Coach's Challenge

by Avon Gale

  It wasn’t until they were leaving that Troy noticed Quinn’s car was still in the parking lot.

  Chapter Twelve

  SHANE WAS surprised when the Spitfires’ goalie, Isaac Drake, skated over to him during warm-ups. Their teams might not hate each other for the same reasons as last season, but they were still rivals.

  Drake was short for a goalie, slender beneath all those pads, but he was damn good between the pipes. He played like he was angry at the puck for daring to try and get past him, which Shane could appreciate. Shane wondered if Drake knew that four other teams in the league were sniffing around to find out when his contract with the Spitfires was up.

  Shane probably shouldn’t know that, but he did because Troy mentioned it. Drake was exactly the kind of player Troy liked, so it wasn’t a surprise that he’d be interested in getting Drake on the Ravens. Even if, with the lip piercing and the blue hair, he looked like he should be in a My Chemical Romance video. If they were even still a thing.

  “Hey, North.”

  “Drake.” Shane hadn’t realized Drake even knew his name. Shane still hadn’t scored on the little punk. Hopefully that would change, and soon. Shane might admire the hell out of Drake, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to score on him. In fact that was why. “What brings you across enemy lines?”

  “Ha. It’s weird, so hear me out.” Drake skated closer. “My teammate, number twenty-two? That’s Matt Huxley. He’s like… a huge fan.”

  Shane had no idea what the hell Drake was talking about. “Of what?”

  Drake snorted. “Wow. Of yours, dude.”

  Shane scowled. When the meaning sunk in, he promptly turned the same color red as the Spitfires’ logo. A fan of his? Seriously? “Oh. Why?”

  Drake crossed his arms over his chest. He looked amused. “Because I guess you play okay hockey, North. I dunno. He has a jersey of yours and everything. Actually he has two. One from the Ducks and one from the Gulls. He wore the Ducks jersey through the playoffs when the Ducks played the Predators. Or when the Ducks lost to the Predators, because the Ducks suck. No offense.”

  “…Okay?” Shane didn’t feel any loyalty to his old NHL team, but hearing Drake say they sucked perversely annoyed him. “What’s your point here?”

  “My point is that he’s a fan. So could you get in a fight with him or something?”

  Shane’s temper roused at that. “You think I’m some glorified goon now, Drake? Is that it?”

  Drake’s friendly expression fell away. “No. Fuck you. You think I got a problem with enforcers? They hit people who fuck with me when I’m not allowed to hit them. And that’s Hux’s position, North, which is why I brought it up. You can’t exactly send him a pass. Though maybe you can. Your team’s passing sucks balls, so you probably will. But you won’t mean to, and do you see where I’m going with this?”

  Yeah, this kid would fit right in the Ravens’ locker room. Somehow, though, Shane thought there was as much chance of that happening as him winning a Stanley Cup. Drake embodied the word Spitfire, and Shane had a feeling the sun would set in the East before Drake played hockey for anyone but Misha Samarin.

  Drake was also right about the Ravens’ passing, but that was neither here nor there. “I see where you’re going with this,” he said. “Sorry. Sometimes it’s a bit of a sore subject with me.”

  Drake looked briefly surprised and then shrugged. “We all got issues, North. Look, thank you. Oh, and don’t, like, let him win the fight or anything.”

  Dear God. The conversation was absurd, and Shane would have pinched himself if he weren’t clad in so much gear. “Come on. Seriously? And look, okay, I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not here to get in fights. I’m here to play hockey and provide some veteran leadership.”

  Drake looked unimpressed. “Did you miss the part where I told you he was a fan?”

  Shane shook his head and gave a rueful laugh. “Fine. Fine. If the opportunity presents itself to whale on your teammate, I’ll take it. How’s that?”

  “Thanks,” Drake said and gave him a bro punch on the shoulder. “I’d say I’d blow you, but I’m monogamous and you’re not pretty enough for me.”

  If Drake thought he was going to get in Shane’s head by suggesting vaguely sexual things, he was so wrong. “I’ll cry myself to sleep tonight over that one, Drake.” He tapped the ice with his stick, a gesture of respect for his soon-to-be opposing goalie. “Might score a goal or two, though.”

