Shots on Goal (Stick Side Book 3)

by Amy Aislin

  One of his former teammates had come out as bisexual about a year and a half ago, and the commentary had been so positive that three more NHL players had come out since then. It was all kinds of cool. But Roman hadn’t seen anything telling him that his coming out would be accepted, and if he didn’t want history to repeat itself, he was better off keeping things close to the vest. He was used to being in the closet anyway, so it wasn’t like anything would change.

  Besides, what would they think of him once they found out he was gay and his parents had kicked him out and he’d been homeless for a few months until he’d gone to an ECHL tryout and received a contract? They’d see it as the trifecta of unworthiness. He’d worked his ass off to get here and he didn’t want to hear anybody tell him he didn’t deserve it.

  Something fun must’ve been happening in the workout room because he could hear whistles, chanting, and clapping through the closed doors. He pushed them open and found half the team clustered on the mats in the far corner, having what appeared to be a double Dutch competition if the money changing hands was any indication. They were even singing one of the old jump rope songs Roman remembered from when he was a kid, something about a little sports car.

  It wasn’t what he’d expected, but hey, if this was how they wanted to get their cardio workout in, who was he to judge?

  Priority one: friends.

  With that thought in mind, he headed over, weaving his way around equipment with every intention of getting in on the betting. Instead, he said, “You’re playing a kid’s game.”

  Oh good. Insult them. That’ll win you points.

  So he was out of practice. He could still do this.

  Of course, he had to open his big mouth again and say, “Wouldn’t it be more effective to take a jog through the building?”

  Logically, he wasn’t wrong—more people could jog at once; the jump ropes only allowed two people at a time.

  His teammates weren’t impressed. The song turned down in volume as he got the stink eye, more than one curled lip, and a side-eyed glance from Ritz, who held one end of the ropes.

  Time to retreat.

  He chose the furthest exercise bike from the group, programmed his time and incline, and set about his own workout. Behind him, the song rose in steam and speed, getting louder and faster, the ropes speeding up to match, thwacking against the mats until one of the guys skipping got tripped up and they both went down amid laughter and swearing.

  If Roman’s chest burned with jealousy at the camaraderie, it was his own damn fault. He hadn’t made an effort at friendships in so long that he’d forgotten how to act like a civil human being.

  To give his teammates credit, they’d tried. Two days ago, he’d landed at Burlington International Airport, been picked up by a driver and whisked to the Vermont Trailblazers’ practice facility where he’d joined in his new team’s practice fresh off the boat, so to speak.

  Roman stared at the green practice jersey with the red and white accents hanging in what was to be his locker in the Trailblazers’ practice facility and ground his teeth.

  “Hey, man.” A hand clamped onto his shoulder in greeting and his shoulders curled inward on instinct. “Welcome to the team.”

  Minutes ago, Coach Donovan had introduced him as the team’s newest right winger, a trade from Tampa, who had an “uncanny ability of stealing the puck from the other team. Pay attention—you could learn a lot from him.”

  “Sucks to be traded, eh?” Another voice said behind him. “I can relate.”

  Eh. A fellow Canadian, then. Roman couldn’t bring himself to grab onto that commonality, knowing that friendship would just kick him in the ass in the end. He stared at the unfamiliar practice jersey, wishing it was his old blue-and-white one. That he was back in Tampa with his old team. A team that knew what to expect from him.

  Silence and gruffness and a hundred and fifty percent of himself to the game.

  He’d been in the hockey world long enough to understand trades and why they happened; he just hadn’t expected it to happen to him.

  “How was the flight from Tampa?” someone else asked. There were several side conversations happening at once, the rustle of clothing as his new teammates got ready for morning skate, and the tinny sound of rap music escaping from someone’s headphones. “I flew home for the holidays and, fuck, it was a nightmare. The crowds should’ve died down by now, right? With the kids back to school and all?”

