Page 2 of Shield
“Not today, Cowboy,” he taunted, a grin spreading across his face as he attempted a feint to the left.
I didn’t bite, staying square to him, my gaze locked on the puck. “In your dreams, Cap,” I retorted, the familiar banter easing some of my tension.
He shifted direction, a quick movement meant to throw us off. But Ash was on him, forcing Charles to the outside. I closed the gap, ensuring there was no lane for a pass or shot, our sticks creating a barrier he couldn’t penetrate.
“Nice try!” Ash shouted, a mix of challenge and respect in his voice as we steered Cap away from the net, the puck skittering harmlessly to the corner.
Philippe tapped his stick against the post, a sign of appreciation for the defensive effort. “Ha ha!” he shouted and patted his pipes, snickering as Cap skated around the back of the net. His grin widened when Cap collected the loose puck and attempted a baseball-type hit to get past our goalie. The two of them collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, both laughing, and I took the moment to catch my breath.
“Water!” Ash announced, and as we skated back to the bench for a quick water break, he nudged me. “Hey, you’ve been pretty quiet about this New York game. You know we’re gonna smash ‘em, right?”
I hesitated. The weight ofreturning to a city that had been my home for so long was heavy on my shoulders. “It’s not about winning; I know we’re gonna win,” I lied, because New York was a strong team. “It’s just… y’know…” I didn’t know how to explain.
As usual, Ash went all thoughtful and summarized everything in a sentence. The same skill at judging people on ice slid into real life all too easily. “You gave a lot to that team, to that city. And now, going back, not as one of them—it’s a lot to process. But hell, it’s gonna be a big party, you up on the video screen, crowds cheering.” He raised his stick in a fake celebration and made a noise like a roaring crowd. “They’re gonna love having you back, man. You’re a legend there.”
I felt hot, my heart twisting. I missed New York—moving across the country with the girls, being so far away from my best friend, Jamie, missing the guys on my old team—sometimes it was all too much like hard work.
Maybe I should just give up?
Why am I doing this?
What? Where had that hit of melancholy come from?
As if I’d already answered that question, my alarm sounded, and I glanced at my readings, popping a couple of Skittles from the supply I kept on the bench. The sugar was exquisite on my tongue, and I skated away from Ash, grinning at him as Cap circled us with a puck.
“Again?” I said, and even though I caught Cap and Ash exchanging thoughtful looks, neither one of them asked me if I was okay. “Let’s go again.”
“We’re done, big guy,” Cap murmured, elbowing me in the side.
“I’m good,” I said, but Ash was already leaving the ice, which left me with the captain.
“The Nighthawks lost a good one,” he said as we circled the rink, cooling down in lazy circles.
“You think?” Great, that sounded as if I was fishing for compliments.
“Oh yeah, don’t you?”
We reached the door from the practice ice. “Yep.” I didn’t talk much, but these one-word answers were even getting on my nerves.
“You’re Storm now. We have you, and we’re not letting you go.”
I iced to a stop, waving Cap through first. His confidence was infectious, and I nodded along, the ongoing nerves slowly being replaced by a burgeoning sense of determination.
“Until I fuck up,” I muttered to myself, because in the end, it wasn’t about proving them wrong; it was about proving to myself that I still belonged in this game, age be damned.
* * *
As I revvedthe engine of my Ducati, pulling away from the practice arena, a sense of freedom washed over me. This bike was the only non-essential item I’d insisted on transferring to LA, and while my sensible SUV sat parked at home ready for the dad bits of my life, the Ducati was my one nod to being something other than a hockey player, widower, and father. An efficient way of navigating New York, it was just as handy in LA, and every time I rode her, I felt free of everything. Grief, cancer, losing Melissa, worrying about my kids, being a widower, starting over, they became somehow manageable as soon as I opened the throttle.
Not that there was a lot of fast riding on open roads—I was way too sensible to court danger at speed. Scarlett and Daisy had already lost their mom, and there was no way they were losing me if I could help it.
I’d promised Melissa.
With a couple of hours of free time before I needed to switch back into dad mode and pick up the girls from school, I headed to a place that had quietly become a significant part of my life here in LA, despite me having been in the city for only six weeks. Tucked away in the heart of Highland Park, a neighborhood far removed from the glitzy facade of Hollywood, stood the Haven of Hope Clinic. This place, a lifeline for the community, thrived on charitable donations, providing medical care and support to those in need.
The area around the clinic was a big contrast to the more affluent parts of LA I’d come to know. Still, Highland Park, with its aging buildings and signs of crime, had an authenticity and vibrancy that resonated with me. Despite its rough edges, there was life here, a community spirit the polished streets of Hollywood could never replicate.
I parked my Ducati in a small lot next to the clinic, the familiar sounds of the neighborhood enveloping me as I dismounted. The laughter of children as they played on the sidewalks, the distant buzz of traffic, and the occasional shouts from windows were more real to me than the place I’d grown up in the affluent Dallas suburbs where money was king. I could do some good here.
