Adrian: An Ironfield Forge Hockey Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  The true joy of the game—beyond my own skill and love for the ice—was supposed to be shared with my friends and family. The ones watching from the stands and cheering me on.

  Clover had been that fan.

  And I’d pushed her away.

  Refused her calls. Even the texts that pleaded with me, begging for a call, five minutes to meet.

  A chance to talk.

  We were beyond talking. She’d hate me for it. Probably would never forgive me. But that was good.

  Clover wanted a baby, a family, and someone to love. But she wouldn’t find it with me, and she wouldn’t look for the one who could give her those things if she thought we had a chance.

  Maybe that was why it hurt. Walking away from Clover hadn’t ruined me. I’d destroyed myself first by falling in love.

  At least I could take solace in that pain, because the normal aches and complaints from practice no longer offered that sweet agony of a job well done.

  The team silently skated off the ice after the whistle blew. That was fine. Talking usually spawned arguments, created more misunderstandings, and threw more blame around.

  “Real stellar work today, gentlemen…” Oz stripped out of his pads and left them heaped in the middle of the locker room for someone else to deal with. “Fucking junior league work. I’m in the prime of my career, but I gotta lug around this no-talent, overrated, garbage deadweight on and off the ice.”

  “Yeah?” Cash still wore one skate or he would’ve stormed our goalie. “Why don’t you go whine to Sports Nation about it? I’m sure they’d give you another twenty minutes to cry on air.”

  As Captain, I was the last off of the ice. Gave me enough time to debate if I really wanted to head into that locker room.

  Couldn’t run. Couldn’t escape it.

  But I could delay it.

  And mourn it.

  Fortunately, a feminine voice hissed my name from the shadows. Wasn’t in the mood to talk to Magnolia Mallory, but, judging by her scowl, it wouldn’t be a social call.

  She frantically gestured to me, doing her best to look inconspicuous in a white blouse and cotton candy pink skirt. She’d unfastened the top two buttons. Wasn’t professional anymore, but after her network burned our guys day in and day out, she needed any edge she could get for an interview.

  Might’ve helped if she didn’t always bring bad news.

  I followed her to the equipment room, stomping my skates against the carpet. A nice guy usually removed his hat in the presence of a lady, but between my stick and gloves, the helmet had to stay on. At least I spit out my mouth guard.

  “I’m not in the mood for an interview,” I said.

  “Really?” Magnolia tilted her head. “Figured you’d be in better spirits.”

  “Fucking why?”

  She paused for a long moment. “At some point, things have gotta turn around, right? Good news is just around the corner.”

  I used to believe that. Now?

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “A comment.”

  Irritation locked my jaw. “Christ. What happened?”

  “I wanted you to see it first.” She tapped her iPad and played the video. “The coaches were just told about it. This is already with my bosses…and the police. They won’t hold the story.”

  Shit. I braced for the worst.

  Didn’t clench hard enough.

  The video was shot on a cell-phone—vertical orientation, but, given the punches flying at the cameraman, I couldn’t complain.

  The bar fight was quick, brutal, and utterly one-sided in favor of Beau Beckett.

  Despite being a pretty boy superstar, Beau fought like a starving dog scrounging around the streets for a scrap of meat. He launched himself at a preppy, college-aged douche of a kid, forsaking a broken beer bottle so he could attack the man with his own barstool.

  The patrons hollered, the bartender threatened to call the cops, and Beau tossed a pile of hundreds onto the counter to pay for the mess. He took a tipsy woman by the arm and hauled her out of the establishment.

  “Fuck.” I passed the iPad to Magnolia. “When did this happen?”

  “About two o’clock in the morning. The owner already identified Beau to the police.”

  “What happened to the other guy?”

  “Crawled out under his own power—pretty sure Beau hurt more than his pride. Black eye. Missing a tooth.”

  “League’s not gonna like this.”

  “But the network will.”

