Chapter 1 Discreetly, I glance around the San Francisco Lions' dressing room, taking in some of the NHL players I've worshipped over the years, and it's hard not to throw up from the excitement. I'm trying hard to play it cool-and failing miserably. The only dream I ever had growing up was making it to the NHL. That's it. And I did it; I'm here. The royal purple carpet beneath my skates matches the Lion's logo emblazoned above each player's polished wood cubby-a roaring lion with his ferocious teeth bared. The spacious room is well lit and clean. Across from our cubbies, framed jerseys of retired Lions players hang like our very own museum of hockey greatness. Penn Matthews nudges me, and I snap out of my moment of worship. He shakes his head, his dark hair damp against his forehead. He's from Canada, and we met on our first day playing college hockey together at Arlington U. We were pretty stoked when both of us were drafted by the Lions. "I know the coach is your brother-in-law," a whispered voice comes from my other side. I glance over at Archibald Fisher, my and Penn's new roommate. The three of us are the rookies this year. Fisher's dark blond hair somehow falls into place perfectly despite the fact that he's been wearing a helmet and sweating for the last three hours. "But by the looks of him, I bet he'd still kick your ass if he caught you daydreaming while he's speaking." I huff a humorless laugh through my nose, but he's not wrong. My sister's husband, long time NHL defensive legend, Mitch Anderson...is my new coach. I know it's weird, but it's just a coincidence. Mitch had nothing to do with where I got drafted. I angle my head so I can focus on Coach Anderson-it still feels strange to call him that. "You guys looked great during practice today," Coach says, his voice deep and commanding as always. "Matthews, don't be afraid to get in there and put some grit into that defense." Coach's gaze goes to my best friend. Penn nods. "Fisher," he says, narrowing his eyes at my roomie. "This isn't a damn beauty contest, stop looking for the cameras and just do your job. Which is playing hockey, in case you forgot." Fisher smirks, and my brother-in-law's eyes narrow further. "Now, our first game of the season is in two days, and I think we're ready." He holds up his iPad and reads off who will be on each line. Nothing super surprising at first-Penn is paired with a second year on the third defensive line, while Fisher is on line four with a couple of the team's second and third year players. The more well-known names on the roster start to appear when Mitch announces line two. I'm nervous when my name keeps not being read, frowning down at the ground as I listen...and then I almost topple over in shock when the first line is read. It's composed of two of the team's biggest superstars-you know, the guys with the multi-year, ten million dollar contracts. And me. I'm on the first line. I'm shocked since I'm new and still have a lot to prove, and there are many more experienced players on the team who've already put in a lot of time for the Lions, but Mitch-er, Coach Anderson-wouldn't put me there if he had any doubts. He must have a reason. A plan. A strategy. I look up at him, but he avoids my eyes, treating me like every other player in here as he nods and concludes his little speech, before he quickly ducks out of the room. Fisher and Penn both start clapping me on the back and shaking my shoulder pads before I can even digest the information I've just learned. "First line, you little baddie," Fisher teases. "Well deserved, man," Penn adds. A scoff pulls us from our reverie. One of the first line defensemen, Justin Sandine, is now standing in front of the three of us. He's shirtless but still in his skates and hockey pants. "What was your last name again, kid?" he asks, and I know he's expecting me to say Anderson. But most people don't realize I was raised by my sister, Andie, after our parents were killed in a car accident. Most people ignorantly assume she's my mom, and that I share her and Mitch's last name. "My last name is Downsby," I answer, standing so he's not hovering over me. I'm taller than him by at least four inches. The first line left wing-one of my new linemates-Derek Carver, comes to stand beside Sandine. He crosses his arms over his bare, hairy chest. "He's not Mitch Anderson's son; he's his brother-in-law." Sandine shrugs. "Nepotism is nepotism." Carver snorts a laugh. "I guess our little rookie here officially has a nickname: Nepo Baby." Fisher and Penn stand, flanking my sides in a show of support against our supposed teammates. "You two can't be serious," Penn says. "Noah was captain of our D1 college team and won two Frozen Fours in a row; don't act like he doesn't deserve a spot on the first line." Sandine rolls his eyes. "This ain't D1 anymore, kids." "Welcome to the big leagues, boys," Carver guffaws, throwing his head back as he laughs. "You three are in for a rude awakening." "How many years did you spend in the minors again, Carver? I can't quite remember?" Fisher muses, rubbing his chin like he's deep in thought. The comment instantly has Carver's laughter coming to a halt. He spent the first half of his career in the AHL before getting a chance in the NHL. Carver steps forward, grabbing Fisher's jersey. Fisher remains cool and unruffled, simply lifting one eyebrow in challenge. Carver grits his teeth. "You better watch yourself, pup." A throat clears loudly, and our heads snap toward the