Page 5 of Misconduct Zone

I swallow hard, imagining Dylon finding a woman to satisfy his needs. Now I have to add Dylon fucking someone else to my list of reasons why I’m a terrible friend and dumb asskit.

Chapter 4

Dylon

The locker room buzzes with electricity before our first team practice. Loud, excited voices are music to my ears. The team’s larger-than-life purple-and-black logo takes up an entire wall. Black benches dot the room in front of white lockers with purple accents.

The rookies had practice last week and a tournament over the weekend, and now we’re ready to rock and roll. I played a few games in the hunt for The Cup last year, but this feels like a new start.

It’s impossible to eliminate the underlying odor of sweat in locker rooms despite scrubbing with bleach and polishing. The smell seeps into the walls and floor. It’s the same everywhere and brings me back to when I played as a child in Mites, when there was no pressure and I played because I love hockey.

This practice feels as momentous as my first in the NHL. I wasn’t playing at my full potential last year. In the offseason, I skated daily and hired a coach to do extra practices so I was ready.

Last year, one game stood between us and holding The Cup over our heads. We’re achieving that goal this year. By the end of the season, we’ll be the victors. I can feel it in my bones.

The music’s blaring, and Caleb Benz bounces into the middle of the room, his butt pumping in time with the bass.

“Luckkkkyyyyyy, don’t leave me hanging.” He twerks in my direction with a boyish grin over his shoulder. Benz, last year’s rookie savior, knows how topump up the team. He’s a blast for morale, and he is a team player, never getting upset about his playing time or lack of once Patrik Liska came back.

Joining him, I bump his big ol’ butt with mine. Most hockey dudes have great asses, and if the media ever filmed our locker room when we all got in on the action, it would be a viral thirst trap for the ages.

Ace joins us, and half the team gets in on the impromptu dance party. Lars never dances with us, but he bobs his head in time with the music. I count that as a win. None of the rookies participate, but they watch with wide eyes and a cross between curiosity and trepidation—probably afraid of being forced to dance in the middle.

An unpopular assistant coach slams a locker. “Enough of this shit. I expect you to act like professionals and take practice seriously.”

“We take practice seriously, but we’re having fun before it starts,” Baby Benz says, unaware he’s made a huge mistake.

“Fun?” The coach gets in Caleb’s face. “This is hockey. It isn’t fun.”

This is why we refer to the guy as Coach Ass.

Benz opens his mouth, but Ace steps in between them. “We play for the love of the game. If you have a problem with our performance, address it with me.” Ace is givingdon’t fuck with mevibes.

The door busts open, and Grayson’s eyes sweep over his angry roommate and Coach Ass, breathing like a bull. “This is cozy. What’s going on?”

“Be ready on the ice in ten.” Coach Ass stalks out.

I hum to break the tension. “Are we all going to ignore the fact that Gray and Ace are twinning again?”

“Griff and I never twin, and you guys give us so much shit,” Benz pipes up, referencing his roommate Mason Griffin, our second-line right winger, who replaced me while I was in rehab.

“Because you were rookies,” Lars says in his monotone voice, which makes everyone laugh. “Don’t worry, this year we’ll have mandatory dress codes, so you won’t be able to share each other’s clothes,” he lies with a straight face. Griff and Benz snip at each other constantly for wearing the other’s clothes. Always a laundry mishap.

Liska pulls Ace aside, and his Czech accent makes his speech pattern recognizable, even though I can’t hear his words. He sends me an up nod as a thanks for refocusing the team.

The music plays again but at a lower volume, and everyone seems to shed their tension.

Until I notice one of our actual rookies, Jamal King, in the far corner, trying to act invisible: no eye contact, facing his locker, small body movements.

“Hey, Jamal.” I slap a palm on his back, startling him. Not the best way to start an introduction. “I’m Dylon Felix, but the guys call me Lucky.” I’m staring at rows and rows of tight braids on the back of his head. After an extra beat, he turns, and I’m struck dumb by his vibrant blue-green eyes glowing against his warm, light-brown skin. His eyes are gorgeous. That thought is so far out of left field it confuses me.

“I know who you are.” King rattles off my stats and percentages from last season and the season before, but I’m only half listening while I question why I noticed his eyes.

It has to be an objective thing. They stand out like Lars stands out as a good-looking Swedish warrior type with broad shoulders and a menacing glare. Except I’ve seen the depth in Lars’s bottomless blue eyes, and they’re far more interesting.

I shake my head for noticing King’s most interesting feature. Nothing more. Nothing to see here.

Jamal eyes me warily, and it’s probably my turn to talk. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to welcome a rookie and make a new friend.

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