CHAPTER 1: PRE-SEASON GRIND
Declan
The rookie flew down the left wing, carrying the puck with casual arrogance. His edges carved impossible patterns through the neutral zone, making Stevens look like he skated in wet cement. I stepped up to challenge, expecting a routine deke.
What happened instead defied physics.
Morozov pulled the puck between his legs, spun completely around while maintaining speed, and emerged on my right side through a gap no bigger than a dinner plate. Before I could pivot, he rifled a shot top-shelf that our goalie never saw.
The bench erupted in stick taps and whoops. Even Coach Strickland’s perpetual scowl softened momentarily.
“Holy shit,” Stevens muttered beside me. “Kid’s got mitts.”
My right knee screamed as I circled back to position. Fire shot from joint to hip—the same pain that woke me at five-thirty this morning, that required two extra-strength Advil, a compression sleeve, and Marco’s elaborate pre-practice treatment protocol just to make it onto the ice.
The move was filthy—the kind of highlight-reel garbage that made SportsCenter but won exactly zero playoff series. Yet something uncomfortable twisted in my gut. Not just annoyance. Something dangerously close to admiration, tangled with the sour bite of jealousy.
When the knee finally shredded for good, the league would ship me out with yesterday’s tape rolls—no banner, no legacy. Just another broken-down defenseman replaced by someone younger, faster, flashier.
Someone like Sergei “Surge” Morozov.
“Again!” Strickland barked. “O’Malley, tighten that gap!”
The next rush came fast. This time I cheated toward Morozov’s side, determined not to get embarrassed twice. He recognized the adjustment instantly, cutting hard toward the middle instead, forcing me to pivot on my bad knee. Pain flared sharp and immediate.
I lunged desperately, stick extended. Our blades connected with a crack that echoed through the rink. Momentum carried us into the corner boards with a thunderous collision.
For one suspended moment, we tangled—arms, sticks, bodies compressed against the glass. His face inches from mine, sweat flinging from dark curls. The scent of cinnamon gum on his breath mixed with the sharp tang of exertion. Heat radiated through our elbow pads where skin nearly touched skin.
His eyes—dark brown, almost black—widened slightly. Something electric crackled between us, unexpected and unwelcome.
My pulse spiked. Breath caught. A muscle in my jaw twitched.
The whistle shrieked, shattering the moment.
“What the hell was that, Brick?” Strickland shouted as we separated. “You’re defending the rush, not auditioning for WWE!”
Morozov flashed a cocky grin, tapping his stick against his skates. “No problem, Coach. Old guys get cranky when they can’t keep up.”
Laughter rippled through the younger players. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
“Watch your mouth, rookie,” I growled, low enough that only he could hear. “You won’t be smiling when someone separates those pretty hands from your wrists.”
His smile didn’t falter, but something flickered behind his eyes—a flash of uncertainty quickly masked by bravado.
“Scared I’ll take your spot, дедушка?” Grandfather. The Russian slid off his tongue like a challenge.
Before I could respond, Strickland’s whistle cut through the tension.
“Enough! Center ice, all of you. New power-play units.”
The team gathered in a half-circle, breath fogging in the cold arena air. November in Newport meant bitter wind off the harbor and early darkness. Perfect hockey weather, if my body hadn’t started betraying me three seasons back.
Strickland consulted his clipboard, scowl deepening. Five straight losses put everyone on edge. His job security thinned with each defeat, and Newport’s blue-collar fans weren’t known for patience. The Fifth Ward diehards who packed our barn expected honest hockey and honest effort. We’d delivered neither lately.
“First unit,” Strickland announced. “Callahan, Stevens, Martinez, Wilson, and O’Malley.”
Standard configuration. Ryan “Skipper” Callahan, our captain, would quarterback from the half-wall. Wilson in the bumper spot. Stevens net-front. Martinez opposite Skipper. Me at the point, where my heavy shot compensated for diminishing speed.
“Second unit.” Strickland paused, squinting at his clipboard. “Chen, Fisher, Bailey, Kovalchuk, and—” Another pause. “Morozov.”
Eyebrows raised around the circle. Morozov had been running the first unit since joining the roster—our shiny first-round pick, twenty-two years old with hands softer than hotel pillows.
A spark of satisfaction warmed my chest. The demotion wouldn’t sit well with the kid, especially given the way he’d carved up practice. Maybe Coach finally recognized flash didn’t equal substance.
