Faceoff (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 1)

by Rebecca Connolly

  “Oh.” Penny sat back, her face falling with irritation and disappointment.

  That, for some reason, was hysterical.

  “Six of the most sought-after professional baseball players are taking us out to eat, and you’re upset?” Bree laughed, falling back against the back of her chair. “That’s the greatest thing ever!”

  “Hey!” Penny protested. “I’m just really focused on Team Brint right now. I don’t care that much about the Glorious Six.”

  That stopped Bree’s laughter in its tracks. “Team what now?”

  Her roommate’s brows quirked. “Brint. It’s better than Clee, don’t you think?”

  “Marginally.” Bree swallowed hard, her mouth completely dry. “Why?”

  “Because I’m bored,” Penny said bluntly, picking up her laptop. “I might as well ship the two of you while I’ve got a front-row seat. Besides, he’s got some really cute teammates, and I wouldn’t mind getting that side dish while you enjoy main course.”

  That wasn’t particularly comforting.

  A soft dinging met Bree’s ears, and she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her flannel pajama pants.

  One new message.

  Why did that make her heart skip?

  “Tell Clint I said good morning,” Penn called airily, sipping her coffee as annoyingly loud as possible.

  Bree couldn’t even look up as she opened the message.

  Clint: Last night was great! Not sure the sampler will be a good idea halfway through practice today, but the company was perfect. Heard there’s a great pizza place on your campus. Meet me there later?

  A strange sound thundered a steady pattern in her ears, deafening anything else and creating an equally bizarre pressure behind her eyes as she stared at the words on the screen. She couldn’t blink, couldn’t think, could barely comprehend what she was reading.

  THUMP-thump . . . THUMP-thump . . . THUMP-thump . . .

  She swallowed, and the sound of her own heart faded just enough for her to regain a grain of sanity and sense.

  Glancing surreptitiously at Penny, who was apparently absorbed in her work again, Bree’s thumbs flew across the keypad of her screen.

  Bree: Sure thing!

  No, no exclamation points. She couldn’t be that eager.

  She deleted it quickly.

  Bree: Sure thing. Let me know when you’re free, if you’re not dead.

  She pressed her teeth into her tongue, waiting with more anxiety than she’d felt outside of the testing center of the university during finals week.

  Another soft ding, and she bit back a gasp of relief.

  Clint: Dead? Excuse me, I’m a professional. I’ve never died in practice a day in my life.

  Bree laughed to herself and considered a response before typing back.

  “And she’s a goner,” Penny said to no one in particular, sighing dramatically.

  Bree’s only response was a slightly amused hum and then to sip her still-warm coffee while she waited for another text response.

  The crowd drummed their feet and clapped their hands to the beat of the music blaring from the speakers, every seat filled, nothing but a sea of black and purple. Faces were streaked with the colors like war paint, and team banners waved proudly from the raised arms. The noise rolled like thunder across the entire arena, echoing off of every possible surface and drowning out any coherent thought.

  This was exactly what made his heart pound and his blood race. This was exactly how he loved to play and exactly what he needed.

  Clint skated around their half of the rink with his teammates, his helmet unstrapped, looking up into the stands, grinning at the sight. He hadn’t played in an arena this full since the Northbrook days, and even then, intense as it had been, it couldn’t compare with this. His heart thudded against his ribcage in perfect time with the crowd’s stomping, the handle of his stick barely registering as a sensation against his glove.

  It almost never did; it was an extension of him, not a piece of equipment. It responded to his every move and did exactly as it was told, and most of the time, he didn’t even remember he had it.

  Now it glided along with him, hovering just above the ice. He glanced at the tip of it, curved to the perfect degree with his treatment, wrapped in tape where it needed to be, crisp and seeming to glint in the lights above them. This was their moment, their night on the ice before this eager crowd.

  The big time.

  He’d made it.

  Now to not throw up or make a fool of himself.

