When I hit the corridor, I take a deep breath. It doesn’t help me calm down. Storming into the locker room, I throw my bag in my cubby with more force than probably necessary. I don’t know if there’s a way to undress aggressively, but I’m mastering it.

“Whoa, who fucked your sister?” Bjorn asks. He’s a D-man and the size of a grizzly.

“What?” I snap.

“Only time I’ve been that pissed off is when I found out the captain of the football team in high school was sticking it to my sister.”

I start gearing up, and my tension eases a little at Bjorn’s unintentional distraction. “What’d you do to the poor guy?”

“Hockey player versus football player? The guy doesn’t have any teeth.”

“Ironically, like a lot of hockey players.”

“Exactly,” Bjorn says. “So, who fucked your sister?”

I huff. “Don’t have a sister. Only brothers. And I don’t care who fucks them.”

“Then what’s up your ass?”

Nice wording, Bjorn. Bet he wouldn’t be saying that if he knew the truth, because he wouldn’t want to know the answer. Cocks. Lots and lots of cocks. Okay, so one cock. And not anymore since the guy it was attached to walked out on me, but that’s not the point.

“Journalists.” I pull on my shin guards and tighten them a little too hard, because distraction time is over, and I’m still mad.

“Aww, is the pressure too much?”

The reminder that I was on a team that actually made the playoffs last year is on the tip of my tongue, but that won’t go over well. It’ll also only be a reminder that they traded me.

“I can handle the pressure,” I say. What I can’t handle is the only guy I’ve been interested in since Ash is Lennon Hawkins. When that first article came out, I hated that this guy who didn’t even know me could see right through me.

Finding out “Clark” is the one who really wrote it crushed me, because it suddenly wasn’t some random guy who had a hunch I was hiding something. It was a guy who knew it to be true, but he ran the article anyway.

At least he didn’t out you.

I have to keep reminding myself of that, because I should be thankful, not pissed.

“It’s that Hawkins guy I can’t handle,” I say.

“Because he’s a fag? Didn’t picture you for one of those phobes.”

I drop one of my skates and have to scramble to pick it back up to pretend his words didn’t affect me. Or confuse the fuck out of me. He accuses me of being a homophobe while using a slur? It’s not the first time derogatory terms have been thrown around a locker room. Won’t be the last. But it’s in the casual way he says it—with no anger or malice, like the world is supposed to talk like that without repercussions, that gets to me.

“He called me a pigeon,” I say, trying to squash the part of me that was raised by a strong opinionated woman who’d rip into anyone who talked like that—locker room or not.

“Ouch. But look on the bright side: he didn’t fuck your sister.”

“I said I don’t have a—”

Bjorn’s gone before I get the sentence out—geared up and stalking out the locker room.

I shake my head. Tommy wonders why I haven’t clicked with my teammates yet. I’ve been here for months but haven’t made friends. I’ve been thrown in the deep end, and I feel like the new kid at school. My game is suffering because of it; I know that. Maybe Tommy makes a point when he says I don’t trust anyone on the team because I can’t be one hundred percent honest with them.

I’ve faced off with many of these guys in the past, but that’s business. And skating with them, I do feel the connection there sometimes—like we get each other—but then the next minute, I’ll expect someone to be where I want them to be on the ice, and they’re somewhere completely different. I don’t know how to be me and build trust with these people or how to force teamwork that’s not flowing.

We’re lucky we have a shot at the playoffs at all with some of the mistakes we’ve made.

Kessler, the right-winger on my line, turns to me. “Ignore Bjorn. He doesn’t have that thing in his brain that stops him from spouting shit.”

“Or using colorful language, obviously.” I continue to get ready but avoid eye contact while I wait for Kessler’s reaction. Let’s see if we can be oh for two on the gay-friendly scale.

“Uh … yeah. I promise not all of us are dicks.”

I nod. “Good to know.”

“But you’d know that if you came out for a drink with us every now and then. Just sayin’.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I say.

Kessler smiles. “We should get out there.”

I finish gearing up and grab my hockey stick and helmet. “Did Coach say what we were doing today?”

“Penalty drills.”

I groan.

