Page 3 of Line Change

“It wasn’t dirty.”

He looks toward Gunderson, as if the coach will settle this for him. I turn on the rest of the team instead. A couple of guys drop their eyes before I even open my mouth.

“Look at us. We’re a bunch of fucking kindergarteners who barely know how to skate today, and now we’re taking cheap shots at each other.”

“Fraser,” Gunderson warns.

I’m too pissed off to stop. “We don’t deserve to win if this is how we practice.”

“I thought the hit looked clean,” an unfamiliar voice calls.

Well, not unfamiliar. But out of place.

I jerk my head toward the Seattle bench. Ben Pope is standing on the ice near the open gate in a Seattle practice jersey.

What the fuck is he doing here?

I’ve never talked to Pope, but I’ve watched him play. He was Miami’s number sixteen before today, wore an A, and took every ugly defensive-zone draw when they were protecting a lead. He protected a lot of them on the way to winning the Cup two seasons ago. Now sixteen is on his sleeve in Seattle colors, and I didn’t even know he was in the building.

Pope looks from me to the defenseman. He doesn’t take the comment back.

Bobby comes up beside me. “Is that Ben Pope?”

“Unless we both got concussed.”

Gunderson has barely unclenched his jaw all morning. He skates over to Pope smiling. “Pope. Good to have you. Everything clear?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Jump into the three-on-two while they finish up here. Take center with white.”

Pope nods and pushes away from the boards. Nobody asks Gunderson what is going on. Helmets turn as Pope crosses the ice, and the guys waiting for the drill make space for him without being told. Even Bobby has gone quiet.

Pope takes his place at center and taps his stick on the ice. The whole vibe in the rink has changed, and I’m not sure I like it.

2

BEN

Miami won the Cup two seasons ago. Seattle can’t win a practice scrimmage, which is impressive considering they’re playing against themselves.

I keep that opinion to myself. According to every story about the trade, Seattle brought me in for leadership. They spent more time on that than on the fact I can actually play center. Apparently the faceoffs are secondary. My real job is teaching a team of grown men how to behave.

I didn’t ask for the trade. I don’t want the trade. I especially don’t want Seattle.

The weather is better than Miami, at least. Cold rain hit the windshield all the way from the airport, and for the first time in years November actually feels like hockey season. Miami has heat, humidity, and my fucking name on the Cup. I still want Miami.

Outwardly, I’m doing great.

At the far boards, two trainers are still down beside Haugen. I can’t see much of the kid between them, but he’s talking. Fraser stands a few feet away, staring at them with his jaw set.

Gunderson sends us toward the other end of the ice to give the trainers room. Fraser looks back once before he takes his place on my right.

He’s shorter than I expected. Five-ten at most, built low and solid, with most of his weight pitched over the front of his skates. His first two strides are hard enough to throw ice behind him. That’s useful. If I’m centering him, I need to know how quickly he gets through the neutral zone.

Kessler’s first pass comes too hard, but I get my stick on it and move the puck to Fraser before the defense can close on him. He’s in shooting position. Instead of taking it, he drops his inside shoulder and cuts toward the net. His hips turn first, his upper body follows, and both defensemen go with him. Then he sends the puck back through the space he made.

I put it behind Anton before he can push across.