Page 55

“That’s film.”

His mouth opens.

“Don’t argue with film, rookie.” Beau skates past. “He’ll win.”

“I hate when he does that,” Deacon mutters.

“Then stop giving me material.”

We circle back. Felnachek cuts in front of Deacon as we reach the line.

“Maybe if you spent half as much time watching the weak side as you do running your fucking mouth, Bishop wouldn’t keep making you look stupid.”

Deacon blinks after him.

“Good talk.”

Felnachek doesn’t turn around. “Anytime.”

I bite down on a grin.

Tallis looks at me. “Does he like anybody?”

“Not before noon.” I chuckle.

“Or after noon,” Mercer adds.

Felnachek twists around while skating backward. “I can hear you, assholes.”

Jax grins. “Sun come up on the wrong side of the coop again, Rooster?”

Felnachek gives him a gloved finger without missing a stride.

Deacon laughs. “Rooster?”

“Don’t,” Mercer warns.

That, naturally, guarantees the kid will. “Why Rooster?”

“Because he’s a cheating asshole, that’s why.” Beau fills him in.

Jax taps his stick against the ice. “Cock-a-doodle-doo, baby.”

Coach’s whistle cuts across the ice.

“Less talking. More skating.”

Felnachek points at Jax as he turns. “Saved by the whistle.”

“Terrified.”

They’re still going at it when we start the next drill. That’s the thing about this team.

We can spend ten straight minutes telling each other to go fuck ourselves, then know exactly where the other guy will be without looking. It’s rhythm. Trust.

Thousands of hours on the ice condensed into instinct. The drill changes to controlled breakouts, and the conversation dies with it. For a while.

Deacon makes the same mistake twice, drifting too high and leaving space behind him.