Chapter 1

Tyler Bennett   pov

I turn left, making a metronome squeak as my rubber soles hit the tile. There are no people in the hall. As I turn the corner, a stark white wall is broken by a doorway.

The door is hefty and sturdy, constructed of dark wood possibly ebony or Eastern black walnut and polished to a shiny glossy sheen. The wood has an inset gold medallion. A snake with its head drawn back and its fangs wide open, ready to attack, was loosely coiled around a shield and the letters.

The logo of the Montreal Viper. I lift my arm to touch it, and a shiver of excitement shoots up my spine. I'm surprised that the medallion is somewhat larger than my hand when I extend my fingers as wide as I can. I had anticipated it being larger. The metal feels cold to the touch, and the relief etching is smooth over the letter and shield and uneven and gnarled as I trace over the viper. I feel like I shouldn't be here for the first time in a long time. Like I'm not where I should be.

As if I were trespassing. It strikes so forcefully that I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see security approaching me, prepared to expel me. But nobody is coming. No one is coming, of course. This is where I belong. My squad is actually waiting for me. My group. The Bears are my team, holy sh*t.

In theory, I should be angry that I was traded, and in a way, I am. Being moved from a team that performed well in the playoffs the previous season to one that hasn't qualified for the previous three years would hardly excite any player. The Bears are my team, even if it's not ideal and I feel conflicted about it.

They were the first squad I ever fell in love with. The first team I supported. The group that altered my physiology, my life, and my heart rate. To me, they remain that team. Yes, he is here.

Moretti, Luca. Eight. The first-line right-wing and ultimate arsehole for the Bears. You best know I mean it when I say "arsehole extraordinaire." The man is a complete jerk who, for reasons I've never been able to comprehend, chose to make me his archrival when we were only young children. It's one of those strange, bothersome things that the media discovered and exploited. Moretti plays up to it.

He offers reporters an honest assessment of my performance each and every time they enquire about me. "Hogging the puck is his fetish as a clown." I'm not kidding. In fact, Moretti made that statement on ESPN. For more than a week, it was played repeatedly. Really though it makes my anger boil, I've always been able to respond with a nod and a little forced grin, using all of my self-control to deny that our rivalry really exists. My mother refers to it as "rising above."

I'm not suggesting that I don't make an effort to defeat him. Yes, I do. I research his plays and am familiar with both his and my own statistics. They're close, but I'm superior, in case you were wondering. As long as the previous season is excluded.

I don't think this is a huge problem or anything. Simply put, I'm a professional athlete. Naturally, I'm competitive, and even if I weren't, it would be difficult to resist the urge to outdo someone who takes great pleasure in defeating you.

  

Yes, I acknowledge that my mouth tastes delicious after defeating Moretti. But unlike him, I don't make a special effort to give him or his assholism a lot of room, and I'm not going to start doing so right now. Being a native Montrealer, I can't say that I'm ecstatic to be on the same team as him, but I'm really thrilled since this is the Bears. The Bears vs. Montreal Mounties was the first live game I ever saw.

I was seven years old. I rode the bus to the arena with my dad. My dad held my hand while we waited in queue to get our tickets punched, and we strolled the final few streets to take in the ambiance. I didn't mind for once. It took us an eternity to get past the throng and find our seats. Everything around me fell silent when the wave of people separated and I first saw the rink.

Even though there were thousands of people in the arena, applauding, laughing, waving towels, and holding up flags, it seemed to me that the ice had absorbed every sound. Throughout the entire game, I didn't stop talking.

Hell, I hardly blinked. At church or in the outdoors, some people have a deep relationship with God. I see it as an enclosed area with boards, flashing spotlights, and walkable water.

A fascination with a beautiful, cruel game began with the sound of the first buzzer. An infatuation that hasn't stopped. A discordance of images and noises surrounds me as I shoulder the door and it opens.

