The loud chirp of a whistle sounded. "Wellsley, you're up."

I barely heard the assistant offensive coach, solely focused on the task at hand as I jumped over the boards and took my second run through the obstacle course laid out on the ice. Starting off with one fast lap around the rink, my blades glided swiftly; a movement as routine as walking to me after all these years.

When I crossed the center red line, I snagged a puck from the pile to the side and began to weave my way through the sequence of pylons scattered on one side of the ice. There were twenty of them, all fairly close together, but my stick handling was second nature and in about ten seconds I was through, then pushing myself hard to the other end of the ice where Nyberg waited, ready between the pipes.

Looking for the perfect shot, I saw that he was ready on nearly every level. His stance was strong, protecting much of the net, and on his feet, he was agile. Waiting for me to make a move, his eyes flicked between the puck and my face. I knew I had a tell—relying on my core muscles and right side as I bent over my stick to shoot—so, after formulating a plan of action, I did exactly what was expected of me.

With a short wind up and quick release, my wrist shot flew off my stick and hit its mark—about two inches above where his blocker had been. It was an easy save, but I wasn't hoping for a goal. I'd been after the rebound, and as the puck bounced back onto the ice, albeit a little farther to the left than I would've liked, I got my chance.

I knocked a one timer towards the top of the net, swore under my breath when Nyberg deftly slid across the crease to block it.

He chuckled through his headgear as I rounded the back of the net, heading back for the bench. "Better luck next time."

Whistle after whistle sounded as the rest of the team gave the course one more go, with only a few hitting the back of the net as Coach alternated goalies. And when the drill ended, leaving me without a goal, I was more determined to kick it into high gear for the half-hour scrimmage that ended our practice.

The division of players was fair, with players from all four lines mixed among teams, and while everyone knew to take it easy on the hits, we all still wanted to give it our all.

It took a few shifts, but I settled into my groove when I found myself rushing down the ice next to Brookes, who I was used to playing with on game nights. The puck bounced back and forth between our sticks as we deked out the defensemen, and this time, when I saw the open five-hole and took a shot, it sailed cleanly across the goal line.

Followed by another bullet to the top corner two shifts later, which secured our team the win at 5-4 as practice came to a close.

"Okay, bring it in men," Coach said from center ice, his voice echoing throughout the arena. Most of us sucking wind after hours of skating, we glided slowly towards him and waited for his parting words. "After Wednesday's win in Dallas, I was proud to see you guys putting the same level of effort into today's practice. If we come out here tomorrow night with this kind of morale, we'll have the fans on our side when we show Montreal that them getting the best of us the last time we met was a fluke." There were whistles and hoots in agreement. "Now get out of here," Coach said, waving towards the tunnel. "And I better see you all here tomorrow, ready and hungry for a win."

"Knights on three!" Simmons, our captain, yelled.

"One, two, three, Knights!"

My adrenaline was still flowing as I followed my teammates off the ice, bumping gloves with the coaching staff as I passed them.

"Hey," one of the assistant coaches said, catching my attention as I skated by. "Great work out there in the scrimmage today."

"Thanks."

Though I knew one compliment or one good practice—hell, even a streak of good games—couldn't keep my spot on the team safe. My agent had told me there'd been rumblings of trading me over the summer, and while nothing had manifested yet, that didn't put me in the clear. Not until the trade deadline passed at the end of February. Because if the front office wanted to switch things up and bring in new meat, there was nothing I could do to change their minds.

Nothing other than play my best and let the chips fall where they may.

These thoughts circled my head as I entered the locker room and stripped out of my equipment, not taking time to stop and shoot the shit with my teammates before grabbing a towel and heading for the showers. Thankfully, the spray was hot enough to shove most of my worries away, and the steam did wonders to rid me of telltale reek of hard work.

"Yo, did you guys see Leonard's hat trick against Florida last night?" Mackay said, his voice carrying into the showers as I dried off, wrapping my towel around my waist.

"It was definitely a beauty."

"Especially that second goal. A rocket right off the inside of the post."

"And maybe it'll be good for us," I cut in, starting to dress. "It's doubtful lightning like that strikes twice in a row."

"Wellsley's right," Simmons said, clapping me on the shoulder. Somehow, even though I'd been the first to hit the showers, he was already dressed and packed to leave. "If the guy's not at top capacity tomorrow and we can get an edge over their starting defensive line, we'll have a great shot at securing another W."

"Damn straight," I said, easily going along with the handshake he offered. "See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early for game film."

The locker room slowly began to dwindle down once our captain made his exit, though since Nyberg and I carpooled most days—there was no need to take two cars to and from the same place—I was left waiting for him.

"Dude," he said, minutes later when he was finally ready to go. He combed his fingers through his damp hair. "I totally blanked that I'm meant to swing by Harvard to chat with their goalie. Coach set it up last week, since the guy is a senior and hoping to be an unrestricted free agent after graduation, especially with the team set to make the Frozen Four for the second time. So, I can either quickly swing by the apartment and drop you off, or—"

"Don't worry about it, I'll come with you," I said, tossing my gym bag over my shoulder. Though I held out my hand for his keys. "But I'm driving."

***

"Did Orlov say anything about his quad still acting up?" Nyberg said from the passenger seat as I drove into Harvard Square, wanting to snag a free spot instead of paying the fees on campus and at the arena.

"Yeah." He'd dived in front of a hard shot in our last game, but while the puck had bounced off his pads, the speed of it had brought the pain with it. "The doctors have said it's just a bruise, but if he's still gritting his teeth after icing it tonight, he'll be sitting tomorrow."

"Rough."

