The Ultimate Goal (Brooklyn Blades #1)

Chapter One

Rip

My blood ran warm, but I lived for the ice.

That crisp sound of my skates digging into the smooth, unvarnished surface of the rink was the music that filled my soul.

The second half of our season began tonight, and I couldn’t wait. This was our time. Our year to win. My goal was the Stanley Cup. Nothing else mattered.

“Are you ready?” Seb asked. “We’ll close the deal this year, am I right?”

I slipped my Blades jersey over my padding, pushed the hair out of my eyes, then answered Sebastian Crowe, All-Star right winger and my best friend on the team. “Yeah. But we say that every year, and something always comes to bite us in the ass.”

His dark eyes dancing, he nudged my shoulder. “I thought you liked that.”

With a laugh, I shoved him. “Idiot.”

But damn, I was ready—and had been since the last season after we’d lost the Stanley Cup Final in the seventh game on a power-play goal.

Fifteen years I’d played in the NHL, and I was hungrier than ever to get that championship.

I’d made the choice to graduate from college first, so I was twenty-one when the Blades had drafted me.

Many players came right from high school or never finished college, but I knew my mother would’ve wanted me to have that degree.

Every hit I took, every cut from a flying stick or broken tooth from a wayward puck, was worth it, all in the pursuit of the ultimate prize: the Stanley Cup. It dominated every waking moment of my life.

Slowly, the locker room filled up with the rest of the team, and we finished getting ready.

I scanned our crew. We were in a great position for the playoffs—first place in our division with 57 points, 27 wins, 11 losses, and 4 ties.

Our team consisted of a good combo of rookies and seasoned players.

We’d come close to the Cup so many times, sometimes I wondered if it was all a cruel dream and I was destined to be one of those players they’d talk about as good but never great. Not at the most critical moments.

“Are we ready to close it out, mes amis? This is our year. I can feel it, vraiment.” Denis Bouvier’s voice boomed off the walls as he strolled into the room.

Our goalie, and best in the league at fending off shots on goal for three years running.

Two-time winner of the Vezina Trophy, and five-time most valuable player in division playoffs. Powerful. Gorgeous. Undeniably sexy.

My former lover. Boyfriend.

Cheating bastard.

I winced, and Seb sidled closer. “You okay?”

I shrugged. Two years and poof. As though he’d never been there.

“It’s all good.” I started to slam my locker door shut but held off, closing it quietly, refusing to show how absolutely fucking devasted I still was, even after six months. Not that I had to. Seb knew it all.

Sebastian Crowe and I had been drafted together and spent four years on the Blades before he’d been traded to the North Dakota Polar Bears.

But that time, plus all the blood, pain, and tears, had forged a bond not even a thousand miles could break.

Seb had come home to the Blades five years ago, and I’d never been happier.

I’d been best man at his wedding and was godfather to his first daughter, and he’d dragged my sorry ass to his place and held my head over the toilet after I’d downed a bottle of tequila the night I’d caught Denis naked in our bed, fucking his nonexistent heart out with Gordie McCain, a defenseman for the Illinois Icers.

“You might be our captain and the best center in the league, but you’re a horrible liar, especially to me.” Clearly Seb wasn’t buying the bullshit I was shoveling. “Meanwhile, ignore the stupid fucker.”

My smile was thin. “Kind of hard when we’re on the same team. I can work with him. I’ve played with plenty of jerks in my time.”

“Never ones you lived with.” We locked eyes. “Or loved.”

Unwilling to let even one of my closest friends see my pain, I brushed it off. “First time for everything. The ‘golden couple’ is gone.” Not my choice of words, but how the league had described their most visible power-gay relationship.

Seb nodded, and we bumped fists. “Living single is the best revenge.”

I couldn’t help but cackle. “Spoken like a married man with two little kids.”

Seb’s eyes sparkled. “Hey. I gotta live vicariously, and it might as well be through you.” We finished taping our sticks and checked our pads.

As close as Seb and I were, I couldn’t tell him everything. I was the captain, the team leader. I had to be strong and show no cracks in the armor. I was there to build my players up and lead them on the ice.

That meant no one needed to know I sometimes still cried thinking of how Denis had packed his things and walked away without a backward glance.

Abandoned again. First deliberately by my father, who never gave a damn, then by my mom, who was killed.

