hair, light gray eyes, and a face that could stop traffic. He must be an Eastwood guy because I’ve never seen him before.
Camila is practically drooling. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on by a guy’s profile.”
A few of the guys are warming up now, sticks in hand, skating close to the boards. I scan the players, but don’t recognize any of them.
Camila leans forward and peers below. “Which one is Luke Ryder?” she asks curiously. “I heard Jensen didn’t even want him.”
“Uh-huh, yes, he didn’t want the number-one ranked forward in the country,” Whitney says dryly. “I highly doubt that.”
“Hey, boy comes with a reputation,” Cami counters. “I wouldn’t fault Jensen for wanting to keep his program pristine.”
She has a point. We all saw what happened in the World Juniors a couple years ago, when Luke Ryder and a teammate threw down in the locker room after the USA boys took home the gold. Ryder broke the guy’s jaw and landed him in the hospital. The whole incident was kept very hush-hush, or at least the motivations behind it were. It’s still never been confirmed who started the fight, but considering the other player suffered the brunt of the injuries, it seems like Ryder had a score to settle.
As far as I’ve heard, he’s kept his nose clean since, but beating the shit out of another player is something that follows you around. It’s a stain on your record, no matter what your scoring stats are.
“That’s him,” I say, gesturing to the ice.
Luke Ryder skates over to the blond that Cami is still making starry eyes at and another guy with close-cropped dark hair. I catch a glimpse of Ryder’s chiseled jawline before he slips his helmet on and turns away.
He’s still as attractive as I remember. Only he’s not a lanky fifteen-year-old anymore. He’s a grown man, filled out and muscular. Sheer power drips off him.
I haven’t seen him in person since that youth camp my dad ran five or six years ago. To this day, I still bristle when I think about the way he disparaged me. Told me I didn’t belong on the ice. Assumed I was a figure skater, to boot. And he called me prom queen. Dick. It had definitely been fun wiping that cocky grin off his face when we ran a two-on-one drill later, and I outskated him and another boy to score on net. It’s the petty little things that make me happy.
“He’s fucking sexy,” Whitney says.
“It’s the slutty bad-boy dick magic,” Cami pipes up. “Makes them hotter.”
We all snicker.
“Is he a slutty bad boy?” Whitney asks.
Cami laughs and says, “Well, the bad-boy thing is pretty self-evident. Just look at him. But yeah, he’s totally got a reputation for hooking up. But not, like, in a conventional way.”
I poke her in the back, grinning. “What does that mean? How does one hook up unconventionally?”
“Meaning he doesn’t go out of his way to get laid. Doesn’t chase anyone, doesn’t do the whole cocky player routine. My cousin saw him at a party last year, and she said this guy just stood there brooding in the corner the entire time. Didn’t say a word to anyone all night, yet somehow there’s a swarm of thirsty chicks throwing themselves at him. Boy basically has his pick of hookups.”
A whistle pierces the air. On instinct, we all snap to attention and it’s not even our practice.
Coach Jensen skates onto the ice, trailed by two assistant coaches and Tom Adley. He blows his whistle again. Two sharp blasts.
“Line up! I want two lines at center ice.” His voice carries in the vast arena.
Helmets and face masks are slapped on, gloves readjusted as the team lines up. There are fewer guys here than I expected.
“Didn’t Eastwood have a roster of almost thirty?” I ask Whitney.
She nods. “I heard he’s splitting training camp into two practice groups. This is probably just the first one.”
I give a wry smile when I notice how the team lines themselves up. Briar guys standing shoulder to shoulder. Eastwood guys doing the same. Ryder is between his two buddies, jaw set in a rigid line.
“All right,” Jensen barks, clapping. “Let’s not waste any time. We’ve got a lot to cover this week in order to finalize the roster. We’re going to start with a basic dump-and-chase drill. Get some of that energy out, all right?”
The other coaches herd everyone into position behind one net. Because of the way they lined up previously, most of the player pairs feature one guy from Briar, one from Eastwood.
This should be fun.
“First player to get possession, I want you to take a shot on goal. Second player, I want to see you forechecking to get that puck back.”
He blows the whistle again to get things going. It’s one of the simplest drills there is, yet a thrill still dances through me. I love this game. Everything about hockey is pure exhilaration.
Jensen dumps the puck in the corner behind the opposite net, and the first pair races along the boards toward it. Their jerseys don’t have names or numbers, so I don’t know who I’m looking at.
In the second pair, though, I clock Case instantly. Not for his looks, but his trademark style, that quick release. Case Colson has the most accurate shot placement in all of college hockey. He could probably give most NHL goalies a run for their money too. There’s a reason he was drafted by Tampa.
“This is way more boring than I thought,” Whitney grumbles. “Where are the fireworks?”
“For real,” Camila chimes in. “Let’s just bail—”
No sooner do those words leave her mouth than said fireworks go off.
It starts with a hard forecheck from Jordan Trager. Just like with Case, I’ve watched enough Briar games to identify Trager’s aggressive style. He lives and breathes the goon life. He’s also a raging asshat, so when the other player starts giving the aggression back good, I know Trager’s running his mouth as usual.
Before I can blink, the gloves are off.