Chapter 1
Drew
Two months ago
Drew Moreau felt he was the most alive when he was playing hockey.
It was what he was meant to do with his life.
He had always known this, from when he was a kid skating on the frozen ponds in the New Hampshire winters, to now as a thirty-one-year-old winger playing for the NHL team the Boston Minutemen. Hockey was home.
But today, he didn’t feel at home on the ice.
It was mid-June: the Crawford Cup Final. The Boston Minutemen against the Detroit Motors at the Minutemen’s home rink—the Regency Insurance Arena.
The Minutemen had entered the game leading the series three games to two. The Motors’ hope was to force a Game 7.
Drew Moreau would normally be invested in the game.
Hockey was his life, and had been for as long as he remembered.
He’d played almost ten seasons with the Minutemen.
They’d won the Crawford Cup twice in that time, and they were looking for a third.
In the games leading up to the Final, he had been one of the strongest voices encouraging his team to give it their all.
Now, he was silent.
The game was loud—all hockey games are loud. This one seemed louder to Drew, but he knew it was just his senses, heightened to the aggression of the noise. Even six hours ago, he would’ve given his left testicle to be out here, giving the game his all. Now he just wanted it to be done.
Third period. He was up again.
He hopped the boards and got on the ice. Boston led 3-2, with six minutes remaining.
Boston dumped the puck into the Detroit zone, and Drew skated to retrieve it along the half wall. The motors closed in quickly. Drew’s eyes narrowed as adrenaline warmed his body and fueled his concentration.
He pivoted, his back to the boards, and surveyed his options. He needed to pass the puck—defensemen were closing in.
There were two options open for Drew: first, there was Dorsey, the weak-side winger, drifting into the left circle. Dorsey’s stick was open, and he called for Drew to pass.
Then there was Quentin Hartley, one of the Boston centers. He’d maneuvered around Detroit defensemen and was in the slot, wide open for a goal.
Drew hesitated.
Hartley was the safer play. It would be a shorter pass, and it was the sort of shot that Hartley could make in his sleep. Detroit had already anticipated the pass to Dorsey, and defensemen were moving to intercept.
Drew knew he had seconds—if that—to make his decision. If this had been a different game, or even if it had been this game and things before the game had gone differently, he would’ve made the right choice and passed to Hartley.
But it was this game. And the terrible things that had happened before the game couldn’t be undone.
Drew didn’t trust Hartley. He couldn’t trust Hartley.
His hesitation cost him the shot.
He chose Dorsey, raising his stick to attempt the cross-ice pass.
In his moment of hesitation, a Detroit defenseman had crossed the ice to get to him.
Drew’s stick caught on the edge of the other player’s skate.
The puck went wild, popping loose and skittering along the boards behind Drew.
Drew turned, trying to recover, just as the Detroit defenseman finished the check.
Drew felt the force of the other man’s body colliding with him. The air was knocked from his lungs. He was slammed into the boards, his left leg twisting awkwardly, his knee absorbing the force. A flash of heat ran from his left hip to his left ankle.
He fell to the ice.
All he heard was his heartbeat. There was no sound of cheering or booing.
Two seconds passed, or it could’ve been an hour. He shook himself and tried to stand, but immediately fell back to the ice, his left knee screaming and unable to support him.
The game was going on around him. Boston had recovered possession of the puck, and no one had noticed Drew was hurt.
A second attempt at standing, a second failure, and a whistle sounded.
McCormac, the trainer, was now on the ice, headed towards Drew.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
Drew got himself up. His knee hurt, but not as badly this time. He couldn’t put his full weight on it without it buckling, but it would be enough to get him off the ice.
“No stretcher,” he said.
McCormac looked worried, but he nodded. Drew leaned on him as they skated to the bench. He barely noticed the crowd rising in support of him; he did notice Quentin Hartley, the winger, drifting across the ice nearby, his posture stiff.
Drew ignored him.
It was Hartley’s fault, after all, not that Drew could—or would—say that to anyone, and Quentin Hartley would never own up to it.
What would Quentin say, after the game, if someone asked him about the play?
That Drew hesitated and his hesitation cost them the goal?
That would be true. Quentin wouldn’t tell anyone why Drew had hesitated.
He wouldn’t tell them that Drew didn’t trust him, and that Drew had every reason not to trust him.
Quentin wouldn’t tell them that he’d broken Drew’s heart just hours before the game.
McCormac got Drew to the bench and guided him to sit. Drew tugged off his gloves.
“Fingers seem good,” McCormac said as Drew flexed them. They quickly checked his shoulders; no problems there.
“It’s my left knee,” he said.
McCormac looked grave. “I want to check it out,” he said, “but I can’t fully do that here. Can you bend it?”
Drew tried, and it just caused more pain. He shook his head.
He had another shift coming up on the ice, but he knew that he couldn’t take it. He was still numb to the whole thing. Any other game, he’d fight through the pain and get back on the ice, injury be damned. Nothing could stop him from playing.
At least, that was what he had thought.