Of course, that wasn’t her fault, but I had no one left to cling to who’d tell me they’d love me no matter what.

My best friend, Neil, was always there for me, but he had his own life.

Coach came in, and we quieted and sat on the benches to listen.

Benson Chopard had been a superstar player in the ’80s, winner of three Stanley Cups, and he’d already coached a winning team six years earlier.

The Blades brought him in last season, along with a total revamp of the coaching squad, and several months later we were all still adjusting—us veterans especially as we’d been with our former coach for years.

Chopard was no-nonsense, didn’t put up with bullshit, but unfortunately for me, didn’t appear to be a fan of the league’s acceptance of gay and bisexual players coming out.

He’d tolerated Denis and me, though I’d bet he was happy Denis and I broke up.

That way he didn’t need to think about two of his players having sex with each other.

“We’re ready, are we not? Time to take the rest of this season and make it ours.

The Snow Caps are a good team, but we’re better.

And tonight we’re gonna show them. Correct?

” He searched and found me. “We’re leaving the trash talk in the rearview mirror.

We’ve won the first matchup this year, so I don’t want to see any of you in the penalty box for stupid mistakes and unnecessary fighting. We need to win the division.”

Their center, Vlad “the Destroyer” Dostevky, and I had bloodied each other in last year’s conference championship, and in the rubber game I’d been unjustly called for high-sticking, forcing me to sit in the box.

My ears had rung for days from the reaming out Coach had given me.

Vlad and I had met in the opening match this season, and the shit-talking had been epic.

We’d slammed each other against the boards hard enough that Vlad lost a tooth, and I’d ended up with several stitches on my chin from the edge of his stick.

“Yes, Coach,” we shouted, and when he and I made eye contact, I acknowledged him with a sharp nod. I understood the implication. No fuckups.

“Let’s go out there and show the fans their future Stanley Cup champions.”

Cheering, we trooped out through the tunnel to home end and took to the ice to warm up.

My skates bit into the ice, throwing up shavings as I did sprints.

There was nothing I liked more than scraping a fresh, unblemished surface, and we did drills—split teams, push rushes—while Denis took shot after shot, practicing T-moves, shuffles, and butterflies with the other goaltender, Zane Ellis.

Chitty, our rookie, showboated for the early fans with displays of his cheetah-like speed. I watched him and frowned.

I megaphoned my hands. “Chitty, c’mere, now.” I waited for him by the red line.

He sprayed up the ice when he joined me, and I pointed at his chest with a frown. “Save it for someone who cares, Rookie. You’re gonna need your strength for the game. You’ll have plenty of time for grandstanding if you win the Cup. Until that time, concentrate on what Coach says.”

Chastened, he hung his head. “Sorry, Cap. Guess I got overeager.”

“Remember that when it’s third period. Then let them eat your ice like dust.”

Happiness returned to his face. “You got it, Cap.”

The fans roared as we ended our drills, and as we headed to the benches, we raised our sticks in acknowledgment.

“We Are the Champions”—our intro song—blasted and brought the fans to their feet.

Kind of ironic, considering we hadn’t won a championship in almost twenty years, but this was New York City, and we were nothing if not ironic.

I jumped the board first and skated out to center ice and faced Vlad.

“No hard feelings?”

Vlad smirked. “All good. Especially when I whip your ass tonight.”

“You’re gonna end up kissing it.” I grinned.

The ref dropped the puck, and Vlad and I fought like demons for control. In the crowd of bodies and sticks, I managed to flick the puck toward Seb, who passed it to Peter Varhov, our speedster defenseman. He took it past center ice, and we were off.

The lead traded hands three times. The way we bitterly fought for each possession of the puck, it sometimes felt like the playoffs and not simply the second half of the season.

Third period, and the score was 3-2. My entire focus was directed at that three-inch circle about to be dropped on the ice. Less than a minute was left, and the cheering in Blades Arena was deafening. It spurred me on. Made my blood race. I wanted this win for them.

Who the hell was I kidding? This was about me.

Nobody, not the shit-talking wingers or their big moose center, would prevent me from my goal, which was to keep it away from our side of the ice, hold the lead, and stop our rivals from scoring.

Every game, every win, brought us one step closer to the Stanley Cup.

“Kiss my ass, Tremaine,” Shimski, a defenseman, yelled as he tried to steal the puck and threw an elbow at me.