CHAPTER 1 WESTON
Red-hot panic surges through me as I stare at the message on the screen. Is this about getting beat in the second round of the playoffs? We barely scraped through to five games. But surely that’s no reason to call an emergency team meeting.
Scrubbing my hand over my jaw, I tap out a quick message to my triplet brothers, Bennett and Callum.
Weston: You clowns awake?
A nanosecond passes before Callum responds.
Goalie boy: Barely. What the fuck is the meeting about, Cap?
Weston: No idea
Goalie boy: Bro, what good are you?
It doesn’t take long for Bennett to jump in.
Puck bunny: I’ve been asking him that for years. You’re slow on the uptake, Cal
Goalie boy: Shut the fuck up, Bennett. YOU know what it’s about, smart guy?
Puck bunny: No. But this time it doesn’t involve me. Thank fuck
So my brothers are as in the dark as I am. At least neither of them seems to be involved. Thank god for small favors. Not that Callum gets into trouble, but every once in a while Bennett manages to drag him into the mix.
After all, Bennett earned the nickname Puck Bunny.
He loves the ladies as much as they love him.
With that predilection comes trouble—with the media, other players, rival teams. Hell, even the women themselves.
I’ve had to bail him out more than a few times.
And not to pat myself on the back, but if I wasn’t team captain, he’d likely be in a helluva lot more trouble.
Weston: No ideas then?
Goalie boy: Nope
Puck bunny: Nada
My gut twists into a tight knot as I kick out of the sheets and lumber over to the wall of windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline. The first weak rays of light spill into my bedroom, the sky a milky gray. The muted tone perfectly matches my mood.
What in the hell is this gonna be about?
I bet Coach knows.
Weston: Hey Coach. Know what the meeting’s about this AM?
I wait for the three swirling dots to appear, like they always do. But nothing happens. Uncharacteristic for Coach not to text back immediately. He’s faster on the draw than Callum, his cell practically glued to his hand when we’re not on the ice.
A few minutes pass and all I get back is radio silence.
Well, fuck. Coach probably doesn’t even know.
Rolling my shoulders up and back to relieve the tension lodged between the blades, I hit the shower to get ready for the mystery meeting.
Thirty minutes later, I drive past a line of media vans, reporters milling about on the sidewalk in front of the arena. Normally, a few paparazzi hang out, hoping for a shot. But today, this place is a circus. Odd, considering we’re out of the playoffs.
A few hawk-eyed photographers recognize my car, bright flashes of light popping and reflecting off the windshield. Instinctively, I duck my head and pull my ball cap lower to hide my face. I’d rather not be on the front page this morning, especially after losing in the playoffs.
What the hell’s going on? Why is the media here during off-season?
I gratefully roll down the street to the side entrance of the arena’s parking garage, happy to avoid the press. Swiping my key card, the gate lifts and I idle through to my personal parking spot.
CAPTAIN.
The title still sends a thrill shooting through me. Tangible evidence of hours sacrificed on the ice for the team and the game.
If only we’d had a better season. One that ended with a heavy-ass cup held high above my head.
We’ll get ‘em next season, I know it.
I throw my Porsche into park and hustle through the metal doors, half-jogging down the concrete hallway. One I’ve traversed many times before.
Somehow, this time feels different—and not in a good way.
My morning coffee rolls around my empty stomach like battery acid. I regret the split-second decision to bypass the meal plan egg frittatas. Seems like a big mistake right about now.
Rounding the corner toward the conference rooms, I run straight into a petite blonde, her attention locked on the phone in her hand.
“Oof.” She collides with my chest, bouncing back slightly and wobbling on her sky-high heels.
I reach out and grab her by the elbow, steadying her. “I got you.”
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She awkwardly pats at my chest, her delicate hand gliding over the cotton of my T-shirt. She’s a tiny thing, her head barely clearing my pecs.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going, I’ve never been here before…” The apples of her cheeks turn pink as she gazes up at me through thick lashes, hazel eyes locked on mine.
“It’s fine. No biggie.” She’s so close to me I catch the sweet scent of shampoo drifting up from her long golden hair, her breath warm on my skin. An electric zing shoots through me right below her palm.
She bites at the corner of her glossy lip, and my eyes dart to the spot before I tear them away. I’ve never had any sort of HR complaint about me and I’m not about to start today.
“You lost?” I tip my head, trying to place her. She’s definitely not on staff. Or at least she doesn’t work directly with players. Not wearing that tight pink dress perfectly molded to her curves and heels. Clearly not a trainer or nutritionist.