  Despite seeming a bit surprised, Drake returned the gesture with his own stick. “Like hell you will. Fuck the Ravens.”

  “Yeah. Crash and burn, Shitfires,” Shane retorted, and he heard Drake laugh as he skated back to his team. Shane took the opportunity to locate number twenty-two, Matt Huxley, defenseman and enforcer for the Spitfires. Who was apparently a fan of his. A fan.

  He’d had fans, of course. He had fans when he played for the Gulls. Hell, he had a few fans in Asheville, even. But there was something about having another player as a fan that was… cool. It made him feel old as hell. Sure. But it was still flattering. Even if it was going to end with Shane getting flattened, because Hux was a big guy. Stockier than Shane, about an inch or so taller, and totally capable of beating Shane up. He was probably at least ten years younger, if not more.

  Still, when they were on the ice for the first time, Shane skated over after the face-off and bumped him. Huxley bumped back and gave Shane what Shane would have sworn in court was an honest-to-Gretzky shy smile.

  Then he skated off and left Shane to shake his head as he made his way to the boards and back to the bench.

  “North.” Xavier returned from his shift, sat next to him, and nudged him in the side. How he managed to look gorgeous even while sweaty and red-faced, Shane had no idea. He was 1,000 percent sure he didn’t look anywhere near that attractive. Though every now and then, he caught Troy giving him a heated stare, so maybe Shane was wrong.

  Or maybe Troy wanted to yell at Shane about his passing and potential fight-instigating. It was hard to tell with him.

  “You wanna go hang out at Tombstone after the game?”

  What Shane wanted was to get laid after the game, but the two weren’t mutually exclusive. “I’ll stop by. Sure.”

  “Cool.” Xavier watched the ice, and a few times, Shane noticed his eyes strayed toward the Spitfires’ hotheaded goalie. “Some of the Spitfires might be there. I’m friends with Drake.”

  So that’s how it was, was it? Xavier had the hots for Drake? Well, emo punk was someone’s type, even if it wasn’t Shane’s. “That’s fine with me. Let’s just see if we can get a win this time.”

  “I’m in love with this waitress there,” Evan said cheerfully as he collapsed next to Shane. “She’s in nursing school. I mean, not at the brewery. Obviously. At a college or whatever.”

  “Hey, Snyder? I don’t give a fuck if you’re marrying her in three hours, get your head in the goddamn game. If you don’t catch a pass from your linemates on your next shift, you’ll be on the ice catching them from me for six hours next week, and that’s not a lie.” Troy lightly thwapped Evan on the back of the head. “And call her a server. No one uses the fucking term waitress anymore.”

  “Yeah?” Evan gave Cally an innocent look. “Is that true for like, people in my age democratic?”

  “Demographic.” Troy thwapped him again, but a smile played at the edge of his mouth. “For fuck’s sake, don’t even try that shit on me. And yes. It’s even true for young punks like you.”

  Evan laughed and slid down the bench as the line on the ice hopped back over the boards. Shane moved down with him and noticed how different from the beginning of the year the easy camaraderie with Troy and the team was. Guys were focused but not grim and had small conversations with each other as they kept their eyes on the action.

  Wes made a fantastic save on one of the Spitfires at the Ravens’ end of the ice, and the team stood up and gave stick taps and high fives to each other. Troy
clapped a few times and then told them all to sit the fuck down and concentrate.

  Shane’s line was up for their next shift, and Huxley was already out on the ice. Troy caught Shane’s eye as he made his way to the boards. “Don’t be a fucking hothead, North. I don’t know if Huxley insulted your poor excuse for a car or what, but we don’t need any penalties.”

  Troy was right, of course. They didn’t need the penalties, and God knew the Spitfires had a brutal power play. But the thing was, Shane remembered what it felt like to be on the ice with guys whose jerseys he owned—even when those guys were wearing opposing colors during a rivalry game. It was his last season, and it was the last time he was ever going to be in that situation. And it was nice to know that somewhere, someone was still buying Shane’s jersey and was still a fan, even when he was obviously never going to play in the majors again.

  It was worth a few glares from the coach, and Shane was sure Troy could make him pay for it. It might involve skating laps, but what the hell. It could also involve Troy smacking Shane on the face with his dick, which would be totally fine with Shane.

