Page 17 of The Final Faceoff
Leif: I have stuff, and did I mention there’s a pool and a hot tub?
Hailey: In the apartment building? Fancy. I should probably stay around the city and not lease something close to my family.
Leif: Wait, you’re leasing? What’s going on? Everything okay, Hail?
Hailey: Of course, but I can’t be couch surfing for the next few months while I figure out what my next project is.
Leif: Fine, be that way. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk about your issues. Just know that you can stay with me as long as you want. The pool and hot tub are actually in the penthouse.
Hailey: Oh, well, then I’ll be there with all my stuff and won’t ever move out, like ever.
Leif: That works for me. Send me your flight information so I can pick you up.
Hailey: You don’t have to. Just send me your address.
Leif: Hail, send me that information. I’m heading to the gym with my brothers. I’ll see you soon.
ChapterSeven
Leif
Misconduct: Breaking Your Own Rules
If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a goalie, it’s that you have to expect the unexpected. The puck doesn’t care about your strategy. It doesn’t politely announce its intentions before ricocheting off a stick and flying toward your face at a speed that makes you question all your life choices.
Hockey is unpredictable. Which is why I crave control.
You know what’s not good for a goalie? Someone with no discipline. Someone reckless, impulsive—someone like Hailey.
She completely messes with my balance.
A puck, at least, has a predictable goal. It’ll always try to find the back of the net. Hailey? Hailey vanishes off the grid for days, with no texts, nor calls, leaving me in the deeply uncomfortable position of realizing my entire sense of equilibrium is off because I haven’t heard from her.
Which, frankly, is a dangerous way to live.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to figure out why my best friend has decided to ghost me, because right now, I have approximately two seconds before someone tries to take my head off.
I drop into position just in time, deflecting the shot with my pad. The thwack of the puck against my gear is crisp, and satisfying.
Across the ice, a familiar voice cuts through the noise of skates carving into the rink.
“All right, all right, let’s give Crawford a minute before we embarrass him in front of his new team.”
My head snaps up, and I’m already grinning before I even see him.
“No fucking way.”
Jason fucking Tate.
Former teammate. Former best friend. Occasional pain in my ass. And, apparently, my new teammate—again.
I heard rumors about Vancouver trading him, but I figured it was just locker room talk. Guess not, because here he is, coasting toward me with that same cocky ease he’s had since we were kids.
“Miss me, fucker?” he asks, stopping just short of colliding into me.
I snort. “You’re still trying that move, huh?”
He shrugs, tapping his stick against the ice. “Worked on you in high school.”
