Power Play (D.C. Stars #2)

2. Liam

TWO

LIAM

“How easy is it to have someone fired?”

Maverick Miller, the best right wing the NHL has ever seen, looks up from lacing his skates. “Shit, Liam. You want me out as captain?”

“Believe it or not, I think you’re the best captain this team has ever had.”

He beams and runs a hand through his dark brown hair. “Aw, shucks, Goalie Daddy. You’re going to make me blush.”

“Fucking hate that nickname.”

I’ve seen the TikToks. The boys get a kick out of sending me the video compilations people make, laughing over the tags like # thirsttrap and # daddymaterial in the captions.

Unfortunately for me, the name stuck.

“Stop doing things the internet thinks are hot, and I won’t use it.”

“Biting my jersey isn’t hot,” I say.

“I don’t see the appeal, personally. I’m not into your broody, grumpy fucker aura whose pregame rituals involve eating your clothing, but some people are.”

“I don’t eat my clothes.”

“Hey, whatever you want to call it. I’m just glad there’s someone out there for everyone. Justice for the shirt eaters!” he says, and I scowl. “Who do you want to get fired?”

“Someone who doesn’t deserve to be in a position of power.”

“Is this a revenge tour of yours?” Maverick’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Wait a second. Is this about the food and beverage people getting rid of the hot dog stand on the concourse? Because I’m pissed about it too.”

“No, it’s not, but we need to come back to that. Who gets rid of a hot dog stand?”

“Heathens,” Grant Everett, Maverick’s backup, yells. “Fucking heathens, that’s who.”

“We’re picketing tomorrow,” Ethan Richardson, our center, calls out. “Bring back the glizzys!”

“Look what you did, Miller,” I say. “You’ve got Ethan using hot dog slang like it’s cool.”

“You know I have a flair for dramatics.” Maverick grins. “Please don’t tell me you want to sack Coach Saunders. I know we lost in the finals last year, but I think we found our groove in the offseason. We’ve been unstoppable in our first few games.”

“It’s not Coach. It’s not anyone on the team. It’s someone in a different department.”

Eavesdropping on Piper and Lexi’s conversation the yesterday was accidental. I didn’t mean to listen to them from the locker room while I was butt naked. I didn’t mean to press my ear against the wall so I could hear better, but once I started, I couldn’t stop.

When Piper mentioned the asshole things her boss said, I almost marched up to the broadcasting offices to give that douchebag a piece of my mind.

I’m already paying enough fines at the start of the season for refusing to talk to the media, though. Physically assaulting a guy who thinks he’s important because he dictates who gets to hold a microphone at hockey games seemed like an easy way to land my ass on the bench.

I have to resort to other measures, and enlisting the help of Maverick Miller, the league’s best athlete, is the way to do it.

If he asks for something, it’s generally taken care of in the snap of his fingers.

Poor shower pressure in the locker room? Fixed the next morning.

Shitty postgame food options in the family and friends lounge? Catering put together a new menu for the next home game.

Spearheading a project to design a women’s locker room so Emerson Hartwell—his fiancée, our former teammate before she got traded, and the first woman to play in the NHL—wouldn’t have to change in a cleaning closet? The space is nicer than ours.

There’s a reason he’s the team’s golden boy: he’s got a big heart, and he’s a good guy.

“When did everyone get so vague around here?” Maverick pulls on his jersey and fixes it over his pads. “I don’t understand what you all are talking about half the time.”

“Because it doesn’t concern you,” Hudson Hayes, our starting defenseman, says. “Learn to stay in your lane, Cap.”

“Because you’re old,” Grant chimes in.

“Because you’d rather stay in with your girl than come out with us like the old days,” Ethan adds. “You’re not fun anymore.”

“Bunch of assholes,” Maverick grumbles. “Everything good, GK?”

Goal Keeper.

A better nickname than Goalie Daddy .

“What would you do if you heard someone make an inappropriate comment to Emmy?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Maverick would burn their house down and ask questions later.

When we played against her ex, Maverick beat him to a pulp. Grinned when he was escorted off the ice after being ejected and tagged the fucker on Instagram with a picture of his bloody face and a middle finger, writing fuck around and find out under the photo.

Nothing he does is subtle.

“Who said something to her?” He stands and grabs his stick. “It was that new assistant coach of hers, wasn’t it? I knew the guy was a dick when he?—”

“Whipped,” Riley Mitchell, the other defenseman, hollers, interrupting him.

“I am whipped, fuck you very much,” Maverick says. “If you fuck with my girl, you fuck with me. Now shut up before I make you all skate laps.” That quiets everyone down, and he turns his attention back to me. “Who said something about her?”

“No one said anything about Emmy, and thanks for the reminder to never piss you off. It’s about someone else.”

“Oh.” He relaxes and grins. “Totally different story. I’d go to the source and confront them. Typically works best.”

I yank my jersey off its hanger and tug it over my head. “Thanks for the advice.”

Coach Saunders steps into the locker room. “Ten minutes,” he yells, and everyone starts to grab their gear.

I stand, wanting to stretch and get loose before we take the ice. Halfway through my hip rotations, my phone buzzes in my locker. I pick it up and see my sister’s name flashing across the screen.