  After the face-off Shane skated a bit too close to Huxley and checked him. “You wanna go, kid?”

  “Really?” Huxley made it seem as though Shane had just offered him a car instead of a fight and a penalty. His answer was to pull off his gloves. “Hell, yeah.”

  The crowd cheered, Shane threw off his own gloves, and they got in a fairly evenly matched fight. Huxley was a tough kid and an enforcer, so he was a lot more used to it than Shane was. But they were in Asheville, and that meant Shane better win, or the crowd—and his team—would be disappointed.

  Shane ducked as Huxley threw a punch toward his head. He clearly respected Shane too much to pull his punches, which was flattering and vaguely terrifying. Shane tried to get in a few respectable hits of his own. At some point he realized he was laughing and he was pretty sure Huxley was too.

  Shane laughed until Huxley socked him in the lower jaw and then in the gut. Then Shane got his head in the game, shifted his weight, and had to decide if he would go for the jersey or the takedown. Either would end the fight, and while it might be easier and less painful to yank Huxley’s jersey over his head, Shane opted for the takedown.

  “Look, I’m too old for this,” Shane said, half aware of the linesman hovering near them who had yet to pull them apart. He clearly trusted one or both of the combatants not to make it dirty or brutal, and given it was a rivalry game, that was saying something.

  “This is fucking awesome,” Huxley said, grinning around what might have been a split lip.

  Shane snorted, and they went at it for a few more seconds, until some chipped ice sent them down. Shane landed on Huxley, more out of luck than anything. But hey, it counted as a win nonetheless. The crowd roared, and a linesman pulled at his jersey, but Shane got back up on his own.

  He reached down, gave Huxley a hand, and tugged him to the ice. “Good fight, kid.”

  Huxley righted himself and gave Shane a bloody grin. “You too, old man.”

  “I don’t think you need me to tell you this, but get in the box,” said the linesman.

  As Shane skated off, he reached out and gave Hux a discreet back pat. His team and the Spitfires tapped their sticks on the ice. The crowd—Ravens and Spitfires fans alike—cheered their heads off.

  And Shane, skating on uneven ice beneath the hot lights of the Asheville Civic Center, aching from the hits he’d taken, and his eyes burning from sweat, had a moment of pure and simple love for the game he played and those he played it with. His career didn’t feel so much like a disappointment as it did like a gift, and it was a damn good feeling. He sat in the box, grinned at the fans who pounded on the glass, and chanced a glance over at the bench.

  Coach Callahan gave him a look. Shane raked a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and met that look with one of his own. Then he turned his attention toward the opposing team’s box, where Matt Huxley was sitting in the box and smiling like he really had won a car.

  THEY MET for drinks at Tombstone after the game—which the Ravens lost again, goddammit—and Matt Huxley came up to Shane immediately. He threw his arm around Shane and said, “I’m buying you a beer. Man, thanks for that. I’m a huge fan of yours.” He was also carrying something over his other arm that looked suspiciously like a Ducks’ jersey. “I bet Drake told you that too, goddamn it.”

  “Yup,” said Drake, who appeared next to him. “Don’t pretend you’re mad, Hux.”

  Drake wasn’t an inch over five foot eight—in combat boots. His eyes were the same dark blue as his hair and rimmed just a bit with eyeliner. He raised his beer. “You guys suck. Also I told you that you wouldn’t score a goal.”

  “Fuck you,” said Shane, cheerfully enough. “I got an assist, you asshole. Where’re we at?”

  Drake, Huxley, and Huxley’s defenseman partner, Shawn Murphy, were seated at a table with Wes Kelly, Cory Martin, Evan Snyder, and Xavier Matthews. There was another guy next to Drake who Shane didn’t recognize. He had dark hair that was half in his face, fair skin, and a full mouth. He was also ignoring everyone and messing with his phone.

  Shane slid into a seat by Matthews and fell into the usual postgame talk. Hux did indeed want him to sign his jersey, which was embarrassing as hell and made everyone tease him, but Shane did it anyway. Hux’s lip was swollen, and Shane told him he managed to punch through to Shane’s spine and probably bruised it. Hux bought him a beer, and they were good.

