Chapter 1: Bitter old man.
| Caleb Bennett |
My right leg bounced nervously as I sat in the backseat of a poorly maintained taxi. The music blaring from the radio was starting to sound like the soundtrack to my execution. For the fifth time, I glanced at the digital watch on my wrist, feeling like I was about to lose my mind. I was going to be embarrassingly late. None of this would’ve happened if my father had postponed his disdain for hockey for later—maybe a bedtime phone call or, better yet, a letter I could burn to ashes.
My phone started vibrating, and without looking to see who it was, I answered.
“Where the hell are you, Caleb?” Ian demanded on the other end of the line.
Ian Baker, along with his twin brother Milan, made up the golden trio of our hockey team. We’d been playing together since high school and were now teammates at the university.
“I’m ten minutes away from the camp,” I said quickly. “Help me out.”
“He’s dead,” I heard Milan say in the background.
“Shit,” Ian cursed. “The welcome ceremony just ended. We’re heading to the locker room now.”
I pressed a hand to my face. This couldn’t be happening. This summer camp was under more scrutiny than ever before, with some big NHL names watching. I couldn’t screw up on the first day.
“Try to delay practice,” I pleaded, desperation creeping into my voice.
“Are you insane? Do you think your career is the only one at stake here?”
“Ian, I’m begging you. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Get your ass here, now,” he exclaimed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Ian hung up, and I threw my head back in frustration. If I missed the team division, I was out. Running a hand through my hair, I leaned forward.
“Sir, can you speed up? I need to get to the camp right now.”
“I’ll do my best,” he replied.
He didn’t do a damn thing. Twelve minutes later, we arrived at the camp. I grabbed my bags without waiting for the driver’s help and sprinted toward the main building. My phone vibrated again, and I glanced at the screen to see a message from Ian: “To the rink, baby.”
I cursed out loud and, without a second thought, tossed my bags near the glass doors, carrying only my hockey stick slung over my back. Thankfully, I knew the layout and headed straight for the rink. My footsteps echoed through the empty halls. Out of 48 players, I was the only one late.
I entered the locker room, quickly found my assigned locker, and grabbed the camp’s white uniform. I changed without really thinking about what I was doing. At this point, I’d rather show up naked than miss this opportunity. Though irrational, I couldn’t afford to connect the dots in my brain right now.
I ran toward the translucent white doors leading to the rink, praying practice hadn’t started yet. I took a couple of deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm down before gently pushing the door open.
The group of players was gathered, chatting carelessly among themselves. Keeping close to the walls, I blended into the crowd.
“Player 18! Did you find what you were looking for?!”
From the back of the group, I saw Ian rise from one of the bleachers, holding something in his hands.
“Yes! Thank you, Coach. It’s important to me,” Ian replied.
“Good. Now, move along. We’re about to start team assignments.”
Ian glanced around, looking for me, and when he finally spotted me at the edge of the group, he flipped me off. A quiet laugh escaped me, and I forced myself to look away. I had made it, but I’d definitely pay for it later.
The coach stood alongside the other trainers. Some were renowned figures, which was why this camp was so prestigious. It gave players the chance to team up with the best from other universities while being trained by legendary hockey mentors. And, of course, being here meant you were on the radar for the big leagues.
We were going to be split into eight teams, each coached by one of the trainers in front of us. They reintroduced themselves, probably repeating what they’d said during the welcome ceremony, but this time adding a short speech about their expectations.
I thought I’d escaped my little mishap until my gaze accidentally met the third coach’s eyes.
“I’m Rowan Monroe,” he said.
I repeated his name in my head. It sounded familiar, but his unfriendly demeanor didn’t ring any bells. His groomed beard accentuated his sharp jawline, and his slightly tanned skin contrasted interestingly with his neatly combed black hair. Somehow, his deep voice carried a clear warning as he turned his attention back to the group.
“I don’t expect much from you,” he continued. “The only ones risking their lives here are you, so something as basic as discipline is the minimum I expect. If you can’t even show up on time, you won’t go far.”
That last part was said while looking directly at me. I frowned in annoyance. Was he already dooming my career without knowing anything about me?
Coach Rowan spoke for a few more minutes, delivering a long-winded lecture about responsibility and respect. My face twisted more with each boring word, and just as he finished, in the small silence that followed, my mouth acted on its own.
“Bitter old man,” I muttered.
Even I was surprised. I didn’t say it loudly, but someone had to have heard it. Shifting uncomfortably among the players, I moved further out of the coaches’ view.
One by one, we drew pieces of paper from a helmet. It was the old-fashioned way of dividing teams. I’d never cared about which team I ended up on, but this time I prayed not to end up with Coach Rowan.
The paper I drew had a big C printed on it. As the noise of the group took over the rink, Ian and Milan approached me.
“Damn it, those blonde curls of yours are going to your head, aren’t they?”
I laughed as Ian hooked an arm around my neck, practically whispering through gritted teeth.
“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“What did your dad do this time?” Milan asked.
I sighed, scratching my neck, not in the mood to discuss our latest argument.
“We fought. Nothing new,” I said. “More importantly, what letters did you guys get?”
“A and C,” Milan replied.
“C? I got C too.”
The twins exchanged glances. Ian’s face lit up with a teasing grin, while Milan’s expression turned to one of resigned annoyance.
“We’re together!” Ian exclaimed, raising his fist to show his C. I bumped it with my own, laughing at Milan’s clear frustration.
“This sucks. I’ll be stuck with a bunch of rookies…”
“Look on the bright side, Milan,” I teased. “You’ll finally have the chance to shine without Ian and me overshadowing you.”
Milan clicked his tongue, punched my shoulder in mock annoyance, and walked off to join his team. I stayed with Ian, seated in our section of the bleachers, as Rowan Monroe positioned himself in front of us.
Damn bad luck.
He leaned casually against the railing, skimming through the profiles of the six players on Team C in silence.
“Alright, once the rink clears, we’ll play a game to determine your positions,” he said calmly.
I frowned. “We already know our positions.”
Rowan lowered the clipboard and looked at me without changing his stance.
“Player 20. Caleb Bennett. Correct?”
I shrugged. He’d just read it off my profile.
“Yes.”
“Maybe I misspoke,” he said slowly. “We’ll play the game to see how good you are in your positions. And, regardless, I’m your coach now. If I want you to play as a goalie, you will.”
“I’m not good as a goalie.”
Rowan crossed his arms. “Is there anything you are good at?”
The old man was messing with me. That steady gaze wasn’t for nothing—he had it out for me, and unfortunately, I’d landed on his team. But he didn’t know who he was dealing with. His words didn’t intimidate me; they just made my blood boil.
“Playing,” I said curtly.
Rowan smirked. “But not as a goalie.”
Was this guy insane?! I started to get up to confront him, but Ian grabbed my arm and shoved me back down. Rowan didn’t even flinch.
“What are you doing? Behave,” Ian hissed, annoyed.
I took a deep breath, pushed Ian’s arm away, and stared at the coach without hesitation.
“I’m a forward. And I’m good at playing forward,” I said grudgingly.
An awkward silence fell over the team until a whistle from another group cleared the rink.
“Alright, Caleb Bennett, can you prove it?”Rowan challenged.
