Chapter 2: Seb

It was a clean hit.

Sending me to the box for a check to the head is a bullshit call. If the kid wants to play in this league, he needs to learn to keep his head up so he's not putting himself at risk. Tonight I've taught him that lesson.

As I sit in the box and think about the error of my ways, the jumbotron replays the hit. It should have been shoulder to shoulder. It would have been too if he'd not ducked while on a breakaway through the neutral zone.

I take a swig of water and ignore the crowd hammering on the glass around me. The special teams are out, and so far we're doing a great job on the PK. Solid forechecking. Keeping Vancouver at the perimeter. Eating pucks.

With ten seconds left to kill, Juice clears and the crowd roars. I shuffle towards the door, ready to leap onto the ice, as Vancouver's goalie slaps his stick against his crease in warning.

And then I'm out. I skate to the bench, hop over the boards, and sit down next to Rob.

"Fucking bullshit call," he says to me. "Kid had his head down."

"These refs couldn't identify a tree in a forest," I reply.

"Or a boat in a harbour."

"Or rain in a storm."

Rob barks out a laugh. "I see what you did there."

"I'm a fucking poet, man."

There's not much Rob Watson and I don't agree on. We've been D-partners for the past three years, and we click. It's helped our chemistry on the ice, for sure.

Halfway through the third period, I fire a one-timer onto the net from the blue line. The goalie doesn't manage to hold on, and there's a scramble in the crease for the rebound. Just as I try to get involved, the refs lose sight of the puck—shocker—and blow. Pushing and shoving ensues as Vancouver protect their goaltender, which is totally fine as I'd do exactly the same, but I seem to have a target on my back.

"Try'na take out all our players, Cooper?" Charlie Dreisdon, their alternate captain, cross checks me from behind.

I spin and return the favour. The refs spot that, of course, and break us up before I manage to demonstrate exactly what taking out a player would look like.

It sets the tone for the last minutes in the period. Play becomes more physical. It's an end-to-end game, and I have six of the bastards to contend with now they've pulled their goalie for the extra skater.

In amongst the intensity, I high-stick their second-line centre. It's an accident, and miraculously the refs don't call it, but Vancouver have had enough.

"You wanna go, Coop?" Josh Riley asks.

I throw off my gloves. It's a fair invitation. I high-sticked their player, and with the refs not calling it, Vancouver understandably wants retribution.

So close to the end of the third period, I'm fucking exhausted. Off the ice, Josh and I are good friends. On the ice, we've fought countless times. He knows all my moves, and I know his. My shoulders burn with exhaustion as I fist his jersey with one hand and aim with the other. We give it a good go, before calling a truce. It's a stalemate.

The refs send us to the locker room since there's only a few minutes of play left. I pause just before the tunnel, grabbing the jersey and pen dangling from a kid's outstretched arm in the stands above.

"Turn around, will ya?" I say to Josh.

Rolling his eyes, he pivots to face away from me. "How's your coach going to feel about you stopping to sign autographs when you've been ejected?"

"He'll get over it." I hold the sweater against his back to pen my signature in the white number three.

The kid is beaming when I reach up to pass it back. "Thank you so much, Coop!"

"You got it, buddy. Cheer on the team for me while I'm out, okay?" I offer my clenched hand for a fist bump.

Once in the tunnel, Josh claps my shoulder. "Good fight. We miss you in Vancouver."

"You don't need me in Vancouver." I tug off my helmet and shake my damp hair out of my face. "I was only good for one thing there."

Josh sighs, glancing across at me. "You should've talked. The boys would've backed you up."

"Nah. Would've been my word against his. Preferred to take the trade. I'm happy here, anyway. Back in my hometown. Close to my family. Rocking the purple jersey."

"It's pink, man. Definitely pink."

"It's berry. Therefore purple."

"Yeah, b-ery pink."

Just as we round the corner, a bundle of blonde hair and sensual vanilla barrels straight into us.

"Oh, shit." Isla clasps a hand to her chest. "Didn't hear you guys coming."

"Throwing yourself at hockey players?" I cock an eyebrow at her. "What's new, eh, Island?"

Her steely eyes narrow, fingers curling into a fist before dropping down to her side. "I prefer the players that score goals rather than throw punches, unfortunately for you."

Beside me, Josh clears his throat. "I do both, gorgeous. How about I take you out for a drink tonight and show you just how quick my hands are?"

