CHAPTER ONE
Cal
“All I’m saying is you need to stop sitting here in your godforsaken house, dwelling on your miserable past, and playing with your lonely ass dick! Get out and start living life!” Carter scolds, opening the grill and checking the meat. “Do you need some assistance? I’m sure I have someone in my contacts I can call for you.”
As the smoke billows, I inhale, relishing in the smell of the savory meat cooking on the grill. I tip my beer back; the cold, crisp liquid glides down my throat. Staying silent, I avert my eyes. Avoidance is something I’ve mastered over the years, especially when it’s concerning something I don’t want to talk about. It’s a character flaw, but I couldn’t care less. I don’t have the mental capacity nor the patience to deal with this shit right now, and I don’t know if I ever will.
Carter is one of the right-wingers on my team, our enforcer. He’s also my best friend. Of all my teammates, he’s the outspoken one. The man with the pep talks. The guy who has his life together. He meets every challenge head-on and confronts his obstacles, taking them to the next level, even off the ice. I know he means well, but he doesn’t understand, because he’s never been in my shoes. God, I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.
“What?” He cuts into my thoughts, “You’re just going to stand there and look at me but not say anything? Avoid the topic?” He points the spatula, dripping grease onto my patio. His eyes squint as he scrutinizes me. “If evasion were a career, you would make more money than you do in hockey.” The antagonizing asshole presses as he flips the burgers. Okay . . . so . . . he’s about to be my ex-best friend.
“I don’t need anyone to . . .” I pause, chewing on my words, searching for the best way to articulate what’s on my mind. “. . . assist with my dick. And I’ll have you know I am living life right now. The team is coming over, and we’re going to have a nice little barbecue. What more do you want from me? I’m doing my best here.” Exhaling slowly, I crane my neck to glance at the side of the house, wishing for one of the other guys to appear and save me from this asshole.
Mediocrity is my best right now, even if that’s all I’ve been doing for the past four years, but I don’t need to give him that validation.
He releases a drawn-out sigh and sets the spatula down, then picks up the tongs. With the precision of a chef, he turns over the chicken and ribs, making sure the grill marks are perfect. “Are you? I’ll have you know that fulfilling an obligation is not living. This little barbecue is a team-building event; it’s your job. Yes, the team is important, and so are our teammates, but there’s more to life than hockey.”
Maybe for him there is, but he’s already won two Stanley Cups. He didn’t have his world turned upside down during game seven of the playoffs when his team was in a wild card spot, causing them to lose it all. He actually has something to show for his sacrifices. As for myself, I made the biggest sacrifice of all, and it cost me my fucking wife and baby. They were my life, and I lost them. I would give up everything to have them back. Everything .
My soul was crushed. I was completely broken, and my world had just imploded around me. There was no hope in sight. And what little support system I did have vanished in the blink of an eye. I was at rock bottom when the Colorado Wolves completely blindsided me by trading me off in a fire sale. One person didn’t give up on me; there was a whole conglomerate.
In order to keep my sanity, I decided it was best to leave that life in the past, along with everyone in it. Now, winning the Stanley Cup before I fall to an injury or am forced into retirement is my main focus. Failure isn’t an option. And I’ll be damned if I’ll leave this league giving my wife and son the middle finger, and that’s exactly what I would be doing if I left without that trophy before I retired.Now all I have left are my new teammates and the game. There is no room for anyone or anything else.
I don’t have the time, tolerance, or the drive to experience anything else outside of hockey. At thirty-one years old—on the brink of thirty-two—my time in the pros is dwindling. I live, eat, and breathe my career. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.
Carter picks up his beer and tips it my way. “It’s time you get out there and start dating again.”
“Not a fucking chance in hell . . .” I scoff, shaking my head at him.
All my prayers are answered when I spot someone’s head peeking around the corner as they stroll along the side of my house.
“Yo, Smiley! What’s happenin’, my man?” Jerome Johnson, one of our defensemen, calls out.
I mosey his way, smiling at him like the saving grace he is. He reaches out to shake my hand as his arm wraps me up in a man hug.
“You didn’t tell me there was a total smoke show moving in next door! I might have to go introduce myself to the new, hot neighbor girl.” He bites his bottom lip while rubbing his palms together. His head turns toward the house across the street. Inadvertently, my eyes follow the direction he’s looking. In my line of sight, I find a woman with short, toned legs, cut-off shorts, and a red halter top. Long, blonde hair cascades down her back. She’s facing the trunk of her black car, so I can’t see her face, but objectively, I can see where he would think she’s hot—if you’re into the Malibu Barbie type.With a garment bag placed over her arm, she hoists a box out of the car, using her elbow to close the trunk.