The sound of a locker slamming shut, the soft, gritty rip of Velcro falling apart, and the quiet buzz of deep voices. A spacious circular space with stalls and seats made of nearly black wood, and a thick navy-blue carpet covering the floor.

The stark white-and-gold practice jerseys that hang beneath each player's number are the only thing that breaks the gloomy, dismal atmosphere.

The Bears refer to it as the "snake pit." It was state-of-the-art when it was constructed. Carter once offered a tour of the Bears arena in a TV presentation I recall seeing. To say I was in amazement would be an understatement given that I was a little child from a quiet neighbourhood who had only travelled beyond state boundaries a few times. It has been somewhat shaken by time.

The carpet around the seats is worn from years of foot use, and there are occasional chips in the wood.

I still get the same sense as I had all those years ago when I look around the room. The same but worse because, holy crap, they're here and it's real.

They are all present. This is the entire fucking team. both novices and veterans. Here, a few yards away from me, in varying states of undress, are greats like Cole, JP Aiden, Roman, and, of course, Carter. As they put on their pads, rookies are chatting and joking.

A few dozen pairs of eyes focus on me as the conversation gradually fades. When I realise that I probably ought to have come up with something to say, my throat gets dry.

Something clever, perhaps, or at least somewhat intelligent. However, no. I have nothing. My mind creates a vacuum that erases all of my words when I open and reopen my mouth two or three times, fear rising quickly. I remind myself, "Look, just say something."

It is not required to be intelligent. "I, er, um. I'm an F-fan. Am I an F-fan? Christ Jesus. Now kill me. Jace Hollis nearly knocks me off my feet before I can really experience the heat of my humiliation. He yells, "Tyler," and gives me a bear embrace that nearly exhausts me.

"Jaceeeee," I responded, matching and even surpassing his zeal. It's been a long time, buddy. How are you doing? Together, Jace and I came up. He is a strong defensive player. Solid as hell. still stocky but taller now. A brick wall with a broad smile and the disposition of a bony dog. It's not a wild dog or anything.

A household pet with a strong affinity for bones. When we were twelve or thirteen, we were members of the same club. He was a stocky, small child who was often flushed from overdoing it on the ice.

Over the last ten years, the game has led us in various directions across the nation, but we have remained in touch and have always made the effort to get together for a drink when we are in the same location.

After my agent confirmed my transaction, he was the second person I phoned. My father was the first. As soon as he puts me down, I'm surrounded by a number of players I know and some I've never met before. Fists are bumped, backs are slapped, and names are traded.

Carter is able to pass through the circle that surrounds me. If you've been living under a rock, it's Jean "Carter" Ludovic, the Bears' captain and a living legend in every way. It's nearly overwhelming to declare that I'm a fan once more. With a constipated croak that nearly sounds like my name, I am able to stifle it. Although it's not my greatest work, I'll accept it because it's an improvement. "Bennett."

Pale eyes wrinkle at the corners as big, callused hand clamps around mine. "Greetings from the Bears." The crew as a whole stands up without any orders or guidance. Each guy in the room lets out a deep, low hiss and raises his right hand, fingers taut and pulled into a point.

My soul almost escapes my body, I swear. Since the team's founding in 1940, the snake song has been a custom. It's something I've seen in advertising videos and documentaries, and it's something I wanted to experience as a youngster.

After I questioned him extensively, Jace informed me about it when he joined the team. I never imagined that I would personally encounter it. The deep, breathy sound concludes with a piercing, clipped after rising half an octave and gently warbling. A wolf whistles, and a few players whoop.

Faces all around me break into carefree grins. The striking exception is the visage of a man seated behind a big, gold number eight, just opposite from my stand. A damaged lip is pulled into a frown, and thick black brows are furrowed. I was judged and found wanting by black eyes that stared at me. 

"Nice of you to join us, Bennett," he replies with a sharp glance at his wrist. Okay, so this is my first day, and the traffic was worse than I anticipated. I'm running seven and a half minutes behind schedule. Sue me. I offer him a half-hearted nod and a faint grin.