sound. Mitch-er, Coach Anderson-is standing in the doorway, a foreboding figure with his broad shoulders and tree trunk arms. "Do we have a problem here?" Carver lets go of Fisher's jersey, and Fisher takes a step back. Coach Anderson scans the room, making sure everyone's in line before turning and striding back out of the dressing room. Sandine sneers at me. "Good thing your uncle is here to save you, Nepo Baby." Carver sighs heavily. "Coach Anderson is his brother-in-law, for the last time." "Whatever." Sandine turns and walks back to his cubby, Carver trailing behind him. I can feel every eye on me as I quickly remove my gear. I'm careful to keep an even expression on my face, but it's difficult. I've played hockey since I was five years old. Begged my parents, when they were still here, to sign me up for every training camp I heard about. My hard work led to a full ride D1 hockey scholarship, where I continued showing up every time the damn rink was open. I was there at the crack of dawn, before anyone else was even awake, and often stayed hours after practice was over. Hockey was, is, and always will be my life. My only dedication. And now all my hard work is being ignored because the coach is my sister's husband. This is such bullshit. Mitch Anderson has little to do with my success-as much as I love the guy-aside from a short stint as my youth hockey coach when I was twelve. I slip on my shower shoes and rush toward the showers, ignoring the stares from my new teammates. After taking the fastest shower of my life, I change and head out to the player lot in search of Fisher's vehicle since I carpooled today with him and Penn. When I spot the sparkling new, dark indigo G-Wagon, I test the door handle and find it locked. I'm desperate to crawl inside and have a moment of peace to sort out the dumpster fire that just took place in the dressing room. Two days before our first game and my new teammates apparently hate me. I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the back passenger window and take a deep breath, remembering how my childhood therapist used to walk me through guided breathing exercises I could use when overwhelmed. I haven't needed them in a long time, probably years. But it seems to calm my anxiety the same way it did long ago. "Get your greasy face off my baby," Fisher yells from what sounds like several yards away. I turn and glare at him. "I just showered, dumbass. Now unlock the door." A fancy bleep-bloop sounds, and the door opens when I test the handle again. I have about five seconds of solace inside the camel-leather interior before Penn slides into the front passenger seat, followed by Fisher in the driver's seat. They both turn and look at me. "You know everything those idiots said back there was complete bullshit, right?" Penn asks, resting a tattooed arm on the center console. Fisher shoves his arm off. "I might not have played with y'all in college, but all the guys in my program at South Georgia knew who you were." With a groan, I allow my head to fall back against the cool leather. "It doesn't matter. That's all in the past." Dragging my head off the headrest, I look at Penn and Fisher. "It's only right now that matters. And my teammates don't respect me or even take me seriously." Fisher smirks, glancing at Penn then back at me. "You know what you need, Downsby?" Penn smirks too, clearly knowing what Fisher is about to recommend. "Some drinks and beautiful women." Penn nods in approval, a smile growing on his face. "Puck, yeah." Fisher shoots Penn a look. "Are we really doing that?" "Absolutely, we are." Penn nods solemnly. "It's never failed us." Back in our junior year of college, our coach was giving a speech before our first playoff game for the Frozen Four title, and announced we were going out there to win "every motherpucking game" we had left that season. We did. And the word "puck" stuck as a replacement for the F-word, to the point where it became a revered team superstition. One Penn and I intend to continue in our pro careers, because we aren't taking any risks. Fisher shoots a look in the rearview at me, and I tilt my chin up in agreement. "We are," I second. "And if you're going to live with us this season, you're going to join in with the tradition." "Pucks' sake," Fisher says with a dramatic sigh, but he's smiling, and I know he's on board. Hockey players know not to mess with each other's superstitions. "Now, back to tonight...should we hit up SkyBar, or check out The Elbow Room? I hear it's cool." "Absolutely not." "To which place?" Fisher asks blankly. "Both," I respond. "I'm not going out tonight, period." Penn shakes his head in dismay. "You never went out in college, Noah. You made it to the NHL; relax and have a little fun." Fisher holds his fist up and Penn pounds it. "Our first game's not for another couple of days. You can totally let loose tonight and still be back in top form before the game, if that's what you're worried about," he adds. "Listen, I won't deny you two your fun, but that's not for me. If these asshats really think the only reason I got on first line is because of Mitch, then I'll work even harder to prove them wrong." Penn sighs. "You're going to work yourself into an early grave." I bristle, the comment a reminder of my parents and how unfair it was that they died so young. Quickly, I recover and pull my seatbelt across my lap. "No distractions for me. But you two have fun." Discover our latest featured short drama reel. Watch now and enjoy the story!