Page 13 of Scoring Position

On what should have been his first NHL game. Ouch. Typical Coach move. “Why’d Coach scratch him?”

Misha rolled his eyes. “Who knows?”

Nico felt for Chenner. Coach had scratched Nico a few times for seemingly arbitrary reasons too—not scoring in a shootout, being two minutes late to team breakfast, rolling his eyes during practice.

Misha clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. Doc and Yorkie are talking to him.”

Wright had just joined the team five minutes ago and he already had a rookie. It was just one more way Nico was falling down on the job.

But once he started scoring again, things would be different.

He hoped it happened soon. In the meantime, at least poor Chenner wouldn’t be suffering alone. Yorkie had talked Nico through some dark times when he broke his arm, and everyone kept saying Wright was a good listener. Someone might as well take advantage of that.

BECAUSE NOTHINGcould ever be simple or well-timed, Rees wanted to see Ryan in the ten-minute window before the game started. “Ryan! You look good in orange.”

Maybe Rees had bad eyesight? It could explain the moustache. “Thanks. Uh, you wanted to see me?”

They were standing in a small players’ lounge a few hallways down from the locker room—Ryan in full gear, Rees in a suit with an orange tie. It didn’t look good on him either. “I was hoping to get an update from you before the game started. How’s our project?”

Ryan wished he would stop referring to Nico like that. It seemed dehumanizing. Buthow’s it going making friends with that guy I told you to make friends withwasn’t much better. “It’s coming,” he hedged. “He doesn’t look at me like he wants to set me on fire anymore, at least.”

“Good, good.” Rees smiled. “I’m hoping you’ll have a little more luck now that the season’s started. Close proximity and all that. You should have more opportunities to build rapport.”

Ryan was doing fine with that with everyoneother thanNico. Speaking of… maybe Ryan could get some insight from Rees. With another GM, he’d hesitate to ask, but Rees seemed invested in the team’s emotional well-being, even if it was in a weird way. Hopefully it wouldn’t come across as insubordinate or questioning a coaching decision—or if it did, Rees would let it slide. “Hey, do you know why Coach scratched Eric Chen tonight? His whole family flew down from Nova Scotia to see his debut. He’s pretty bummed.”

“I don’t blame him.” But he shook his head. “Sorry, no idea. Do you think it’s a problem?”

Yes, I think it’s a problem that the coach is scratching players for no reason when they’ve invited people to come watch their NHL debut.Especially when it looked likethere was no reason for it. It was just Coach reminding everyone he had the power to make their lives miserable. But that was a pretty bold accusation to make with only one instance. Ryan wasn’t going to push his luck. “No, I just wanted to know if he’d said anything about Chenner making a mistake so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Ah, well, I try not to get involved in coaching decisions.” Rees shrugged. “But it’s good that you’re looking out for the kid. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

That was all Ryan had time for before the game.

It was weird standing in the wrong color jersey for a home game, hearing the wrong anthem playing over the speakers. But it was already less weird than it had been in the preseason, and Ryan knew he’d get used to it in no time, just like he was getting used to the different style of hockey here, which was slower and more conservative than Montreal’s. Part of that was the lack of depth on defense—Ryan didn’t want to disparage his teammates, but Kitty had to hold the blue line pretty much by himself—and part of it was the team’s aging core.

Greenie was thirty-five. Grange was thirty-seven. Old men in hockey years.

But tonight they were playing well. Grange and Kirschbaum centered the first and second lines, and Ryan’s line—supposedly a checking line meant to frustrate their opponents—held their own, though Ryan felt Chenner’s absence.

They were down 1–0 after Columbus sneaked one under Greenie’s pads when Ryan took a stupid high-sticking penalty and ended up in the box. He was chewing his mouth guard in agitation at himself—he was one of the team’s better penalty killers—when Kirschbaum streaked off the bench with a face like a thundercloud.

The second he set foot on the ice, he intercepted a sloppy pass at the blue line. He had the defensemen on their heels as he weaved around them as if they were pylons. His zone entry was flawless. Ryan was standing to get a better view before he even registered what was happening.

Nico toe-dragged around the goaltender and had him beaten cold… but he ate post. No goal. The puck ricocheted away down the ice and play continued.

Still. “Holy shit,” Ryan muttered. Maybe there was hope for this team yet.

The third period ended tied 1–1, and this was where Ryan was supposed to earn his keep. “Listen up!” He clapped his hands for attention. “It is opening night in our barn and we got ’em on the ropes! Let’s finish this.”

He glanced across the room at Kirschbaum and wondered if he should reference his amazing shorthanded attempt, but ultimately decided against it. Given how tense the guy’s shoulders were, it would probably come across as a criticism for not making the shot.

They lost in overtime.

Ryan headed back to his apartment exhausted and disappointed, thinking that at least he’d be able to sleep. Instead he found himself jolting awake, his pulse thundering in his ears and his chest so tight he had to remind himself three times that there was nothing physically wrong with him, that he could breathe.

The adrenaline that flooded into his system would make it impossible for him to sleep for at least the next twenty minutes. But now Ryan was awake and thinking about the look on Nico Kirschbaum’s face after the game, the dejected slump of his shoulders, the snap of his stick as he slammed it on the ice when Columbus’s shot went in. The hollow, hunted look of doubt in those pretty, thick-lashed blue eyes.

If anyone should look like that, it was Ryan. He was the one who’d taken the penalty. If they’d had someone else on the ice, maybe someone could’ve picked up the rebound.

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