Devil in the Details

Chapter 1

SHOTS FIRED

REN

It’s official. I’m getting too old for this shit.

When I first started playing hockey as a young kid, I never dreamed of playing professionally.

Back then, it was an excuse to stay out on the ice, trash-talking and knocking the ever-loving piss out of friend and foe alike.

And then, when it became apparent that I was good enough to play in the rec leagues, I did it mostly so I had an excuse and an outlet for any pent-up aggression I might have had at the time.

The first time legitimate scouts approached my parents, we all had a good laugh about it.

And then, when they started coming around more often, more determined to push me into a direction that worked for them, the more diligent my parents were at putting a buffer up between me and bright lights that may distract me.

Because, regardless of how much I excelled at the sport, they were sure as shit going to make sure I had a fallback plan that wouldn’t result in me working at a gas station as a used-up professional sports player.

As if my family didn't own a successful general contracting company that would always provide me with some form of reliable employment.

Of course, now, as much as it pains me to admit, Rennick Rafferty is considered the “old man” of the league at age thirty-nine.

While I certainly still hold my own against the younger crowd, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I won’t be able to for much longer.

Maybe that’s why I keep finding myself in the penalty box.

I don’t know if I’m starting to overcompensate with unnecessary rough play or if the guys coming up are just more prone to crying about it.

You’d think this was soccer or something.

I sit there champing at the bit as I watch the clock on the penalty ticking down. No sooner does it hit zero than I’m waved in and sliding out the door, skating like hell toward the action.

I circle around, knowing my teammates have their eyes on me. A few of them increase their aggression to keep the opposing team's eyes away from me as I get set up.

Sure enough, the puck breaks free, and the moment it gets clear I manage to snag it.

I push off, heading swiftly down the rink, skating full-bore with the same controlled chaos that makes my blood sing.

The puck comes with me, dancing across the ice in an intricate ballet with my stick as we tarry and pivot with the opposition intent on stealing it away from me.

I come up short, just as an opposing player attempts to check me. He crashes into the boards as I spin back around, casually pushing the puck toward my teammate, who’s open on the other side of the ice.

And then I sprint toward the goal, keeping the guy with the puck in my peripheral as all of us dance to set up my one final chance to score. To get ahead. To win.

The goalie squares off, his eyes darting between me and my other players but always reverting to me. Because he knows.

The puck shoots across the ice, but I let it go by, knowing there’s a man on my other side waiting. I keep my eyes locked on the goalie as he grits his teeth, cursing loudly as he realizes what’s coming.

And then I’m there, the puck seeming to glide back to me in slow-motion. I don’t look at it. I wait, my eyes locked with the man who wants nothing more than to stop me but also knows his chances are slim.

Right at the last second, that one moment when that puck could have bypassed me and gone back into the boards, my stick snaps around. Decades of practice and honed precision slap it into the air, a frozen bullet volleying directly toward the goal.

The goalie’s eyes widen, and he attempts to shift, his stick in his hand coming up to create a barrier, but it’s too late. He’s too slow.

The horn blares, and euphoria shoots up my spine as I look up to the scoreboard, my stick raised in the air.

Change up is called; I skate along the bench, high-fiving my teammates before sitting down for the face-off.

I know at this point in the game I’m done; I’ve done all I can, and they need to take the next twenty-two seconds to keep our one-point lead.

The boys all grunt and cheer, slapping me on the back, all jokes about the old man forgotten as I once again secure their victory. But that doesn’t change the fact that these victories are coming to an end.

I plop myself down next to Dave, another player who’s quickly moving up to old-time status. He congratulates me exuberantly, and I smile and nod, grabbing a bottle of water and squirting it into my mouth as I catch my breath. The clock winds down and then stops as a whistle blows.

I’m only half paying attention; my old bones and muscles are already complaining about the chronic abuse. I sigh, trying not to think about what my life will be like without hockey, but then Dave’s elbow in my side draws my attention.

“What?”

He leans in close and says, “She’s back.”

I look at him with raised brows, then frown as he lifts his chin in the direction across the rink, his eyes focused across the ice. I follow his gaze, and it only takes me a few moments to locate who he’s referring to, and I groan.

Dave laughs. “I’m telling you, man. She’s got it bad for you.”

I snort and shake my head. “If by, got it bad for me, you mean she’d like nothing more than to see me axed from the team, then that would be accurate.”

“No way,” he argues, humor glinting in his eyes. “I don’t know a lot about women, but I can tell when their agenda includes something of the carnal nature.”

I look back across the rink and the woman still standing there, and he’s not entirely wrong because she’s definitely looking our way.

Cassidy Logan has been a thorn in my side since she became old enough to show up at the office with her dad.

Who also happens to be the owner of the Portland Devils, who I’ve been playing with for the past decade.

Give or take a few years. Then there’s the fact she manages the majority of the team’s public relations, meaning she likely knows more about all of us than we’d want her to know.

So not only is she off-limits because she’s too damn young, she’s also extra off-limits because the last thing you want to do, is make a play for the boss’s daughter.

Even if that means ignoring her shiny gold-streaked brown hair and hazel green eyes.

The fact that she’s appears long and lithe, but the moment you stand beside her you get the full picture on how a woman can be ridiculously strong, but also delicate at the same time.

Dave is silent for a moment, and I do my best to ignore him, but then he lifts his hand, obviously waving in her direction, and now I jab my elbow into his side a bit more forcefully than is probably necessary.

This only makes him laugh louder, and Cassidy raises her brows, lifting a hand and waggling her fingers at him.

I turn to Dave and say, “See, maybe she’s looking at you.”

“Not a fucking chance, Rafferty,” he replies dryly and then nudges me with his elbow again, pointing across the rink. “See? Definitely looking at you like that.”

Slowly, I shift my gaze back in her direction, and sure enough, her eyes lock with mine.

The corner of my mouth curves up in a small yet uncertain smile, and I raise my eyebrows at her questioningly.

Her eyes immediately narrow until she’s outright glaring at me, and this time, when her hand comes up, she doesn’t wave.

Instead, she points one finger and drags it across her throat in a rather threatening manner, and my jaw drops open in surprise.

Dave laughs loudly, and my hands come up as I silently ask her what the hell.

And then she smirks, that same hand moving in front of her, where she very clearly gives me the middle finger.

Dave, still laughing, says, “Well, what did you do to her?”

I sigh deeply, my hand rubbing my helmet as the final whistle blows, and I look up at the scoreboard to see we at least won the game.

I stand, and Dave stands with me as he asks again, “Seriously, man, what the fuck did you do to her?”

“All I do is breathe. Apparently, that’s all it takes to piss her off.”

“Well, if all its gonna take to make the princess happy is you stopping breathing, I guess I better go buy a new suit for your funeral.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” I mutter.

We all start making our way toward the locker room, and I pause, turning and glancing over my shoulder to see if she’s still standing there glaring at me.

She’s not, but for some reason, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Trepidation sends a slight shiver through me, and I do my best to shake it off. Because if nothing else, at this point, if the boss's daughter doesn't get me axed, my age will.