Prologue
Jase
Mid-November
The smell of the ice.
The scrape of skates.
The roar of eighteen thousand fans pushes at my back as I dig past the burn in my thighs and chase the puck into the corner, slamming my body against Fallon, a winger from Boston, for possession. With two periods of hockey almost over and the score still tied at zero, neither team wants to be the first to give up a goal. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if it’s us.
I hate losing. Sure, it’s part of the game, but no athlete worth their salt likes to lose. On top of that, when we play Boston, it’s my personal mission to make sure we end up with the higher number on the scoreboard at the end of the night.
I angle my body down, my shoulder digging into Fallon’s armpit as our sticks slap for control of the vulcanized rubber.
Bam!
I’m slammed into the boards.
“Fuck you, Donnelly.” Nate Bishop, my counterpart on the Bruisers, rams me again.
Rotating the carbon fiber stick in my gloves, I shift the blade nose down, hooking over the edge of the puck, and send it flying back to where Chris Callahan is waiting for my pass like I knew he would be.
With a final shove, I free myself from Fallon and Bishop, shooting a fuck you right back look at the latter, and haul ass down the ice to help create a scoring opportunity before the buzzer sounds.
Except for the goalies, the other ten of us on the ice are playing like we’re back in Mighty Mite days. The electronic sound of the buzzer fills the Garden, calling an end to the second period without either team putting the biscuit in the basket.
My lungs heave and my legs feel like overcooked fettuccine—my boy Vince doesn’t let us use that skinny-ass spaghetti in reference to our big man muscles—as my two dozen teammates and I trek across the rubber-matted floor to the locker room. We have seventeen minutes to regroup and shore up our energy reserves for the last twenty minutes of regulation play.
We may only be a month and a half into the season, but rivalry games have a way of making it feel like Game 7 of the Stanley Cup.
And yes, I know the New Jersey Blizzards are technically our rival, but beating the Boston Bruisers is a personal endeavor.
Fucking Nate Bishop!
“You good, man?” Callahan asks when I chuck my helmet into my locker.
“Yeah, Cali.” I inhale deeply in an effort to rein in my emotions.
“Bishop?” There’s zero judgment in his tone, only understanding.
“Bishop.” I nod.
My archenemy, the Joker to my Batman, the Lex Luther to my Superman—and dammit, this is what happens when I spend too much time with Vince.
Bishop may be a top defender in the league, but I detest the guy. There are very few people I don’t like in this world.
Actually…there are only two on my shit list: Tommy Bradford, my twin sister’s violent douchecanoe of an ex-boyfriend, and UFC fighter Curtis ‘The Cutter’ Cutler, but that’s a story for another time.
The important thing is, both asshats are extreme cases of douchebaggery. So how, you might ask, did Nate Bishop get himself added to the list of world’s biggest twat waffles? The answer is long and complicated, but the CliffsNotes version is he crossed a line.
Hell, he didn’t just cross it—he skated past it like he was running blue line drills.
And, shit, thinking of Bastard Bishop has me more tense than the suspension cables holding up the Brooklyn Bridge.
I pull my jersey and chest protector over my head, sending them the same way as my helmet, and reach inside my locker for my phone. Only the comic relief my people can provide will be enough to rid me of my negative thoughts.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN (Vince): Bro, looking a little slow out there. Did you not eat your Wheaties this morning? Gotta up your nutrition game.
THE BIG HAMMER (Me): Careful, Creed. I’ll tell Gem you’re insulting her food.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: Shiiiiit. Don’t do that, man. The Coven already owns my ass since I’m in training camp. I DO NOT need anything else to set them off.
I snort at the ridiculous but accurate statement from my best friend. The two of us came up with the nickname for our sisters and their closest female friends back in our BTU days. Even all these years after we graduated, the name still fits them to a T.
I swear, there aren’t enough fingers and toes in this locker room to count the number of times I’ve let those ladies tell me what to do.
Speaking of the Covenettes, Vince wasn’t the only one to text me.
MOTHER OF DRAGONS: Listen, I love you and all, and some days I even consider you my favorite brother, but could you maybe spend a little less time in the sin bin and a little more time out on the ice? I don’t know if you know this or not, but you are one of the top scoring defensemen in the NHL. That said, you CAN’T light the lamp if you’re sitting in timeout like your nieces. Now stop trying to LITERALLY kick some Bruiser ass and go win the game. Please and thank you.
I laugh out loud, causing the teammates near me to turn my way.
“Jordan?” Cali asks, well versed in the stuff my twin texts me during games.
“You know it.”
THE BIG HAMMER: *GIF of Anna Kendrick saluting*
MOTHER OF DRAGONS: Idiot. Love you anyway though.
THE BIG HAMMER: Love you too, wombmate
MOTHER OF DRAGONS: *kissy face emoji* *fist emoji*
THE BIG HAMMER: *fist emoji*
She’s done this all our lives, sensing when I’m spiraling—because yes the two of us share ESP and yes it is real and we love that it drives our older brother Ryan nuts—and knowing exactly what to say to reset me.
I screenshot our exchange and pull up my Instagram.
*screenshot of text exchange with Jordan*
EnforcedByJaseDonnelly13 Pep talks from your other half are the best. I’m coming for you @BadAssBishop13
#TheBestDefenseman #NYStorm #GoStorm
#WeatherWarning #AStormIsBrewing #TakeNotes
I’m ready.
Ten minutes until the start of the third.
Let’s do this.
Melody
I sip my beer—probably not the best idea to be on my third of the night—as the sold-out crowd waits for the NY Storm and the Boston Bruisers to take the ice for the third period.
The beer—plus all the screaming I’ve been doing—will not have my throat thanking me when I have to perform tomorrow, but I need it if I’m going to survive this nail-biter of a game.
I’ll probably have to go on vocal rest to have a voice for both my shows, but it’s totally worth it. Other than getting to live my dream of singing and dancing across the Broadway stage, hockey is the thing I’m most passionate about, although I don’t get to take in as many games as I would like.
Aside from Mondays when my current show is dark, most of my evenings are booked. Performing eight shows a week leaves very little down time, but you won’t hear a complaint from me. Broadway has been my dream since kindergarten, and I am blessed to be able to live it.