Best Of Both Worlds (Colorado Black Diamonds #4)

Prologue

NOAH

T his fucking sucks.

Eight years in the league, one bad injury, and now I’ve been dumped without ceremony. It’s not like it’s my fault that my knee wouldn’t cooperate. Instead of heading into the playoffs with the Black Diamonds, I’m standing outside the boards watching my new team play.

The Nashville Knights.

Arguably the worst team in the league.

Seriously. This fucking sucks.

And I’m not even in Nashville yet. I had enough time to pack a bag in Denver, fly to San Jose for the game tonight, and then I’ll travel with the team back to Nashville after a short stretch of away games.

I can’t even learn the ice here because it’s not my home ice. Not like I’d get any actual playing time tonight since it’s my first day with the team.

I twist the stick currently in my hand, trying to ward off all the bad feelings that are threatening to overwhelm me.

“Noah. Good to have you here.” Coach Andrews claps me on the shoulder as I turn to face him.

He’s one of the younger coaches in the league, brought in this year to help the flailing Knights try to find the greatness that I’ve been used to my entire career. With a shaved head and thick Coke-bottle glasses, he is the furthest thing you’d expect from a head coach.

But after playing in the league for a few years, he started coaching in college and made quite the name for himself.

Maybe he’ll help turn this team around.

I guess, my team around. That is going to take a while to wrap my head around.

“Thanks, Coach.” I stick out my hand for him to shake.

“Nice to not be the only new guy around here.”

“Hopefully we’ll both adjust quickly,” I tell him.

“Then what do you say we get started? You won’t be starting against San Jose tonight, but we thought it’d be good to get your skates under you today.”

“Sounds good.”

Even though I resent him the tiniest bit—well, not him, but the team—I’m ready to get out on the ice. It’s the one place I feel most comfortable. Even if I might be out of my element with a brand-new team.

It feels like the first day of school as I follow Coach Andrews out onto the ice. He blows the whistle to halt practice and brings everyone’s attention to where we’re standing.

“Alright, men. I’d like to introduce your newest teammate, Noah Fields. We’re lucky to have a player of his caliber join us, so make sure you all make him feel welcome.”

A few people call out in greeting as my eyes flit across all of them. I have no idea how these guys will react to me. No idea how they play.

Are they selfish with the puck? Are they willing to learn from a more seasoned player? Are we going to continue to be at the bottom of the league every year?

And that’s when I see him.

Graham fucking Fisher.

The entire reason I’m here to start with. He’s standing back with a few of my new teammates, all guys I recognize from playing against them over the years. Even though we only see each other in passing here and there, faces have become familiar. A quick hello sometimes after games.

Marcus Evans.

Jasper Hayes.

Bode Adams.

Dax Fletcher.

All good guys. Except Fisher.

With one hit, he changed my entire playing career. I didn’t miss the way he looked at me when I went down. I couldn’t get a read on his face, but I hated the look there. Like he wished he hit me harder.

Asshole.

Dark brown eyes are staring at me under the shield of his helmet. Assessing me. Probably wondering why the hell I’m here and not their defenseman they traded for me.

I’ve known Graham Fisher as long as he’s been alive. Being the son of one of my dad’s closest friends, we were always together growing up.

Family barbeques.

Sporting games of any kind.

Holidays.

I don’t know when things changed between the two of us, but we’re going to have to get along just enough to make this whole team thing work.

“Fields.” Graham skates up to me, stopping a good foot away from me.

“Fisher,” I clip back at him.

He’s the same height as me, but stockier. Graham has a scar that dissects his hard jaw—from an errant stick that caught him in college.

Why do I know these things about the man who hates me?

“Good to have you here,” he tells me. “Think you’re up to the task?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I fire back at his jab. “Think I’m too old to be playing?”

Fisher rolls his eyes at me. “Are you always like this?”

“You’re the one calling me old.”

“I asked if you’re up to the task. Not because you’re old.” Graham shakes his head at me. “We’re not the best team in the league. It’d be stupid to pretend otherwise. You can’t just skate out here like you own the place and expect everyone to fall at your feet because you’ve won a few cups.”

Anger flashes through me. “Did I come in here acting like I own the place?”

“I know guys like you.” Fisher skates a hair closer to me.

“Guys like me, huh?” I rest my gloved hands on my stick. “You don’t know shit about me, Fisher.”

“Oh, but I do.”

A whistle blows, ending our standoff.

Fucking asshole. He doesn’t know anything about me.

“Let’s run some drills. See how we all work together,” Coach Andrews bellows. “We’ve got a hard game tonight against San Jose, so let’s focus on cleaning up our mistakes from the game against Arizona.”

A few people groan and mutter under their breath. The game against Arizona had more than a few mistakes. Puck control. Defense. Power plays.

Nothing went right for the Knights and they lost 7-2.

It was ugly.

Is this what I have to look forward to?

Practice is anything but fluid. Guys are missing easy passes, letting in goals that Nick would have stopped in his sleep, and making mistakes that any opposing team would take advantage of.

Fuck.

As the morning skate ends and I head back toward the visitors’ locker room, at least one thing that feels familiar greets me that wasn’t there earlier.

My jersey.

Fields is emblazoned in bright red on the back of the white jersey. A pair of crossed hockey sticks to look like swords for the Knights sits above the four that is stitched on the back.

At least I got to keep the same number. I don’t know if I could ever give that up. My dad’s old number from his playing days. I’ve never not played with this number. My own good luck charm of sorts.

While everything is changing, one thing hasn’t. One thing is still familiar, even if I have a new team and new colors.

At least something doesn’t suck today.