Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

1. Zach

1

Zach

“Briggsy, over here!”

“Can I get your autograph?”

“I love you, Briggs!”

Their shouts rain over me as I exit the tunnel. We’re thirty minutes from puck drop, but a sizable crowd already stands at the glass. The second year in a row our season opener is sold out.

Two years ago, during my rookie season, attendance was shit. But with how loud Cole Coliseum gets during games these days, we sometimes can’t hear each other on the ice. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The energy of the crowd fuels me unlike anything else.

“Hey, guys, thanks for being here.” I smack a couple of hands reaching out from the stands as I jog to the ice, stopping short when I see a sign from a young kid.

I WANT TO BE JUST LIKE brIGGSY WHEN I GROW UP . My jersey number—10—is written on each corner of the poster inside a sloppy star.

I gesture to the sign. “That is so cool.”

The boy beams at me with a gap-tooth smile.

“Oh, hey, you look like Addy!”

Lukas Adamek, one of our defensemen, wears a gap in his front teeth as a badge of honor. The kid’s cheeks flush as he grips the leg of the man beside him.

“Any chance you want this?” I lift my stick in the air toward him, and his hands dart out to take it. The man beside him grabs the stick, steadying it so the boy doesn’t drop it.

The kid stares at it with wide eyes. “Dad! Look!”

“That’s amazing, Trev.” Then he mouths to me, Thank you .

Heat surges in my chest at how easily I make this kid’s day. I reacted the same way to hockey players when I was young. I promised myself if I made it into the league, I’d be generous with my time because of the difference it made for me.

I trot back to the locker room to grab another stick. On impulse, I snatch a handful of pucks and throw them to the crowd as I walk down the tunnel. Delighted cheers fill me to the damn brim.

When I reach center ice, Alexei Volkov smirks at me. “Starting early this year?” he asks in his deep Russian accent. His gaze flicks from my face to the crowd by our locker room entrance.

I roll my eyes. “We can afford it.”

I have a reputation for tossing too much of our equipment to fans. Everyone does it, and it’s encouraged, up to a point.

I’m still amazed every time someone shouts my name or wears my jersey. The guys chirp me about how long I stay after every game—win or lose—to sign autographs. No one drives home with me because of it. Well, that and because I don’t exactly have the best driving record.

Matt Harris, our team captain, skates over to us, shooting ice in our direction as he comes to a stop. “Can you afford it? I heard if you can’t get your Oprah complex under control, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

Volk and I stare blankly at Matt.

“Oprah complex?” I repeat.

“For the love of God,” Matt groans. “Please tell me you know who Oprah is.”

At thirty years old, Matt’s in a different generation than me, something neither of us forgets when I fail to understand his references—at least once a day. Volk does too, but he has the excuse of spending half his life in a foreign country. I’ve reminded Matt I also grew up in a foreign country, but he considers Canada an extension of the US since we share a border and a hockey league.

I pick up a puck with my stick and flip it in the air, playing catch like it’s a hacky sack. “You mean those fancy concerts?"

Volk winces. “Who’s Oprah?”

“Un-fucking-believable,” Matt mutters under his breath. “Hey, Princeton!”

Sawyer Jennings got his nickname because—you guessed it—he attended the fancy, rich, smart-people college, unusual for the NHL. He turns and raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

He’s not wearing his helmet yet, so his blond shaggy hair dips below his ears, shining in the lights. He’s become one of my closest friends on the team since he came into the league last season.

“You know who Oprah is?” Matt asks.

Jennings sighs, probably thinking we’re chirping him over his intelligence again. “Yes, Harry, I know who Oprah is.”

Harry, Matt’s nickname even though it has the same number of syllables as his last name. It’s a hockey thing.

Matt tosses his arms in the air. “And my faith in humanity is restored.”

Jennings’s brow wrinkles.

I shake my head at him, signaling not to worry about it. “He’s old.”

Matt whacks me in the butt with his stick.