“My sentiments exactly,” Kessler says, and I follow him down the chute and out to the rink.

As soon as my skates hit the ice and I start warming up, I feel eyes burning into me. Without needing to search the press area, I know Lennon’s tracking me with his gaze, but when I turn to scowl at him, he’s talking to the guy beside him.

Must be wishful thinking then …

I tell my conscience to fuck off.

The more I think about the benefit, the angrier I get and the more aggressive I become. Clark was this perfect guy, and it’s disappointing to find out the reality is a lot less appealing. Not that he looks any less appealing. He’s like a poison apple from all those fairy tales. Pretty on the outside but can destroy me if I take a bite.

The team’s been on the ice for about an hour when Kessler passes me the puck, and I charge past the blue line, but Bjorn is right there.

He slashes my ankle, but the coaches miss it. Which pisses me off even more. They don’t miss me illegally body-checking him though.

A loud whistle blows.

Of course.

“Strömberg! You’re already a man down and you’re pulling this shit? Get your head out of your ass and in the game.”

“Yes, Coach,” I say, breathlessly.

“You fucked your line.”

Sounds fun. I keep that tidbit to myself.

Coach throws his hands up and yells, “Change it up.”

I skate my way to the bench, and this time when my eyes lock with Lennon, he’s staring right at me. It’s impossible to decipher his expression. It almost looks sympathetic, but that can’t be right. I can already see the article about Ollie Strömberg crumbling under the pressure and making stupid mistakes in practice.

I’m already on edge without him being here making it worse, yet I still find myself drawn to him.

Ugh.

“Strömberg!”

Fuck, I zoned out, and I realize more than a few minutes have passed. I jump over the rail and get back into the drill, but my head’s not in it. If I’m honest with myself, my head hasn’t been in the game since the trade.

I’m in a rut, and I don’t know how to pull myself out of it.

In the middle of a play, music blasts through the speakers of the arena with Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” It’s followed by a round of expletives that echo around the rink.

We all stop on the ice and stare up at the DJ booth.

At my last meeting with Damon, he asked if I knew of any jobs available at the arena. Matt Jackson’s brother needed work, and it happened to work out that our game DJ had resigned, so I put Jet’s name forward. He got the job, but listening to him scrambling to turn the music off while swearing his heart out in a thick drawl, I’m beginning to wonder how he made it through the interview.

It’s the last straw for the coaches, and they give up. “You’re skating like newborn foals out there. You think that’s gonna get us to the playoffs?”

“He’s great with the pep talk, ain’t he?” Kessler says beside me.

“Can baby horses even skate?” I ask, and Kessler tries to hide a laugh.

“Get off my ice,” Coach says. “And Strömberg, come to my office when you’re showered.”

A chorus of “Oooh” and “Someone’s in trouble” rumbles through the arena until Coach yells at everyone to cut the shit.

All I can think is I’m about to be sent back down to the AHL.

I perch on the edge of the seat in Coach’s office—as much as my big frame allows me to anyway.

“Is there anything going on that we need to discuss? A problem with anyone on the team …” Coach starts.

I sit up straighter. “What? No. Nothing like that’s going on.”

He leans back in his chair. “Something’s gotten in your head. I thought when you first came to us that the trade might’ve messed you up a bit, but there’s something still missing out there.”

Where to start. It’s the trade, it’s my sexuality, it’s wondering if giving up my relationship with Ash was worth it, it’s Lennon’s articles, it’s … everything.

“We fought hard to get you, because you’re one of the best wingers in the league. Or, you could be if you’d drop your hesitance out there. Boston didn’t want to let you go. We knew how desperate they were for Malik, and we wanted the best in return.”

“Should’ve tried for Novak, then,” I mumble.

“So, you’re saying your stats are only because of Tommy Novak?”

“No,” I say way too quickly. Admitting that would be like saying Lennon’s article made good points. “Tommy and I made a great team is all, and I still don’t know any of the guys here yet, but I promise to make more of an effort. Kessler said something about hanging out or whatever. I’ll push harder, I’ll—”

Coach holds up his hand. “Your position’s not in danger. I asked you in here to see if there’s anything I can do to help if something’s going on, because you’re not the same kid on the ice here that you were in Boston.”

