Chapter 2
TWO
TREY
“Welcome your Manchester University Maulers.”
I let the announcer’s voices fade away as I slowly followed my boys out of the locker room. We sounded like a herd of elephants as we lined up to make our way onto the rink, walking like penguins on guarded blades.
“Your starting lineup: At center is the young phenom, Aiden Mercer. Aiden tore up the ice before going out with a severe concussion following a car accident over Thanksgiving.”
“Everyone in Mauler country is happy to see the kid healthy and back on the ice.”
A-fucking-men! Zane Tyler was a damn good wing, and I was a fucking amazing center, but if we were gonna make it to the Frozen Four, damn good and fucking amazing were okay, but a fucking amazing wing with a phenom of a center gave us a much better shot.
“At right wing is Manchester University’s captain, Trey Malachek.
Trey has played every forward position on the ice, and if needed, he could make a decent showing as a defender.
He’s just that good of a two-way player.
He’s a number one draft pick and an Olympic gold medalist, but can he lead this team to the Frozen Four? ”
Hell yeah, I can.
“Rounding out the front three is Ethan Ruggers. Ethan’s no Aiden Mercer or Trey Malachek, but the boy can skate, and when you have two of the best forwards in the conference as linemates, being where you need to be when they need you there is not nothing.”
“Next up, the Mauler starting defensive pair: the twin terrors, Isaiah and Isaac Huston. You do not want to get stuck in the corners or behind the net with either of these two boys. They are big, brutal, and fast.”
“And rounding us out, we have goalie Ryan Riordan in the net. This kid has a homing device attached to the puck. He’s number one in the nation in save percentage, and he’s just a sophomore.”
“On the other side of the ice—”
Coach Storm grabbed my arm. “Trey. Hang back for a second.”
I stopped, waving Isaac Huston on when he stopped as well. It wouldn’t do for the captain and the alternate not to hit the ice.
“Yeah, Coach?”
His gaze stuck to Isaac’s back. The moment we were alone in the tunnel, he said, “I called Merkel.”
“Why?” I asked, trying my damnedest to figure out what I could have done wrong.
Sasha Storm hadn’t been with us for long.
He came on when our previous coach got caught doing some illegal shit that got him canned.
But I knew The Storm. Everyone knew Sasha Svartstrom and not just for the freak puck he took to the temple that ended his career.
No. They knew him as a beautician. The man was a menace on the ice.
His average minutes per game, his shots on goal, points, and goals were way above average.
Better than both my dad and grandfather.
“Because I wanted to know why they’re leaving talent like yours on a college bench.”
I couldn’t fucking look at him. Instead, I waited to see if he would explain, but his lips stayed zipped. Sighing, I asked, “What did he say?”
“What’s he told your dad?”
Fuck me. I should have known he’d hit me with that one.
I hated the position this put me in. Yes, I’d asked my dad why New York wanted me so badly they drafted me as their first-round pick, only to leave me riding the pine at The U.
Not worded that way, of course. The world had two braggy fuckers in Donald and Donnie Malachek.
They didn’t need a third in me. I refused to live up to that part of my legacy.
My lips rolled into my mouth, which turned to chewing the tender inside of them before scraping first the lower and then the upper lip, digging the sharp edges of my teeth into the flesh that I knew would make them puff up.
I knew my dad hated Coach Storm, but Dad hated most people who counted him as their friend.
Squaring my shoulders, I finally admitted, “Dad refuses to call him.”
He nodded. That was it. What—
“Well, he told me he wanted to see more impulse control. You’ve got a reputation for being a hot-headed player on and off the ice.”
That sucked, big fucking hairy ones, but I nodded.
“That means, put your head down, focus on school and hockey, and less fuckery.”
Shit. Did Coach know…
“You don’t gotta be a monk, but maybe quit fucking around and getting shitfaced in public. The front office, and Merkel especially, doesn’t put up with bad publicity. They’ll fine your ass or put you on the bench.”
I nodded my head, fucking spinning.
Then his hand landed on my shoulder, and the other patted the side of my face. The touch felt weird. Not pervy-weird, just…odd. No one in my life was as touchy-feely as Sasha Storm. They didn’t do that shit, not even my mother.
“I’ve convinced him to bring you to camp this summer.”
My eyes flew to his. The words shocked me. I tried to clamp that shit down, but it was useless. I couldn’t believe it. Coach’s hand moved to the back of my neck, shaking me a little.