  Great. “How soon until the story breaks?”

  “Tonight. The news cycle moves fast, and Ainsley Ruport doesn’t like to go too long without a story on the Forge.”

  It’d be nice to spend one practice without the media stomping on our dicks, but that was the price we paid for ruining our careers in Ironfield.

  The pads and equipment made me sweat off the ice. I’d need a long shower to rid myself of the stench of this day.

  “What do you need from me?” I asked.

  “A statement?”

  “Do I have to?”

  Her nails tapped a nervous rhythm on the iPad. “No, but it’d be good to hear from you.”

  “Why? What else are you reporting?”

  “Nothing but rumors, as usual.” Her voice soured. “Got a couple sources saying there’s a handful of players begging to be traded. Other stories about fighting in the locker room. Problems with playing as a unit. Any truth to it?”

  She had eyes, didn’t she?

  “Am I on the record?” I asked.

  “Do you want to be?”

  Someone had to be.

  I was supposed to be the captain, the leader of the team.

  The future of our franchise was my responsibility.

  And instead of facing it head-on, I was creeping into the shadows with a media informant, dreading the moment she’d tell me what I already knew about my own team.

  What sort of piss-poor leader was I?

  No fucking wonder the guys couldn’t pull their heads out of their asses for ten goddamned minutes to run a drill or formulate a play.

  I was never a man who pitied myself. Never let the world fuck me over without a fight.

  If I didn’t have Clover, then the team was my only salvation. Someone had to save them from themselves.

  “Yeah, I’ll go on record,” I said. “The rumors are all true.”

  For a reporter getting the scoop of the season, Magnolia groaned in disappointment.

  “Adrian, be careful. You have no idea how desperate my network is for something juicy like this.”

  “Then run with it. Let them know the truth.”

  I stared at the frosted blue which accented every rug on the floor, brick in the wall, and stripe on my uniform. I’d resented it, blaming the color, the team, for my misfortune.

  Wasn’t like me.

  Wasn’t how I fixed problems.

  And it changed now.

  “The Forge are disorganized, dysfunctional, and in desperate need of a leader to step up and unite these men,” I said. “Maybe this isn’t where we imagined ourselves, but this was the hand we were dealt. And there’s nothing better to build character than facing a challenging situation.”

  “And you think the team is a challenge?”

  “This can be anything we make of it. But until each man on this roster figures himself out, we won’t know the team’s destiny. But I’ll tell you this—I’ll be the one who leads the Forge from an expansion team full of league bad boys, rejects, and problem players, and turns us into a successful organization. And if it takes a fight, all the better. The ice isn’t a place for weak men.”

  Magnolia gestured toward the iPad. “What about the video? We can wait until tomorrow for a statement on that.”

  “I’ll do you one better. I’ll get you an apology.”

  Her laugh was the warm cadence of the woman whose career didn’t allow her to giggle nearly enough. “Beau Beckett doesn’t seem the type of man to apol
ogize for anything.”

  “If he wants to be a part of my team, he will.”

  And it was time each man in the locker room learned that they’d only stay a member of the Forge if they gave the franchise the respect it deserved.

  I left Magnolia with her story and returned to the locker room, slamming the door against the wall as I entered.

  The team silenced. Beau cracked a smile.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “Looks like the captain regrew his balls.”

  I whipped off my helmet, casting it into my locker. The crash reverberated through the locker room, stunning Beau. I hauled him onto the bench by his collar.

  “Rookie, for the first time in your life, you’re going to shut up and listen to every goddamned word I say.” I studied the locker room, earning stares from the stunned team. “That goes for all of you.”

  The edge in my voice was enough to silence their conversations, but I didn’t want a cursory glance. I demanded their attention—spat each word as if I aimed it like a punch to their guts.

  I shouted at Vasha, dancing with his hands holding his earbuds instead of the towel slipping over his ass.

  “Turn down the fucking music.”

