False Play (Chicago Strikers #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

HENRY

CALL THE ME RINGMASTER.

I’d done a lot of stupid shit over the years.

Underage drinking in college? Check.

Ironwood University may have had one of the best collegiate hockey teams, but that was all they had going for themselves. College life was practically nonexistent in that town, so we had to make do with what we had.

Taking my pranks a little too far? Also check.

Once, I sent two puck bunnies to Coach Sloane’s room and blamed it on Wesley Hayes, left winger of the Chicago Strikers and my childhood best friend. I was fairly certain Hayes hadn’t forgiven me for that, either.

Fighting on the ice? Check. Check. Triple check.

And the reason I sat in the locker room, icing my hand, when I should have been out there playing with the boys.

The fans loved a good show, and baby, call me the ringmaster, because everyone knew I ran that circus.

It was a role I took to heart, because I wasn’t in the business of disappointing my fans. All the shit I pulled during my rookie years stuck with me, and it was the reality I lived in. If a cocky, self-centered hockey player was what people wanted, that’s exactly who they got.

I flexed my fist and hissed at the pull of raw knuckles stretching.

Thankfully, I wasn’t bleeding anymore, but damn, it hurt like a bitch.

I’d forgotten how much the pain settled once the adrenaline started to wear off.

Still, the rough feel of my skin splitting was a welcome reprieve. It beat having to drown in my thoughts.

Deflecting was practically my middle name.

As soon as I got not-so-gracefully ejected from the game, Coach Sloane told me to wait in the locker room.

Uhm, well…to directly quote him, he said—more like yelled—“Get your fucking ass to the locker room and see if you can come up with reasons as to why you decided to start acting like a petulant child.”

He could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but there was no denying I deserved it.

It wasn’t a secret how I ran things on the ice. I was heavily criticized as much as I was adored for it. Sports commentators loved to argue that, as a starting center, my focus should always be on staying on the ice as much as possible.

“A waste of natural talent,” some loved to argue.

“A waste of payroll, if you ask me,” many haters commented.

But I’d gotten pretty good at shutting them up with my performance.

I may have spent a lot of time in the sin bin, but I made up for it tenfold when it mattered.

That had always been the deal between me and Coach.

I did my damn best to keep my word, because the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint people.

Only that’s exactly what I’d just done.

Guilt sneaked up on me and settled in the pit of my stomach like a heavy rock. I should have been out there with my team, having fun and bagging an easy W.

The unrelenting anger tried to surface and sink its teeth into me, but I pushed back with what little mental strength I had left.

I leaned forward in my seat, resting my elbows on my thighs as I threaded my fingers through my freshly washed hair, shutting my eyes tightly.

Trying to center myself had been proven useless, but I was nothing if not determined, and I refused to go down without a fight.

At the sound of the door opening, I lifted my gaze. The temperature inside the stuffy locker room rose to dangerous heat levels, and my throat instantly dried up as my eyes settled on none other than Kennedy Jones.

Hell. You didn’t often see women like her. That much I was painfully aware of.

With each purposeful step she took toward me, my heartbeat stumbled between exhilaration and fear. It was dangerous territory, but man, did it get my adrenaline going.

I took a big gulp, hoping to ease the dryness in my throat. “Hi, Jonesy.”

Her eye twitched when I mentioned her nickname. She hated it, and I loved annoying her. It was a win-win.

I leaned back on my chair with a lopsided grin. Anxiety still tried to sink its claws into me, but it was time to put on my usual mask. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She crossed her arms with an impatient look. “Came here to clean up your mess, pretty boy.”

Kennedy was tall, about five-foot-eleven, if I had to guess. She always wore these powerful and sexy-as-sin heels that made her even taller. Today, they were these white, glossy pumps that even the light seemed to follow. Even so, she was fairly short next to my six-foot-seven frame.

The only useful thing I got from my father was my ridiculous height. Yay, me.

“You think I’m pretty?” I smirked, raking a hand through my hair. “God, I mean…I’m flattered. But at least take me out to dinner first.”

