In a real college hockey game, fighting isn’t allowed. Both these dumbasses would be thrown out of the game and benched for the next one. During practice, it would normally be frowned upon and likely disciplined.
Today’s practice?
Jensen lets it play out.
“Damn.” Whitney hisses through her teeth when the Eastwood player takes a powerful swing at Trager, connecting with his left cheek.
Trager’s cry of outrage reverberates through the rink. In the next instance the two men are locked in battle, clutching each other’s jerseys while their fists fly. Loud, feral shouts of encouragement ring out from their teammates, who surge closer to the fight.
When the two players tumble to the ice, legs and skates tangled up, Cami makes a sound of alarm.
“How is Jensen not stopping this?” she exclaims.
Chad Jensen stands ten feet away, looking bored. All around him is chaos. Briar guys egging Trager on. Eastwood players cheering for their guy. I see Case try to skate forward to intervene, only to halt when Briar’s captain David Demaine slaps a hand on his arm.
“Holy shit, DoubleD is letting it happen too,” Camila marvels.
I agree that one’s kind of shocking. Demaine is as placid as they come. It’s probably the Canadian in him.
It isn’t until drops of red stain the sheet of white that someone finally takes charge.
My eyebrows fly up when I realize it’s Ryder. His tall frame takes off in a brisk skate. Another blink of the eye, and he’s hauling his Eastwood teammate away from Trager.
When Trager stands up and tries to lunge, Ryder steps between the two red-faced players. I don’t know what he says to Trager, but whatever it is, it stops the guy cold.
“God, that’s hot,” Whitney breathes.
“Breaking up a fight?” I ask, amused.
“No, he managed to shut Trager up. Goddamn miracle right there.”
“Sexiest thing anyone could ever do,” agrees Cami, and we all laugh.
Trager is such a loud-mouthed, abrasive jerk. I tolerated him when I dated Case, but there were days when even tolerance was difficult. I suppose that’s the one bright spot that came from our breakup. No more Trager.
Jensen blows his whistle before his commanding voice finally joins the fray. “Practice is over. Get the fuck off my ice.”
“Let’s get out of here too,” Whitney says with a note of urgency.
I wholly agree. Jensen must know we’re here, but although he didn’t throw us out before, we just witnessed his practice devolve into a bloody fistfight. No way does he want an audience for the aftermath.
Without another word, the three of us scurry down the aisle. At the bottom of the bleachers, we have a decision to make. Either go toward the tunnel to the locker rooms, where the players are fleeing with their tails between their legs. Or try to exit using the double doors across the arena, where Jensen and the coaches congregate.
Rather than risk the wrath of Jensen, we make the unspoken choice to avoid the exit. We reach the tunnel entrance at the same time as a couple of Eastwood players.
Luke Ryder startles for a second when he notices me. Then his eyes narrow—those dark, dark blue eyes I’ve never forgotten—and one corner of his mouth tips up.
“Gisele,” he mocks.
“Prom king,” I mock back.
With a soft chuckle, he spares me one last look before striding off.
CHAPTER TWO
RYDER
No pets. Ever.
I’M GOING TO GO OUT ON A LIMB AND SAY WE DIDN’T MAKE THE best first impression.
I could be wrong. Maybe Chad Jensen enjoys blood and gore during his practices. Maybe he’s the kind of coach who craves a Lord of the Flies ice battle to separate the men from the boys.
But the murder in his eyes tells me no, he’s not that kind of coach.
His expression grows turbulent, more impatient, while we all scramble for a seat. Jensen only gave us five minutes to change out of our practice gear, so everyone in group one looks harried and disheveled, tucking in shirts and smoothing out hair as we file into the media room.
There are twice the number of guys in this room than there were on the ice. The second practice group was already assembled here, viewing game film with one of the assistant coaches. Everyone in group two watches the newcomers with wary expressions.
Three rows of seats home in on the huge screen that serves as the room’s focal point. I won’t lie, these digs are a lot nicer than the ones at Eastwood. The padded chairs even swivel.
Coach Jensen stands in the center of the room, while three stone-faced assistants lean against the wall by the door.
“Did you get that out of your system?” he inquires coldly.
Nobody utters a word.
From the corner of my eye, I see Rand Hawley rubbing the corner of his jaw. He took a nasty hit from Colson’s lackey. Still, he should’ve known better than to let Trager push his buttons like that.
Having played against Briar these last couple of years, I’m familiar with everyone on their roster. I know most of their stats, and I know who to watch out for. Trager’s always been one to keep an eye on. He has the reputation as a blustering goon and is exceptional at drawing out penalties.
He’s not my biggest competitor, though. That would be… I sneak a peek at the blond junior in the front row.
Case Colson.
Really, he’s the only dude in this room I need to care about. A beauty of a player. He’s Briar’s MVP, which means he’ll undoubtedly be on the first line.
My line.
Well, unless Jensen fucks me over and puts me on the second line.
I don’t know what’s worse. Not playing first line…or playing on the same one as Colson. Suddenly I’m supposed to trust a Briar player to have my back? Yeah, right.
“You sure we’re good here?” Coach says, still glancing around. “Nobody else wants to pull out their dick and compare sizes? Wave them around to see who the biggest man here is?”
More silence.
Jensen crosses his arms. He’s a tall imposing figure with dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, still broad-shouldered and fit considering he must be in his sixties. He looks at least ten years younger.
Hands down, this man is the best coach in college hockey. That’s probably why it stings so much, the memory that he turned me down when I wanted to come to Briar.
I had been fending off recruiters since sophomore year of high school. Even ones from Briar, my first-choice school. But come graduation, when it was time to make a choice, there wasn’t a Briar scholarship on the table. I still remember the morning I swallowed my pride and asked for a phone call with Jensen. Hell, I even would’ve made the trip from Phoenix to Boston to talk to him in person. But he made it clear on the phone that after “careful consideration” he’d determined I wasn’t a good fit for his program.
Well, joke’s on him, ain’t it?
Not only am I here now, but I’m the best player in this room. A first-round draft pick, for fuck’s sake.
“Good. Now that the pissing contest is over, let me make myself clear. You ever disrespect my ice like that during practice, and you won’t be representing this school as a member of my hockey team.”
Rand, who has no filter and no idea how to read a room, decides to defend himself. “With all due respect, Coach,” he says darkly, “Eastwood didn’t start shit. That was all Briar.”