Page 9 of Racking Up Penalties
“Matthews!” a voice calls out, snapping me from my reverie.
I swivel towards the source, seeing Miles Harrison, one of the guys on the team waving at me. He’s a wall of a guy with sandy hair that sticks out beneath his helmet like straw from a scarecrow. His grin is easy, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that matches mine.
We all know each other from being in the same hockey league.
“First-day jitters?” he jokes, but it’s not as friendly as it should be for a new teammate.
“Never,” I lie, but my stomach flips as if I’ve just taken a hit at center ice.
I know this team hates me. I hate them too.
“Sure,” he teases, but moves aside as another figure approaches.
Luka Eriksson strides over next, his blond locks almost sparkling under the rink lights. The term ‘enforcer’ might have been coined just for him, with shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of any guy, and his gray eyes have that spark of someone who lives for the thrill of the match.
“Excited to see what you got,” Luka says, clapping me on the back with a force that nearly sends me stumbling.
“Same here,” I mumble.
JD Murphy’s laughter rolls across the rink before I even spot him. He’s an incredible goalie. His muscular frame is built more for endurance than sprinting.
“Man, don’t let these guys psych you out,” JD advises, his tone light, but the look he gives me suggests he knows exactly what’s going through my head.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I manage to say, and I mean it.
At least they’re trying.
Alec Campbell, with his shared captain duties, steps forward. His dark hair is a sharp contrast to his blue eyes, which miss nothing. Alec is charming, yeah, but there’s steel there too.
“Good to have new blood,” Alec comments, but there’s a challenge there, a measurement being taken.
“Thanks,” I say, steeling myself to meet that challenge head-on.
My heart beats a staccato rhythm against my ribs as we gear up. This is it, time to translate every ounce of conflicting emotion, from frustration with Dad to the relentless drive to go pro, into pure, unadulterated hockey.
After that, the locker room is a cacophony of voices, none of which include me. I keep to myself, focusing on the road ahead. Each tie of my skates, each wrap of tape around my stick is a silent vow, I will show them how good I am.
As I put on my gear, the weight of the upcoming practices and games sits on my shoulders like a challenge. I welcome it. Let them doubt me; I’ll use it. Let them push me; I’ll push back. This ice is where I’ll turn skeptics into believers.
I’m ready for the conflicts, the body checks, the power plays, not just with the puck, but with every member of this team who thinks I can’t handle the pressure. They’re about to learn just how much I thrive under it.
With my stick in hand, I step onto the ice.
As I glide across the ice, my gaze inadvertently collides with Liam Johnson’s. He doesn’t bother to mask his disdain, his gray eyes frostier than the rink beneath our skates. The puck on the ice might as well be a live grenade the way he looks at me like I’m the last person he’d ever pass it to.
“Matthews,” he acknowledges, voice flat. There’s no handshake, no welcoming pat on the back, just the cold shoulder as he turns to take a shot on goal, his stick cracking against the ice with decisive force.
Not that I would have returned it even if he offered.
I remember the last time we faced each other on our different teams.
His relentless defense was a wall I struggled to penetrate, and he wore his victory like a second skin. Now here we are expected to play nice for the sake of the team.
The rest of the group watches, their expressions guarded, as if they’re waiting for a signal from Liam on how to proceed. It’s clear that any warmth has been iced over by his presence. Reed shifts uncomfortably, JD avoids eye contact, and Alec’s previously measured look now borders on skeptical. Even Miles and Luka exchange a glance that speaks volumes, they’re not ready to welcome me into the fold until Liam is.
Doesn’t matter. I am not here to make friends.
“Eastwood’s got its traditions, Matthews,” Alec finally says, his tone assessing. “You’ll have to earn your stripes like everyone else.”