  Tampa. Where he should be right now. Cold enveloped him even as his chest burned with the heat of anger. Spotting his bag at the bottom of his locker, he unzipped it, dug out his music player, shoved the earbuds in his ears, and blasted Coldplay loud enough for everyone to hear.

  A clear I’m here to play hockey, not make friends, to anyone paying attention.

  And it had worked. His new teammates had no doubt written him off as a lost cause.

  According to the team’s general manager, who Roman had met only an hour ago, he’d been brought on to the team for three reasons.

  First, the Trailblazers needed a fast forward who was aces at controlling the puck. And Roman wasn’t bragging when he said he was fucking fast.

  Second, they needed someone young enough who would be able to seamlessly weave themselves into this young team’s dynamics mid-season.

  And third, with the exception of only a handful of players, every man on the team had been drafted out of college, the major juniors, or recruited from the ECHL or AHL. They needed someone with enough NHL experience under their belt who would run circles around these guys in practice, hopefully motivating them to up their game, and who could “show this team how it’s done in the big leagues,” as per the GM.

  Roman could’ve told him that he wasn’t the guy for that second point, but as was typical in professional sports, nobody had asked him. Now he was stuck trying to dig himself out of the messy situation he’d gotten himself into, and as evidenced by his lack of social skills, it was proving rather difficult since his new teammates didn’t appear inclined to give second chances.

  Now that he’d resurfaced from his two-day pity party for one, he needed a plan B, and sooner rather than later. If it was team spirit coach wanted, team spirit he would get. Roman just had to figure out how to make that happen without giving up too much of himself in the process.

  James Ritz and Billy Honeybun—no shit, that was his actual name—chose the two bikes next to him. Two guys with NHL experience who’d given up commiserating, just like Roman wanted.

  “I’m fine,” Honeybun was saying as he poked at the settings on his bike, his voice hoarser than usual. He was about six feet tall with brown hair so dark it was almost black, a lanky build, and square black glasses perched on his nose.

  “You’re not fine,” Ritz said, going through his own settings with sharp jabs at the screen. He was a couple of inches taller than Honeybun, and broader too, with a wide chest, muscled thighs encased in loose cut-offs, and thick hair the color of gold. His blue eyes were normally gentle and kind; currently, they were narrowed in anger-couched concern. “You spent half the night coughing up a fucking lung.”

  “Not half the night.” Honeybun cleared the grit out of his throat and tapped Roman on the shoulder. “Yo, Kinsey. Tell this asshole I’m fine.”

  Roman’s thighs were working, sweat beaded his temple, and he was starting to breathe heavily. Slowing, he looked over at Honeybun.

  Honeybun’s incline was set to flat, he’d been peddling for barely 30 seconds, and already his face was pale, his hair matted with perspiration. A hard shove into the boards and he’d be done for. And he expected to play tonight?

  “You do sound like a tractor,” Roman said.

  Honeybun proceeded to hack into his elbow.

  “A dying tractor,” Roman corrected.

  “Ha!” crowed Ritz from Honeybun’s other side. “Told you.” He gave Honeybun’s shoulder a friendly shove . . .

  And Honeybun tilted sideways, sliding off his bike, almost in
slow motion, until he landed on the floor and curled into a ball. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

  “Dude, I just shoved you off a stationary bike. What do you think’s gonna happen when someone body checks you tonight, huh?”

  Honeybun didn’t move.

  Concerned, Roman tapped his screen to pause his cycle, then knelt next to Honeybun and checked his forehead. “You have a fever.”

  “’M fine.”

  “A fever?” Ritz’s eyes went huge. “Hey, Coach!”

  Roman stood and glanced up to find Coach Donovan entering the room. He was a young guy—like everyone else in this club—in his late thirties with a shock of platinum blond hair. He was a retired defenseman with decent stats and two years as an assistant coach in the AHL under his belt.

  He came over to them at Ritz’s call and eyed Honeybun’s curled form. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine, Coach,” Honeybun said through a crackly throat.

  “He’s sick,” Ritz said.

