Falling Forward ✔

Chapter Two - Bastien

"Son of a mother fucking bitch!" Johnson, our goalie, slams his stick on the ice, cursing the puck I just sent sailing into the upper corner of the net.

Haart skates up beside me, clapping me hard on the shoulder, a grin spread from ear to ear. "You still got it, Killfeather."

"No shit," I smirk past my mask, skating lazy, backward circles around Johnson. "What do you say? Best thirty-one out of sixty?"

Johnson rips off his glove and flips me the bird.

"Alright, ladies," Coach Burt calls from behind the boards. "That's enough for today. Hit the showers."

The team skates toward the chute, pulling off helmets and shaking out sweaty hair. I start to follow when Haart stops me, drags me back toward Coach. Swinging my leg over the boards, I take a seat on the bench alongside the two men, gulping water.

"I want Killfeather on my line in the game against the Everblades," Haart declares matter-of-factly.

I blink, stunned.

I'm the newest signed forward on the Cincinnati Cyclones, on loan from the Buffalo Sabers. I expected to sit bench for at least the first few weeks of games and let the more established players get ice time. These guys have a history together.

"I agree." Coach runs a hand through his massive Viking beard. "The Everblades are known for turtling up—we'll need an aggressive forward with your goal ratio."

I grin. "No worries here."

Burt chuckles. "Get a shower. Don't party too hard tonight. You have Friday and Saturday games this week."

Again, I'm shocked. Even as I grab a shower, change, and head out of the arena with Haart, I feel the resentment roiling off the other players in palpable waves. I pretend not to notice; act like I don't care. I'm the bubble NHL player. My skill has been weighed, measured, and proven. I'm here and not back in Buffalo because of a misunderstanding with my former Captain.

"So," Spencer prompts as we head out into the chilly November night. "What part of Cincy should we wreck tonight?"

I hold my hand over my heart in a feigned affront. "I've never wrecked anything a day in my life."

Spencer chokes out laughter. "Bullshit. I'm still waiting on one of your famous Killfeather pranks."

I wink at him, ducking against the brisk wind. "I have no idea what you mean."

Spencer was a senior when I was a freshman on the McGill hockey team before I got picked up by the league. He's the stereotypical all-American dude; massive, tattooed, rugged as fuck. The first time I faced off against him, I ended up as a blood spatter on the ice. I got him back for the split lip and nosebleed by replacing his spray-on deodorant with neon pink spray paint.

Rather than beat the ever-living tar out of me, he took me under his wing.

We've kept in touch since college. Both of us were signed for a few NHL contracts. Over the years, we've played on opposite teams, met up for drinks, partied from sundown to sunup. A severe knee injury took him out of the ranks for a time, saw him to the farm team for development. He fell in love with Cincinnati and never left.

Me? I don't care where I'm at. NHL or ECHL, I get to play hockey a few times a week and attend some pretty stellar team parties and events.

We head toward Great American Ballpark and bank left toward the Holy Grail. It's an L-shaped tavern with various sports memorabilia decorating the walls and ceiling. I even note one of Haart's old jerseys over the bar when he played for Toronto. Mid-afternoon on a Monday ensures that there aren't a lot of people.