Punked By the Playmaker (San Diego Surf Hockey #1)

Chapter 1

Levi

There was no place like home.

It might be cliché, but it was true. California was in my blood, and standing with my toes in the sand, the Pacific Ocean stretching endlessly across the horizon, I felt at peace.

Plus, you couldn’t beat that it was sixty-five degrees in mid-January.

A part of me would miss Connecticut—the part that liked actually winning games—where I’d spent the entirety of my fourteen-year professional hockey career, but I wouldn’t cry over saying goodbye to those bitter New England winters.

I dragged in a deep breath, letting the salty sea breeze infiltrate my lungs before blowing it out slowly.

Fuck. How did I get here?

Oh, that’s right, I was an asshole—sorry, not sorry—both on and off the ice.

I got in a lot of fights, pissed off a lot of people, but I never expected something I did almost a decade ago to be the reason I was traded mid-season, without warning, to the San Diego Surf, the absolute worst team in the league.

Apparently, the Connecticut Comets’ new general manager, former player and league superstar, Jaxon Slate, was the type of guy to hold a grudge.

Yes, I may have messed with his baby brother’s love life when he stole my spot in the starting lineup, which ultimately led to him leaving the Comets for their divisional rival, the Indianapolis Speed.

But since then, Braxton Slate had won two league championships—one more than I could claim—and from what I’d heard, he ended up married to the same girl he’d been with before leaving Hartford.

So, technically, it was no harm, no foul.

Whatever. It’s not like I could go back in time and change the past. All I could do now was make the best of this shitty situation.

Speaking of shitty . . .

A flock of seagulls flew overhead, and apparently, one of them decided to bestow upon me a little gift as a wet splat hit the top of my head.

I groaned, reaching up to wipe the disgusting mess from my hair. But all I managed to do was spread it to even more of the short strands.

As I grumbled under my breath on the trek back to my car about how I now required a shower before heading to the rink, something my older sister once said filtered to the front of my brain. She’d declared that being pooped on by a bird was a sign of good luck.

I sure as hell hoped that was true because tonight was my first game as a member of the Surf, and I was going to need all the luck I could get.

When I arrived in the arena, I was greeted by a member of the front office, who expressed the team’s excitement about my arrival.

Despite having played in this building once a year during my tenure with the Comets, I was mostly familiar with the visiting team’s designated spaces, so I was given a quick tour of the facility, which ended with me being deposited inside the locker room to prepare for the game.

The trade had gone through late last night, and I’d taken the first flight out this morning, which meant I missed morning skate. Essentially, I was being thrown into the deep end, and it was sink or swim.

I was Levi fucking Nixon. I refused to flounder with the whole world watching.

Stepping deeper into the room, I located my stall, noting the freshly minted jersey hanging there.

I’d spent my whole career in Comets navy blue, and it was jarring to see my last name and my number nine staring back at me in bright orange, stitched onto aqua fabric.

It was going to take more than a minute to wrap my mind around the sudden change.

“Welcome to the Surf, new guy,” a voice called out.

I spun around to find that the captain of my new team, Cole Astor, had joined me. Plastering a smile on my face, I took the hand he offered for me to shake. “Happy to be here.”

Cole laughed. “Yeah, somehow I doubt that. But I can’t say I blame you. We’re going through somewhat of a rough patch.”

That was putting it mildly. The Surf hadn’t been competitive, well, ever.

They came into the league as an expansion team twenty years ago and never quite found their footing.

You know how people say winning breeds more winning?

Well, the same could be said about losing.

No one wanted to hop onto a sinking ship, so free agency was brutal for a team that consistently sat at the bottom of the standings.

Their GM was notorious for offering monster contracts to top talent, only to have them sign with another team for less money.

Would I be here if it weren’t for Slate trading my ass? That would be a resounding hell no.

Most of the team had been acquired via the draft, and sure, when you were at the bottom, you got high picks, but young players, even talented ones who went in the top five, were a gamble.

Some turned out to be busts when placed on the brightest stage, others needed more time to build the muscle mass necessary to compete against grown men, and then there were the ones who thought they were God’s gift to hockey and had major attitude problems. Anyone with promise stayed through their three-year entry-level contracts and the restricted free-agency period—which lasted until they were at least twenty-five—but left for greener pastures the minute that became an option.

Astor and his twin brother, Crew, were pretty much the only exceptions to the rule. At twenty-seven, they were talented, in their prime, and could have taken positions elsewhere but they chose to stay. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.

