Not So Perfect (West Coast Campus Book 4)

Chapter 1

Mike

Ripping my helmet off with my gloved hands, I slam it onto the ice and watch it skid into the boards. The urge to snap my stick against the net post is something that's becoming harder and harder to put off every minute I continue to fail.

It's been like this for over a week since I was cleared to play after I was put under concussion protocol for a month.

After spending over an hour of hyping myself up as I haul on all my gear, shaking with fear and finally stepping out onto the ice, everything in me just locks tight. Freezes.

It's like I physically can not get back into the net despite my want and need to. And that scares the shit out of me. Our first game of the season isn't for another month or so yet but the NHL drafts are coming up at the end of next June so I need to be putting in every hour I can and more.

The worst part is I don't even remember what happened. All I do remember is when I woke in the hospital, dazed and fucking confused on how I went from playing in the Frozen Four final to that white ass room with beeping machines and pestering nurses.

Cam told me that during the third period after our assistant captain had just scored the winning goal with five minutes left on the clock, Montreal was quite livid we were winning 5-3.

Their captain, not as big as ours but still fucking huge apparently got all pissy when one of ours guys stole the puck from him and during his little tantrum, pushed himself and Seth right into me, causing my helmet to fly off before I even hit the ice. Head first.

There's this unofficial rule in hockey that you never touch the goalie, no matter the circumstance but this dude seemed to have forgotten.

Now, over a month since my injury and finally cleared, I can barely take one step out onto the ice. And when I do, I feel like I'm fucking dying. Dramatic much?

The reality of this all is that if I don't get over whatever the hell is holding me back, Coach Miller has no choice but to put in Joey as the main goalie for this season, leaving me to be the one to sit on the bench and watch everyone play their fucking lives out for our last season of college hockey while I sulk.

Huffing, I throw my stick as well, letting out a groan of frustration when it splinters as it hits the boards beside my helmet, both of them just sitting there and taunting me. Assholes.

Never thought I'd have a staring contest with my equipment but here we are. Their winning, by the way.

My legs wobble underneath me as I push forward on the dull blades, hands spread out in the air like a fucking toddler who's never skated before. Left foot, right foot, left foot-

And I fall right on my ass with a thump.

Fuck!

An angry sob builds, the first of many I've had to push down and ignore. Giving up, I just lay on the ice, unmoving on my back. God, the rafters have never looked so fucking interesting until now.

"God, why the fuck are hockey players sooo fucking dramatic?" A voice groans through the empty rink and my head turns to the side. "Just join a 90's sitcom or something. They'd enjoy your whining a lot more."

"The fuck?" I stumble to my feet, glaring at the familiar figure a few feet away. Where the hell have I seen her before?

She smirks, skating closer to me with ease that I haven't had in what's felt like years. "You heard me. Why the fuck are you just lying there like someone told you your third favorite cat died?"

"My third favourite? What happened to the first two?"

She shrugs, folding her arms over her chest as she stretches. "I dunno. They're your cats."