  “I—”

  “Now.”

  I ignored his broken English before he could pretend like he didn’t understand me. Then I turned to the three knuckleheads on the bench. My stick clattered to the ground, startling Leo, Oz, and Thorn as they scanned their phones.

  “You tweet a goddamned word of this, and I’ll shove the phone up your Twitter.” I smiled with teeth. “And trust me—it doesn’t feel good.”

  The locker room quieted, and only the shuffling of pads and the dripping of the showers competed with my voice.

  I didn’t need to yell.

  Just needed to make sure they understood.

  “They expect us to fail.”

  A long silence followed my revelation.

  Cash rested his towel over his shoulders. His locker had been decorated with a macaroni picture—some monstrosity crafted of pink glitter that shed everywhere and made the locker room look like it’d been blown by a twenty-dollar stripper. But it was a present from his daughter, so he proudly displayed it.

  “Who expects us to fail?” Cash asked.

  “Everyone,” I said. “The fans. The media. The rest of the league. And…the organization itself.”

  Oz took great offense to this—if only because his narcissistic paranoia hadn’t allowed him to declare the obvious himself. He staggered off the bench.

  “The hell you mean the organization?” Oz spoke through gritted teeth. “You mean the Forge expects us to fail?”

  No one wanted to hear it. Even fewer would believe it.

  “The Forge—the owner, the coaches, the management—created this team for one purpose.” I circled the room, ensuring everyone knew the truth. “Scandal.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Leo said.

  “Scandal sells tickets, earns ratings, and keeps us relevant. We might not win any games, but we’ll be the most entertaining team in the league…or the most hated.”

  Cash wasn’t used to confronting an opponent he couldn’t beat to a pulp.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes.” They didn’t need to know of my conversation with the team’s owner. My word would suffice. The Captain’s word. “This franchise wasn’t created to be a team—they meant it to become a spectacle. And for every thrown punch, drunken night, easy woman, and on-ice fight, we gain more and more notoriety. It’s not about championships. It’s about rumors and outrage.”

  Beau never thought before he spoke, not when he had the wit and luck to escape a bloodied nose. He slowly stood, tugging a t-shirt over his jeans instead of the required suit and tie.

  No wonder the coaches never enforced the uniform rule. Looked worse for us when the superstar rookie refused to coordinate with his team.

  “You’re telling me that the Forge is fucked up on purpose?” Beau asked.

  “We drafted you, didn’t we?” And I wasn’t about to spare his feelings. “You—a hotshot rookie with severe attitude problems, getting in fights at a bar during last call.”

  “The hell are you talking about?”

  “Someone video’ed your damn fight, Beau. Got it all on camera.” I waited for him to show a little remorse. He didn’t. “You wanna tell me why our first round, hundred-million-dollar draft choice is getting in fights in some dive bar at two in the morning?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Perfect. I turned to the others. “I bet you’re all wondering why the Forge would put the future of this franchise on his shoulders? Easy. Because they know he’ll fail.”

  Beau wasn’t suave enough to hide his rage. Never needed to learn how to get what he wanted without a tantrum.

  That’d change.

  “You don’t know a fucking thing about why I cold-clocked that prick,” Beau said.

  “I don’t need to guess. Sports Nation is gonna run some sanctimonious story about it—big letters scrawled across the screen. The Forge’s First Round Fuck-up. And you know what?” I pointed beyond the locker room, toward the coaching offices. “They won’t give a damn about what the world thinks of you. If the league has a reason to hate you, you’ve done your part. Doesn’t matter how fast you skate, how you handle the puck, or how easily you score. That’s not why they drafted you.”

  “Bullshit.” Beau appealed to the other men, though they had sense enough to glance away. “The Forge drafted me because I’m the best. Because I’m a goddamned prodigy.”

