Page 41 of Punked By the Playmaker
Her intentions were so pure that my heart swelled.
I gave her a gentle squeeze. “Accidents happen. And thankfully, it looks like Austin managed the situation quickly.”
“That was extremely thoughtful, Maisie.” Arizona gave her a reassuring smile. “But the next time you want to cook, maybe it’s best if one of the adults is in the room to supervise.”
My daughter nodded. “Yeah, okay.” She turned to the stove. “I have lots of pancake batter. Can you help make them on the griddle while I finish the eggs?”
“Of course.”
Maisie pulled out of my arms to join Arizona at the stove, the two of them working together to finish cooking breakfast.
Austin sidled up next to me. “Um, Levi?”
Not taking my eyes off the picture-perfect display of domesticity I never thought I wanted, I replied, “Yeah?”
“So, you’re probably not used to living with girls, but you can’t come downstairs in just your underwear. And you gotta take care of the morning wood situation first.”
My gaze snapped down, noting the prominent bulge in my boxer briefs, and I dragged a hand down my face. Jesus Christ, had Maisie seen?
Face heating, I gave him a pat on the back. “Thanks for the pro tip.”
“Us guys gotta look out for each other.”
“That we do.” I nudged his shoulder before slipping out of the kitchen to throw on sweats.
The first morning had gotten off to a rough start, but I had faith it would only get better from here.
Chapter 12
Levi
“Nixon,moveyourass!This is practice, not a free skate!” Coach Davenport barked from his spot near the boards, and I pushed harder, my skates carving into the ice as I increased my speed.
Today’s focus was on the breakout. Coach chipped the puck into our defensive zone, and the five of us dressed in blue practice jerseys had to chase it down, while five of our teammates in white attempted to block our attempt to execute a breakout that would have us moving through the neutral zone.
The top line—which I was a part of—didn’t have much of an issue executing seamless passes to exit the zone. But the rest of the team was a fucking disaster. Guys were running into each other, throwing blind passes to no one when pressured, and more often than not, lost puck possession to the opposing “team.”
Davenport must’ve gotten his fill of watching the absolute shitshow and blew his whistle sharply. “Everyone at centerice. Now!” When we gathered around him, taking a knee, he shook his head ruefully. “Fucking pathetic. You’re goddamn professional hockey players, but I bet if I put you up against a 16U or 18U AAA team right about now, they’d kick your asses. I get some of you are only biding your time, waiting until your contract allows you to get the hell outta here, but where’s your fucking pride? You should be embarrassed that you can’t make tape-to-tape passes. That’s Hockey 101, a basic fundamental skill that comes right after learning how to skate. Do you think I enjoy breaking down this game and treating you like a bunch of four-year-olds who just learned to hold a stick? Because I don’t. I’d much rather be working on special teams, puck battles, and shooting under pressure. But until you master something as rudimentary as putting the puck where it needs to go, we can’t move forward with anything more complicated. So, buddy up. The rest of practice will be spent passing to your partner. And if you can convince me that you can handle that while stationary, we can transition to drills that require you to move.”
Another blow of his whistle and we did as he commanded, lining up down the ice with a teammate and passing back and forth as our coach screamed at anyone who missed.
This was beyond humiliating, but I was stuck here, so there was no use in complaining. The only silver lining was that this torture would end when the season ended in three weeks, and we got a break until September.
I’d be counting the days.
Sweat ran into my eyes, the sting of it familiar after all these years, but I hated how it blurred my vision. I needed to stay sharp, especially since we were actually playing competitivelyagainst the California Cougars, our divisional rivals up the road in LA, ontheirice.
A win wouldn’t do jack shit to move the needle on our position at the bottom of the league, but it would be a huge boost for morale. If we could beat a team that was playoff-bound, the guys might start to believe it was within our power to conquer any opponent.
Confidence was nine-tenths of the law in hockey. The players who had big dick energy on the ice were the ones making the highlight reels. Teams that won championships featured a whole team of guys like that.
That kind of mojo could spark a momentum shift for the Surf.
Crew gained the red line, dumped the puck into our offensive zone, and I chased.
“One, one, one!” Cole yelled from behind me.
Translation: There’s a man on your ass.
