Austin possesses the rawest talent of anyone I’ve ever seen. Other than me, of course. Eastwood recruited him hard last year, and we were all thrilled when he accepted. Back in the spring, nobody would’ve guessed our entire fucking school would go under.
What pisses me off more is that only twenty-five Eastwood guys chose to migrate to Briar. Several of our other teammates, mostly the incoming seniors, jumped ship the moment it was announced. Some transferred to other colleges. Some went to the pros. A few quit the team altogether. The quitters are the ones I don’t understand. True hockey players know you don’t just quit when things get tough.
Shane’s right, though. Austin has nothing to worry about. A lot of us don’t. It’s easy to guess who Jensen will gravitate toward. Shane, Beck, and Austin, almost certainly. Patrick and Nazem are sophomores, but they’re two of the best skaters I’ve ever seen. Micah, a senior, is probably the best stickhandler playing right now.
The problem is, as I look around this room, I see more talent than open slots. Someone, no, many someones, are bound to be disappointed.
As if sensing where my thoughts went, Rand’s face reddens with anger. His cheek is already showing signs of bruising, thanks to Trager.
“If I don’t make this team and that fuckhead Trager does…”
“You’ll make it,” Mason assures his brother, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
“I better,” Rand retorts. “And it better be Eastwood strong. All of us, and very little of them.”
As the new cocaptain, I know I should stop that line of thinking. Squash it hard. Because we can’t start a new season with an us-versus-them mentality.
But no matter how much Jensen wishes otherwise, it is us versus them. I’ve played with my Eastwood teammates for two years already. We’re a team, and we went all the way to the Frozen Four last season. We didn’t take home the trophy, but we were geared up to change that this year.
Whoever approved this merger basically took a shotgun and blasted buckshot into a team that was about to hit its peak.
“You guys don’t get it,” Rand growls, visibly frustrated by the lack of urgency in our teammates. “Can none of you do the math? Just here in this room alone, we have sixteen starters. That means for all of us to remain starters, Jensen would have to cut his entire existing lineup.”
The bitterness hardening his features rubs off on some of the other guys. Faces cloud over. Annoyed murmurs travel through the room.
The hostility fuels Rand, who’s already a hostile dude by default. He starts pacing, beefy shoulders tense.
“Some of us aren’t going to start, you realize that, right? Do you fucking get that? We’re competing for our own fucking positions—”
“You could have transferred,” Beckett points out. He was scrolling on his phone, but now raises his head to interrupt Rand’s angry rambling.
Rand quits pacing. “And go where? Besides, fuck that. You want me to jump ship like our own captain? Like our pussy coach?”
He’s referring to Scott Evans, our former head coach. Evans refused to work under Jensen after the merger, so he accepted a coaching job at an elite prep school in New Hampshire.
“Cool, then shut the fuck up,” Shane says with a shrug. “Quit complaining and fight for your position. Prove that you belong out there.”
Rand grits his teeth, and I know what he’s thinking. There are at least ten dudes on the Briar side who are better than him. And it all depends on how Jensen organizes his lines too. If he values grinders and bruisers like Rand, or if he wants to stack the team with goal scorers.
“What about you?” Rand demands, suddenly fixing his scowl on me. “You really got nothing to say?”
Irritation pinches my gut. Rand and I have never been best buds. Of course, I don’t think you can say I’m truly “best buds” with anyone. Even my best friends hardly know me.
My voice sounds gravelly when I address the room.
I drop my arms to my sides, shrugging. “This situation is bullshit, I get it. But like Lindley said, if you want to start, fight for it.”
Rand barks out a derisive laugh. “C’mon, Ryder, you’re goddamn stupid if you think it stops there. You’re already a starter, sure. But what do you think happens next, bro? What, you’re going to play on the same line with Colson, and you think he’s going to have your back out there? He’s going to pass the puck to you instead of hogging all the glory for himself because he doesn’t want to share with an Eastwood guy? This isn’t just about fighting to be a starter. Because even once you’re picked, you’re still left competing with your own fucking teammates.”
The room goes so silent you could hear a feather floating in the air.
The worst part is, Rand’s not wrong.
No matter which way you slice this, we’re all screwed.
CHAPTER THREE
GIGI
It was just a kiss
MY DAD’S BEEN DOING HIS HOCKEY KINGS SHOW FOR A FEW YEARS now. It first aired a year after he retired, but that wasn’t his original retirement plan. Initially, TSBN offered him a nine-figure deal—and yes, I said nine—to be a sportscaster. But several months before he was slated to start, he and another recent retiree, Jake Connelly, did a guest spot on ESPN to commentate on that year’s Stanley Cup Finals. That one measly episode drew the highest ratings the network had seen in years. TSBN instantly saw dollar signs and realized Dad was better suited doing commentary than calling games. They pitched Hockey Kings to Dad and Connelly, and the rest is ratings history.
The two of them discuss all things hockey. NHL, college, international. There’s even some high school content. Everything’s on the table and the viewers love it. My favorite part, though, is the segment titles. The producers like to get creative with them. They also have serious hard-ons for alliteration.
Which is why tonight’s C-block topic had a title card with the words BRUTAL BRIAR BLOODBATH on it. Apparently, news of this morning’s scuffle made it all the way to the big sports networks.
“A little melodramatic, don’t you think?” I ask my dad when he calls me a couple of hours after he goes off the air. “It was, like, the least bloody brawl I’ve ever seen. A handful of blood drops, tops.”
“Hey, gotta get those views somehow. Blood sells in hockey.”
“You host a show with Jake Connelly, the most beautiful man in the world. Trust me, you’re going to get the views.”
“Nope, nope, nope,” he groans. “You know how I feel when you talk about Connelly’s stupid looks. It triggers my crippling inferiority.”
I snort out a laugh.
“What is it with you and your mother thinking that guy is handsome? He’s average, at best.”
“Oh, he’s definitely not average.”
“Agree to disagree.”
Chuckling to myself, I pull a pair of sweatpants out of my dresser drawer. I’m going down the hall to Whitney’s room tonight to watch a movie.
“Have you spoken to your brother today?” Dad asks.
“No. He texted last night, just some silly meme, but other than that, nothing in a few days. Why? Is he AWOL again?”
My twin has a habit of losing track of his surroundings when he’s writing music. His phone is constantly dead too. Which means Mom is constantly worrying and then texting me to find out if I’ve heard from Wyatt.