  Nerves were part of what made intense games worth it, and he was used to playing through them without an issue, so it wasn’t as though he expected any disastrous results.

  Worth considering, though.

  The chanting of the crowd suddenly became clearer, the words pounding in his head.

  “Hawks! Hawks! Hawks!”

  His head bobbed absently along with it, his eyes raising to scan the crowd.

  They hadn’t told him where they were sitting, but he knew they’d make themselves known . . .

  On cue, a wave started midway up the stands right at center ice, rippling around the entire arena with perfection. But at the beginning of that wave, signs suddenly shot up, each one with a single letter.

  G-O F-I-D-O.

  Clint coughed in surprise, the sign holders literally roaring incoherently, seeing him looking up at them.

  There they were, in all their glory, and a few phones suddenly raised in their directions. There was no mistaking the Six Pack wherever they went.

  “Nice fan club, Fido,” Hook commented with a nudge as he passed him.

  “Thanks,” Clint muttered, shaking his head, unable to keep from grinning. He wet his lips, laughing to himself as he circled around once more.

  Those guys . . .

  He looked up again, focusing more intently.

  Grizz had the last letter, and he pointed directly at Clint as he whooped, Rachel standing beside him, hands pressed together at her chin. If he knew Rach, she was probably tearing up like his mom. Flicking his eyes one person over, his mom was beaming and waving like any mom in the stands would, no matter what level her kid plays at.

  Yep, she was crying.

  Typical.

  The whole McCarthy clan had made the trip out, including his nieces and nephews, three of whom were likely wearing headphones in this noise.

  Madness. Absolute madness.

  Oh well.

  He looked at the whole group of them again as the wave started there once more, the G sign dipping enough to show a white-blond flash of hair.

  That’d be Rabbit.

  Which meant . . .

  Pulse skipping one notch, Clint glanced to Ryker’s right. Sporting a purple T-shirt, dark hair loose around her shoulders, was Bree.

  Her eyes locked on his, and he smiled again just for her. He loved that everyone was here, but for some reason, she was the one he wanted there the most.

  He needed to signal that he saw her, that he was happy to see her, that he was ready for this . . .

  She’d never see his face with his helmet on and from this distance.

  He’d never really set up a signal with his family over the years; he’d always just nodded.

  Would she get that?

  Swallowing a random wash of nerves, he just thumped his hand over his heart with his free hand twice and pointed his fist up at the entire gang. At Bree to start, then running down the length of them.

  They cheered louder, but he saw Bree mimic the action before turning to say something to her brother.

  No matter how this game turned out, he’d already won something.

  The buzzer overhead sounded, and Clint returned his attention to the ice. Warmups were over. It was time for the intros.

  He exhaled slowly, skating towards the box with the rest of his team. They’d only have a few minutes in the locker room with the coaches before they were lining up for their big intros.

  Hook stood at the box, clappi
ng each player on the back like the captain he was as they exited the ice and headed for the locker room.

  Clint barely felt it. Barely heard anyone say anything to him. Barely felt the seat beneath him as he sat at his locker.

  He wanted to get back out there. Wanted the feel of the ice beneath his skates. Wanted to meet his opponent at center ice and stare him down as though it were a battle to the death.

  The Nashville Hounds were a great team, and he’d studied film for hours on them in preparation for this game.

  He was more than ready, and waiting was going to kill him.

  Memories from his time on the ice flashed through his mind. Playoff games as a kid, tournaments with Northbrook, practices where his legs had actually given out on him from fatigue . . . Great shots he’d made on goal, trick plays, the feel of racing down the ice unimpeded by anybody on his way to scoring . . .

  His entire hockey career in a highlight reel right there before him. All culminating in his performance on the ice tonight, whatever it was. This was the start of something big, and he couldn’t wait to get it going. Hockey had been everything since he had gotten home from tour. There was no backup plan. There was nothing else.

  Just hockey. Just him, the puck, and the ice.

  This was it.

  “Dude, didn’t you play with Zamboni back in the day?”

