Sticks And Stones

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Chapter One

Holden

The cars in the parking lot are the first clue. Way too many for the ass crack of dawn on a freezing Wednesday.

The second clue hits as soon as I push through the rink’s outer doors—a low, echoing rumble that definitely isn’t curling stones gliding across perfect ice. It’s louder, more piercing. Skates carving hard, bodies slamming the boards, an all-too familiar voice shouting, “Again!”

And then there’s the third clue—the smell. Not the clean, crisp cold I’m used to at this hour, but the unmistakable stench of a dozen sweat-soaked hockey players who’ve beaten us to the ice.

Great. Just great.

I pull my gloves tighter, jaw ticking. If the hockey team has claimed the ice this early, that means only one thing. Cooper Briggs is here, being a menace before sunrise.

I push through the inner doors and head for the ice, sucking in cold air and trying to remember why this place usually steadies me. The closer I get to the curling lane, the worse it gets. The boards are rattling like they’re trying to shake themselves loose. Someone whistles. Someone else yells. A puck ricochets off the glass with a crack that makes my eye twitch.

So much for the peaceful morning practice I promised my team.

I round the corner, and there he is.

Cooper, in all his early-morning, golden-boy, ex-NHLer glory, standing at center ice. Baseball cap backwards, whistle hanging from his teeth, grin sharp enough to cut through the fucking plexiglass. Looking better than anyone has a right to this early in the damn day with that clean-cut, poster-boy face paired with a body that very clearly did not get the memo about slowing down after retirement.

He’s barking orders at a bunch of half-awake high schoolers who are somehow still managing to skate louder than a herd of buffalo. He sees me before I can retreat, his dark eyes hooking mine across the ice. That obnoxious grin gets even wider, smug and knowing, as if he’s been waiting for me to show up and lose my mind.

I lift a hand in a semi-polite gesture that’s absolutely fucking not a wave.

Cooper gives me a lazy two-finger salute in return. “Morning, St. James. Ice is a little busy. You don’t mind, right?”

Oh, I mind. I mind so hard it could power the entire damn refrigeration system.

But my team, the Broommates, is gathering behind me, brushes in hand, waiting to see how I’ll handle this nightmare. As their skip, their leader, that responsibility falls squarely on me. So I plaster on the thinnest smile I’ve got and step forward.

Time to ruin Cooper Briggs’s morning right back.

I stride out onto the rubber mat like it’s a battlefield, which, honestly, it kind of is. Behind me, the Broommates shuffle to a stop, trying to look intimidating in matching jackets and bedhead.

Cooper notices. Of course he does. His grin flickers for a second, not sure whether he should be amused or concerned.

Good. A little uncertainty won’t hurt him. And at least now I’m not the only one off balance.

I stop at the divider marking off the curling lane—currently being ignored by half of Briggs’s team—and cup my hands around my mouth.

“Briggs, your boys are wrecking our run.”

He skates over with that stupidly smooth stride I used to envy before I learned better. When he reaches the boards, he props his forearms on top like he’s settling in for story time.

“Relax, St. James.” He’s still catching his breath, cheeks pink from exertion. Or from enjoying himself way too much. “We just need a few extra minutes. The kids are sluggish today.”

“They’re barely awake,” I shoot back. “The sun’s not even up. No one should be this loud before daylight.”

He laughs, husky and warm. Irritatingly warm. “Tell that to them.”

A puck slams into the glass a few feet away, making it shudder. I flinch. Cooper definitely sees. Like I said, the guy notices everything.

“Charming,” I mutter. “Truly the ambiance every championship team deserves.”

He taps the boards with a gloved knuckle. “Give us ten?”

“No.”

He blinks, surprised I’m not doing the polite dance I’ve done every other time he’s muscled his way onto on our ice since returning home to coach the Crushers.

About time. Let him scramble for once.

“We’ve got a big competition coming up. My team needs ice time,” I continue, my voice steady. “Your players can stretch on the benches, same as everyone else.”

Cooper chews the inside of his cheek, thinking. A tiny crease forms between his brows. Guilt, maybe, or something close to it.

Serves him right. He should feel it, whatever it is he’s feeling. Some scars don’t wash off the ice.

“Right,” he finally says. “We’ll clear out.”

He blows the whistle, crisp and decisive, and the kids groan but start skating toward the gate.

He looks back at me. “Happy?”

Not even close. But also … a little.

I fold my arms across my chest. “Ecstatic.”

He manages the tiniest smile, then turns to wrangle his team. And for one stupid, treacherous second, I watch him go, almost—but not quite—forgetting that those scars on the ice? The ones that don’t wash off?

He’s the one who put them there.