Irresponsible Puckboy (Puckboys #2)(59)

“Sorry. I … I really need to do something.”

I turn my head, and my heart almost breaks at the sight of Dex’s glistening puppy dog eyes. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?”

“It’s the worst preseason I’ve had since I was a rookie. I have a right to be worried.”

“It’s still preseason. I promise it’ll turn around.”





It doesn’t turn around. Not for Dex, and not for me. If anything, his bad playing has rubbed off on me.

The rest of preseason is a disaster, and we’re going into the first game of the regular season with one win. One.

Dex and I aren’t the only ones out there, but it’s like the team can’t get their shit together this year.

We were one goal away from winning the Stanley Cup just months ago, and now we can’t find the net. Our opponents can though.

It’s why I’m no longer on speaking terms with my goal. It’s in a time-out.

At least we have a home game up first, which should give us the upper hand, but as we hit the ice for warm-ups and I’m stretching, it’s like I can see the black cloud of negativity floating above the team. At the other end, Anaheim—who didn’t even make the playoffs last year—looks ready and eager to go. But hey, who wouldn’t be when they won six of their preseason games.

As I take my place in front of the net, I suck in a sharp breath. “Okay, postie. We’ve got this, okay? Can we call a truce? Please? No answer means you agree, and that agreement is legally binding. Let’s do this.” I kiss the bar and lower my helmet so the guys can fire warm-up shots at me.

Dex avoids eye contact with me the whole time, and I can’t say I blame him. Whenever hockey is mentioned, he shuts down. He’s been moved to second line, while Fensby has taken his spot on first.

Coach is working with the lines, trying to find a groove, but if you ask me, all he’s done is mess up the vibe even more.

I’ve seen it all from my end of the ice—the sloppy passes, the hesitance.

We’re not working as a team.

Before we head back to the locker room so they can resurface the ice and get ready for the pregame festivities, I pull Dex back and then hold out my fist for him to bump.

He sighs but offers it up.

Fist bump. Chest bump. Hug. Fake-out high five.

The crowd who are here early enough to see it all cheer because they love it, but Dex doesn’t even crack a smile.

“It’s not like it’s been helping,” he says.

“Don’t mess with the system, dude.” I slap his back.

“Maybe we should mess with the system. Something’s gotta give.”

I hate seeing him so down, especially with himself. He gets ridiculed for not being the brightest crayon in the box, but to me, he has always outshone everyone else. Not because of his brains but because of his happy and bubbly personality.

He quietly sulks while the coaches try to pep us up, but none of it matters when we get out there. Because we still suck. From the second the puck drops, I earn my keep. They come at me from all angles. Our defense is broken, our offense doesn’t even get a chance at the puck, and Anaheim is on a rampage.

I let two past me in the first ten minutes of the game, but this can’t be put all on me.

Adler skates by me in between plays. “Pull it together, man.”

“Tell our D men to pull it together,” I grit out. “I’ve let in two out of how many shots? Tell them to maybe help me protect the fucking goal.”

He pulls to a stop. “Shake it off, bro. We’re still in this.”

With the encouragement from our team captain, I manage to keep Anaheim out of my crease. But barely.

By the end of the first period, it feels like the third. And in our short break in the locker room, Coach yells at all of us.

“You can’t leave everything up to Mitchell out there. It’s a miracle Anaheim only has two on the board with how sloppy you all are.”

Thank you, I say in my head because no way am I saying it aloud and bringing his holy wrath down on me.

“Where’s the team from last season?”

“I dunno,” Fensby says. “But I do know of one big difference.” He glares at Dex.

“That was rhetorical, Fensby,” Coach says. “How many shots on goal have you taken tonight?”

Fensby goes to open his mouth when Coach cuts him off.

“Also rhetorical,” Coach snaps. “Get back out there and turn this around.”

Easier said than done.

It’s not even close.

And when the final buzzer in the third sounds, we walk away with zero points on the board.

Great start to the season, guys.

We’re all doom and gloom as we head down the chute, trying to stay positive for the cameras while we spout bullshit about just needing to find our rhythm and that Anaheim played really well.

They didn’t. They didn’t even need to. We were disasters out there.

Dex is frustrated. The tension rolls off him. His usual easygoing nature is gone, and as he undresses, he throws his gloves and skates in his cubby with so much force, it makes a resounding thud.

“We’ll get there,” I murmur.

“And if we don’t?” He turns to me. “Maybe that trade will happen after all.”