"While I'd love to stand here and tell you just how much I would hate that, I'm on tunnel cam duty so can't chat right now." She brushes past me, another waft of that sexy perfume accompanying her.

"Good luck with tunnel cam," I call after her. "Hope the fans aren't too disappointed at number three missing."

"Don't worry, Seabass." She shoots me a sickly-sweet smile over her shoulder. "I'll make sure they're not too deprived of their favourite goon."

Off she struts, all long legs and long hair and—

Josh snickers. "Some things don't change. Pity. She gets more beautiful every time I see her."

"She's a pain in the ass." I fake a shudder. "How she's related to Rob is a mystery."

"How your boy Winchester gave her up is a mystery, too."

This time I stay silent. Our generational star, Nick Winchester, broke up with Isla when he got temporarily sent down to the AHL. Blamed her for it. It'd be easy for me to agree with Josh, but I can't.

Because my ex broke up with me when I couldn't put her before hockey too, and it's the worst mistake I ever made.

*

I gulp back a long mouthful of beer. No message from Erin. Recently, the post-game texts have become more and more delayed. I'm losing her.

Fuck, I lost her a long time ago, but this is different. I shouldn't give a shit. It's just routine, that's all. She always texts me after a game. We're on a losing streak right now, and I can't help but suspect it's due to the sudden change in routine. Even tonight, when I thought we had the game locked down, Vancouver scored a late goal while I was banished to the locker room, then beat us in overtime.

Guilt churns through my gut—because if I'd been more careful with my stick and hadn't accidentally caught that centre, then I wouldn't have fought Josh, wouldn't have been kicked off the ice, and the team would have had an extra defenceman to see off the final minutes.

It's an unhelpful train of thought, so I concentrate my attention on the here and now instead.

Cam is flirting with a puck bunny over at the bar. Cameron Cormier: Top scorer on the ice and off it. Maybe I should do that. Pick up a random chick. Fuck Erin out of my system.

It didn't work the last two times, but three is my lucky number.

I scour the room. Several pairs of eyes are already on me, but I need to want this. There's no point choosing the first girl that smiles at me. I have to be into it. I have to be into her enough to forget Erin. For one night, anyway.

In my peripheral vision, a flash of blonde distracts me. No matter how crowded the bar, Isla Watson stands out. It's not even her body. It's her presence. Her sultry laugh. Her uninhibited dancing. The way she bounces from one person to the next with effortless ease.

No fucking wonder Chess got drawn off course with her. All part of her master plan, no doubt. She might have most of the boys on this team fooled, but I know the truth. The real reason she hangs around and pretends to give a shit about hockey. Her hypocritical social media 'influencing'. Isla on Ice: hockey meets cocktails. Just another example of how you can't trust anything you see online, because Isla Watson resents hockey and yet her followers lap up her content like she's the key to a secret club.

Heat crawls up my neck. Now I'm not in the mood to fuck someone. I just want to go home and sulk over my ex and tonight's dropped point.

Then Isla's attention shifts onto me. At least ten bodies separate us, but our eyes clash through the narrowest line of sight. A tiny smile quirks at the corner of her cherry-red mouth.

And the warm hum of arousal that buzzes through me is infuriating.

I look away. Take another sip of beer. Check my phone once more. Still no message from Erin.

I'm just contemplating calling it a night, when a rush of vanilla sweeps into my nostrils. Isla slides into the booth opposite me, a cunning twinkle in her hazel eyes. On second thoughts, I really do need to get laid.

"Seabass."

"What do you want?" I ask. "Not in the mood."

A low chuckle. It's far sexier than it has any right to be.

"When are you ever in the mood?" She waves her phone at me. "Quick video to appease your disappointed fan club?"

My heart rate spikes. Not at the stupid video—I have little tolerance for Isla's quest to achieve fame and I fucking despise social media. But I know Erin follows her account. Maybe this will jog her memory. Spur her to send a text.

"Just this once," I say. "They did miss me on tunnel cam, after all."

"Great." She beams, white teeth against bronzed skin. "I'm sure all five of them will be thrilled."

She fiddles around with her phone, and I swallow another swig of beer. I'll finish this bottle, then head off. Not in the right mindset for casual sex tonight.