  “He’s got a fever,” Roman piped in, earning himself a grateful smile from Ritz.

  “That so?” Coach squatted. “What do you say, Honeybun?”

  “I’m fine, Coach.”

  Coach stood with a grunt. “He says he’s fine.”

  Ritz’s jaw worked. “But—”

  “He says he’s fine,” Coach repeated, hands on his hips, still watching Honeybun. “I expect my players to have the maturity to know when they’re unfit to play.”

  Honeybun sighed miserably. “I’m not fine, Coach.”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s get you up and checked out.”

  As Coach led him away, Honeybun turned his head and glared at Ritz and Roman. I hate you both, he mouthed.

  Ritz blew out a breath that puffed his stubbled cheeks and turned to Roman. “Thanks for the backup.”

  “Sure. It wouldn’t look good for us if he passed out on the ice.”

  Oh good. Now he sounded like an uptight asshole only concerned about appearances. Ritz squinted at him, opened his mouth, closed it, and got back on his bike without a word.

  Shaking his head at himself, Roman resumed his own workout, ignoring both Ritz and the knot of frustration in his belly.

  Later that night, Roman sat on the bench midway through the third period and didn’t take his eyes off the game, readying himself for his shift on the ice. Getting used to his new team colors was going to take some time. Staring into the crowd where there was nary a speck of Tampa blue and white was weird. What was also weird was the many empty seats—hell, entire empty rows. The only games that hadn’t sold out when he’d played for Tampa were their preseason games. Yet here the Trailblazers were, halfway through the season, and Roman needed more than two hands to count the chunks of empty seats throughout the arena. In fact, given that Montreal was less than a two-hour drive away, there were more red, white, and blue jerseys in the stands than green, white, and red. It was a sad state of affairs for the Trailblazers. From the little bit of investigating Roman had done, the lack of ticket sales were due to four factors.

  One: They were last in the conference.

  Two: They were still a new team.

  Three: They hadn’t had the chance to get to know their fans yet, hence the club’s insistence on community involvement.

  And four: Burlington, Vermont’s tiny population.

  Roman was still asking himself why it had been chosen as the home of an NHL team. Unsurprisingly, he’d heard a rumor recently that the organization was thinking of relocating the Trailblazers. Halifax, Austin, and Kansas City were, apparently, the top three contenders. Which, okay cool. He didn’t particularly care where he played, especially since he’d just arrived and hadn’t bought a home yet. He had no emotional attachment to the city. But why establish a team somewhere only to move it a season later? Sure it wasn’t unheard of, but still.

  His shift was coming up, so he focused back on the game. They were down by two points.

  On the ice, Ritz stole the puck and turned on a dime, then raced away, flanked by his left and right wingers. Roman perched on the edge of the bench, heart pounding. Around him, his teammates cheered, and the din of the crowd rose in volume. Come on, come on, come on. Ritz passed to Vause, his right winger, Vause shot . . .

  And missed.

  Because Ritz had hesitated before passing and it had cost them a precious second.

  Before Roman had time to think on it, it was his turn. The second his skates hit the ice, he grinned. Hockey was the only thing that made everything fall away, and nothing else mattered except the location of a little rubber disc in relation to the net. He flew toward the action and stole the puck from Montreal before anyone had a chance to react and sent it off toward Zanetti. Zanetti, the Trailblazers’ top scorer along with Ritz, weaved his way between two Montreal players, the net in his sights, and shot. The puck bounced off the post in Roman’s direction. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing, he ended up in a tangle of bodies against the boards. One of the Montreal guys swore at him, making him grin like it was his birthday. Finally, he blindly sent the puck sailing out from between their skates, just to get it moving again.

  Montreal nabbed it, but his teammates must’ve anticipated that because they were already on him.

  And Roman’s shift was over. Sometimes forty seconds felt like forever—like when he was waiting for the microwave—and other times it went by in barely a blink, and he was back on the bench, sweating and exhilarated, awaiting his next shift before he could utter some kind of cliché, like “We need to give 110 percent!”

