The Puck Drop by Jaqueline Snowe
CHAPTER ONE
Michael
There was something about the way the cold air smelled in the rink. It cooled my lungs and settled my soul. Standing there and watching the younger guys skate caused a pang in my chest because that part of my life was over.
I wasn’t a hockey player anymore.
After my whole identity revolved around that for so long, it was like losing a limb. Without hockey, who was I?
“Reiner!” Coach Simpson yelled at me from a few yards away. His sharp tone had me standing up straighter, and I shoved my hands in my pockets. I could daydream about being on the ice later. I had shit to do if I wanted a future, and that meant starting my internship under head hockey coach of the Central State Wolves. Not daydreaming about being part of the team. That ship had sailed.
“Yes, sir,” I said, forcing myself to look away and focus on the man who I followed around all last year. Not in a creepy way but in an I-need-this-internship-please-like-me sort of way. It was my second year at Central State, and I learned a lot watching the team last year. The stern man had a winning reputation for a good reason. He liked to win, hated excuses, and ran a smooth hockey program. A little gruff, a little charismatic, and a little intense. I couldn’t think of a better person to shadow for my last year of grad school. Masters in sports management, here I come.
“This is hard for you,” he said, no bullshit in his tone. He stared at me, his dark eyes and almost-black eyebrows softening in understanding. His attention moved from me to the rink, and he nodded. “That’ll never go away.”
“The urge to play? No, I don’t think it will.” I sighed and looked at the ice again. “It feels like an amicable break-up where we still gotta hang out all the time. Hard to digest it or move on.”
“It’s in your blood, kid. You think I didn’t call your old coach to get a reference? I don’t accept just any goddamn intern.” He barked out a laugh, and the sound echoed in the hallway.
God, I missed the Northeast. The Midwest was fine. Illinois had all four seasons, and I could experience each one within a five day span, but it wasn’t home. Every time I thought about it, I wondered why I chose to attend school here. I could’ve stayed closer to my sister Ryann, closer to where we grew up, where I had friends. Something propelled me to move away from all the memories—the good ones and the bad. That was the thing about grief I’d never understood until it happened to me.
I wanted to grasp onto something just as fiercely as I needed to let it go. My past. My memories. The fact that our parents died in a crash when I was twenty, and ever since then, every memory back home held a twinge of sadness.
Here? At Central State? Clean slate. It was like a breath of fresh air most days, but once in a while, a comment would take me back. Like Moo U. I lifted my hat and ran my fingers through my hair before adjusting it. Coach Simpson arched one of his bushy eyebrows, and I tried not to look smug.
“I take it the call went well then.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
I grinned. “Sure am.”
“What’s your take on Cal?” he asked, shifting gears as he jutted his chin toward the freshman stand-out. Cal Holt, often referred to as The Bolt, possessed more talent than I ever had, but the problem was that he knew it. I might’ve only been at Central for a year, but I researched the players, the culture, and the legacy. Even if I didn’t get the internship, I would’ve followed the team because Coach was right. Hockey was in my blood and always would be.
I clicked my tongue and rocked back on my heels. “Is this a joke? Are you testing me right now to see how honest I’ll be with you? Or is this a different kind of quiz?”
“You talk too much.”
“My previous coach should’ve mentioned that,” I said, snorting when Coach Simpson closed his eyes for a beat. “My take. Hm. Talented, clearly. Fundamentals are top-notch.”
“And?”
My shoulders tensed. There was something about his question that had me pausing. I considered myself pretty emotionally intelligent. I had to be as an alternative captain, or the team dynamic could shift. But his question felt different. I cracked my thumb knuckle in my pocket and tried to figure out what he wanted. He was no-nonsense, gruff, and honest, so his inquisition didn’t feel like a trick. The truth was the best scenario. With as much confidence as I could muster, I said, “Older leadership could have issues with him if he doesn’t open up to the team. He refers to himself as The Bolt in third person. Not exactly encouraging brotherhood by acting like that.”
“How would you fix it?”
“Fix it? Not sure one person could.” I took a deep breath, the familiar smell of the ice easing the growing worry in my gut. Coach Simpson narrowed his eyes at me. This felt like a tryout.
Shit, maybe it was. I cleared my throat and told my worries to fuck off. I knew my shit on the ice, in the rink, and if this was an attempt to see what I was made of, then I’d give it to him straight. I met his gaze. “He needs instances where he relies on the team, and vice versa. He might not see other players as useful, and until he realizes that, there won’t be a good dynamic on the ice. And, Coach? He needs to be on the ice.”
“Sacrifice my morals for a win?”
“Ah, I would never say that.” My ears heated, but the regret didn’t last long when he grinned back at me. “Plus, you’re the one making the dough here. You decide that call. I’m actually paying the school thousands of dollars to attend. Quite different scenarios.”
He laughed and hit my shoulder. “Good insight. Lesson one of coaching a NCAA hockey team? Once the puck drops, your job is done. It’s every single little thing that happens between games that’s on you. Sure, Cal can have the best numbers in the league, but if I don’t create a team culture that fosters togetherness, those stats are shit.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, nodding and wishing like hell I’d gotten a chance to play for him. My body hummed with adrenaline, the urge to lace up almost getting me to the point where my hands shook. I was a junkie needing my next hit of ice.
“I know you just showed up and never really left, but we do have to go over your requirements for the practicum. I need to hop on a call and get transportation ready for next week’s away game, but meet me at a Logan’s this evening. Seven pm. I prefer to drink beer if I’m looking over a goddamn syllabus.”
“You got it. First drink is on you.”
“Oh, you think you’re slick.” He grinned and pointed at me. “Don’t disappoint me, Reiner.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
* * *
Logan’s smelled like stale beer and peanuts, but damn, I loved coming here. It was situated in the heart of campus and was the perfect spot to have a beer and watch a game. Football season was underway, and blues and oranges covered every surface. Central State loved their football, that was for sure. While I was dedicated to my Moo U gear, I’d caved and bought a few Central shirts for team spirit. Competition was part of who I was, and I liked being part of a dominant school that won a lot.
My phone buzzed in my pocket right as I got to the bar, and I sat on a stool and eyed the text from my sister.
Ryann: How was the first day of the internship?
Michael: Still going. Coach wanted to meet me at a bar for a drink to talk.
Ryann: Wow. Right up your alley. Do you love him already?
Michael: Shut up.
I grinned and put my phone facedown. I missed my sister and even her shy boyfriend, Jonah Daniels. They were living up their senior year back home while I was here, relatively alone. I scratched my chest over my Central shirt and waited for the gut punch. It came and went as a cute bartender approached me.
“Hey there,” I said, smiling and forgetting all about home.
She winked and tilted her head to the side. “Hi, handsome. What can I get ya?”
“312, please.”
Her gaze lingered on my face then moved to my tatted arm, and my smile grew. Maybe that’s what I needed. A distraction. Someone or something to occupy my mind from the fact I’d be back in the rink and not playing. A distraction from reminiscing about home. A way for my mind to escape reality because hockey had always been that for me and I’d lost that haven.
The pretty bartender wore short shorts as she got me a beer, which snagged my gaze. I was not prepared when someone ran into me on my right side. Hard.
“What the hell?” I gripped the edge of the bar to stop myself from falling off the stool as a woman put her hands all over my body.
Hints of lemon and cookies washed over me, and a petite person cussed a few times before pushing long dark brown hair off her face. “Shit, shit! Sorry. Wow. This isn’t going well.”
“No, not really,” I said, reaching out to steady the girl. Her large brown eyes seemed worried, and a red blush painted her cheeks. She was cute. Small nose, big eyes, full lips. Not a knock-out like the bartender but still cute. “Do you always fall into people, or is this a special occasion?”
She chewed on her lip, frowned, and looked over her shoulder. Her pulse raced at the base of her neck, and I followed her gaze, expecting someone to be chasing her. Why else would she crash into me? There were just a few guys sitting in a booth. One of them squinted over at us, and recognition lit up his face.
I didn’t know him, but Klutzy McGee sure did.
Her entire body tensed, and she snapped her attention back to me. “Hi, hello. We can do introductions later, but I need a huge favor. The biggest. I’ll buy you a drink or two. Hell. Three!”
“This is getting more interesting.” I smiled. “What’s the favor?”
“I need you to pretend to date me, right freaking now.” She scooted closer and swallowed so hard her throat made a clicking sound. She glanced over her shoulder at the guy approaching us, and her breathing picked up. “Please.”
It took two seconds to think it over. She looked worried, and a protective instinct took root in my gut. Was this guy bothering her? Harassing her? Did she tell him no and he refused to accept it so she had to lie about having a boyfriend? Fuck. Guys could be the worst.
“You got it, Klutzy.”
“Oh, thank god.” She closed her eyes and moved onto the stool next to me, just as the large guy approached us.
“Fletcher,” he said, his voice low and deep and weird.
Her name was… Fletcher? Interesting choice. She sat too straight to be at a bar, her spine like a steel pole as she made a fist with her left hand. “Gage,” she said, the redness spreading down her face toward her chest.
Gage eyed her, then me, and lowered his voice like I couldn’t hear him. I was two feet from him, and sound didn’t work that way. I rolled my eyes. I already didn’t like this guy.
“Could we talk, please?”
“I told you, no.”
Yeah, I really wasn’t a fan of Gage. “Bud, do you mind? We’re on a date, and I prefer Fletch’s time all to myself, no offense.”
Gage winced and took a step back. “He calls you Fletch?”
Hm, was that a secret name for her that I shouldn’t’ve have said? I put my arm on the back of her stool, not quite touching her but also sending a message to Gage.
Klutzy McGee—AKA Fletcher— reached for my beer and took a large swig. Her throat bobbed, and half my glass was gone, but I didn’t mind too much. I couldn’t figure out the dynamic between her and Gage, and I wasn’t going to move until I did. I needed to make sure she was safe from beefcake Gage.
“Where’s Cami?” my pretend-date asked, her voice gaining strength that wasn’t there before. Maybe it was liquid courage, but I liked the way her voice sounded. Deep, smooth, no-nonsense. “Shouldn’t you be talking to my sister?”
Oh, shit. Sister! What did Gage do? Fletcher’s face hardened, making her petite features way more intimidating than I would’ve thought. She might’ve been frazzled before, but there was a fire in her now. I was into it.
Gage paled and ran a hand over his face. “It’s not like that, Fletch. She’s just… wild. You know that. It didn’t mean anything.”
“This conversation is over.” Fletcher’s tone had a finality to it that had me sitting up straighter. If this doofus didn’t march back to his friends, I was gonna be pissed.
She turned her back to him, her left hand shaking, and I covered it with mine. I didn’t know much about this chick, but whatever she was going through didn’t seem easy or fun. Footsteps signaled Gage’s departure, but I didn’t care about him anymore.
Fletcher was way more intriguing. She had long brown hair and large eyes. Her lashes were extremely long which I appreciated. Girls with big eyes made me do stupid things—like pretend to date them at a bar. Plus, her t-shirt hung off one of her shoulders, showing off her slender collarbones—I had a weakness for those too. A trio of birthmarks sat right where her neck met her shoulder.
“So, girlfriend, we gonna talk about what just happened, or…?” I let go of her hand, and the strangest thought intruded. When was the last time I held someone’s hand? I wasn’t lonely by any means, but a connection that went on longer than an evening? Damn. It’d been...awhile. Plus, her hand was so small and petite under mine.
“Nope. I’m going to finish your beer, buy another one, and give myself some liquid courage.” She did just that. She downed my beer and gave me the side-eye. “You judging me?”
“I would never.”
That made her snort, and she finally relaxed into the stool. “You actually mean that, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. We rarely know what people are going through. Who am I to make assumptions about you for running into me and then making me pretend to date you without an explanation as to who that Gage guy is?”
“Sarcasm came out there.”
“Shit, it didn’t, didn’t it?” I said, my lips twitching.
She laughed, and the deep sound did something to my chest. It made me want to hear it again. “Okay, you’re charming. What’s your name?”
I didn’t get a chance to answer. “Reiner, Naomi. This is perfect. You’re both here. Two birds, one stone, you know the drill. Come on, let’s get a booth. I hate sitting on those damn stools.”
My pretend girlfriend had different names. That made her all the more interesting, but we stared at each other.
“Why are you meeting Coach Simpson?” I asked first, already moving off the stool and trying to read her face. What could this chick with three names have to do with the hockey team?
“Why are you meeting with my dad?” she asked, her eyes wider than before.
“Coach Simpson is your father?”
Klutzy McGee—Fletcher—Naomi slid off her stool and walked by me, her lemon scent infiltrating my thoughts and distracting me for a second. The feisty cute woman was the daughter of the hockey coach?
Well, shit.