“Hey,” I yelp even though my pads absorb the blow.

“No disrespecting your captain,” Matt calls.

I trail Jennings to our bench, where he snatches a water bottle and squirts into his mouth. When he’s done, he sprays me, but my eyes close before it hits my face. We do this before every game.

“You ready for the season?” he asks.

“I think so.”

He douses me with another healthy stream of water. “What’s with the attitude?”

I shake my head, spraying water droplets to the side. “Just in my head.”

“About what?”

“I need a good season. It’s the last year of my entry-level contract.”

I worked my ass off all summer, forgoing time with my family and friends. I’m stronger, fitter, and more skilled than ever. I won’t repeat last year’s lackluster performance, the dreaded sophomore slump. Disappointing the ownership, my coaches, and the fans is not an option.

Jennings scoffs. “Come on, you’re not going anywhere.”

My stomach somersaults at the thought of leaving Palmer City, the place I now consider home. I have friends here. An apartment. I like my teammates and my coach. My brand of hockey aligns with the system the Wolves play. I fit . I come across as easygoing, but I haven’t always felt at home like I do here. I want to stay.

“I fucking hope so.”

I want a long-term deal with a solid salary to cement myself as part of this team's core. I need to show them I’m worth a multi-million dollar investment.

“Don’t hope.” Jennings skates by me, bumping my shoulder. “You got this, Briggsy.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m on the ice, waiting for puck drop on the opposite side of the face-off circle from Volk. His nemesis, Justin Ward, shoves his shoulder while skating to center ice. They exchange words I can’t hear over the roar of the excited crowd, the beginning of tonight’s trash talk.

Niko Halonen—a flashy acquisition from the trade deadline last season who centers our line—smirks at Ward. The cocky asshole pushes our patience, but as far as I can tell, he’s not a bad guy… unlike Ward, whose favorite part of hockey is to purposefully injure people.

Halo—as the team calls Halonen—wins the face-off and sends the puck to me. Nothing compares to the jolt of adrenaline flaring inside me when the puck lands on my stick. I take off, my skate blades marking fresh ice as I blaze past a defender toward the opposing goal. I pass the puck to Halo and brace for a hit, one of the d-men on the other team checking me into the boards. I’m usually one of the smallest guys on the ice, but it’s never held me back.

And it never will.

People have described me as fearless since I was a kid. I wouldn’t have made it here if I wasn’t.

I shove the guy off me in time to watch Volk slap a shot into the net. The siren sounds to signal a goal, and the arena erupts, generating enough noise to drown out the celebratory song. Volk gestures to himself with raised arms, encouraging the crowd to cheer louder.

I’m grinning as I skate toward my teammates. A goal in the first minute of the first game of the season—there’s no rust to shake off. We're picking up where we left off last season, on a mission to win the cup.

“Hell yeah, Volk!” I shout when I reach them, throwing myself into the huddle.

The game is uneventful heading to the third, with both teams buckling down to battle relentlessly. I notch one assist and play solid defense, which will please our coach since he demands we play scrappy.

I hop over the bench onto the ice for my first shift in the third. Matt steals the puck, and I book it toward the opposing goal. His pass connects with my stick in the neutral zone.

If we move quickly, Halo and I will have an odd-man rush, since only one defender stands between us and the goalie.

As soon as I cross the blue line into our O-zone, I zip the puck across the ice to Halo. He winds up for a one-timer, and—

FINLEY

The guy I met two years ago at my brother’s wedding is lying unconscious in the bedroom next to mine. He's partially obscured by a half-closed door while my brother, Matt, and his wife, Gemma, settle him into bed.

I suspected he played on my brother’s hockey team when we met, but I did everything I could to avoid confirming it.

I never thought I’d see him again.

“Is everything okay?” I push the door further open. I stayed home with my niece, Elodie, so Gemma could enjoy a girls’ night at the Palmer City Wolves game. It wasn’t a sacrifice; after a lifetime of hockey, thanks to my family, I rarely watch it. And I love spending time with my niece.