“Actually, scratch that.” Strickland’s expression shifted to something calculating. “New experiment. O’Malley, I want you quarterbacking from the point. Morozov, half-wall. Callahan bumper, Stevens net-front, Martinez weak side.”
My satisfaction evaporated. “Coach—”
“Problem, Brick?” His eyes bored into mine.
The problem was everything. Defensemen and wingers paired situationally, not as regular linemates. Especially not a thirty-four-year-old stay-at-home defenseman with a rookie dangler who’d never met a high-risk pass he didn’t love.
“No problem.” My voice rasped, betraying the lie.
Morozov’s expression mirrored my own shock, but he recovered quicker, flashing that irritating grin. “We’ll make beautiful music together, дедушка.”
“Save it for practice.” Strickland checked his watch. “Five minutes. Set up in the offensive zone. And listen up—this isn’t a suggestion. I need points in the standings, not excuses. Either you two figure out how to work together, or you both enjoy the view from the press box tomorrow night.”
The ultimatum hung in the frigid air. Skipper shot me a sympathetic glance as he skated toward position. Danny Martinez—quiet, anxious, third-line grinder—nervously tapped his stick blade against the ice.
This was garbage. Pure desperation from a coach running out of options. But fourteen years in the league taught me when to push back and when to shut up and execute. Nothing killed a career faster than the “difficult veteran” label.
The power-play drill started as badly as expected. Our passes missed connections. Timing crumbled. Surge tried a between-the-legs feed that sailed wide of my stick, leading to a shorthanded breakaway.
Strickland’s whistle split the air. “Again! And keep it simple, for Christ’s sake!”
The second attempt fared marginally better, until Morozov called for a seam pass I couldn’t see. The puck skittered harmlessly into the corner.
“O’Malley!” Strickland shouted. “He was open!”
“Didn’t see it,” I growled, skating back to position.
“Then open your eyes!” He turned to Morozov. “And you—stop trying to force SportsCenter highlights. Basic hockey.”
Morozov nodded, but his clenched jaw telegraphed frustration.
The rest of practice descended into the special hell of conditioning drills. Blue line and back. Red line and back. Far blue line and back. Goal line and back. Repeat until your lungs burned and legs trembled. Punishment disguised as preparation.
I pushed through on muscle memory and stubbornness, ignoring the fire spreading from knee to hip. Veterans like Skipper and me knew the unwritten rule—never show weakness, never be the first to bend over gasping. The moment you showed vulnerability, your replacement was already lacing up his skates.
Through it all, I kept finding Morozov in my peripheral vision. The kid barely seemed winded, gliding through drills with the same fluid grace he brought to everything. Occasionally our eyes would meet, and that same strange current would ripple through my chest.
By the time Strickland finally blew the final whistle, my leg screamed and sweat plastered my undershirt to every inch of skin.
“Pitiful,” Strickland announced as we gathered at center ice. “If that’s your best effort, we might as well forfeit the season now.” He consulted his clipboard. “Recovery shakes and video at one. Media at two. Don’t embarrass yourselves or this organization any further today.”
The team dispersed toward the tunnel, a shuffling procession of exhaustion and frustration. I lingered, executing my cool-down routine of slow circles and gentle stretches. The empty rink offered precious minutes of solitude before facing the trainers and their concerned frowns.
“Need help?”
Morozov stood at the bench door, helmet off, dark hair curling damply around his face. His expression hovered somewhere between mockery and genuine concern.
“No,” I said, skating past him toward the tunnel.
“Your knee looked rough during suicides.”
I stopped abruptly, turning to face him. Up close, without helmets and gloves between us, he seemed younger—almost vulnerable despite the swagger.
“Listen carefully,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’ve been doing this since you were in middle school. I don’t need advice, concern, or commentary from someone who’s played exactly twenty-three NHL games. Focus on your own game before you start critiquing mine.”
Something hardened in his expression. “Twenty-four games. And not critiquing. Just offering help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Everyone needs help sometimes.” His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted—shoulders stiffening, jaw tightening. “Even me.”
He stepped around me without another word, disappearing into the locker room.
I remained in the hallway, suddenly aware of my racing pulse and the lingering scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive. The encounter left me unsettled in ways I couldn’t articulate.
