Shutout: Rules of the Game Book 2

TYLER

The first half of my week is uneventful, if slightly unfocused. Turns out, reminiscing about Seraphina grinding against my cock is a lot more interesting than learning about molecular biochemistry and nucleotides.

I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. Her soft inhale when our lips finally met, and every pretty little sound that followed… until the fucking doorbell rang. Unsurprisingly, taking matters into my own hands hasn’t been remotely satisfying. I’m so horny I can barely function, and I have a full day ahead of me before I can do anything about it.

So much for compartmentalizing.

It’s bitterly cold as I cut across campus on my way back to the arena for afternoon skate. Even with my gloves, my fingers are stiff as I pull out my phone to answer an incoming call.

“Hey, Dad.” I jam my free hand back into my fleece-linked coat pocket for warmth, scanning the quad in search of a place to duck inside.

“Tyler.” His voice is warm like always, but there’s a note of something I can’t identify. Hesitancy, or maybe concern. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

He pauses. “I thought you should know there’s been some chatter about New York talking to Caleb Brown.”

“What?” My heart smashes into my ribcage, and I come to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. A guy walking behind me nearly plows straight into my back. He grumbles at me, veering left at the last minute, and I narrowly bite back a retort telling him to keep his head up.

Based on New York’s current depth chart, everything is perfectly aligned for me to step in after their current goaltender retires in a couple more years. Or it was, anyway. This development is a massive, hockey-stick-sized wrench in my career path.

“I wanted to let you know in case you heard it through the grapevine.”

“I hadn’t,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. Surely I would’ve soon, though, and we both know that. Him sheltering me is pointless, especially given how invasive social media is. Everyone knows everything in the industry. There are no secrets.

“Take a breath, Ty. Remember, this isn’t personal. You know how the business works. They’re not replacing you; they’re acquiring a tradable asset.”

“Caleb isn’t some random player.” Chest tight, I take a sharp left to duck inside the campus food court. It’s too fucking cold to stand out here and have a serious conversation. “He’s another goalie.”

More specifically, Caleb is another third-year Division 1 goalie who’s sitting two spots below me in the standings. I’m still leading the league, but it’s a tight race.

Warm air envelops me as I step inside the cafeteria commons. It’s more crowded than usual, and there’s a line at the coffee shop nearly out the door. I’m going to chance it. I need a caffeine fix.

“You’ve been a top prospect your whole career. He’s a kid having one banner year. The team is hedging their bets. If you stay strong, they can package him as part of a deal later to make the team better.”

And if I don’t, they can run with Caleb and relegate me to the farm team for the rest of my days.

A text from Seraphina comes through.

Tinker Bell: Question 26: Your go-to way to relieve stress?

I blink at the screen, trying to decipher if this is an honest question or her roundabout way of initiating sexting. My brain is legitimately too fried to tell.

Dad’s voice comes through on the speaker again, and I place it back to my ear.

“On paper and on the ice, you’re stronger. You’ve been on fire since getting back after Christmas.”

Exactly. So why is New York sniffing around another goalie prospect?

Except I know why. It’s a business, and at the end of the day, I’m a product.

“Feels like a lot of pressure to keep it that way,” I admit.

“There are always going to be ups and downs. All that matters is your consistency. Don’t let this take you out of your head this weekend.”

Little late for that. I’m in a tailspin. Hopefully, I’ll have my shit together before Friday. That’s a few days away still.

“Just so I’m clear,” I say carefully. “Does New York still want me for training over the summer?”

“Last I heard, it was looking good. That alone is a great sign, and it’s why you shouldn’t worry. Focus on what you can control.”’

He’s right. That’s all I can do.

Ending the call, I get into line for a coffee before I haul ass to the rink. Practice is a shit show, at least inwardly. My performance is strong but my mental game sucks. I’m rattled after every single shot that gets past me—even though very few of them do.

When I meet Mark for off-ice training afterwards, I already know I’m in for a rough ride.

“Have you been practicing your drills?” He looks at me over his shoulder as he grabs the yellow reaction ball from where it rolled out of my reach. Again. Its unpredictable trajectory is perfect for training reflexes and agility. It also makes it painfully obvious when I’m not in the zone.

“Daily, like you said.”

He grunts. “I was watching you on the ice. You’ve been distracted all day.”

Who wouldn’t be? Between New York looking at picking up another goalie and what happened with Seraphina a few days ago, my head is anywhere but here.

That isn’t an excuse. In fact, it’s pretty goddamn weak.

“Sorry,” I say, taking the six-sided ball from Mark’s palm.

Fucking focus.

Drawing in a deep breath to center myself, I reset my stance before I release the ball again. It bounces off the floor and veers sharply to the right. This time, my hand snatches out of mid-air on the first try.

It takes more effort than usual, but I manage to pull my act together for the rest of our tactical skills training. Then we move into the stretching area for some much-needed mindfulness, breathwork, and visualization. It requires stellar emotional regulation to perform well under pressure. I can’t win games, but I can sure as fuck lose them. I’m the hero or the scapegoat, depending how things play out. Either way, everyone knows how I played.

“Let’s do a quick nutrition check-in.” Mark shuffles the stack of papers on his lap and glances up at me. “Latest DEXA scan looks good. Your muscle mass is great. Body fat percentage is right in the range of where we want it to be, though it’s trending down slightly. Make sure you’re eating enough. We don’t want you to get too lean.”

“I’m not sure I could eat more if I tried.” At this point, it feels like a part-time job.

My stomach growls angrily as if the subject summoned my appetite.

“On that note,” he says, “What do you say we grab a cheat meal off-campus? We can have a chat about a few things.”

I know from experience this is his way of using fried food to lure me into a false sense of security before he delivers a tough love peptalk. After how shaky I was at the start of training, I can’t say I’m surprised.

“Sure. Let me swing by my locker to grab a few things and I can meet you in half an hour.”

Halfway to the Overtime to meet Mark, I get delayed behind a massive accident. After sitting at a full stop for ten minutes, there’s no chance I’ll make it on time. I’m supposed to be there already.

When I hit the button on my hands-free controls to call and let him know, it says no phone is connected. Huh?

I reach into the console for my phone and find it empty. Great. Must’ve left it in my locker. At least, I hope that’s where it is; that, or it fell out of my pocket on the way to my car. If I lost it, that’ll be the last straw for the day.

Either way, I’m late—which I fucking hate—and I can’t even let Mark know. Then I realize I never got the chance to write Seraphina back. Shit. She probably thinks I’m blowing her off.

Mark already has a booth in the corner when I finally walk inside the wooden double-doors to Overtime. He gives me a nod, and I tug off my gloves, weaving around the tables over to him.

“Sorry,” I say, sliding off my winter coat. “One of those days. Got stuck in traffic, and I don’t have my phone on me. I have no idea where it is.”

Something that looks like concern glances across his face. “No worries, Ty.”

He lets me borrow his phone to sign into iCloud on his browser. According to the little blinking circle on the map, my phone appears to be at the arena like I thought. On the off chance it’s sitting out somewhere and not in my locker, I put it into lost mode until I’m able to go grab it.

Our server runs us through the daily specials before she takes our drink orders and leaves us with the menus. Scanning the list of dishes, I debate whether to stay on plan. I’ve been diligent about my eating habits this season. A lot less beer and alcohol, and a lot more nutrient-dense calories to fuel me through practices and games. Worth it for the resulting performance gains on the ice, but I can’t deny that it sucks to see Chase and Dallas hoover whatever they want without a second thought. They have a lot more leeway than I do. Teams have over twenty players but only one starting goalie. Our career paths are not the same.

“I meant what I said about the cheat meal.” Mark looks at me pointedly over the top of his menu. “Don’t even think about trying to order something like grilled fish and rice.”

That’s all the excuse I need. I settle on a loaded bacon cheeseburger with fries and a salad. Mark orders the same, minus the fries, and we split nachos to start.

“Circling back to your issues focusing earlier, have you been meditating daily like we discussed?” he confirms, raising his blond eyebrows.

“Yep.” Trying to stay still for five minutes verged on agony when I first started. Now I can sit for more than half an hour without getting too restless. I rarely have that much time, though.

“Make sure you’re getting enough rest. Not just physically, but mentally.”

“I’m getting plenty of sleep.”

“Not what I mean, Ty. You need downtime when you’re awake, too.”

That’s a nice idea in theory. In reality, my brain never shuts off.

Going into games, I prepare by cataloging the other team’s players and their tendencies for passing and shooting. Once I’m standing between the pipes, I’m constantly tracking everything happening on the ice even when the play is in the other zone. Monitoring my position; keeping tabs on the opposing team; checking in with my teammates; trying to predict where the play will go next. And always, always keeping eyes on the puck.

After all is said and done, I run through everything that happened. What worked, what didn’t. Victories and failures, lessons and takeaways. I have a running inner monologue twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I even dream about hockey.

The only time I feel some semblance of calm is when I’m with Seraphina. Then it’s like all the other noise disappears, if only for the brief sliver of time we’re together. Her effect is a double-edged sword. It also means she has the potential to divert my attention when it counts.

That’s on me. I need to do a better job at keeping everything separate.

Movement on the other side of the room catches my eye, and I spot Seraphina walking through the doors with a dark-haired girl. Speak of the devil. Her rose-gold hair is pulled back in a ponytail for a change, the loose curls tied with a black bow.

My eyes travel lower, taking in the tiny plaid miniskirt poking out beneath the bottom of her bulky winter coat. She looks innocent yet naughty, and it’s hot as fuck. I’d like nothing more than to hike up that skirt and rail her in a bar bathroom for a second time.

I continue to watch her, transfixed. She’s deep in conversation with her friend as they take a vacant table on the far side of the room, lowering into their seats. Should I go say hi? That wouldn’t be weird, right? It would be weird if I saw her and didn’t say anything. But I don’t want to interrupt them…

“Thinking about something other than hockey once in a while wouldn’t hurt.” Mark’s voice brings me hurtling back to reality.

I glance at him. “Oh, that’s just my roommate.”

“I see.” He gives me an amused look because I was drooling, and we both know it. “All I’m saying is, it’s important to have some work-life balance.”

It isn’t that I disagree with him. It’s that I have no idea how to do that.