He’s right, and I know I need to up my game.

“I’ll find a way to do better.”

Coach nods. “Go on, get out of here.”

Defeated and pissed off—at myself mostly, but my brain still wants to blame Lennon for some reason—I leave his office only to be assaulted by more swearing through the arena speakers.

Sounds like Jet’s having as a good a day as I am.

Instead of heading for the exit, I take the stairs up to where the DJ booth is, because having someone like Jet and his brother on my side will be a good thing in the long run.

Jet was on stage at the benefit, but the difference in his appearance as he opens the door is astounding. The guy on stage wore tight, ripped jeans, heavy guyliner, and an old T-shirt. His shaggy hair was slicked in the front but messy in the back, like a mini Russel Brand, but right now, it’s loose and wild around his face and neck, there’s no makeup, and he’s in black slacks and a Dragons sweater vest. After seeing him glammed up, he kinda looks ridiculous.

“Hey. Jet, right?”

He stares at me, wide-eyed and flustered.

“You’re … you’re Oll—” Recognition dawns on his face. “Thank fuck. I thought management was on their way up here to rip me a new one.”

I stifle a laugh as I step past him. On the dashboard of his equipment is a bright red light labeled mic. I point to the button and switch it off.

Jet’s face falls, and his skin turns ashen. “Oh fuck, I’m so fired.”

“Don’t worry, in Gordie Howe’s own words, ‘Hockey players are bilingual. They know English and profanity.’ It’s nothing no one here hasn’t heard a million times before, and the offices are generally empty at this time. But, uh, you might not want to do that during the game tomorrow.”

Jet slumps and falls back into his chair. “I’m in way over my head.”

“You know, when I asked Damon if you knew how to DJ, he gave me the impression you did.”

“I’m a musician. Apparently, Damon doesn’t know the difference. But I need this job. I can’t go back to being a server or I run the serious risk of breaking plates over rude assholes’ heads.”

“Damon warned me you can be blunt.”

He also said I’d like this guy, and I think he’s right.

“If it makes you feel any better, I know what you mean,” I say. “I bussed tables throughout high school.” I make my way over to the computer and pull up a spare chair. “I guess we should start with the basics.”

“Do you know how to do this, or will it be like the blind leading the blind?”

“First year playing for Providence, I took a hard fall and got a concussion. Each game, I snuck into the DJ booth to watch. I was supposed to stay away for at least two weeks, but something you need to know about me is I live and breathe hockey. The arena DJ let me play with the controls.”

I was also half-convinced at the time my career was over, so I might have been melodramatic in needing to learn a new skill. I won’t mention that aloud though.

“If you help me fake my way through my first game tomorrow, I’ll blow you.”

I try to cover my uncomfortableness with an easy smile. “There’s that being blunt thing again.”

Jet winks. “Don’t worry. I freak my brother’s teammates out with that too. Messing with straight guys is fun.”

The way he eyes me, I sense he’s testing me in some way, or maybe I’m being paranoid.

“Right. And you’re, like, a baby. Way too young for me.”

He cocks his head. “Interesting. I assumed you would’ve been more concerned that I had way too much penis for you …”

It’s my turn to break into laughter. “Your reputation precedes itself, JJ.”

“Ugh. You’ve been talking to my brother, haven’t you?”

“He might’ve called to thank me for getting you a job here.”

Matt warned me not to call Jet JJ, but Jet offered to blow me to fuck with me. I’d say we’re even.

“Do you know anything about DJing a hockey game?” I ask.

He stares at me blankly.

“Anything at all?”

“Well, I know this button”—he points to the red switch I flipped off—“turns on the mic to the arena.”

“Play transitions, motivating the home crowd with song choice, dissing the opposing team—”

“I have to pay attention to the game?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and the way he smirks, I get the feeling he’s still messing with me.

Today’s going to be a long day.

I try to drown out the noise of the crowd, but they can smell victory. All I can smell is sweat. Any hockey player who waxes poetic about the smell of the ice is lying his ass off. By the third period, the air is filled with the stench of pads soaked in perspiration.

