Page 8

We’ve got this. We’re better than Philly. But every single person in this dressing room knows that being the better team on paper doesn’t always lead to the result we all want.

With the clock quickly counting down to the start of the game, the door flies open, and our head coach, James Watson, walks in with his assistant coach hot on his tail.

The man is a legend. He was an incredible player back in the day, and I can’t deny that he’s also a skilled coach. He’s taken the Vipers from a team struggling in the division to one that played in the Stanley Cup Finals last season.

The second he walks into a room, he commands everyone’s attention and respect, and even a cold-hearted asshole like me sits up ready to listen to every word.

His eyes scan the room as silence fills it. I have no idea who or what he’s looking for, or even whether he finds it. But once he’s looked every single player in the room in the eyes, he starts on his pregame speech.

He rattles off reminders of everything we’ve discussed this week before hyping us up and getting us ready to kick some Philly ass.

Anticipation and excitement ripple through the room, and I wish I could feel even a spark of it.

“Let’s go, boys. Let’s get this fucking job done and show Philly whose barn this is,” Fletch, our captain, states before leading the way down the tunnel.

I don’t need to look up to know that the crowd is significantly bigger than it was for our warm-ups. The sheer volume is enough to clue me in to this being a full house.

The lights pointing at the rink dim, and the music changes before the starting lineup is announced and players shoot out onto the ice.

Bitterness bleeds through me as I shuffle toward the bench with the rest of the non-starters.

I fucking hate it.

With my grip on my stick so tight I’m surprised I don’t snap it in half, I watch as Fletch wins our first face-off. He takes off, dekes a pass to Storm, and instead flips the puck to Rivers, who charges the net.

But Philly’s defense is ready for him, and they intercept his shot before taking off for their end of the ice. I know I shouldn’t be celebrating our team missing a shot, but a part of me is relieved that Kodie didn’t score during his first shift out there tonight.

It makes me an asshole, but I can’t help it.

It was easier to root against him when we were rivals. But now that we’re on the same team, it makes it really fucking hard to want him to fuck up every pass and shot he makes.

Before I know it, Coach is shouting my name, and I’m hopping over the boards for my first shift of the night.

Let’s fucking go, Nash.

You know what you’ve got to do.

I take my position, my eyes locked on where the puck is about to drop.

Sanderson fucks it up, and Philly takes it, surging toward us.

Their winger darts around me and hooks around the goal before colliding with Rovvy, who manages to clear the puck.

It’s a good play. Not that I’m about to tell him that. Instead, I look up, ready to take off down the ice, but the second my eyes lift, they find someone in the crowd I wasn’t expecting to see.

And he’s looking straight at me.

3

GARRETT

“You know, if you pay more attention to social media than you do to the game, you won’t have anything to argue with them about, or any stats to post,” Sienna snarks after elbowing me harder than necessary in the arm, forcing me to look up from my cell to glare at her.

“I’m watching,” I assure her.

She raises her brows at me.

“What? I’m putting this Philly moron in his place,” I mutter as I finish off the point I was trying to make and then close X down and put my cell to sleep.