Goal Lines & First Times (CU Hockey 3)

I’m still impatient about meeting Einstein, but I’m trying to keep that to myself. I can’t make him feel guilty about Thanksgiving when we didn’t have solid plans, and messaging him is the highlight of my days.

I don’t get like this over people. I’m not a giddy type of guy. I definitely don’t stay up half the night texting about random shit, sleep in, miss my first class of the day, and turn up to hockey practice late in the afternoon because I’m too busy asking Einstein how his day was.

But apparently, I’m that person now.

I walk into a quiet locker room, and I think everyone’s hit the ice, but when I turn the corner with a spring in my step and a happy whistle on my lips, my team turns to me, and I pause.

Everyone looks angry.

“I’m barely five minutes late. Calm down.”

Coach sends a glare my way. “Sorry to inform you the world doesn’t revolve around you, Cohen. Get suited up.”

I still have no idea what’s going on, but as I get dressed, the whining starts.

“Coach, this is unfair,” Simms says.

I didn’t notice the new guys standing next to Coach until now.

Holy shit, is that Westly Dalton? He used to go here before being drafted to Boston about five years ago. He’s wearing a CU coach’s uniform, and … damn, I’m never coming to practice late again.

What the hell did I miss?

“You want to be on first line, Simms?” Coach Hogan says. “Prove you’re the person for the job. Until then, Asher Dalton is the new center on our first line.”

Oh, damn.

My gaze flies to Rossi, who looks as pissed as Simms but isn’t as vocal about it. They’ve both been switching out on our line, neither one of them getting the spot officially yet.

“Get out on the ice. Assistant Coach Dalton is going to take you through some drills.”

The locker room begins to file out, and with my cubby being right next to Beck’s, I hold my arm out to stop him from leaving just yet.

“New coach and a new player? What the hell is going on?”

Beck shakes his head. “I have no idea, but honestly, with the shitty preseason we had, I hope Asher is as good as his big brother so we can start putting some wins away.”

Technically, we’re at about a fifty percent win to loss ratio, so we’re not completely out of this, but we need to up our game if we want to come anywhere close to the Frozen Four this year.

To be defending champs and not even make the college playoffs will fucking suck.

“Why were you late?” Beck asks.

I stare toward the door. “What’s that, Coach? You need alternate captain Beck right now?” I turn to him. “Better get out there.”

Beck narrows his eyes. “There’s something going on with you.”

“If you say so.”

“You’re never late.”

“I’m having an off day, that’s all. I was up late studying, so I haven’t had much sleep, and—”

“Enough said.” Beck puts on his helmet. “This semester is kicking my ass.”

“Funny what actual studying does.”

“Right? See you out there.”

I rush to get dressed and out on the ice.

West—Coach Dalton is out to show us he’s boss and runs drills like it’s the first day of practice all over again.

He’s hard on everyone. Hard on our technique, hard on our speed, and he’s basically an asshole.

Great recruit, Coach Hogan.

Dalton’s hard on everyone except Mini Dalton, who looks about as happy as Rossi and Simms are to have him here.

When we begin a practice game and Mini Dalton’s put on our line, honestly, it’s a shitshow. Asher’s good, there’s no doubt about that, but his style of play is nothing like we’re used to. He’s so fast he’s able to cover a lot of the ice. He’s where we don’t expect him to be. We need to match his speed, get in his head, and there’s no … cohesion.

We get on a breakaway, and we still can’t find each other.

I share a look across the ice with Beck, and his mind I can read clearly. We’re fucking screwed.

By the time we’re done, I’m more than exhausted. After our showers, I’m ready to go back to the dorms and sleep, though I know I probably won’t. Not if Einstein’s online.

“Hey, Dalton. You twenty-one?” Beck asks.

“Yeah. But if you don’t want my brother answering, call me Asher.” That’s probably easier than Big Dalton and Mini Dalton.

“Senior?” Jacobs asks.

“Umm … Freshman.”

I smile. “Juniors?”

He nods, and I hold out my hand for a fist bump. “Same, man. Drafted?”

Asher’s eyes lose some glimmer. “Nah.”

“Also same.”

“Oh no, there’s two of them,” Beck cries dramatically. “Asher will now be known as Cohen 2.0.”

Jacobs shoves him.

“He’s joking,” I reassure Asher.

“Coming out for drinks?” Jacobs asks.

Ugh, I do not want to go out.

Asher’s gaze darts toward the coach’s office. “Can’t. Thanks though.”