“No. I’m in the right place. Main conference room, right?” She glances to the right, hooking her thumb at the open door, the room buzzing with people.
“Yeah. That’s where the meeting is.”
“Okay, great. Thanks. And sorry again about running into you.” A blush creeps up her neck, almost matching the bright pink shade of her dress.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to ignore the sudden acceleration of my heart rate. Has to be from racing to the meeting.
“Cap, what’s up?” One of the trainers smacks me on the back as he passes by.
The woman’s cell buzzes in her hand and she flashes me a quick smile, then scurries away, her heels clicking loudly as she moves down the hallway.
“Dude, any idea what this meeting’s about?” Vic, one of the veteran players, mutters as I swing into the conference room.
I shrug. “None.”
But obviously it’s a big fucking deal, considering every seat in the room’s filled with personnel of all types. Players, athletic trainers, assistant coaches, equipment managers, the community relations coordinator.
Everyone but Coach.
What the fuck?
I glance at my watch. 7:55. Maybe he’s running late.
Callum waves me over to the corner and I stalk in his direction.
“What’s up?” I shoot my brother a sideways glance, taking the spot on the wall next to him. Dark shadows ring his eyes. No doubt he’s as haunted by the shitty playoff run as me.
“No idea. You see Bennett out there?”
I shake my head. “No. He’ll be late. Always is.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I lean back and wait along with everyone else. Chatter in the room amplifies as the seconds tick by, my nerves thrumming. Callum’s quiet—per the usual—and I don’t mind a bit.
Bennett strolls in at 7:59, acting like he’s out for a Sunday freaking stroll. He shoots us a wave as he strides in our direction, joining us in the corner.
“Hey, boys. Any word on why we’re here?” Bennett leans back, propping his foot on the wall.
“No. Was the media still swarming?” I fiddle with my fitness tracker ring and stare at the door, anxiety thrumming through my veins.
“Oh yeah. Every major news station’s out there.”
“Even Meg the hottie from Channel 9?” Callum elbows Bennett and he jabs him right back, grinning.
“Yeah. Even her.”
“Was that awkward? Since you’re a one-and-done kinda guy?” Callum teases and Bennett shoots him the bird.
“No. Because I shaded my face with my hands and sprinted past her shouting ‘No comment.’”
“Of course you did.” Callum and I laugh. Of all the guys on the team, Bennett’s got the worst reputation when it comes to dating.
Suddenly, the room falls silent and I jerk my head up. The team owner, Max Prince, strides in wearing his typical dark suit, even at this early hour. He’s flanked by his assistant, Naomi, and the sexy blonde I just collided with in the hallway.
Bennett leans over and whispers, “Who’s Malibu Barbie?”
Callum snickers and I shrug, every inch of my body tense.
The sea of people parts as Max enters, and he takes his spot at the head of the conference table. He doesn’t sit, though.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Max’s eyes dart around the room, making eye contact with a chosen few, including me. “I apologize for the early morning, but I wanted you to hear the news directly from me. Coach Evans is gone. Terminated as of last night.”
A collective gasp rises from the room, side conversations breaking out.
What the hell? Coach was fired?
Max holds up a palm. “Before everyone begins asking the inevitable questions—Coach Evans acted inappropriately, in a manner not befitting a coach of this team. Therefore, I was forced to take action. A new coach will be appointed shortly. And we’re mixing things up a bit next season.”
What the fuck does that mean?
Bennett raises his hand. Of course he fucking does.
“Yes, Bennett?” Max points a finger at him.
“What do you mean, ‘mixing things up?’” He air quotes Max’s phrase.
Max presses his lips together, his gaze shifting toward the blonde. “Harbor, care to chime in here?”
The mystery blonde gives a shy wave and steps forward. “Hi, everyone. I’m Harbor Hayes, the team’s PR consultant.”
PR consultant? What’s going on here?
The back of my neck prickles, senses on high alert. We’ve never interacted directly with a PR consultant before.
“I’m super enthused to be meeting with you all this morning. As Mr. Prince said, big changes are in the works. I’m here to help you make the most of these changes and polish your image.”
Polish our image? What the hell?
Now it’s my turn to raise my hand.
“Excuse me—what do you mean by ‘polish our image’? What’s wrong with our current image?”
Harbor smooths her hair over her shoulder, her gaze flicking to Max. He gives her a barely perceptible nod and she takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling.