Finding a way

HUNTER

I’d just stepped out of Pizza King to toss a trash bag into the dumpster in the alley, since the ones at the back exit were full when I found Tristan Reeves standing there.

He looked just as surprised to see me although with Reeves that didn't mean much.

The shock was quickly cleared from his expression, replaced with the unreadable one he always had on.

He took a slow step back, adjusting the lapels of his black jacket. "What are you doing out here, Beaumont?"

He asked me what I was literally about ask him.

"I work here, remember?" I narrowed my eyes, taking in his rigid posture.

The alley was empty, and would be pitch black if not for the flickering streetlight overhead. I threw his question back at him. "What are you doing back here."

"Getting pizza."

If my eyes could get any narrower, I wouldn't be able to see any longer. "From the alley?"

"I walked around the side to grab it from the front." He explained and that made absolutely no sense.

Scoffing, I threw the trash into the large trashcan before turning to look at him. "Right. Because people always take a detour down alleys just to walk into a restaurant's front door."

Reeves stepped right into my personal space, his taller frame casting a heavy shadow over me. He smelled of soap and clean sweat, making my chest tighten in a weird way. I swallowed, suddenly reminded of the previous night when he'd kicked me down and yanked my head back, exposing my throat to him.

"Mind your own fucking business, Beaumont," he spat and honestly I appreciated that he did that because where the fuck were my thoughts heading just now.

Without waiting for a response, he shoved past my shoulder, brushing hard against me as he stalked out of the alley toward the diner's main entrance.

I turned around, watching his dark silhouette disappear around the corner.

Outside my weird thoughts that I refused to break down, something about that interaction felt completely off.

Reeves was hiding something...but I didn't have the time or energy to play detective.