As I take to the ice for a line change, my skates hit the ice with a satisfying thump before I take off at lightning speed.

We may all be exhausted and running on fumes, but this is my favorite part of the game. The fight to stay in this drives me.

We’re one up, and there’s a minute left on the clock.

But I know better than to start celebrating early, because everything can change in the blink of an eye.

As if thinking that jinxes the team, Logan—one of our D-men—takes a stupid penalty. Fucking idiot.

Toronto takes the power play as their opening, and flashbacks of practice have me on edge and cursing expletives that hockey players are known for.

The gasps of the crowd are ignored, and my only focus is on preventing the five Toronto players storming us from getting past the blue line.

That lasts about one point six seconds. I’m mowed down by a D-man, Kessler’s thrown against the boards, and I see our chance at the playoffs melt away faster than the ice under my blades.

The lamp lights up, and my heart leaps in two different directions—into my throat and to the pit of my stomach.

It’s all tied up now, and our time is running out.

The home fans protest while the Toronto players celebrate. The anger of the crowd falls into a void when Toronto gets the puck again.

Winning this is still an option, but we’re too busy trying not to lose this thing to come up with offensive strategies. We’re still one man down and overworking defense.

My teammates’ defeat is what the Dragons are known for. The team is utterly dejected, exhausted, and cracking under the pressure. I hate that it’s happening this late in the game. We had it.

I skate my damn legs off with nothing but determination on turning this around. While the others are trying to clear the puck out of our zone, I’m busy trying to get the puck back in our possession.

In my head, the interception happens flawlessly and in slow time. It’ll be on highlight reels for years to come with a heroic soundtrack behind it. In reality, it’s a messy dive for the puck, and I’m lucky I stay upright on my skates. But the important part is I pull it off.

Everyone in the arena gets to their feet, and the noise becomes deafening, but I can mostly tune it out.

I fly down the ice with Canada on my heels and cross the blue line.

The anticipation building in the crowd is palpable in my veins. This is what I live for.

But when I turn to pass the puck, Kessler and Martinez aren’t where they’re supposed to be. If Tommy was on the ice with me, it would’ve been a done deal. I have no choice but to take a shot on goal, and my heart deflates even more when it lands right into the goalie’s glove.

The period ends with a loud buzzer, and this shit is going into overtime.

I need a fucking drink. Or a blowjob.

Coach claps my back as we head down the chute into the locker room. “Good hustle.”

That’s all the words of inspiration we get. The rest of the break is filled with different renditions of “What the fuck happened out there?”

As bitter as I am and can’t stop thinking this wouldn’t have happened had I been playing for Boston, I need to stop thinking about my old team. This is my team now, and this is our fight.

“This isn’t the end,” I murmur more to myself than anyone else.

Kessler holds his glove out for a fist pump. “Let’s get out there and finish this thing.”

When we head back to the bench, my eyes catch on the giant screen. The camera’s focused on me, but I don’t recognize myself at first. All I see is a bloodthirsty hockey player.

It still surprises me sometimes that this is my life. Everything I’ve sacrificed, everything my family believes I’ve missed out on, comes down to this and the way this game gives me a high nothing else ever has.

With only five extra minutes to lock this down, both teams scramble to get one in the net. Kessler and I are eager for our turn, and as Coach calls for a line change, we both hit the ice and take charge.

Kessler, in an aggressive—but totally legal—move, strips Toronto of the puck and plows down any D-man who gets in his way as his skates propel him across the ice. I keep up, and for the first time since joining the team, I feel truly in sync with a teammate. Kessler’s footwork is mesmerizing, his puck handling skills are something to admire, and as we approach, Kessler dekes the goalie and sets up the perfect play for me to put one in the net.

It’s not lost on me that it’s usually the other way around. I’m used to being a playmaker, setting them up for my teammates to score, but tonight is my night, and this is my chance to prove myself to certain journalists that I have the talent to be here.

Kessler passes to me, I slap a wrist shot into the left back corner of the net, the puck sails past the goalie, the lamp lights up, and we take home the victory.

We just won the whole fucking game.