Her stare was unimpressed. Fair, really. I’d been trying to get under her skin for like three years now. She was used to my ways. “How do you always manage to have selective hearing?”

“It’s easy,” I teased with a pop of my shoulder and a playful grin. “All I know is you called me pretty, so it’s a good fucking day over here in Henryland.”

The biggest pair of beautiful light-brown eyes pinned me in place with a death glare.

Any normal person would have cowered at the intensity of them, but me?

It was painful to admit I liked it…a lot.

Her eyes were—hands down—her best fucking trait.

They were a beautiful contrast to her rich brown skin and the dust of freckles that danced around her face.

She had the face of an angel, but the attitude of a devil. And the contraposition of the two was glorious.

“God, help me,” she muttered as she took a seat next to me, crossing one long leg over the other. “We need to talk about what happened today.”

I shrugged, putting on an innocent act. “What happened?”

“I’d tell you not to act stupid, but I’m beginning to think it’s not an act.” She thinned her lips, letting a silent beat pass between us. “Look, Anderson…”

And that’s all I heard before my eyes, those greedy little bastards, started raking over her.

The best part about Kennedy Jones working for the Strikers? She was a wonderful distraction.

She had these perfect cupid’s bow lips that glistened with some kind of gloss, making them look fuller and irresistible.

Her unruly chestnut curls were shiny and beautiful, resting just below her shoulders.

But those goddamn orbs captured me once again.

Her gaze was intense, the type that burned in the best way possible.

I had no problem noticing every single thing about Kennedy Jones. It was hard not to.

I didn’t want to notice her. I just did.

“Are you done gawking, or do you want me to get up and model for you, too?” She spit the question with a sharp venom.

I pretended to ponder as I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you stood up and twirled a little.”

Her looks weren’t any different than usual, but picturing her spin in that hot-pink power suit, with a white tank top that perfectly snugged over her chest—giving her the perfect amount of cleavage—and those damn heels? Yeah, I wouldn’t say no to that.

The woman was a drop-to-your-knees-and-worship type of hot. And God knew, I’d be a willing worshiper for one night if she’d let me.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” she snapped.

I pressed my lips together to hold back my laughter. “Why are you here again?”

“Glad you asked,” she retorted sarcastically. “I’m here to clean up the mess you got us into.”

I frowned in confusion. “Wait. Where’s Brad?”

She raised a perfectly shaped brow. “Why?”

“He always deals with shit like this.” The PR director had always been a hands-on kind of manager. And the bigger the problem, the more he wanted to be involved.

Not that it had ever gotten this far. This was my first time getting ejected from a game, believe it or not. A fact I kept in the back of my mind to remind myself when I felt like having a particularly shitty fucking day.

What can I say? I was a sucker for punishment.

Her brows etched into a frown. “Do you not think I can do a good job?”

I raised my hands in defense. “Hey, whoa. I did not say that.” On the contrary, I would rather deal with her than anyone else.

The other PR specialist, Matt, and I had never gotten along.

There was something off about that guy that I couldn’t pinpoint.

And Kennedy, well…she was annoyingly efficient.

She would call you on your bullshit and lay it all out on the table.

Her eyes flashed with what I’d come to know was annoyance.

I wasn’t joking when I said I noticed everything about Kennedy.

I had been observing her for a long time.

I remembered the exact day she waltzed through the arena doors ready to conquer the world.

She was as fiery as they’d come, and if you didn’t get out of her way, she would incinerate you without a second thought.

And, man, did I like being burned by her.

It was a fucking shame she was engaged.

Though single or not, I knew it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. The woman couldn’t stand me. But a man could always dream.

“Brad is retiring at the end of the season, so he’s trying to delegate a little more,” she said. “Unlucky for you, this means you get to deal with me.”

“I mean, if it lets us have these lovely interactions, how unlucky can I really be?” I pushed her shoulder with mine playfully.

I was a sucker for moments like these with her. They were rare, but when they happened? I was one happy motherfucker. And God only knew how desperate I was for a hit or two of good old dopamine.

“Very.” She gave me a smug look. Fuck, even her overconfidence was sexy. “Walk me through what happened tonight.”

My stomach tightened.