I had enough of my own shit to deal with.

`````

Playing with the Winter Wolves was like trying to skate through wet cement while everyone else was actively trying to trip you.

It has been two days since Coach made the announcement and I hadn't touched the puck a single fucking time.

Next week would be mostly weights and gym conditioning and my chance to prove myself would be gone because of these assholes.

It was the same immature, high-school mean-girl routine.

No matter how wide open I was, no matter how clean my lane was, Jason Randall and the rest of the defensive line acted like I was invisible.

I was so close to slamming his ugly piece of shit face to the boards.

I'd spend the past few days trying to prove I was willing to work with them.

But it didn't matter, they'd already decided I wasn't a part of their team.

Fuck this. Once regular seasons started, I couldn't afford to be on the bench or the fucking sidelines. No hockey college would be impressed with me.

I'd be the guy who fell off.

All those thoughts got me so fucking desperate that at some point furing the game, I skated directly in front of Reeves, forcing him to look at me.

"Come on, man." I gritted and his dark eyes met mine.

For one hopeful second, I thought he might actually acknowledge what was happening.

But he just glided past me, dark eyes reflecting absolute nothingness as he dumped the puck into the corner himself.

Frustration burned through my veins and I wanted to hit something.

Practice was nearly over, and I hadn't put a single shot on net.

If this kept up, Coach Morrison was going to think I was a total bust—a washed-up transfer who couldn't deliver without his old team.

Pulling back, I hovered near the neutral zone, and forced myself to take a breath.

But as I stayed outside their literal circle, k started watching them.

And it took me less than two minutes to spot the glaring, fatal flaw in their system.

They weren't playing to get the puck in the net; they were playing to feed Tristan.

The entire offense was structured to prop him up, forcing every single play through his stick so he could take the glorifying shot.

Sure, against a bunch of third-tier high school lines, it looked impressive. But against a real, aggressive team with a disciplined defense? They’d get absolutely slaughtered.

You couldn't spend an entire game propping up one guy and expecting the other team politely let him score.

You needed options.

If a winder had the cleanest shot, you protected him.

If a defenseman found himself with an open lane, you used it.

If you're close to the next but find another player on your team is closer with a better chance of finishing the play, you pass the fucking puck.

It didn't matter if he was the captain or the guy who'd spent half the season warming the bench.

The goal was to score, not makes Reeves look good.

Alright, Captain Icy. Let's see how you handle a real rival.

Instead of trying to skate with the team, it was best if I started thinking like I was playing against them.

Digging my blades into the ice, I built up speed, and stalked Tristan from behind as he collected a pass near the high slot.

He was setting up for his signature wrist shot, completely blind to the defender closing in on his left.

Before he could pull his stick back, I cut hard across his body, driving. my blade under his shaft.

As I lifted his stick clean off the ice, in one fluid, sharp movement, I stole the rubber right off his tape, knocking the puck loose.

A collective, outraged gasp echoed off the glass.

Jason let out a furious growl, lunging forward to crush me against the boards, but I was already moving.

The defense swarmed me, desperate to reclaim the puck and punish me for daring to disarm their king.

The ice around me was suffocatingly tight.

Pushing deeper into the offensive zone, I swept my eyes across the ice.

There wasn't enough space for me to shoot.

Fuck. I needed to pass to someone.

My eyes darted across all the faces of the guys closing in on me.

Yeah no.

I kept looking until my eyes fell on Carter.

He was tanding completely unmarked near the back post.

Carter was the only guy on this team who hadn't tried to make my life miserable.

He hadn't said a word to me since I transferred, but he also hadn't tried to put my head through the glass.

And right now? He had a wide-open, pristine angle on the net.

Without hesitating, I snapped my wrists, sending a perfect saucer pass fluttering right over the defender's stick.

Carter's eyes widened as it landed perfectly on his stick.

For the next few moments he looked utterly shocked that I’d given up the puck to him.

But as the defense came after him, his hockey instincts took over.

He caught the pass, executing a slick toe-drag around the goalie’s desperate poke check, before roofing the puck straight into the top right corner.

CLANG.

A few guys cheered out of pure habit, but the rest of the ice went dead silent.

Carter stood there, staring at me with wide, confused eyes, his stick still raised.

I didn't say a word and just flashed him a smirk, before spinning on my heel, and skating toward the bench as Coach Morrison’s whistle shrieked through the arena.

"End of practice! Bring it in, Wolves!"

We crowded around the bench, and he went through everything we'd done that day, pointing out where our passing needed work, where we'd been too slow and which plays needed tightening before the season began.

When he got to me, however, his expression changed.

“Beaumont, that's exactly what I'm talking about. You saw the opening nobody else did. You didn't need the goal yourself. You created it.”

An intoxicating warmth flooded my chest as I let out a breath.

Yeah. Fuck you guys.

As I unlaced my skates later in the locker room, I realized I didn't need Tristan to call off his dogs. I could handle this myself.

Bit by bit, I'd learn how every one one of them played. I'd figure out what each guy was good at and give him a reason to want me on the ice.

If they wanted to keep freezing me out, I'd make myself impossible to ignore.

Whistling a low tune under my breath, I stood from the bench and started stripping off the rest of my gear.

I needed to shower quickly and get home for the family meeting my mom had mentioned earlier.

I'd just pulled my shirt off when a familiar voice drifted from behind me.

"Well, well. Look who actually knows how to share," the smooth, feminine voice purred from the doorway.

I turned around to see Emma, the girl from the cafeteria leaning against the doorframe.

Clad in a tight figure-skating outfit, her damp blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and a light sheen of sweat on her skin told she'd just come off the ice herself.

I arched an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure the hockey team doesn't share a lockerroom with the cheer squad."

"No, it doesn't. However, it doesn't matter when it's me."

Her words rubbed off me wrongly, but I only shrugged. "So why are you here?"

"I wanted to know how practice is going."

Oh. Well that seemed innocent enough.

"Pretty smooth." I finally said, and then added. "I'm going to be leading this team in no time."

A chuckle slipped out of her as she stepped into the room with a cat-like sway.

"Confident. I like that." She stopped inches away from me, her eyes tracing the line of my collarbone before locking onto mine. "Though I hear the Captain doesn't take too kindly to people trying to steal his spotlight."

"The Captain can try to stop me," I replied dropping my sweatsoaked jersey into the bench.

Silence floated between us very briefly and then she stretched her hand out. "Your phone?"

"Why?" I asked eyes narrowed.

"So I can put my number in it."

Again, Oh. After taking it out of my locker, I handed it over and she moved her thumb over it for a while before passing it to me.

I looked down at her contact before raising my eyes.

"And if I don't?"

Her smile became almost challenging.

"Then maybe you won't get invited to my party tonight."

With that, she turned and sauntered out of the locker room.

I watched her leave.

There was something about Emma I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Out of all the girls who'd been throwing themselves at me lately, she was definitely the sexiest, but she had a way of manipulating the dynamic—making it feel like I was the one chasing her.

I wasn't sure how I felt about it, but my ego certainly didn't complain.

The heavy locker room door swung open again, effectively shutting my thoughts and , and the rest of the team filed in, led by Reeves.

My eyes instantly locked onto him, trying to gauge his reaction after what had happened on the ice when I stole the puck earlier.

Excitement cut through me as I waited to see the bruised pride, and anger

from having the puck stolen right out from under his nose.

Nothing.

Tristan’s face was stoic snd he didn't even look at me, or utter a word.

Just like yesterday, after addressing the team, he grabbed his duffel bag without even changing out of his practice jersey and walked straight back out the door.

I scoffed under my breath, shaking my head. Unbelievable.

Ignoring the icy, murder-promising glares from Jason and the rest of his meathead crew, I grabbed my towel, slammed my locker shut, and headed for the showers.