  He ended up next to Ritz on the bench. On Ritz’s other side, Cotton, a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old playing his first season in the NHL, tapped the end of his stick against the floor. There was something about his wide, happy smile, his enthusiasm, the shape of his eyes, that made Roman’s mind take a trip to Glen Hill. To Cody and his affable grin and those laughing eyes behind his glasses. To how Cody’s invitation to his friend’s game had shaken something in his belly despite himself. Shaking his head, he tuned back in to the game. Now was not the time to be thinking of captivating, bespectacled library part-timers, no matter how attractive they were.

  His gaze snagged on Ritz, following the puck with narrowed eyes, but it was like he was only half here. Seeing what was happening but not processing.

  If Roman wasn’t obsessing over the whole team spirit thing, he would’ve left it alone. But he was obsessing, so he nudged Ritz’s shoulder with his own. “You okay?”

  Ritz’s gaze slid over to him, a question on his face. Possibly Since when do you care? Possibly Dude, now isn’t the time. Roman couldn’t argue against either.

  Pressing his lips together, Ritz turned back to the game. “Will has pneumonia.”

  “Who?”

  “Will.” Ritz waved a gloved hand and made a frustrated sound. “Billy. Honeybun.”

  “Oh. That sucks.” Roman had caught pneumonia in fourth grade and had missed almost two weeks of school.

  “It’s fine,” Ritz muttered. “I’ll take care of him. I always take care of him.”

  Huh? But Roman didn’t get to ask; Ritz was off the bench, over the boards, and once again diving into the game.

  Minutes before the end of the third period, Montreal scored twice more, and the Trailblazers lost by four points.

  The parking lot of the Glen Hill College student athletic facility was half full when Cody pulled up in front of the arena on Friday evening, an hour before Mitch’s game. Mitch was bitching about seniors majoring in math who still freaked out over quadratic equations.

  “It’s the most basic fucking calculus. And some of them still don’t get that if a equals zero then it’s a linear equation, not quadratic, but I swear to God—sometimes it’s like tutoring children.”

  “Maybe you’re just too smart for them,” Cody said.

  “Obviously.” Leaning his head against the headrest, Mitch turned to Cody. “Scouts from Boston are here tonight.”

  Mitch had been drafted
by Boston’s NHL team last summer, fourth overall, and he was scheduled to attend Boston’s development camp this July once he graduated. Boston was, incidentally, where Cody had applied for grad school.

  Cody gently punched his thigh. “You say that like you don’t thrive under pressure.”

  Mitch grinned at him and exited the car. Resting a hand on top of the door frame, he bent at the waist to peer at Cody. “Wish me luck.”

  “As if you need it.”

  Mitch was chuckling as he opened the back door to grab his equipment bag. After he went inside, Cody would park and head inside himself to snag a seat. The tickets were general admission, first come first serve, and Cody liked being right in the front against the glass so he could see all the action.

  His phone beeped in the center console and he pulled it out to find a text.

  From his dad.

  “Shit.”

  “Huh?” Mitch, equipment bag slung over a shoulder, had been about to close the door. He popped his head back in. “Did you say something?”

  “Nope.” Blanking the screen, Cody threw a smile over his shoulder. Mitch didn’t need to be worrying about him before a game. “I’m gonna park and head inside. I’ll be in my usual section.” Unless a group of students had already claimed it, but he was early enough that he doubted that was the case.

  Something must’ve been written on his face or in his tone because Mitch threw his bag into the back seat and crawled in after it. “What’s going on?”

  There’d been a time when Mitch wouldn’t have noticed so quickly something was up. But ever since he’d started dating Alex Dean two years ago, he’d not only mellowed somewhat but had learned to notice the little details—like when a person was lying through their teeth. It was all Alex’s fault, damn him, for encouraging Mitch to slow down and smell the proverbial roses.

  Giving in to the inevitable, Cody said, “My dad texted. He’s coming to visit in a couple of weeks. Wants to see me.”