Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“I’m… I don’t know what to say.”
Miranda exhales softly. “I truly wish you the best of luck.”
I grip my phone tighter, as if that’ll stop the shaking in my hand. “Don’t do this,” I say softly.
But the line has already gone dead.
Chapter 3
Grizz
The Vipers practice facility is my home away from home. I walk down the hall, the walls lined with motivational slogans in bold black and green block letters: Relentless. Unbreakable. Earn Every Inch. A digital board near the workout room entrance tracks player metrics in real time—heart rates and VO2 max, among others—an algorithm’s idea of who’s hot and who’s fading.
I head straight to my stall and change into my gear without speaking to anyone. Getting geared up before practice is a ritual—half muscle memory, half quiet meditation. It starts slow, with guys trickling into the locker room in sweats and backward caps, earbuds in, coffee cups in hand.
Some start by taping their stick blades first, wrapped tight and precise as though it’s a personal signature. Others begin with compression shorts, knee sleeves, or lacing up their skates even before their pads are on. The room gradually fills with the sounds of Velcro fastening, tape tearing, laces tightening as they screech along rivets, shin pads thumping onto legs, and the rhythmic snap of someone re-taping their stick.
Guys sit in front of their stalls, heads down as they slide on base layers, then shoulder pads, elbow pads, pants. The gear goes on in a practiced order, always the same—left, then right, or vice versa, depending on superstition. Some joke through it, others stay locked in, staring at the floor.
Once ready for practice, I hit the ice.
“If it isn’t Grizz McAvoy,” Tanner chirps as he skates past me, flipping a puck in the air. “The man, the myth, the felony.” Tanner’s the one guy on the team who sees through me, understands who I am.
“Morning to you too, Casanova.” I loosen my neck with a roll. “You look like you slept in last night’s conquest.”
He winks. “I did. Her name was—hell, not like that matters… or I even remember. What matters is she’s a certified Pilates instructor and has incredible endurance… and so does her best friend—”
“Spare me the details.”
“Hey, Grizz, you brought it up. Go grab me a water bottle, I’m thirsty.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Tanner’s the only guy on the team with the balls to chirp me and the talent to survive it. He’s also got an uncanny ability to deflect heat, a useful trait I’ve sort of learned but haven’t mastered.
I grab a water bottle from the bench and toss it to Tanner. “I passed Langley in the hall,” he says with a pointed look. Tanner knows that I’ve got a scheduled come-to-Jesus meeting with the owner of our team. I had no clue he was back from his travels, but truthfully, I hadn’t thought much about it. It’s going to be the same ass-chewing, and I’ve heard it all before. “He’s going to insist you clean up your act.”
“I don’t do choirboy, you know that,” I mutter, as I stickhandle a puck to warm up my mitts.
“No kidding,” Tanner says. “You do villain arc with bonus media implosion. I respect the brand.”
We skate a few hard warm-up laps, then the real drills begin. Finally, I’m back in my happy place, mid-practice, lost in the game that consumes and defines me. Coach puts us through the hard paces and after half an hour, all my muscles are burning.
As I ready for a two-on-one battle drill, the boards rattle with the tap of a stick. One of the team’s equipment managers motions for me from the tunnel.
Tanner whistles low. “Dead man skating.”
“Mr. Langley wants to see you in his office,” shouts the equipment manager.
“I’m in the middle of practice,” I retort.
“He knows, but he requested you come now.”
I give the guy a quick death stare, then skate to the rink’s door and head into the vacant locker room.
Rare are the moments a hockey player is alone in the locker room. It’s almost never a good sign, case in point.
I tear off my gear. First the gloves hitting the floor of my stall before they’ve even stopped steaming. Shoulder pads next. I rip the Velcro straps open with a jerk and let the whole thing drop behind me. The jersey’s drenched, clinging to my back, but I wrench it over my head and slam it onto the ground in a crumpled heap.
I sit down just long enough to yank off my shin guards, tossing them to the side without looking. The tape around my wrists is slick with sweat, but I tear it off with my teeth and spit it onto the floor.
Every movement is measured but efficient. I’ve done this a thousand times, but right now, it’s not routine. It’s battle prep. Stripping down before I walk into a different kind of fight.