9
Connell
“Och, and what about that one?” I nodded toward the rookie, who flew by, trying his hardest to catch Cannon. Trying was the correct word. There wasn’t a faster skater in the NHL than Cannon Price.
“Maxfield,” Logan answered as we leaned over the wall from the bench. “Rookie out of Boston.”
“And that one?” I motioned toward the guy in goal next to Sawyer.
“Jansen Sterling.” Logan shook his head. “Didn’t you at least read all the trading news?”
“Nah. Figured I’d get all the news here anyway.” I shrugged and watched as the local skaters took the ice.
It was mid-August, and we had a couple of weeks until our official practices began, but we liked to get together for informal pickup games as we all got back into town, or in the case of both Logan and I—never leave town.
Cannon flew by and stopped suddenly at the end of the bench, throwing snow.
“I don’t know, Price. I think you may be a wee bit out of shape,” I jested.
“Fuck off,” he muttered as the new kid caught up.
The kid ripped off his helmet and shook out his sweat-laden hair with awe on his face. “How the hell do you move like that?”
Cannon took off his helmet and simply turned away from the kid, dismissing him completely as he climbed in next to us.
“Gossiping like the little school girls you are?” he asked.
“Always,” Logan replied with a smirk.
The kid’s eyes flew wide as Axel stepped in with us, Lukas Vestergaard at his side.
“Stop scaring the rookies, Cannon,” Axel warned.
A corner of Cannon’s mouth lifted, but it would have been wrong to call it a smile.
“Go skate, Maxfield. We’ll be out once we’re done gossiping like the little school girls we are.” Axel shooed off the new skater.
“How many newbies are we stuck with?” Lukas asked.
“Five,” a voice behind us answered.
We turned to see Asher Silas, the owner of the Reapers, standing with Coach McPherson.
“We took the best they had and even found a goalie for McCoy to train up.” Silas nodded toward the goal. “So don’t run off the rookies, okay?”
We all muttered our assent as a hulking figure skated our way. He ripped off his helmet as he stood in front of us and glared.
Interesting.
“Who the fuck decided that I have to show up to some bullshit charity gala?” he growled.
“Well, if I knew who the fuck you were, maybe I could answer you,” Silas replied, chill as the ice.
“I’m Brogan Grant, your new left wing.” Guy lifted his chin a good inch in the air. “Who the fuck are you?”
Every single player in the bench stood still as death.
“I’m Asher Silas, the owner of the Reapers, that’s who the fuck I am. Also, you’ll be showing up to that bullshit charity auction because the contract you signed agreed to any charitable appearances that I deem appropriate on behalf of the Reaper Charitable Foundation. If you have a problem with that, I’m happy to negotiate a contract that removes you from the Reapers.” Silas didn’t even wait for the guy to respond, he just turned to Coach. “I think I’ve seen all I need to.” He took off down the access tunnel.
“You’re the one out LA, right?” Coach asked as if he didn’t know. Of course he knew since he was the one who went after the trades.
“Yeah. They call me Demon.”
Had to hand it to the arse, he didn’t back down.
“They’ll be calling you from the minors if you ever mouth off on my ice like that again. Don’t test me. I don’t let assholes skate on my team.” Coach shook his head and headed off to where Langley was flagging him down at the edge of the rink.
Grant watched, then made a sound of appreciation as Langley turned away.
“Look at her again, and I’ll remove your balls as a favor because there’s no chance in hell you could handle my wife. I don’t care what the fuck they call you.” Axel walked over the wall—he was that bloody tall—and skated off without another word.
Lukas whistled at Grant and did the same.
“Well, Grant, way to make a first impression,” I said with a nod. “Och, and just a heads up, the role of broody bastard has already been taken by Cannon, so you might need to find a new schtick.”
“He’s not wrong,” Logan agreed, slapping Cannon on the back.
Cannon didn’t bat an eye at the guy as Grant tried to stare him down. Then he fucking grinned.
Grant swore and skated off.
“What a first-class prick,” Logan muttered.
“We should warn Sephie and have her cut him from the gala. No one needs that around a fundraiser,” I mused.
“Who the fuck is Sephie?” Cannon snapped and gave me his full attention.
“Persephone? You know, the little blonde who runs the charitable—”
“I know who Persephone is,” he barked. “What I don’t know is why the fuck you’re calling her Sephie.”