Page 1 of Rookie Season
CHAPTER 1
NOAH
Discreetly,I glance around the San Francisco Lions’ dressing room, taking in some of the NHL players I’ve worshipped over the years, and it’s hard not to throw up from the excitement. I’m trying hard to play it cool—and failing miserably.
The only dream I ever had growing up was making it to the NHL. That’s it. And I did it; I’m here.
The royal purple carpet beneath my skates matches the Lion’s logo emblazoned above each player’s polished wood cubby—a roaring lion with his ferocious teeth bared. The spacious room is well lit and clean. Across from our cubbies, framed jerseys of retired Lions players hang like our very own museum of hockey greatness.
Penn Matthews nudges me, and I snap out of my moment of worship. He shakes his head, his dark hair damp against his forehead. He’s from Canada, and we met on our first day playing college hockey together at Arlington U. We were pretty stoked when both of us were drafted by the Lions.
“I know the coach is your brother-in-law,” a whisperedvoice comes from my other side. I glance over at Archibald Fisher, my and Penn’s new roommate. The three of us are the rookies this year. Fisher’s dark blond hair somehow falls into place perfectly despite the fact that he’s been wearing a helmet and sweating for the last three hours. “But by the looks of him, I bet he’d still kick your ass if he caught you daydreaming while he’s speaking.”
I huff a humorless laugh through my nose, but he’s not wrong. My sister’s husband, long time NHL defensive legend, Mitch Anderson…is my new coach. I know it’s weird, but it’s just a coincidence. Mitch had nothing to do with where I got drafted.
I angle my head so I can focus on Coach Anderson—it still feels strange to call him that.
“You guys looked great during practice today,” Coach says, his voice deep and commanding as always. “Matthews, don’t be afraid to get in there and put some grit into that defense.” Coach’s gaze goes to my best friend.
Penn nods.
“Fisher,” he says, narrowing his eyes at my roomie. “This isn’t a damn beauty contest, stop looking for the cameras and just do your job. Which is playing hockey, in case you forgot.”
Fisher smirks, and my brother-in-law’s eyes narrow further.
“Now, our first game of the season is in two days, and I think we’re ready.” He holds up his iPad and reads off who will be on each line.
Nothing super surprising at first—Penn is paired with a second year on the third defensive line, while Fisher is on line four with a couple of the team’s second and third year players. The more well-known names on the roster start to appear when Mitch announces line two.
I’m nervous when my name keeps not being read, frowning down at the ground as I listen…and then I almost topple over in shock when the first line is read. It’s composed of two of the team’s biggest superstars—you know, the guys with the multi-year, ten million dollar contracts.
And me.
I’m on the first line.
I’m shocked since I’m new and still have a lot to prove, and there are many more experienced players on the team who’ve already put in a lot of time for the Lions, but Mitch—er, Coach Anderson—wouldn’t put me there if he had any doubts. He must have a reason. A plan. A strategy.
I look up at him, but he avoids my eyes, treating me like every other player in here as he nods and concludes his little speech, before he quickly ducks out of the room.
Fisher and Penn both start clapping me on the back and shaking my shoulder pads before I can even digest the information I’ve just learned.
“First line, you little baddie,” Fisher teases.
“Well deserved, man,” Penn adds.
A scoff pulls us from our reverie. One of the first line defensemen, Justin Sandine, is now standing in front of the three of us. He’s shirtless but still in his skates and hockey pants.
“What was your last name again, kid?” he asks, and I know he’s expecting me to say Anderson. But most people don’t realize I was raised by my sister, Andie, after our parents were killed in a car accident. Most people ignorantly assume she’s my mom, and that I share her and Mitch’s last name.
“My last name is Downsby,” I answer, standing so he’snot hovering over me. I’m taller than him by at least four inches.
The first line left wing—one of my new linemates—Derek Carver, comes to stand beside Sandine. He crosses his arms over his bare, hairy chest. “He’s not Mitch Anderson’s son; he’s his brother-in-law.”
Sandine shrugs. “Nepotism is nepotism.”
Carver snorts a laugh. “I guess our little rookie here officially has a nickname: Nepo Baby.”
Fisher and Penn stand, flanking my sides in a show of support against our supposed teammates.