He heard himself say, “Let’s get it checked out.”
He didn’t hear the applause as he left the bench, went down the tunnel, and collapsed in the locker room.
—
There were many traditions that followed a win at the Crawford Cup: rituals about who could touch the cup and how, immediate interviews with sports reporters, celebrations in the locker rooms, and champagne.
Drew didn’t participate in any of it. He was too busy getting hauled in an ambulance from the Regency Insurance Arena to Mass General.
The injury turned out to be a sprain. Nothing was broken or torn, though the doctors informed him that years of play had weakened his knees. The buildup of scar tissue was notable, and they cautioned him about playing hard in the future. He didn’t listen.
Their best guess about his fainting spell in the locker room was that it was stress-related.
There was a mental health screening, which he muddled his way through.
By the time he was cleared to return home, with instructions on how to care for his knee, Boston had won the Cup, and a hockey season that had started so promisingly for Drew had now ended with the joy of a bad knee.
The next day, he called his manager, Estelle Hoffman. She was an eccentric, chain-smoking woman with a strong Boston accent, round glasses, and hair that was always pulled into a ponytail so tight that her skin was as taut as a drum.
“I need to get out of town for a bit,” he told her.
He was in his townhome in Back Bay, drinking a smoothie he’d made that morning.
He wore nothing but his knee brace—he liked walking around naked in his house—and had showered earlier.
His skin was still drying. He was tall and very muscular, with boulder shoulders, round pecs, and a heavy, muscular ass.
His heart-shaped face was strong and symmetrical, with round cheekbones and Cupid’s-bow lips.
He’d already shaved his playoff beard, and his face looked almost boyish, with his dark curly hair and his round eyes.
It was a stark contrast to his thick muscles.
“What do you mean by a bit?” Estelle asked in her gravelly Boston brogue.
“Probably most of the summer,” he said.
“Is this because of the injury? It happens to everyone at some point, Drew.”
“It’s not that.”
“You still won the game.”
“Yeah, without me. Despite me.”
Estelle sighed, and Drew knew that she was worried about him.
She didn’t know about the heartbreak situation with Quentin Hartley. He didn’t want to tell her. That would be a long conversation he didn’t have time for.
“There’s some personal stuff I need to go away to think about,” he said. “And I want to go someplace I won’t be crowded.”
He could almost hear the gears spinning in Estelle’s mind. He liked Estelle. She was a good friend—more a friend than a manager, really.
“I assume you don’t want to go back to New Hampshire,” she said, not phrasing it like a question. She knew the status of his relationship with his parents.
“Right,” he confirmed.
“Are you going to take a trip abroad? I’m sure we could find a nice resort on some island where you could hide away. I know you like Greece. It’s been a minute since you’ve gone there, or the Bahamas.”
He shook his head, though she couldn’t see him. “Not this time,” he said. The thought of losing himself on a golden beach while wearing a tiny bathing suit usually appealed to him. Not today.
“Wow,” Estelle said. She must’ve sensed how bad things were if he didn’t want to go to a beach and drink. “What are you thinking?”
“Someplace quiet, different from where I normally go. A place where I can exercise and think and not worry about other people bothering me. I’d like to see the sun and be in nature.”
“I have an idea,” Estelle said. She coughed, hacked, and then said, “Michigan.”
“Michigan,” he repeated.
“Yes, Michigan. Great place. Ever been?”
“No.” He stretched his tight muscles and went to stand by his living room windows, looking out at the street below. The trees that lined his street showed the pale green of early summer. Across the street, a mother, or perhaps a nanny, pushed a double stroller.
“Too bad,” Estelle said. “I think we can fix that. Have you heard of Orion, Michigan?”
“Nope,” he said. A pair of joggers—shirtless men in tiny shorts—ran past his window. He wondered if they were friends or a couple. He felt sorry for himself and then shook his head at the useless emotion.
“There’s a hockey summer camp there,” she said. “You donated funds for a remodel there, five years ago.”
“I did?”
“Indeed, you did. We set it up through your charitable foundation.”
“How nice of me.” Estelle handled most of his investments and charitable donations.
“Orion is a lovely beachside town in northern Michigan. It sounds like the perfect place for what you’re looking for.
They might recognize you there, but I’m sure they’d just be grateful for what you’ve done for their camp.
It would give you some time away, but would also get you some good PR, and it would be a good excuse for why you’re not in Boston, or not out on a yacht somewhere. ”
“Okay. I like that idea. Can you handle the reservations?”
“Don’t ask dumb questions. How long do you want to stay?”
“The whole summer,” he said, not even second-guessing himself. “Or, at least, I want to give myself the option to do that.”
“I understand. I’ll handle everything. And, if you don’t mind me asking, is everything okay, Drew?”
He sighed and watched an old couple, presumably married, in matching teal jogging suits, totter past his windows. Another stab of regret hit his stomach.
“Thank you, Estelle,” he said. “Everything’s not okay, but I’m hoping it will be, after I have some time to think.”