  “I can’t believe we’re having drinks with the enemy,” Evan said, after the waitress—presumably the girl he was in love with, since he flirted with her for five minutes before anyone could order—had left. “A lot different than last year.”

  “Yeah. My team stared in shock when I said I was meeting some of y’all out for drinks,” said Drake, and for the first time, Shane noticed the slight Southern drawl. “Good game. I guess.”

  “You should have had that second goal, though,” said the guy next to him, without looking up from his phone. “Weak on the stick side, Isaac.”

  Drake rolled his eyes. “My boyfriend, art student who moonlights as my goalie coach. Oh, hey, North. This is my boyfriend, Laurent.”

  Laurent looked up finally and met Shane’s eyes. His own were dark and thickly lashed, and he looked at Shane as though he expected Shane to stab him with his fork. “Hi.”

  “Hey. It’s Shane,” Shane said. It finally clicked who the kid was. “You’re St. Savoy’s kid?” He wondered what magic had made Laurent so hot, but that was probably not something he should ask.

  Laurent’s dark eyes went flat and cold. Shane could easily see that gaze staring out at him from a goalie mask. “Not anymore.”

  “Ah.” Well, all right then. Good for him. Shane couldn’t imagine how much that sucked, living with a guy like Denis.

  “Man, Savvy J, I wish you were still here.” Wes leaned forward. “Shit’s so much better. It’s like a whole different world in the locker room now. We actually get to play hockey.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Laurent snapped. “You know I hate that nickname.” He might not look exactly like his dad, but apparently he’d picked up all of St. Savoy Sr.’s charm. Though Shane supposed it might be a defense mechanism, and who could really blame him for that?

  “Sorry,” said Wes, and he sounded like he genuinely meant that. “Habit, man. Should I call you Laurent? I don’t think I’ve ever said your first name.”

  “Because I never wanted any of you to talk to me.” Laurent showed something that might have been a smile. Shane wasn’t sure. “And none of you say my name right, anyway. Even Isaac.”

  “Call him Saint,” said Drake—Isaac—with a grin at Laurent. “It makes him less cranky.”

  “You’re an art student?” Wes asked, pressing on. Goddamn goalies. They were impossible. Wes was clearly determined to make up for not engaging with his fellow goalie by pestering Laurent into talking to him.

  Laurent no
dded. “Yeah. Well, art and business. I’m enrolled at Wofford College.”

  “That’s great, Sav—Saint,” Wes corrected, still with the same sincerity in his voice. “Always felt bad that your old man was such a dick. I know we should have been friends when you were here, what with that whole goalie-brotherhood thing. But, well… you know.”

  “Yeah.” Laurent’s voice was soft enough that it was almost drowned by the music playing in the bar. “I know.” He shifted slightly closer to Isaac, who glanced at him inquiringly. Laurent gave a slight shrug.

  Xavier Matthews regarded Isaac and Laurent with something that looked like envy. Shane wondered if anyone else noticed, but probably not. Hell, he didn’t even think Drake noticed, though he was certainly friendly enough with Xavier. Even Saint, for all his prickliness and initial coldness, seemed to get along with the Ravens’ captain.

  Shane stuck around for an hour or so. Then he paid his tab and made his farewells. He liked his teammates and enjoyed hanging out with them, and he even liked getting to know a few of the Spitfires. But he hoped to hook up with Troy at some point, and the beer at Tombstone was so good he worried he’d end up smashed and someone would have to take him home. Lame.

  “Got a hot date, North?” Cory asked, his eyes liquor-bright and friendly. It was hard to imagine how Cory Martin had dealt with the situation in the locker room and with the team the year before. If he was a bird, he wasn’t a raven. He was something way more annoying, bright, and chatty. A parrot, maybe. Or a macaw.

  “Nah. It’s just past my bedtime.” Shane tossed a few dollars on the table for a tip. He shook hands with the Spitfires, got a bro hug from a still-happy Huxley, and exchanged a polite nod with Laurent when it was obvious the guy wasn’t into being touched. “See you Shitfires later.”

  “Fuck off, Assville Raven,” said Drake as he raised his beer with a grin.

  Shane made his way outside, pulled his fleece jacket—the warmest one he owned—around him, and headed for his car. The Rabbit put up a good effort in the weather, but he didn’t think the little car could take another winter. It was made for warmer climates.