This is it.

The beginning of my life.

Lacing up my skates in the locker room was nothing short of incredible—incredible, but intimidating as fuck. I was the smallest fish in a pond full of ravenous beasts that would tear me limb from limb in two seconds flat if given the chance. I was the rookie in a winning franchise—the winning franchise. I had wanted to wear that red, white, and blue jersey from my favorite team since I first started learning to skate, and there I was in my dream locker room. I had to prove my worthiness to men that, not too long ago, were my heroes. Now they were my teammates, rivals, enemies, and biggest supporters. It was all too surreal to glance around and see legends like Gavin Hayes and Will Crosby getting ready for practice only steps away from me.

Get a damn grip, man.

Keeping my cool was proving harder than I had ever anticipated. I was star-struck and needed to rein myself in. I had been the best of the best in my old league, and that confidence needed to be displayed, needed to shine from deep within my core and not let intimidation snuff out its light. I had to prove myself, and acting like a gushing fanboy wasn’t going to get me anywhere—in reality, it would probably land me with my ass being handed to me on and off the ice.

“Ready, rookie?” Brayden Cox slapped me on the back as he walked by—THE fucking Brayden Cox.

What in the ever-loving fuck?

Is this real life?

I barely choked out, “Yeah, sure,” before he was out the door, walking out into the barn.

My mind tripped back to when I was in high school, only a few years before, picking my number for the varsity team. Sixty-eight was what was stitched onto my back; Cox’s number was my lucky number. I just really couldn’t believe he was my teammate. Now I had to find luck in eighty-six, the good old reverse trick. I couldn’t help but be curious if he knew I had donned his number as a tribute to how much he inspired me while he was a rookie for this same team. I remembered watching the game with my father and brother the night Gavin Hayes got his first hat trick and how well Brayden had assisted him in that victory. It was still one of the best games I had ever watched, hands down.

The cold air hit me hard as I followed my new teammates into the rink for the first time. As the distinct aroma of my new home wafted into my nostrils, my lungs filled with excitement. This is going to be incredible. I could feel the bitter chill digging deep into my bones as reality started to sink in hard. I had made it. I had actually done it. I was a professional hockey player for the National Hockey League. Who would have thought a little boy’s fantasy could actually turn into reality? This shit is what movies are fucking made of.

Well, my life wasn’t exactly movie material. I came from middle-class American suburbia in Alabama. My mom was a stay-at-home mom, the complete Suzy Homemaker package, and my dad was a hardworking foreman for a construction company, grit and muscle to the core. I had an older sister who was a resident at Flushing Hospital, and a younger brother still in high school back home.

It was nice that my sister, Hannah, was in New York too; it made the big city feel a little smaller at times. Even though our schedules conflicted most of the time, it was comforting to have family close by.

“You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t fucking take—don’t forget that, rookie,” Hayes snarled at me right as the blade of my skate crashed into the freshly Zambonied ice.

Rookie—my new name. I wasn’t Chase. I wasn’t Harding. I was Rookie. It was my new identity, and I had to own it and prove it wasn’t a slanderous nickname but a badge of honor.

After I got over the initial shock of actually being on the ice with my new team, practice went like normal, nothing to write home about. It was harder and longer than I was used to, but I was stepping up my game and I knew that the tougher practice was, the better I would be for it come game time. It was amazing skating with guys who were so much better than me, and I could already tell I was going to really learn a lot from the team.

It wasn’t until we headed to hit the showers that I actually felt like an outcast and then completely welcomed within seconds. It wasn’t for my performance, and it wasn’t because I was a newbie. It all started with a book.

“Nice slap shot,” Crosby complimented as he walked passed me as I pulled my practice jersey over my head.

“Thanks man.”

He nodded. “First time my hand has hurt that bad through a glove from practice in a while.”

After stripping off all my pads, I grabbed my bag to pull out a new pair of sweatpants and a tattered copy of And Then There Were None fell onto the floor at my feet.

“Aw, did the little boy drop his book? Fucking nerd,” Edouard Gagnon said in his thick French accent, snickering like a schoolyard bully as I snatched the tattered book and threw it back into my duffle for safe keeping.

Before I could even think about defending myself, Cox flew to my side. “Don’t act like a prick because Harding actually finished high school and can read something other and Clifford The Big Red Dog.”

Edouard bowed up and was about to get into Brayden’s face when Gavin stepped between them. “Cox, cool it, bro. We all know how much you love protecting the new guys, but Harding has to fight his own battles or he will never learn how to on the ice.” Gavin hooked his arm around his brother-in-law’s shoulder then turned to the instigator. “And as for you, Gagnon, the rookie made seven more goals than you did today during practice. That’s what you should be focusing on, not that he enjoys reading.”

Gavin winked at me before slapping Brayden on the shoulder. “Don’t forget Myla and I are coming over for dinner tonight. You better shower—I don’t want to have to smell your swamp ass while I’m trying to enjoy my food.”

The fact that Brayden Cox and Gavin Hayes were family made the team feel a little bit more homey, and it was something I really appreciated. I remembered when they used to go at it on the ice, barely acting like teammates, and now they were like the fucking Bash Brothers from the Mighty Ducks.

Gagnon shot me a dirty look and I just shrugged, hung my pads up in my locker, and grabbed fresh clothes from my bag. I wanted to defend myself, but I felt like it would be a waste of breath. If all they had to pick on me for was a murder mystery and being the new guy, I was sitting pretty.