Page 1 of Slap Shot
Chapter One
Oliver
The Tampa forward came at Oliver like a freight train, shoulder low, eyes locked on separating him from the puck. Oliver had seen it coming for three strides. The way the guy telegraphed his intentions, leaning too far forward, sacrificing balance for power was a classic mistake.
Shifting his weight at the last second, Oliver absorbed the hit while maintaining control of the puck. The contact sent vibrations through his shoulder pads and up his spine, but he stayed upright while the Tampa player bounced off him and crashed into the boards. The satisfyingthwackof body against glass echoed through the practice facility.
"Clean hit, Chenny." Team captain Kane Norris’ voice carried across the ice as Oliver spun away, already scanning for his next play option.
The scrimmage had been running hot for twenty minutes, summer training camp intensity bleeding into what was supposed to be a casual skate. Oliver loved the burn in his lungs, the sharp bite of cold air, the way his mind cleared when everything came down to reading plays and making split-second decisions. This was where he made sense, where the constant buzz of anxiety that lived under his skin finally went quiet.
He spotted Dmitri breaking toward the net and threaded a pass through two defenders, the puck sliding perfectly onto the Russian's stick. Dmitri buried it top shelf with a celebratory howl and wild swinging of his stick that would have gotten him fined in a real game.
Behind the glass, Charlie barked once—sharp, approving. The golden retriever had planted himself in his usual spot, watching every shift with the focus of a scout. Oliver's chest loosened another notch. When Charlie was relaxed, engaged, it meant Oliver's anxiety was staying buried where it belonged.
The scrimmage ended with Oliver's line winning 4-2. He'd logged a goal and two assists, his hands feeling sharp despite six weeks of summer break. As players began drifting toward the bench, chirping each other about missed chances and lucky bounces, Oliver's phone buzzed from his equipment bag.
Charlie was waiting at the gate, tail wagging as Oliver stepped off the ice. The dog pressed against his leg—not the urgent, grounding pressure that meant anxiety was spiking, but the easy contact of a partner checking in. Oliver scratched behind Charlie's ears, still riding the endorphin high from sixty minutes of hard skating.
His phone showed a text from an unknown number:We need to talk. Grind Coffee, 8 AM tomorrow. Come alone. - Dr. Quincy
Oliver stared at the screen, his post-game buzz evaporating. Dr. Heather Quincy had been the Charm City Chill's Head of Digital Security for exactly one week. In that time, she'd overhauled their entire network and apparently taken an interest in certain players' off-ice activities.
Charlie nudged his elbow, sensing the shift in Oliver's mood before Oliver had fully processed it himself. The dog's training kicked in automatically. It was a gentle reminder to breathe, to stay present instead of spiraling into worst-case scenarios.
"Yeah, buddy," Oliver murmured, pocketing the phone. "I know."
The post-practice locker room hit all the senses at once, the sharp bite of analgesic balm mixing with lingering sweat, the slap of wet towels against metal lockers, and the constantsniping that passed for conversation among semi pro athletes who'd spent the morning trying to knock each other senseless.
Oliver sat at his stall, unlacing his skates while their right wing Mateo Suarez held court three lockers down, regaling anyone within earshot about his latest dating disaster.
"I'm telling you guys, she showed up to dinner wearing my jersey. My fucking jersey!" Mateo gestured wildly with a protein bar. "Who does that on a first date?"
"Smart woman," Dmitri called from across the room, his Russian accent thick with amusement. "She mark her territory early. Very efficient."
"It's not efficient, it's psychotic. We hadn't even ordered appetizers and she's already planning our wedding."
Jax Thompson emerged from the showers, a towel slung low around his hips, water still beading on shoulders that looked like they'd been carved from granite. "Maybe if you didn't give your number to every puck bunny at the arena, you wouldn't have this problem."
"They're not all puck bunnies," Mateo protested. "Some of them are very nice, very normal women who just happen to find hockey players irresistible."
"Yeah, they find your bank account irresistible," Liam added, pulling on his street clothes. "You're a walking dollar sign with good abs."
"These are great abs," Mateo said, patting his stomach with mock pride. "I work hard for these abs."
Oliver tuned out the familiar banter, his mind already shifting to tomorrow’s meeting that he had been summoned to. What did Quincy want that couldn’t be said over the phone? And why did he have to come alone?
"Chenny's being quiet," Kane observed, toweling off his hair. "You good, man?"
"Fine. Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit," Noah said, pulling on a pressed button-down that wouldn’t dream of having a wrinkle in it. The veteran defenseman's off-ice wardrobe was legendary, GQ-worthy ensembles that made him the unofficial style guru of the team.
"Maybe he's thinking about finally asking someone out," Ethan suggested with the kind of hopeful enthusiasm that marked him as the baby of the group. "I mean, when's the last time you went on a date, Chenny?"
The question hit closer to home than Oliver liked. "I date."
"YouTube tutorials on network security don't count as dates," Kane said, grinning.