Their heads whip in my direction, opening a better line of sight to the bed. Zach’s face sports an array of bruises. I hurriedly scan the rest of him, searching for any sign of injury. Holy hell . He’s changed since I last saw him, now sporting a toned abdomen and muscular, powerful legs. He’s not overly built—that turns me off—but he’s found a weight room since our hookup. I heave a sigh of relief when I don’t find a scratch on him. If it weren’t for the bruises, I’d assume he was asleep.

My stomach sinks at their expressions, Matt’s pinched forehead and the absence of a smile on Gemma’s face. Something bad happened tonight.

Matt sighs in exasperation. “Finley, what are you still doing up?”

I suppress an urge to roll my eyes. My brother doesn’t treat me like a twenty-one-year-old adult, and our nine-year age gap means our dynamic won’t change. My bipolar disorder diagnosis sent my already protective brother into overbearing territory.

“Watching TV.” Like every other night since I moved in with them two months ago, when my parents finally allowed me to attend college out of state.

I’m in the middle of watching a long-awaited love confession between two characters I’ve shipped for two seasons. How can I possibly sleep before their story ends? I’ll pay for it tomorrow when I get up early to train, but it’s worth it.

I walk into the room. “Is he okay?” I hope my brother can’t hear the waver in my voice.

Gemma studies me curiously. I doubt she missed the sound of my breath catching. She’s like a bloodhound with other people’s business.

“Zach’s fine,” Matt replies, turning his back to me. “Go to bed. You need to stay on schedule.”

His authoritative tone isn’t new, but I haven’t adjusted to it. He thinks because I live in his house, he can boss me around, like our parents who have overstepped one too many times. I’m lucky they want the best for me, but their love has manifested by keeping me on a suffocatingly short leash.

Of my immediate family members, I’m living with the one most likely to never understand me. Matt moves through life with incredible ease, making friends everywhere he goes, succeeding at everything he tries. He’s captain of the Palmer City Wolves for the fifth year, the youngest captain in franchise history. He married a stunning and kindhearted woman, created the most beautiful baby to ever exist, and lives in a mansion on a hill overlooking the city.

He can’t relate to my struggle, which makes it damn hard to be around him sometimes.

Gemma flashes a sympathetic look, one I recognize all too well. She never says a word to contradict my brother in front of me, but I hope she does it behind closed doors. She places a hand on my shoulder and gingerly guides me from the room. “Zach has a concussion, but he’ll recover. We'll talk more in the morning, all right? Matt needs to sleep. He hits the road early tomorrow.”

“Should he be sleeping?” I ask, looking at Zach over my shoulder until Gemma’s led me too far into the hallway to see him. I follow her to my room.

“The doctor said it’s good for him. Apparently, it’s a common misconception you need to stay awake after a head injury. We should periodically wake him to make sure he’s okay though.” She places her hand on my forearm. “Don’t worry, Finley.”

“I’m not worried.” I turn my back and listen to her leave the room.

I click my show back on, but my heart isn’t in it any longer. My mind won’t stop focusing on the unconscious guy on the other side of the wall. He was unsure of himself the night we met, but I have no doubt he’s changed during the last two years. Zach’s a professional hockey player, so women probably throw themselves at him all the time.

I doubt he remembers me.

I’m not proud of our night together, but I’m not ashamed of it either. I understand my condition better, and I know what medication and lifestyle I need to remain healthy. I’m no longer numb, searching for something or someone to fill a void. Still, being confronted with my past isn’t easy. I live every day with the fear of returning to a shell of myself.

I must drift off at some point, because the next time I open my eyes, bright sunshine is seeping through the windows. A scribbled note from Gemma greets me on my nightstand beside the digital clock displaying ten a.m. Shit . I missed early morning practice, which means I’ll get a lecture from my coach.