  Clint blinked and looked up at Mario as the rest of the guys were getting up from their lockers.

  Had he missed the whole pep talk from Coach?

  Great . . .

  “Fido?”

  He shook himself. “What? Zamboni?”

  “Zane Winchester?” Mario said with wide eyes. “Cheese and crackers, Fido, wake up! The guy’s from Chi-town like you are; didn’t you play for Northbrook together?”

  Clint swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. “Yeah, we did. That was ages ago. Haven’t talked to the guy in years.”

  “Well, Moose is supposed to track him tonight, so any words of wisdom for the guy might be useful.” Mario grabbed Clint’s pads and practically hoisted him to his feet. “You good, man?”

  Clint blinked again, hard, then raised his chin and exhaled once. “I’m good.”

  Mario didn’t look totally convinced, but when Clint said nothing else, Mario slapped his chest. “Let’s go, then. And watch out for your boy. He’s hungry this year, and he might be going for the penalty box record.”

  “Sounds like him,” Clint muttered, shaking his head.

  He’d forgotten all about Zane in his prep for this. He’d seen the guy on film, and he knew full well he played for this team and that he was even more an animal on the ice now than he’d been when they were teenagers.

  Somehow it hadn’t actually sunk in that they’d be on the ice together.

  Didn’t matter, but it was a strange feeling all the same.

  Clint followed his teammates out of the locker room, wondering how time had passed without him actually noticing when he was this hyped up.

  He heard the announcer running through the visiting team, though any names were lost on them this deep beneath the stands. He did manage to hear the crowd booing loudly, and it faintly occurred to him to wonder what that was about.

  He bounced on his skates against the rubber of the floor, raring to go.

  Come on, come on . . . his mind urged. Let’s get out there, let’s go!

  Someone in the lineup was whistling a very western-movie-sounding song, and a few of the guys laughed.

  “Knock it off, Chezzy,” someone else barked. “I hate that one!”

  Chezzy, on cue, switched to whistling the theme song of a very old TV show.

  Groans rose from everyone in the lineup.

  Clint shook his head, grinning to himself.

  Hockey players. They were all the same in so many ways.

  The crowd suddenly roared with newfound fervor, and Clint’s heart rate skyrocketed. Music blared thunderously, the beat of it ricocheting through the floor, up the skates, and into the chest of every one of them.

  One by one, the team shuffled forward as their names were called, skating out onto the ice to the cheers of their home crowd.

  Clint stared straight ahead, watching as one by one his teammates went out, inhaling and exhaling slowly as his body literally pulsed with the desire to join them.

  Cal was right in front of him, then he was gone, out on the ice and pumping his fists for the crowd.

  This was it.

  Showtime.

  “Playing center, number thirty-three, welcome to St. Louis, Clint McCarthy!”

  He pushed off, onto the ice, skating out into the completely dark arena but for the illumination on the ice, a spotlight following him as he raised his stick in greeting. The crowd cheered, a certain section a bit louder than others, but the entire place was roaring for the Hawks in general.

  Clint joined his teammates on the blue line, forcing himself to not smile, though all he wanted to do was grin like an idiot. He glanced over at the entrance he’d just come from, nodding to himself at the black and purple flames on the screens beside it. Kinda cool—he wasn’t going to pretend it wasn’t.

  “Welcome to the big time, Fido,” Cal said beside him, looking around the arena. “Not a bad gig, huh?”

  “Eh,” Clint replied with a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s all right.”

  Cal snickered as the rest of the guys joined them and the goalies were announced.

  Clint’s knees buzzed as they stood there for the national anthem, then seemed to sigh with relief when they left the blue line and headed for the box. The team’s telltale screeching hawk cry echoed over the speakers, sending the entire place roaring once more.

  The boards were literally shaking as Clint joined the team at the boxes. This was electric, and he loved every insane second.

  “All right, boys,” Coach said as they came in, the next shifts taking their seats on the benches and grabbing bottles of water.