  “You’re a troublemaker. A slacker. A loud-mouth with a stick.” And it didn’t feel good to say it. “The team wants you to self-destruct, Beau. Makes for a better story. Gets us more clicks. Sells more tickets. The worse you act-out and fuck up your opportunities, the more it entertains the masses. One hundred million dollars can buy a lot of humiliation, and the Forge won’t protect you from any of it.”

  “This is fucking crazy…” Cash interrupted me with a quiet profanity. “What team would deliberately destroy their own reputation?”

  “One that doesn’t think we have a chance to compete.”

  He pointed to himself. “So…what? We all play our part in this fucking charade?”

  No sense denying his concerns with the roster now. I counted our defensive core.

  “You and Leo are one cheap shot away from getting bounced from the league. You’re terrible sports. Hot-headed goons who’d sooner knock a guy out than score a goal.” I gestured toward the other two. “Vasha’s broken one-too-many international laws. If he steps foot in Russia, his ass will get shipped to a gulag. Christ, the first English he learned was how to ask for his attorney.”

  “Is good law man.” Vasha gave a thumbs-up. “Take much money. But good law man.”

  “And Thorn…” I nodded to the oldest man on the team—a skating scar splattered with bruises and long-healed broken bones. “Made too many enemies on the ice. Too many debts are owed. One day, someone’s gonna get their revenge.”

  Thorn took the revelation better than most, though it might’ve been the whiskey he kept in his locker. “Never did play well with others—glad to be on a team that rewards the bullshit.”

  And that was the difference between me and my teammates.

  As they sunk deeper into their own problems, depressions, substance abuses, and denials…

  I saw the opportunity.

  Oz’s fists curled tight. With a furious yell, he punched his locker, endowing the otherwise pristine locker room with its first dent.

  Somehow, that made me like it more. It broke the façade. Shattered the illusion then revealed to my team just what we really were.

  And what we could become.

  “This organization doesn’t care about us,” I said. “The media wants to sell controversy. And the fans only know the bullshit that’s been fed to them. So, we have a choice to make. We can either allow ourselves to be used and manipulated�
�or we can become the real Ironfield Forge.”

  Oz immediately swore. “What chance do we have to make a real team?”

  Same chance we had before.

  Only now, they had a leader.

  I paced the locker room, meeting the gaze of every man who now questioned the frosted blue on his uniform.

  “I don’t care what circumstances led to you getting drafted here,” I said. “I’m not gonna read your rap sheet. Don’t tell me what you’re drinking at night or how many women wake up in your bed.” I nodded toward Beau. Wasn’t an olive branch—more like a gnawing splinter. But he could take it if he wanted. “And it doesn’t matter if you are the greatest rookie ever shat out onto the ice. Because from this moment on, you’re part of something new.”

  The team didn’t understand.

  Then again, who could blame them? For the longest time, these men believed in only their own mistakes, regrets, and vices. They’d never had the alternative.

  A family.

  A home.

  A place to belong.

  A reason to win.

  A chance to be something great.

  “You’re a part of the Ironfield Forge now,” I said. “And you’re not here because you were drafted or traded or signed. You’re here because this is a brand-new fucking opportunity. We have no history. We have no expectations. Hell, we might not even have a future. But what unites us is that we’re facing this goddamned mockery of an organization together—and we can make something of it.”

  The men stayed silent. Even Beau shifted, slamming his locker closed but refusing to move.

  “This isn’t going to be just another job or another team,” I said. “We have a tremendous amount of talent in this room. And I’m not letting it go to waste when we could create something unique.”

  It wouldn’t be easy.

  “But this team has gotta mean more than petty ass rivalries and vengeance,” I said. “Which means, we’re not fighting anymore. No bitching about our circumstances. No bad-mouthing teammates. This team is our last chance, and we’ll depend on each other.”

  Cash was always a dependable friend. He stepped forward despite his own burdens. “I sure as hell can’t take another failure.”

  Leo shifted to his feet, scowl deepening. “And the league is looking for a reason to get rid of me.”