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ONE
TYLER
Coach Ryan’s voice boomed, cutting through the cheers in the locker room. “That’s a win, boys! Outstanding effort today!” The clatter of skates and other gear coming off punctuated his words.
I fist-bumped Lawson as he passed, the high of our 3-1 victory against Detroit still buzzing through me. Nothing beat winning on the road, especially against a team that had embarrassed us at home earlier this season. My body screamed from blocking two shots in the third period, but it was the good kind of ache—the kind that validated the grind.
Coach raised a hand, waiting for the noise to settle. His expression shifted, excitement from the win giving way to something serious. “Alright, listen up for a sec. Got some news. The expected flurries have intensified into an all out snowstorm. All flights out for the rest of the day have been grounded.”
Groans rippled through the room.
“Sorry, guys. We’re stuck at least until tomorrow afternoon, maybe longer, depending on how things develop. The logistics crew is working on accommodations, but there’s some convention in town. Most of the hotels are booked up. We’re likely to end up out by the airport.”
Henderson, our captain, stood in front of his locker, towel around his waist. “So what’s the plan?”
“Most likely, doubling up.” Coach’s reply was blunt. “We should have details any minute now. Keep an eye on your phones for more in about twenty minutes.”
My stomach dropped. The charity bachelor auction. Tonight. In Boston. There was supposed to be more than enough time to get back after the game. Shane was counting on me. I was the main event, the big draw meant to pull in thousands for the Children’s Sports Foundation. My brother had poured his heart into helping organize it, and it was important to both of us.
Guys started peeling off gear, heading for the showers. I snatched my phone from my locker. Three missed calls from Shane. He must have seen the weather alerts.
Ducking into the relative quiet of the hallway, I leaned against the cool cinder block wall and hit dial. Team staff bustled past, hauling equipment bags.
“What do you mean, you can’t make it?” Shane’s voice came through, tight with frustration, after I spilled the news.
“I’m sorry, Shane. We’re grounded.” My frustration mirrored his. “Snow’s coming down so hard they’ve shut down the entire airport.”
His sigh crackled over the line. Guilt twisted in my gut. This foundation gave me my start when Mom and Dad were scraping by and couldn’t afford league fees or gear. It meant everything.
“How bad is it?” He already knew the answer. I wouldn’t call unless it was impossible.
“Bad enough that the team’s bunking at an airport hotel. No flights in or out until tomorrow at the earliest.” More teammates filed out of the locker room behind me, faces grim, shoulders slumped in resignation.
We talked for another minute with the conversation circling back to apologies and logistics. Hanging up, I clutched the phone in my hand, the weight of letting the charity down settling heavy in my chest.
Back in the locker room, my phone pinged. A text about the hotel.
Airport Marriott room assignment. Bennett & Kogan. Room 1042.
Kevin Kogan was our newest defenseman who we picked up a couple of months back. Coach paired him up with me to mentor him, and we’d developed chemistry quickly. Off the ice, though? Barely knew him. Locker room small talk and how we could improve our game, that was it.
I looked around and spotted him reading his phone. A slight frown creased his forehead. Kevin was tall—an inch over my six-two—dark hair, eyes that crinkled when he smiled. Which wasn’t often. He had a rep: intense, outspoken where the game was concerned, private in all other matters. More likely to study game film than go out after a win. He had a certain contained energy even when standing still.
An image flashed—him pinning Robinson against the boards in the third, efficient and controlled. And kind of hot.
I walked over, aiming for a casualness I didn’t quite feel. “Looks like we’re roomies.”
He glanced up, his expression shuttered. “Guess so.”
“Could be worse.” I offered a tentative grin. “Could be stuck with Henson. Guy snores like a Zamboni.”
A flicker of amusement shone in his eyes. Almost a smile. “True. And you?”
“I’m told I’m a perfect gentleman of a roommate.” My grin widened.
That pulled a short, quiet laugh from him. Felt like a small victory.
By the time we boarded the team bus, swirling sheets of snow plastered the windows, blurring the city lights into streaks. What should’ve been a twenty-minute drive stretched toward ninety. A muffled silence settled over us, the storm outside dampening the earlier win. Most guys stared at their phones or listened to music.