  Clint shook his head when he was offered one. He couldn’t think about that. Not yet, not now.

  “Long shift to start,” Coach was saying. “Outskate them, outthink them, outplay them. Steady game, stay focused. Got it?”

  “Yes, Coach!” they answered as one, like the obedient army they were.

  Coach nodded at Hook, who cleared his throat. “’Kay, boys, keep your heads, ride the ice. Hawks on three! One, two, three!”

  “HAWKS!”

  Clint clapped sticks with Hotch and Fig as their line headed out to center ice. He glanced over his shoulder at Moose and Robo on defense and nodded at Chezzy in goal. Chezzy tapped his stick to both poles, then twice on the ice.

  “Here we go, Fido,” Chezzy bellowed. “Here we go, kid!”

  Leaning forward just a touch at his waist, Clint glided towards his place, exhaling slowly through his nose as his opponent did the same. The ref came at them from his right, a flash of white and black in his periphery.

  He wouldn’t look at him, couldn’t take his eyes away from the center for the Hounds.

  This was war. At this moment, they were alone in a ring, the power to change the dynamics of the game in their hands. Nothing started without them.

  The two of them would dictate how it began.

  He couldn’t lose this drop.

  He wouldn’t.

  The puck suddenly came into his line of vision and his eyes immediately tracked it, his stick moving into position on the ice, his right hand sliding lower down the shaft, his left elbow cocking back as that hand steadied the butt end.

  Inhale . . . Exhale . . . Inhale . . .

  THUMP-thump . . . THUMP-thump . . . THUMP-thump . . .

  Almost in slow motion, the puck dropped, and the blade of Clint’s stick was moving in anticipation.

  Clint’s breath caught as he felt the pressure of the puck cradling against the stick.

  NOW.

  He shot the puck immediately over to Fig, who darted past his opponent to receive, while Clint shoved off of his guy to r
ace down the ice.

  Fig dribbled the ice for a minute before passing it back to Clint, who scanned the ice quickly, calculating his move in milliseconds before faking a pass back to Fig, then passing to himself between a player’s skates when the guy fell for it. He weaved towards the right, dribbling the puck carefully before dropping it back to Hotch as he came up behind him.

  Hotch moved to center, then came back towards Clint, passing the puck. “Fido!”

  “Here, here!” Clint called, taking it and charging towards the goal, despite the defense.

  “Ha! Ha!” came the call from further down.

  Without more than a fleeting look, Clint sent the puck in that direction, grunting when Fig scooped it up and slapped it towards the goal.

  The goalie stopped it easily, dropping it to the side of the net to a defender, who immediately took it to the boards.

  “Chip!” someone called, and Clint raced over to intercept it.

  “Heads up!” Hotch called as he screeched across Clint’s left.

  Clint barely had time to register the call before he was slammed hard into the boards, something in his body making a cracking sound against the plexiglass, followed by a focused blow to his left cheek.

  The whistle blew as the crowd roared in disgust.

  “Long time no see,” grunted a familiar voice in Clint’s ear as the crushing force against him slipped away.

  Searing pain erupted across Clint’s cheekbone as he groaned, looking at his attacker as play stopped.

  Zane Winchester, tall, ripped, and powerful, grinned viciously at Clint while he skated backwards towards the penalty box without waiting for the ref to push him there.

  Clint glared at his one-time teammate, spitting weakly onto the ice as he tasted blood.

  Zane puckered up in a quick kissing motion, then turned to the penalty box, raising his arms in the air to the booing crowd.

  “You good, Fido?” Hotch asked as he skated with him over to the faceoff spot.

  “Fine,” he spat.

  “Cheek’s bleeding.”

  “Yeah.” He dabbed at it quickly.

  “Dude,” Moose grunted as he came to center ice, standing behind center line. “Da heck was that?”

  Clint sniffed and spat once more. “Zamboni wanted to say hi, I guess.”