“Just get out of your own way. You understand?” I nodded, and he continued, “And remember…your last name is Malachek, but Trey Malachek only has to be Trey Malachek, not anyone else.”
My eyes burned as tears flooded my vision. Swallowing, I nodded, then added, “Yes, Coach.”
Unable to stand there any longer without losing it, I turned my back to him and trudged off down the tunnel.
At the gate, the equipment manager, someone whose name I’d never learned because per the Malachek code, he wasn’t worth the time, stood waiting for me to hand over the blade guards I wore even on the rubber mats. Cause that shit felt weird to me.
Trey Malachek only has to be Trey Malachek, not anyone else.
Coach’s words rang in my head even with the jumbotron zoomed in on my parents, making me even more doubtful. With a deep breath, I looked at the guy with his hand out, taking in the name embroidered on his polo. “Thanks, Matty.”
“Um, it’s Matt.”
I chuckled, looking over my shoulder at him as I stepped on the ice. “That’s what I said.”
The pissy, angry kitten look made him hotter. It also made my dick twitch.
Over Equipment Guy Matty’s shoulder, Coach Storm rolled his eyes at me and shook his head.
I shrugged with a smirk, feeling very thankful for the cold air filling the rink, which allowed me to pass off the blush creeping up my neck to my face as something else.
I fell in next to Isaiah and Isaac, circling the rink to warm up and hype the crowd. The twins side-eyed me, and I wanted to laugh at the fuckers. So predictable I could time it.
3…
2…
1…
“You good?” Isaiah asked.
The laugh that burst forth drew the attention of the rest of the team. All of us were in a good mood. Aiden Mercer, Mercy, our starting center, skated around us, dancing to the music, finally back on the ice after being out following a head injury.
The twins and I skidded to a stop, dropping to the ice to stretch. Aiden joined us.
“Glad you’re fucking back, Mercy!” I called to Aiden. “This is just for you!”
Aiden nodded. The playlist that blared through the speakers contained all his favorite songs. We had to celebrate our boy’s return to the ice.
“Listen to that fucking crowd, man,” Ethan Ruggers said when he came to a stop beside me.
“Best music on the planet,” Aiden said as the first song the media team had ever played for him took over the PA system.
“Hell fucking yeah, boys!” I yelled as I humped the air.
What could I say? I loved the damn song myself.
The crowd erupted. The puck bunnies screamed. Fans beat the glass. All of it merged into a level of sound that turned from ear-piercing to deafening.
“It’s a fucking beaut, boys!” Isaac said before jumping to his feet, spinning on his blades to face the fans yelling lyrics into the invisible microphone he held. The crowd yelled them back when he stretched the imaginary mic out toward the stands.
We scrambled to our feet as a group when the music switched. “Fuck, yeah. Let’s go!”
Giving Aiden a push, I tore around our half of the rink, building up speed even though I spun from forward to backward. Every time I got close to the boards, I beat on the glass.
Equipment Guy Matty rolled his eyes at me. I winked at him but then nearly fell on my ass.
Holy fucking shitballs. Hello, Daddy.
Several rows back—blond-haired, bearded-faced, beer-sipping—sat the most gorgeous fucking man.
At six-three and built more like a defenseman than a forward, rarely did I meet a man bigger than me or who could manhandle me.
But this guy? Fuck me. Even sitting down, I could tell he was built: big, athletic, and into some heavy lifting if the stretched sleeves of his Henley were anything to go by.
Skating closer to the glass, I stared up at him with a smirk.
Wanting to make an impression, I turned my gaze back to the ice, pushing myself across the surface, building up speed and momentum.
The laps I’d skated, flipping from forward to backward without losing momentum, were just the tip of the iceberg.
My mother taught me tricks that were fucking huge and insanely technical—very impressive.
Only, I couldn’t go big, not in hockey skates, but I could at least…
Knees bent, I pressed my skates into the ice, leaping into the air…
One.
Two.
The middle of my blades touched the ice, and I moved into the back spin out of the jump. A signature move of mine from before hockey beat out figure skating as the love of my life.
“Yes!” I yelled, punching the air.
My teammates hooted and beat on my shoulders while my eyes scanned the crowd to find the super hot fucker sitting several rows behind the bench.
He stood with a smirk as he clapped, then bowed.
His buddies sitting on either side grabbed the guy’s belt and pulled him back into his seat, shaking their heads.
I thanked my lucky stars that the cold and exertion kept the satisfied flush from my face.
But then the music hyping us all up dimmed, and the announcers’ voices broke over the softer musical beats.