Page 29 of Shift Change

Harpy saw it, and the instant the puck left his stick, I knew.

The pass was perfect, how it slid across the ice and hit my blade in full stride. Chicago’s D was a step too slow as I pulled back, snapped my wrists, and fired.

The puck shot past the goalie’s glove and ripped into the back of the net. The crowd erupted into absolute chaos.

The horn blared as raucous music pumped from the enormous speakers, but all I could hear was my own ragged breathing as my pulse hammered in time with the flashing red goal light.

For a second, I stood there trying to absorb it: my first NHL goal. Then I screamed, jumping into the air with my stick held high. I landed on one skate and crouched as I sped across the ice. It was the celly I’d practiced since I was five years old.

As soon as I was upright again, Harpy barreled into me with so much force we nearly went down. He grabbed my helmet with his gloved hands and yelled, “You fucking did it! I’m so damn proud of you.” Richie was a second behind, and then Brody and Nels were there. Fists pounded on my shoulder pads as shouts of “Fuck yeah, Dog!” rang in my ears.

We held each other, the best group hug I’d ever had. When we stopped jumping around, one of the refs skated over and slapped my arm. “Congratulations, Madison. That’s how it’s done.”

Coach called for a line change, and as I headed for the bench, Holky jumped over the boards and hit me like a freight train. He pulled me into a hug so tight I couldn’t breathe and practically lifted me off the ice. “It was a fucking beauty, Dog. I knew you could do it.”

I grinned so hard my face hurt. Our moment from earlier came back to me, and I thought about how good it had felt waking up in his arms. “Thanks, Holky,” I said. “Beers later, yeah?”

“Better fucking believe it.” He nodded toward the bench. “Go get some rest while you can.”

The score was 3–2 in our favor. With half a minute to go, Chicago pulled their goalie to gain an extra attacker, but the last thirty seconds ticked down without incident. When the final horn sounded, the building shook with cheers. We piled onto the ice to go see Gabe and celebrate the win.

I’d done it. First NHL game, first NHL goal. And fuck if it didn’t feel better than I ever could’ve imagined.

10

holky

After Dog’s game—whenyou score your first goal, the guys will call it “your game” forever—all the guys wanted to celebrate. We couldn’t, though, because we had a seven-thirty flight to Minnesota the next morning, kicking off a brutal Midwest trip. Over the next week, we’d play in Saint Paul, Denver, Dallas, and St. Louis.

Since the first game would be tomorrow night in Saint Paul, we couldn’t afford to get shitfaced and drag our hungover asses onto the plane. As soon as we landed, we’d head straight to the SaberDome for a quick skate, then check into the hotel for food and a nap before warmups. Since the Sabercats were second in their division and tough as hell, there was no room for sloppiness.

When Harpy and the alternate captains said we’d celebrate Dog’s debut win on the roadie, I was all in. I didn’t mind pushing the party off for a few days. The idea of going home tonight, cracking a couple of beers with Dog, and spending time alone sounded far better than going out to Revolution Hops with the whole team.

But as soon as I let myself picture us at the house—close, relaxed, and buzzed—the questions started. Would we jerk off together? And did Ireallywant to go there? Earlier, after our nap, I’d been so sure, but now my mind was spinning. We were both straight, so if we gave in to whatever this was between us, what then? Would we regret it? Would it ruin everything?

Dog was special, and there was no denying that. I already knew I wanted him in my life for a long time, so was it worth risking that to get off together and satisfy some impulse we didn’t understand? Would a few minutes of experimentation be worth blowing up our friendship?

Since it had been a hard game, we were filthy and had to clean up before heading out. I tried not to look at Dog in the shower, but I didn’t merely fail—I crashed. The shower was a big communal room with no privacy, and he stood opposite me, a couple of nozzles away. When I looked over, he had his head tipped back beneath the spray, water cascading over him like a damn spotlight. It wasn’t fair; no one should look that good under fluorescent lighting. The water slid down the cut lines of his chest, traced the deep ridges of his abs, and disappeared over the hard angles of his hips. Every part of him looked carved, like the sculptor hadn’t been able to stop perfecting him.

His shoulders were broad enough to carry a team, and his arms looked like they could break through a wall without trying. And his back—Jesus. It was strong, tapered, and elegant. He didn’t move much except to lather up, casual as hell, unaware—or perhaps not—that he was rewriting my definition of beautiful.

I told myself to turn away, rinse off, and mind my business, but I was locked in place. No matter how many times I averted my eyes, my gaze kept drifting back to him. Honestly, his body looked like something straight out of a workout manual, in the chapter called “What to Strive For.”

I didn’t want to be obvious—and I sure as hell didn’t want anyone to notice me staring—but I couldn’t look away. My heart was pounding like I’d just finished a brutal shift. I wasn’t sure if I was admiring him, envying him, or spiraling into something else entirely. All I knew was that Dog was hot as hell, and no amount of cold water would change that.

“Dude, what’s up with you?”

I jumped like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, except the cookie was over six feet tall, ripped, and currently the object of my… whatever.

Riley stood under the nozzle beside me, shooting me the kind of look guys get when they show up to practice still reeking of perfume and sweaty sex.

“The fuck are you talking about?” I glared at him while I pumped body wash out of the container on the wall.

“You’re studying Dog like you have to draw him for anatomy class. If I didn’t know better, I’d?—”

“Shut up, Riley.”

He smirked before ducking his head under the spray. I knew exactly where he was going with that, which was why I shut him down. Riley was the youngest guy on the team, and he was also the nosiest—and horniest—by a mile.

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