Chapter 5
FIVE
SLONE
Pushing through the last few minutes of the prerecorded workout on the rower, I luxuriated in that gorgeous feeling before tapping the screen to activate the cool-down session.
My phone screen lit up with the Manchester Mauler’s telltale icon. I dropped the rower handle, punched the screen to end the workout, and grabbed my phone.
I didn’t know what had gotten into me, but I couldn’t get Trey Malachek out of my fucking head.
I’d become obsessed. There was no reason for it.
I didn’t know the kid. We’d never met, but after the game Ewen and I went to several weeks before, Trey Malachek lived rent-free in my psyche.
I was nearing fucking stalker mode. I’d attended every home game since, nearly a dozen of them, sometimes with Ollie, sometimes with Ewen, but most often alone so I could focus all my attention on the object of my current hyper focus.
Especially the few close away games I stole off to.
The kid had phenom written all over him.
I’d never been a hockey fan, not like Ewen and some guys I grew up with, including my brothers.
Trey Malachek changed that the moment I saw him skate.
He was a beautiful man—big but not too big, with the face of a model, but put the man on the ice with knives strapped to his feet, and mesmerizing came to mind.
But something held him back.
And that something wasn’t hard to figure out.
Well, it wasn’t if you weren’t an idiot like the analysts and commentators who covered Manchester, and more specifically, Trey himself, were.
They harped on his legacy and lineage and the expectations of the hockey world at large as if they had nothing else to report on.
I got it. The boy had the genes for greatness.
Lineage might open doors, but it didn’t mean you had it easy.
I’d seen it often enough in the Marines: kids who came from generations of Devil Dogs carried the weight of their legacy.
Everyone knew your fucking name and whatever issues they had with your family suddenly became your problem, too.
Was it fair?
Fuck, no.
It just was, and the weight of a legacy for the Marines I knew who carried it made life difficult.
People either expected greatness or failure.
If they were shitty people, they rooted for you to crack under that weight.
That’s what it seemed like the hockey world was waiting for—Trey to crack and fail.
And unfortunately, the number of minutes the kid had racked up so far, just since I started attending games, leaned toward fulfilling the goals of those shitty ass people.
I envisioned on more than one occasion introducing myself and offering to help him cope with the noise, adding to the weight of legacy and expectation. I held myself back because I drew the line at turning full-blown creep.
Notifications buzzed on my phone. First one, then two, then three. All of them led to one location. My gaze found my best friend in the gym’s mirror wall. Our gazes met briefly before he ducked his head and turned.
That fucking asshole.
Guilt oozed out of him from across the room. It didn’t matter that the fucker’s back faced me. I caught a glimpse of his eyes. But even if I hadn’t, I could read Ewen Grigor like a damn book. He’d tattled to our friends that I was stuck in my damn head.
Priest
What are y’all doing this weekend?
Fancy a trip to warmer weather?
Heard you might need a change of scenery.
Fuck Ewen right up the ass.
Me
Not sure what little birdie you’ve been talking to, but I’m fine.
Priest
The word fine never means a person is actually fine.
Me
Fuck off.
Then Cam joined the conversation.
Cam
Not fucking happening dude. Bauer is sending the jet. Put your ass on it.
Cam typically represented the logical, peaceful, think-first side of the chaos equation with me. But apparently, he jumped ship and join Priest and Ewen on the other side of things. Thanks to Ewen’s loud fucking mouth.
I locked the screen, slipped it into my pocket, then reached for my water bottle before I gave in to temptation and bashed my best friend’s head in with a weight plate. I guzzled the last of my water, breathing deep and measured.
He had no fucking right. I wasn’t fucking…
Three new texts popped up. Swiping to open them, I realized quickly that the text from Ewen hadn’t been from the group with just the four of us.
Hayden
Get your fucking ass on the goddamn plane.
If you don’t, expect to see me and Declan in Manchester with a ball gag and a set of handcuffs.
Taz
Considering his profession, not sure if that’s a deterrent.
Either way, Slone! Get on the damn plane. I’ll hold down the fort here.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I reminded myself that I loved my buddies. They were the best of men. Then…
Walker
Wow. This chat hit a spot in the gutter I never wanted to visit with you fucks.
Get on the plane, Slone. Get some R&R. Reset your mind. Who knows? You might find whatever the missing something is that turned your ass melancholy.
