POV: Colton
The Nashville Predators' training facility hits me with that smell—fresh paint, new beginnings, and a whiff of desperation I probably brought with me.
I shove the door open at five forty-five in the morning, duffel bag digging into my shoulder, every muscle still stiff from the flight down. This place is massive, way bigger than Jersey's old rink, and you can tell they want everyone to notice. It's all glass and chrome, spotless, like they're trying to overcompensate for being the new kids in the league.
Jack's already in the locker room, bent over his skates.
"You're here early," I say, letting my bag drop with a thud.
He doesn't glance up. "Somebody's got to set a good example. It sure as hell wasn't going to be you."
I flip him off and start digging through my stuff. New jersey, new number, seven instead of thirteen. Even my lucky number didn't survive the trade.
The door slams open. Coach Reynolds storms in, clipboard gripped like he's ready to throw it at someone. He looks younger than our last coach, mid-forties, built like he could still lace them up, and he's got a glare that could melt steel.
"Hayes. Mercer." No hello, no handshake. "You're here because we needed a scorer and an enforcer. Not because we wanted your drama."
"Understood, Coach," Jack says, all business.
Reynolds doesn't even blink at him. He's staring at me. "I don't care what went down in New York. Stats don't matter. Highlights don't matter. Play my game, follow the rules, or you ride the bench. Got it?"
"Crystal," I say, catching the playbook he hurls at my chest.
"Practice in ten. Don't be late."
He's gone before I can even mutter a reply.
Jack lets out a low whistle. "Friendly bunch."
"Can't blame him," I grumble, yanking my practice sweater over my head.
The rest of the team starts filing in. A few give me a nod. Most just look away. I can feel them sizing me up, wondering if I'm worth the trouble. Until I prove myself, I'm just a headline and a headache.
The only guy who comes over is this kid, can't be more than twenty-two, blond, grinning, practically vibrating with energy.
"Colton Hayes!" he blurts, sticking out his hand like we're at some job interview. "Tyler Brennan. Second-line center. Huge fan, man. That Boston goal last year? Still gives me chills."
I shake his hand, what else can I do? "Thanks."
"I watched that replay a dozen times. The way you deked Bergeron and went top shelf? Sick."
Jack snorts. "Kid's got a crush."
Tyler's ears go red, but he doesn't stop smiling. "Seriously, though. Welcome to Nashville."
"Give it a week," I mutter. "You'll regret it."
Practice is hell.
Reynolds runs us like we're being punished. Wind sprints until my lungs threaten to quit. Passing drills until my hands go numb. The scrimmage is a war, every hit feels like it's got a point to prove. The guys are testing me. Seeing if the city boy can hack it in Tennessee.
I take a cheap shot to the ribs from Carter, the captain, guy's built like a freight train. I don't react. Just get up and keep skating.
Jack's got my back like always. Someone takes a run at me, and he's dropping gloves without a second thought. The fight doesn't last long, but the message is clear.
Touch Colt, answer to Jack.
By the time we finish, I've got a split lip, my shoulder's screaming, but at least I kept my mouth shut and didn't lose my cool.
Reynolds calls me into his office.
"Sit."
I drop into the chair.
He leans back on his desk, arms folded. "You've got talent, Hayes. But talent's cheap. The league's full of guys with talent who flamed out."
"What do you want from me?"
He lowers his voice. "This isn't New York. We don't have tabloids on every street corner. We don't have paparazzi hiding in the bushes. But there's one thing that's worse."
"What's that?"
"Community." He lets the word settle. "This town—everybody knows everybody. You mess up, it's not just in the papers. It's the kid next door asking his mom why the hockey player got in a bar fight. It's parents pulling their kids from clinics because they don't want you as a role model."
I swallow hard. "I'm not planning on screwing up."
"You better not. Because this is your last shot." He stands up straight. "Now get out. And, Hayes?"
I pause in the doorway.
"Welcome to Nashville. Don't make me regret this."
The Tennessee sun blinds me as I step outside. It's mid-February, but it's already warm, nothing like Jersey's icebox.
Jack's leaning on my truck, scrolling his phone.
"Mom's making dinner," I say, unlocking the door. "You coming?"
"Wouldn't miss it. Your mama's brisket is legendary."
We drive through the city, past neon bars and fried chicken joints, until the skyline fades and the land rolls out into mountains, fields and fences. This is the Tennessee I remember, dirt roads and sagging porches, not honky-tonk lights.
Mom's house looks the same, white paint peeling, porch slanting, chimney puffing smoke. The lights are on.
She's waiting at the door, tears in her eyes before I've even crossed the threshold.
"Colt." Her voice cracks as she pulls me into a hug, tight and trembling. "You're home."
"Hey, Mama." I hold her close, breathing her in. "I'm here."
She cups my face, searching for the kid who left, not the mess that came back. "You staying this time?"
"I'm staying."
Jack clears his throat. "Evening, Mrs. Hayes."
She yanks him in for a hug. "Jack Mercer, don't you dare stand out there. You boys must be starving."
Dinner is loud and bright and everything I've been missing. Brisket, cornbread, greens. Jack cracks jokes about practice, stretching the truth like always, and Mom laughs so hard she's wiping her eyes.
For a little while, I forget about the trade, the mess I left behind, the weight that won't let up.
But once Jack's gone and Mom's in bed, the silence creeps in.
I grab my keys.
Driving to the cemetery is muscle memory now. Fifteen minutes down winding roads, through the iron gates. The groundskeeper nods me through, no questions.
Dad's grave sits under a crooked oak. Simple stone. Too simple for the man he was.
Daniel Hayes
Beloved Father, Husband, Cowboy
Rode Hard, Died Free
I kneel, jeans soaking up the cold dew.
"Hey, Dad." My voice is rough. "I'm back."
The wind stirs. An owl hoots somewhere.
"They took everything. The ranch. Your good name. Everything you built." My fists clench in the grass. "But I'm going to get it back. I swear. No idea how yet, but I will."
Headlights sweep over the hill. Jack pulls up, two beers in his hand.
"Knew I'd find you here." He tosses me a can.
I crack it open, the hiss breaking the quiet.
"Vowed revenge yet?" Jack grins, settling beside me.
"Hell yes."
He taps his beer to mine. "Good. You're going to need backup."
We drink in silence, staring at the stone. At the promise I carved into my bones.
I don't know if Nashville will save me or eat me alive.
All I know is I'm back in the saddle.
And this time, I'm not here for the spotlight.
I'm here for payback.