Simply put, the Surf were a disaster. And with ticket sales nearly nonexistent, it was only a matter of time before the commissioner relocated them to another city.

Since I didn’t have anything nice to say, I kept my mouth shut, allowing Cole to speak again.

“We could really use a veteran presence on this team, especially one with your championship pedigree.”

I would tout being a champion every goddamn day and twice on Sunday, but being labeled a veteran made me cringe.

While technically, that’s what I was at thirty-two, I didn’t love that it implied I was in the dying days of my career.

Mentally blocking out the fact that the sand at the top of the hourglass shrank each year, I focused on what I could control.

I ate clean and took good care of my body.

There wasn’t any reason I couldn’t be one of those guys who managed to play into their forties.

“A lot of young guys in this room, huh?” I remarked.

Cole barked out a laugh. “You can say that again. Half the time, I feel like their chaperone instead of their captain. Keeping them out of trouble on the road is a full-time job, and I could definitely use some backup.”

Great, just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse, I got delegated to rookie wrangling. If I’d wanted to be surrounded by a bunch of rowdy teenagers, I would have settled down and had kids.

Well fucking played, Slate. You knew this would be my personal version of Hell, didn’t you?

“Anyway,” my new captain continued. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Just wanted to pop in and welcome you before it gets crazy later.”

I dipped my chin. “Appreciate it, man.”

With a knock on the doorframe, Cole was gone. And there was nothing left for me to do but prepare myself to make the best of a bad situation.

Because what other choice did I have?

“Fuck.” The curse came out as a pant as I dropped my head to the boards.

It was common knowledge that things were rough out here—I mean, the standings spoke for themselves—but experiencing it firsthand, I realized it was worse than anyone could have imagined.

Shitshow seemed almost too nice a word to describe it.

There was no one to pass to because my linemates were completely out of position, reminding me of my first year of full ice at nine, when it was chaos with the entire team chasing the puck.

The number of icings was ungodly, forcing me to take shifts upwards of two minutes on dead legs.

And don’t even get me started on the goalie.

The dude was Swiss cheese, letting what felt like every shot past him.

Never in my life had I been in a game where we were down ten—yes, you heard that right, ten—goals.

It was fucking embarrassing. Beyond that, it was demoralizing for every man forced to play on this joke of a team. There was defeat written across every face on the bench, and when they were sent out on a shift, they looked as though they were headed to their execution.

No wonder guys got out of here the first chance they could.

And I was stuck here for at least the next three years until my current contract expired.

For the first time in my career, I toyed with the concept of early retirement. That’s how bad it was.

“Nixon, back out on the ice!” Coach Faulk shouted.

As I hopped the boards, my skates carving into the ice without conscious thought, I wondered if maybe I could pretend to be injured. I’d still get paid, while being spared the humiliation of getting my ass kicked on repeat.

That’s when God decided to give me the middle finger, and before I knew it, I was taking a shoulder to the chest in open ice.

Knocked off my feet, I landed on my back with enough force that my lungs emptied of air, and I was left gasping as I stared up at the rafters through vision that swam despite my rapid blinking.

With my hearing muted, I was vaguely aware of a whistle blowing somewhere in the distance, and before long, the lead trainer’s face appeared in my field of vision.

“Levi? Can you hear me?”

Only a wheeze spilled past my lips in response.

“How about your legs? Can you move them?”

I managed to nudge him with my right knee.

“Good. How many fingers am I holding up?” He brought his hand into view, showcasing his index, middle, and ring fingers.

Turning on my side, I grunted, “Three,” before flipping onto my stomach and rising on all fours.

A hand grabbed my elbow. “Whoa, easy. Let us help you.”

Another trainer appeared on the opposite side, and I was hefted off the ice. Every inhale I took burned like hell, but I’d take getting the wind knocked out of me any day over having my bell rung.

I was escorted back to the bench, where I collapsed.

Cole nudged my shoulder, offering me a water bottle, which I gratefully accepted, taking a sip before squirting a generous amount over my face.

“You all right?”

“Physically, yes.” And because I was in a pissy mood, I added, “Mentally, not even a little bit.”

He hummed. “Yeah, I get that. But you’ll get used to it.”

That was the problem. I didn’t want to get used to it. Not to getting our asses kicked by double digits, not to being the laughingstock of the league, not to being hung out to dry by my teammates, none of it.

Karma was really fucking me up the ass with a cactus this time.