The groan that started under my breath turned into a scream that sounded suspiciously like “EWEN!”
Heads popped up all around the gym only to duck back away as if they’d all turned to ostriches and had stuck their fucking nosy ass heads in the sand.
“Yes, dear,” Ewen singsonged, then followed up with, “Did you need something?”
Through gritted teeth, I said, “Yeah, I do.”
“What’s that?”
The stubborn ass meddling motherfucker spread his feet, crossed his arms, and gave me his best ‘I fucking outrank you, so try me’ look.
“We’re no longer enlisted, so that bullshit you’re trying to pull right now isn’t fucking gonna fly.”
He stalked forward, pressed a palm to my chest, and pushed me backward until my back contacted the wall of mirrors, stopping our momentum. Without looking behind him, he growled, “Get out! Now!”
The ostriches ran for it, the fucking cowards. The metal door to the gym clanged loudly, drowning out the mass exodus, probably heading upstairs for protein shakes at the cafe.
“You can put your scary sadist act away. It doesn’t work on me, and you know it.”
“The sadist isn’t fucking out. He’s fucking cowering in the corner, scared to fucking death his best fucking friend of twenty goddamn years is gonna eat his fucking service weapon. So, you better fucking believe I called in reinforcements. I refuse to let you become a statistic.”
Realization dawned.
Quickly.
The sensation shocked the system. Like a polar plunge shocking. I cupped his face, brushing aside the tears I didn’t think he even knew coursed down his face.
“Definitely no. Remember? I told you the last two were definitely no. My life and our friendship aren’t the things dragging me down.”
“I know what you said. And I also know the statistics.”
“Yes, and I know those statistics, too.”
“Then I don’t have to remind you how quickly things can spiral for people who spent their lives doing the shit we did.”
We all suffered some post-traumatic stress. You’d have to be a hard-core sociopath not to be affected by some of the shit we’d seen and done while in the Marines. But mine had been well-managed. I had my moments, sure, but nothing like Ewen or Hayden had when they first separated.
“No, you don’t have to remind me. Hayden scared us all enough for a lifetime, and you, with your anger issues, joining him in the fucking MMA ring didn’t help.”
“As if you didn’t throw your name in the ring for a few matches.” I made myself dizzy by rolling my eyes dramatically.
“Fuck. Never do that again. It looked freaky as hell.”
“Then, respectfully, quit sharing the stuff I tell you with everyone.”
“You can go fuck yourself with the respectfully crap. Because no, I won’t. I won’t ever quit watching your six because you’ll never stop watching mine, brother.”
Staring at him, my request, I realized was idiotic. The men in that group chat were all Marines. We’d served with all of them but Walker. Our group’s bond with him was…weird…to put it mildly.
Ewen, Cam, Priest, and I all served with Hayden. All of us enlisted together over the course of a few years. All of us were promoted to enlisted non-commissioned officers together.
Taz, who’d been our Gunnery Sergeant, served under Walker.
Then Hayden married Walker’s cousin, Declan. And we were there at the start of it, the shitstorm that followed, and them finally figuring their shit out.
All very normal for a bunch of trauma-bonded vets determined to make it in the civilian world.
And then there was the bond the rest of us forged with Walker.
That one required lots and lots of alcohol—the good shit that put you on your ass and made you think you saw deities of all kinds.
It read like a blockbuster movie—a superstar singer, a crazy ass fucking psychopath, death threats, jealous brawls, shootings, kidnappings, trips to the jungles, and two people who fell hopelessly in love at first sight. And that just skimmed the surface.
Through it all, we did what we’d always done: watched each other’s back.
“Point made. I appreciate it. And you’re right. I won’t.”
HOLT ENTERPRISES stretched down the side of a sleek black private jet waiting on the tarmac, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the small private airport outside Manchester.
I’d only flown private a few times, so it still struck me funny how different it was to flying commercial. Hell, I’d never even flown first class.
But this was what happened when two of your buddies settled down with fucking billionaires from the same damn family.
Bumping shoulders with Ewen, I whispered, “You think we’ll ever get used to this shit?”
“What shit is that?”
I pointed out the windows toward the plane Bauer Holt sent for the two of us. “That. And that two of our best friends are married to billionaires.”
“Millionaires. Charlotte is the billionaire in the filthy as fuck rich side of this weird ass amalgamation of a family.”