If I don’t answer, she’ll keep calling back until I do.

Fuck if I have a game or not.

I prop the phone against my duffle bag, and the FaceTime call connects.

“I have forty seconds,” I tell her.

“Are you in the locker room? Turn the camera around so I can see the cute hockey boys,” Alana says.

“You’re getting married in four months.”

“It’s window shopping. I’m not touching. Only looking.”

“Disgusting. Half of them are fuckboys. The other half are in committed relationships—like you , last I checked. And none of them are good enough for my baby sister.”

“Aw.” She grins and puts her chin in her hand. “There’s my favorite brother.”

“I’m your only brother.”

“I still love you the most, which is why I’m calling. RSVPs were due last week, and I didn’t get yours in the mail.” Alana levels me with a look. “What’s the deal, Li? You don’t want to spend four days in a luxurious hotel in Spain? I know you can afford it, you rich asshole.”

“Says the woman who created a dating app worth so much money, your great-great-great-grandchildren are going to live comfortably.”

“Don’t try to compare our net worths. The contract you signed over the summer is obscene.”

It is obscene.

Eight years, eighty-four million dollars. The highest for a goalie in NHL history, and I’m determined to prove I’m worth the investment after a shitty ending to the Stanley Cup finals a few months ago.

“I was waiting to see our practice schedule,” I lie, biting down on the collar of my jersey.

Shit.

Maybe Miller is right.

“Bullshit,” she says. “I talked to Coach Saunders, and that’s when the 4 Nations Face-Off Tournament is happening. You’re free those two weeks in February, which lines up perfectly with my nuptials.”

“You talked to Coach Saunders?”

“We exchanged a couple emails. What’s his deal? He’s cute as hell.”

“Single dad who might as well be a monk. Haven’t seen him with a woman in years. Ever, I don’t think.”

“Maybe he’s into men.”

“Maybe.” I sigh, irritated. “I was waiting to send my RSVP back.”

“Waiting?” Alana repeats. “For, what? Pigs to fly?”

Everyone else on this planet might annoy the hell out of me, but I love my family.

My parents sacrificed years of time and energy when I was a kid learning to skate. Mom drove me to the rink six days a week. Dad never missed one of my games, even the ones on the road in Ottawa in the dead of winter.

The older I’ve gotten, the more there’s been a different kind of pressure from them. The focus isn’t on my athletic achievements. They don’t care if I win the Stanley Cup or ride the bench for the rest of my career.

What’s happening off the ice is more important to them: when I’m going to settle down. A wedding of my own. Retiring so I can have a family.

It’s the subject of every get together. Christmas, birthdays. The one time I flew home for Mother’s Day and got a two-hour earful about the lack of women in my life.

The only time I can block it all out is when I’m on the ice. When I’m in the goal and tracking the puck for sixty minutes a night. It’s my safe space, but I also understand my job is always on the line.

One wrong move could cost me everything I’ve worked so hard for, so I don’t let myself get distracted.

I hold myself to high standards during the season.

No sex.

No women.

One drink a week and in bed by ten o’clock.

I don’t give a shit about the spotlight or attention or partying at clubs. I like minding my business. Showing up to the arena, playing good hockey, then going home to my quiet apartment and my cat.

It’s neurotic and obsessive. The guys call me boring. They tell me I’m missing out on things, but it works for me. My life is dedicated to the sport I’ve given so much of myself to, and it suits me just fine. So what if it hasn’t included fucking around or meeting someone and falling in love?

I’m happy enough not to want to bother with all the extra stuff, but fuck if hearing another hundred questions about why I’m traveling alone isn’t going to drive me insane.

“I’m coming,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Are you bringing a plus-one?” she asks. “Perhaps some girl who wants a free trip with an athlete and has no clue your middle name is Fredrick? I need exact numbers for food.”

Maybe I’m sick of the pity party people give me when they find out I’m single.

Maybe I’m so goddamn tired of answering the same question every day.

Maybe, subconsciously, I’m really fucking lonely. Terrified no one will ever love me because I’m too closed off. Too harsh. Too committed to my job. And I know dancing around that conversation is easier than giving it a name.

Whatever it is, it makes me blurt out a word I wish I could take back the second I say it.

“Yes.”

“ Really ? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” Alana lights up. “Are you going to tell me about her? A name? An astrological sign so I can see if you’re compatible?”

I shrug and grab my helmet. “It’s new.”

“What the hell, Liam? How can I stalk her on the internet if you don’t give me a name?”

“It’s a woman.” Being vague is good. Being vague gives me time to figure this shit out. To pretend I never said anything. “A nice woman.”

“They’d have to be a saint to put up with your ass.”

“I need to go. It’s time to warm up.”

“You better buy me a nice present!” Alana adds, and I hang up before she can say anything else.

I toss my phone under a spare jersey and grab my helmet.

Lying about a date was beyond stupid, but that’s a problem for later. I have more important things to worry about than who I may or may not be dating, like winning this game.

Hockey is the priority.

It’s always going to be the priority, and a girlfriend—real or imaginary—won’t ever change that.