"...And now I'm here with Saskatoon Storm's very own Sebastian Cooper, who we sadly missed from the tunnel cam this evening after he was sent to the locker room early."

I roll my eyes. Take another sip.

"...But fear not, because it's given us an excellent excuse for some one-on-one with our number three," she continues. I gulp a final mouthful of beer for courage. I hate this shit. But it's for Erin. "So, tell us, Coop: do you pick so many fights on the ice because you've got a small penis?"

I choke. Beer gushes up my nose as I slam the bottle onto the table and turn away from the camera to cough into the back of the booth.

Should have known she'd have something up her sleeve. Some kind of evil plot to get one over on me.

When I finally clear my lungs of beer, I turn back to Isla. She's already put the phone down.

"Never mind," she says. "Nothing can beat that."

"You better not post that," I tell her. My voice is weak from the coughing so it doesn't come out half as menacing as I'd intended.

"No?" She quirks a narrow eyebrow. "My followers love the authenticity of this channel. Doesn't come more authentic than Big Man Cooper choking over a sex joke. I might even hit that elusive one million views with this one. Thanks, Seabass."

This isn't even about Erin anymore. I can't have some amateur hockey blog making me the laughingstock of the league. It's taken me three years to shake the rumours that followed me away from Vancouver. This season is supposed to be the one where I'm taken seriously.

"Is that all you care about, Isla? Your views?"

"Yes, Sebastian. That's the point."

Fuck, my full name sounds good on her lips. I rarely hear it. That husky British accent almost manages to seep through my pores and infiltrate my brain chemicals. But no. She won't disarm me. Not for the second time in as many minutes.

"You represent the franchise," I remind her. "Are dick jokes really the kind of content they want?"

"The Storm need me. I don't think I've got anything to worry about."

That's probably true. They like that she brings a 'new perspective' to hockey. More than that, though, they want to keep her sweet. With her huge following and the publicity she brought to the team through dating Chess, she's an asset to them. A source of revenue.

Of course I don't say that to her.

"Sure. They needed you because you were dating their star player. Convenient, eh?"

Anger flares through those gorgeous hazel eyes. The fiery golden flecks burn out the calm green. I have a thing for eyes. Always have. And Isla's in particular captivated me the very first night we met. Not that I can remember anything from that drunken hook-up three years ago, apart from the hungover argument the next morning, but that's probably for the best given that she turned out to be the sister of my new D-partner.

*

I might not be getting texts from Erin, but I have a new problem. Liam fucking Dempsey. He's back to his old habits of giving out my number to his hook-ups. Usually the girls get the hint when I ignore their messages—there's no way I'm telling them who I really am—but this time I have a different issue.

This girl isn't interested in hooking up. She's threatening to post my number online. I've told her she's got the wrong person, but I can't exactly prove that without showing her who I really am. There's a chance she'll post the number anyway, and then people will know it's me.

Me: How can I convince you you've got the wrong guy?

+1-xxx-xxx-1555: Not sure you can. I just think it's kinda weird you'd leave me your number then pretend to be someone else

"Man, this is pissing me off," I say to Rob before our Thursday morning training session.

"Wrist playing up again?" Concern wrinkles his brow as he glances up from his burner Instagram account.

I follow his gaze. Without realising, I've been rubbing at my left wrist. It's a subconscious gesture. One that I find myself doing when I'm anxious. Ever since I broke it two years ago, my brain tricks me into thinking it hurts whenever I'm in other situations that stress me out.

"No. It's this girl. The one who's convinced I'm Dempsey."

"Surprised she's not asked for some video evidence." He returns to hitting 'like' on his sister's latest posts.

"Thank fuck. What would she do if she realises I'm not Dempsey but still a hockey player? She might be another Hanna, just waiting to—"

"No." Rob's voice is firm as he locks his phone to give me his full attention. "That shit is never going to happen to you again, Coop." He cocks his head to the side. "When are Dallas next playing? Tomorrow?"

"Think so, why?"

"Wait until Dempsey is on the ice, in the middle of a period, then text her. He can't text during a game, can he?"

It's not a bad idea. And if it avoids another instance where my personal life is plastered all over social media, it's worth a shot. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

***

So now we've met both Isla and Seb! What are your first impressions?

Note: Seb's messages will always be on the left in italics and Isla's on the right in bold, regardless of whose POV we are following, to avoid confusion.