"I'm guessing Coach already has Carter on speed dial, since that's who usually gets the call."

"And he's been playing well this season, so I don't think it'll put us back too far."

I agreed. "It'll be fine. Montreal won't know what's hit them."

Spotting the parking garage I'd been looking for, I turned in and saw it wasn't as busy as I expected. Though it had also just gone five, so a lot of people must've already headed home for the night. Making it that much easier to find an open spot on the first level, where I backed in Nyberg's SUV and cut the engine.

"So, not that I don't enjoy the company," Nyberg drawled as we climbed out the car and headed for the street, "but shouldn't you have a date or something lined up for tonight? I mean, didn't that blonde girl at the bar last weekend slip you her number? What happened?"

Charlie, said blonde girl, had indeed given me her number after we'd spent the better part of the night feeling each other up in the back corner of the bar. The problem, however, laid in the chemistry. Or lack thereof. With only two beers in me, I'd tried to get into it—kissing her hard as her hands explored underneath my shirt—but there'd been no will to move things further until another face popped into my head.

Another face, from another bar. Red hair, pink lips, and green eyes that brought me back to a night I desperately wanted to repeat. Sex with Lia had been off the charts and I'd woken up the next morning intending to ask to see her again, only to find myself alone with a note on her pillow.

Thanks for a great night.

Five words that were enough to let me know she wasn't interested in a repeat. Something my brain clearly hadn't registered in the nearly two weeks that had passed since then.

And while I knew I could've easily called Charlie to set up a date, I wasn't that much of an asshole. When I brought women out, or to bed, it was about them as much as me.

"There was nothing there," I said, my explanation short. Shrugging my shoulders, I tucked my hands away from the cold. The wind was rough and damp off the water as we crossed the bridge that led to where the athletic complex, not helped at all by the light snow that began to fall. "It wouldn't have been worth it, so all my plans for tonight consisted of was watching a game with a beer in my hand."

"Sure looked like there was enough there to me, if you know what I mean," he replied suggestively, nudging my arm. Of course he was referencing her rack. I rolled my eyes and he chuckled. "But don't worry, we'll find you someone this weekend. Especially if we're celebrating two more wins."

"Which we better be, so don't choke in net," I chirped back, laughing as I turned my head to check for cars, only to see a gorgeous redhead bundled up on the other side of the street.

A familiar gorgeous redhead.

Flashbacks of her at the hotel bar grinning and laughing hit me, followed closely by scenes that had replayed several times over the last few weeks while I'd been alone in the shower. Of her straddling me. Of her flushed face after orgasming for the third time. Of her mouth bringing me to the brink of my own release.

"Derrick, you okay, man?"

I shook myself out of it, only to see Nyberg's brows drawn together in confusion a few steps in front of me. "Sorry, I just thought I saw..." I trailed off, glancing back to where I thought I'd seen Lia. But there was nobody there. "Never mind, I'm good."

"You sure?"

I needed to be, because this was getting ridiculous. I'd been rejected before, it wasn't anything new, so I just had to figure out a way to get this woman out of my head. Preferably before it started affecting other things in my life, like my game.

"Yeah, don't worry." I clapped him on the shoulder as we reached the arena. "Now, let's go see if this goalie's got what it takes."

Seeing as the Knights used the Harvard facilities whenever there was a conflict for ice time, we knew our way around. After a quick hello to the coach, who was surprised his player was getting a two-for-one deal with us, he led us to the weight room, which was empty except for the guy we were looking for.

Tall, muscular, and bearded, he certainly looked in good enough to shape to grab the attention of scouts. And on top of that, he knew his shit. Knew which teams would be in need of a back-up goalie at the end of the season. Knew that the chances of getting a call were lower for him, but he wasn't throwing away the hope that his play throughout the remainder of his season would spark some interest.

Plus, he was genuinely looking for advice and tips on making it. And while most questions were directed to Nyberg, whose expertise in net was golden, I didn't hesitate to throw in some advice of my own on a more generic level. It was inspiring really, seeing him get excited about the prospect of the future, and reminded me how I felt before getting drafted.

Hungry and ready to learn.

It was nearly an hour later when we finally made our exit, making sure he'd gotten the most out of the sit down as he could.

"Take the highway," Nyberg said when we climbed back into the car. "It should be clearing up, and I don't want to get stuck at every stop light, especially with all this snow."

It was really coming down now, which meant the roads were going to be awful either way. And I was also of the mind to choose the lesser of two evils. "You read my mind."

Luckily, the traffic was manageable, though there were plenty of drivers who seemed to think that snow suddenly made them incapable of driving.

Like seriously? We were in Boston and it was like they'd never seen snow before.

"Wait, slow down," Nyberg said once we hit a stretch without any drivers clutching their wheels in fear. Thrown by his words, I glanced his way, only to spot what he had clearly seen. A car on the side of the road with small plumes of smoke coming from it. "Pull over and see if they need anything. It looks like they're alone."

And sure enough, as we passed by the car, I saw the seats were empty and a lone figure had managed to pop the hood. Though clearly didn't know what they were doing as they tried to wave away the smoke.

Flicking on the turn signal, I pulled over a few meters in front of them.

"Come grab me if they need help," Nyberg said, pulling his phone out from his pocket.

"What? Why me?"

"You wanted to drive, so you get to play hero and go check things out."

"Whatever," I muttered, reaching into the back seat for the toque I knew he stashed there. Pulling it over my head, I opened my door, feeling the cold blast of air on my face as I said, "you owe me."

a/n: remember to vote! And I also love to read the comments to see how you guys are enjoying the story so far :)