My knee throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a steady reminder of everything I stood to lose. Fourteen seasons of blood and sacrifice, of broken bones and missed holidays. My identity, my purpose, my entire adult life—all balanced on a deteriorating joint and borrowed time.
And now this kid—this flashy, talented, irritating rookie—threatened everything without even trying. Not just my roster spot or my role. Something else, something I couldn’t name but felt like danger all the same.
The hallway leading to the locker room bore witness to a thousand small defeats. Dented drywall from thrown helmets. Scuffed floors from temper-driven kicks. Faded championship photos that grew yellower each season.
I’d outlasted dozens of prospects and draft picks. Survived three coaching changes, two ownership groups, and a knee reconstruction that should have ended my career. Nobody lasted this long without adapting.
The training room smelled of menthol and desperation. Marco, our head trainer, glanced up from his tablet as I entered.
“Let me guess—‘It’s fine, just wrap it?’” His Puerto Rican accent thickened with sarcasm.
“That obvious?”
“Only to everyone with eyes.” He patted the treatment table. “Sit. Ice first, then stim.”
I peeled off my practice gear, wincing as the knee sleeve stuck to sweat-slick skin. The joint beneath had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, angry red flesh radiating heat.
Marco whistled low. “Should get an MRI.”
“After the homestand.” I settled back on the table, closing my eyes as electrodes found their familiar homes on my quadriceps. “Just make it functional for two more days.”
“Your funeral, man.” Marco cranked the machine, sending current pulsing through my leg. “But I’m documenting my objection.”
“Noted.”
Twenty minutes of electro-stim, ten minutes of ice, KT tape in a complex crosshatch pattern, and finally, a cortisone cream that burned like hellfire but numbed the deeper ache. By the time I pulled on sweats, the pain had dulled from screaming to muttering.
The locker room had emptied except for a few stragglers. Skipper methodically packed his bag, eyeing me as I limped to my stall.
“Strickland’s lost his mind,” he said quietly. “You and the Russian on the same unit?”
“Desperate times.” I sat heavily, unwrapping the tape from my stick blade. My grandfather had taught me the pattern—a specific crosshatch that maximized grip without adding weight. One of the few good memories from childhood.
“Knee okay?”
“Functional.”
“Bullshit.” Skipper zipped his bag. “But I respect the lie.”
From across the room, I heard a distinctive ringtone. Morozov stood rigid by his stall, phone pressed to his ear, responding in rapid Russian. His face had drained of all cockiness, leaving only tension.
“Trouble in paradise,” Skipper murmured, following my gaze. “Father calls after every practice. Not exactly warm conversations.”
An unexpected pang of sympathy flickered through me. I knew something about demanding fathers who treated hockey success as the only acceptable currency.
“Not my problem,” I said, despite the curiosity gnawing at me.
“Might be. Coach wasn’t kidding about the press box.” Skipper shouldered his bag. “Film study. One o’clock.”
He left, the door swinging behind him. I finished my cool-down routine, stretching the IT band that connected knee to hip, methodically rolling a lacrosse ball under my plantar fascia. The ritual eased the physical pain but did nothing for the anxiety tightening my chest.
Five seasons back, I’d led the team in blocked shots and penalty kill minutes. Three seasons ago, I’d worn an ‘A’ on my jersey. Last year, I barely held a third-pairing role. Now I dangled by a thread, my future tied to a flashy rookie with a death wish for high-risk passes.
If Morozov kept skating circles around me, my career clock would tick down even faster. Weeks, not seasons. The team would waive me, clear cap space for someone younger. Thirty-four was ancient in hockey years. Nobody wanted the broken-down enforcer when they could have the next highlight-reel phenom.
Our eyes met briefly across the room. For a split second, I glimpsed something raw and unguarded in his expression—something that mirrored my own hidden fears.
Then his mask slipped back into place, and mine did too.
I gathered my things, grimacing as my knee protested each movement. The video room beckoned—hours of game tape might reveal patterns in Morozov’s play, weaknesses I could exploit or strengths I could leverage. If my body couldn’t keep up, maybe my brain could compensate.
Learn the kid’s game or disappear with yesterday’s tape rolls. No third option existed.
I limped toward the door, the same vow echoing with each painful step: master the rookie or become a memory. The question wasn’t if my career would end—only whether I’d go out fighting or fade away unremembered.