Ran to the bakery, back early afternoon. Please check on Zach when you wake up. –Gem

I grapple for my phone, but when I unlock it, there are no messages from my brother. He left on his road trip without saying a word to me. It’s been two months since I moved in so we’re still in an adjustment period, but I can’t help noticing how much better Gemma has adapted to my presence.

I slide out of bed, slip on a sweatshirt, and brush my teeth before heading to Zach’s room. He lays on his back, tucked under several blankets. If Gemma hadn’t told me about the concussion, I wouldn’t have guessed it—cuts and bruises are part of a hockey player’s uniform.

Before I can second-guess myself, I pull my phone out of the front pouch in my sweatshirt and find the video of last night’s hit. Zach carries the puck, moving as quickly as lightning, zipping the puck to another player as they cross the blue line. And then it happens.

Someone on the opposing team wallops him, his shoulder slamming into Zach’s face. I wince and my hand lands on my chest. Zach hits the ice and remains motionless for several heart-stopping seconds. He tries to stand and falls. He’s crawling toward the bench when one of his teammates hops over the boards and pulls him the rest of the way.

Zach would say it’s part of the game, as if getting concussed at a person’s place of work is normal. I’ve heard my brothers and their friends say shit like that my entire life. Maybe this judgment makes me a hypocrite, because my sport also requires a risk to life and limb, but at least no one tries to take me down while I’m executing a tumbling pass during my floor routine.

My fingers smooth back a tuft of Zach’s unruly chestnut hair from his forehead.

“What are you doing?”

I jerk my hand away from his face. Kennedy Cole, Gemma’s best friend, smirks at me from the doorway. A slash of sunlight illuminates her blue hair. I've always wanted to dye my hair a fun color, but my coaches never allowed it.

“Nothing… um…” I clear my throat. “Just checking to see if he’s still alive.”

Kennedy moves to the bedside opposite me, worried eyes studying his face. “You might have better luck finding a pulse in his wrist or neck.”

“Right. Yeah.” I want to evaporate into thin air.

A faint smile graces her face as she shakes her head. “I’m starting to understand why Gemma insisted Zach stay here.”

Before I can ask what she means, Kennedy adds, “Gem said we need to wake him up. Did you already do that?”

“I was about to,” I say. “I think it makes more sense for you to do it, now that you’re here.”

Kennedy nods her agreement. “Zachary,” she whispers, placing her hand on his shoulder and nudging it lightly. “It’s your favorite roomie. Can you wake up so I know you’re okay?”

When he doesn’t stir, she says his name again, louder, shaking his shoulder a little harder. Not enough for his head to move.

“Say something,” Kennedy orders gently.

“This is the second strangest conversation I’ve ever had,” I whisper.

Kennedy tilts her head in question but quickly abandons her thought when Zach’s eyelids flutter open.

My breath catches as I stare at Zach’s chocolate brown eyes, the eyes I stared up at from my knees, eager to take in signs of his pleasure.

“Oh, Briggsy, you scared the hell out of me.” Kennedy grips his hand in both of hers. “How are you feeling?”

“Like roadkill,” he croaks.

Kennedy hands him a glass of water. Zach lifts his head to take a swig before falling back to the pillows. He lets out a yawn, his eyes closing for a second before they reopen. He’s fighting sleep, but it will take him again soon.

“You look shockingly good for roadkill.”

The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I avoid looking at Kennedy but can’t ignore the weight of her stare. I can’t imagine what she thinks, and I hope she doesn’t say anything to Matt or Gemma.

Zach’s head slowly swivels toward me, his eyes widening in recognition. “You’re even prettier than I remember,” he says before his eyes close again, and his chest rises and falls peacefully.

A small smile graces Kennedy’s lips. “You’re lucky I’m not Gemma.”

I lock my expression down. I need to hide how much I like Zach’s compliment and our history. I can’t risk angering Matt to the point of kicking me out of his house, which would effectively end my secret quest to return to gymnastics.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I leave the room and Zach behind me.