Best Of Both Worlds (Colorado Black Diamonds #4)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

NOAH

I think that water spot is new. The one over by the wall? That’s been there. But this one? It has to be new.

Christ. This is bad. My new place still isn’t ready, and the only long-term hotel I could find near the rink is not the best of the best.

The worst of the worst is more like it. But with my condo being ready “any day now”—their words, not mine—no one wants to take on someone with an unknown end date.

Throwing the thin, flimsy excuse for a comforter off my legs, I head to the small bathroom to take a quick shower before practice.

The banging from the pipes tells me the water isn’t going to get hot anytime soon, so it’s going to be a fast one.

Jesus. This is not how I thought the start of this season would be going. I was hoping to be more settled here at this point. The bright side is that most of the team has welcomed me here.

Well, mostly everyone.

I still can’t get a read on what crawled up Graham’s ass. Everyone, Marcus especially, has been more than welcoming to me.

All except Graham.

Shutting off the water, I run the sorry excuse for a towel over me before brushing my teeth and finding a clean set of clothes to put on.

The one plus side of living here is that I’m only a five-minute walk to the arena. No sense in driving when I don’t have to.

Getting to see the arena like this, smack-dab in the middle of downtown Nashville, always lights me up. Fans always stop outside to take pictures on their way to the bars and I love it. Even though Nashville isn’t the best of teams—yet—their fans still show up.

I guess things could be worse. At least I’m here and playing hockey. I could be done playing entirely. That’s not something I’m ready to think about.

Flashing a wave to the security guard, I head toward the locker room. The vibe in this building is different from the Black Diamonds.

Back home, pictures of all the cups the team has won line the walls. Here? They’re painted a bright red—maybe to distract you from the fact that there aren’t any cup wins?—with our numbers in white over them.

I guess I should stop comparing this team to my old team. It’s certainly not going to win me any friends.

Changing into my gear, I head out onto the ice for a few quick warm-up laps before practice starts. A couple of the guys are already out here as I get my feet under me.

The first few days of practice are the hardest. Getting back into shape for the season, no matter how much I trained during the offseason, is always difficult. But it’s like learning to ride a bike.

And now, as Coach is calling everyone together for a scrimmage, it’s second nature to me.

“Easy game, gentlemen. I want to see how well you all work together so we can work on our lines for the season.”

Coach Mickey drops the puck as I take off, blowing past Graham who lined up opposite me.

Hell yeah.

I don’t know why he hates me so much, but it amps up the need to beat him that much more.

Accepting the pass from Marcus, I deke Graham out and put the puck in the back of the net.

“Great pass!” I clap Marcus on the helmet as the defensive guys all huddle together to see what they did wrong.

“Even better goal.”

Marcus was one of the first guys I gelled with since coming here, and it’s apparent. The two of us work on the ice like we’ve been playing together for years, anticipating where the other will be and always there to set up an assist.

It makes me excited for the season to start.

Once play starts again, it’s not as easy. The D line might have been caught with their pants down to start, but they’re cleaning up their mistakes.

Graham is pushing me as I grab the puck and send it across the ice.

“Think you can beat me?” I egg him on.

“You know I can.”

Bode shoots the puck back over to me and Graham is there to intercept it.

Fuck. I hate letting him get one over on me.

As we push back down the ice, our goalie blocks Graham’s shot and deflects the puck to Marcus.

Even though this is supposed to be a friendly game, I can’t help but want to beat Graham. To wipe that cocky expression off his face anytime he looks at me.

Marcus and I are moving down the ice in perfect synchronicity as Bode moves along the boards. I shoot the puck to Marcus, and he flips it to Bode who lets it fly past the goalie for another score.

“Can I call dibs on playing with you two?” Marcus laughs as he claps Bode and me on the helmet.

“We’d be a tough line to beat,” I tell them as I skate back over to center ice to take my position.

“Don’t get so cocky. We’ll stop you,” Graham points out.

“Maybe if you did a better job defending the puck, we might not have scored on you. Two-nothing now, right? I think that’s what the scoreboard says.”

It’s not what I should be saying, but damn, did it feel good. Until Graham’s fist connects with my jaw.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Oh shit.”

Those are the last words I hear before I return the punch to him. Noise fills my ears as the two of us throw fists, trying to connect with anything we can find purchase on.

“You’re an asshole,” I grit out as I try to push Graham to the ice.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a dick about playing.”

Graham’s fist glances off my jaw and catches someone else before I’m being hauled off him.

A bruise is blooming on his cheek, and there’s a small cut slicing his eyebrow. His dark brown eyes are filled with nothing but hate right now.

No doubt the same as mine.

I’m seething. If fire were coming out of my ears, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Who does this guy think he is? It’s his, what, third season? It’s not like he plays for the best team in the league.

Hell, it’s not like I play for the best team in the league anymore either, something I still haven’t had time to get used to.

It fucking sucks.

“What the hell is wrong with you two? You’re teammates. You shouldn’t be going after one another.”

“He started?—”

“No,” Marcus interrupts. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what shit is going on between the two of you, but you need to work it out.”

If possible, Graham looks even more pissed than I feel. It makes me want to punch him in the face.

Again.

But I can’t. Not if I want to keep my position on this team.

Coach Andrews skates out to where the group of us are. His face is unreadable. Fuck. That is not a good thing.

“Coach. Sorry. Didn’t mean to steal your thunder, but I couldn’t take these guys being idiots anymore,” Marcus tells him.

Andrews throws up his hands. “You took care of it about the same as I would. I appreciate your leadership skills.”

Marcus nods. “Trying to do what I can, Coach.”

“Appreciate it.” Coach blows his whistle. “Suicides. Everyone. I’ll let you know when you’re done.”

A collective groan echoes around the empty arena.

Fuck me.

I’m really making a great impression on my new team if this is what I bring down upon them. The worst drill in hockey—skating from one end of the rink to the blue line and back before going to center ice, then back, followed by the opposite blue line, then back again before doing it over the length of the entire ice.

I make sure to line up as far away from Graham as possible. Based on the pain in my jaw, I know there is going to be a wicked bruise there later.

Ignoring that pain, I listen for the whistle and put all of my anger and frustration into our drills.

By the time we’re done, I have no idea how much time has passed, but I’m hurting. My thighs are burning and guys are grumbling as they head off the ice.

For more training in the weight room.

Fuck. This really is not how I wanted to start the season.

“Fields. Fisher. My office, please.”

Coach Andrews doesn’t say another word as he heads back down the tunnel. My eyes find Graham’s across the ice and for once, he at least looks chagrined.

If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

He skates off first and I follow.

By the time I’m in the door after Graham, Coach Andrews is already seated behind his desk.

I haven’t spent a lot of time in here, but it has more pictures of his family than it did last year. A TV takes up one wall with a dry erase board—my guess to plan out plays—and the other has a shelf filled with books, binders, and more pictures of him and his loved ones.

“What in the hell is going on between you two?” Coach asks. This time, there’s a little less patience in his voice. “In all my years of coaching, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two teammates go after one another.”

“But—”

“No.” Coach holds up a hand, interrupting whatever argument I was about to fire off at him. “The last thing we need is a division within the team. I don’t want your dislike of one another to come between the team.”

“It’s my fault, Coach. I let my emotions get the better of me today and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

My jaw drops. I mean, yes, it was Graham’s fault because he threw the first punch, but I didn’t expect him to so willingly accept the blame.

“Good. You’re both exceptional players, and I would hate to see you two riding the bench because you can’t control your emotions toward one another.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air.

Get your shit together or you won’t be playing.

“Yes, Coach,” both of us answer at the same time.

“And to see to it that you start liking one another, I’ll be working with the travel coordinator to make sure you two room together while we travel.”

“Wait. What?” I ask.

“Rooming together. Standard operating procedure when traveling as a team.”

“Yeah, but?—”

Coach holds up his hand, effectively ending my argument. “No buts. I don’t expect you two to be best friends by the end of the season, but you’ll work together to help bring the Knights up to a level that we’re all proud of. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Now go before I make you do more suicides.”