“Shit!” She curses loudly.
Malibu Barbie sets down the box, and the garment bag slides down her arm before haphazardly falling to the ground. She rubs her elbow, inspecting the spot where I’m sure there will be a bruise tomorrow, based on how loud she cursed. The wind whips the long golden waves around her face, masking her profile.
“Maybe you should go help her, Smiley,” Carter calls out.
I turn to find a smug expression resting on his face.
“Or . . . maybe I should go help her,” Jerome counters.
Carter and Jerome lean to the side as they watch her make her way into the house. Without a word, I turn around and walk back to the outdoor kitchen. Gripping the island countertop with both hands, I hang my head in defeat, trying to collect myself.
I’ve gone out with my friend Nate on several different occasions in an attempt to hook up with a woman, but I never could follow through. I want to erase the pain and the emptiness that comes with the loss of my marriage—to heal and get past it—but it feels like cheating. Even the thought of kissing another woman leaves me with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and the urge to vomit.
I rub my chest where the dull ache still resides. You would think after all these years, I would be on a path to healing, but I’m not. Healing means therapy, therapy means talking and talking means reliving those memories. Even though a constant void lingers, and every day is a struggle to roll out of bed, avoiding all discussions concerning my wife seems like a better option than the alternative. Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is going, I change the subject.
The bottle hisses as I pop the top and hand the beer to Jerome. “Where is everyone else?”
Just as I ask, the rest of my teammates come milling around the corner of my house. They greet me with handshakes, back slaps, and man-hugs as I direct them to a cooler filled with beer.
Ivan Lukov, our goalie, and his wife, Evie, make their way to greet me with a casserole dish in tow. Ivan shakes my hand with his free one. My eyes shift to Evie and the dish she holds in her hand. I know whatever is underneath that foil is a treat.
“Evie, you’re glowing!” I wrap her in a side hug.
A genuine smile spreads across my face as she places a hand on her growing belly. Her luminous, ebony skin is radiant and glowing. A mess of chestnut, corkscrew curls fall to her shoulders. Her yellow sundress catches in the wind and ripples around her. Evelyn Lukov is elegance personified.
“Thanks, friend,” she says with a beaming white smile.
Ivan and Evie are older than me by a few years and have a ten-year-old son named Elija. They weren’t trying for this one. I chuckle at the memory of Ivan calling to tell me that life as he knew it was over. He was so dramatic about the situation. The reason for his despair: Their son, Elija, will graduate before this one is even out of elementary school. I guess I would be a little out of my head about that situation as well. However, planned or not, now it appears the two of them couldn’t be happier with the new addition.
“I’ll take that,” I offer, relieving Evie of the dish.
An unexpected moan escapes my lips, and my eyes close at the sweet aroma escaping from under the foil.
“This woman.” I turn my head to look at Ivan. “It’s no wonder you went and wifed her up. She is the best damn cook. What is this?” I hold up the dish, focusing my attention back on Evie.
“That, my friend, is an apricot galette with almond cream.”
“Well, it smells delicious.”
Taking the dessert to the outdoor kitchen island with Ivan and Evie trailing behind me, I look around and my brows furrow. “Where’s Elija?” I ask.
“He’s at our neighbor’s house playing Fortnite,” Ivan responds.
Evie pulls a water bottle out of the ice chest. “Who’s the designated driver tonight?” She takes a drink, then places the cap back on the plastic bottle.
“I think it’s Drew,” I say, nodding my head in his direction.
Drew is one of our left-wingers and lightning fast. He lost a bet with our defenseman, Trevor Williams, making him the designated driver for the night.
“Perfect! I thought I would pop in and say hi before I headed to the boutique.”
I give Evie one last hug before she leaves. “Thank you for the dessert. It was great to see you.”
Ivan wraps his wife in his arms and gives her a kiss that would be considered almost inappropriate for company. Even though I told Carter I would never date again, I secretly crave to have a relationship that resembles what these two have. My wife and I were only twenty-one when we married. We loved each other, but we didn’t have the kind of connection you read about in novels. We couldn’t read each other’s thoughts like these two can by just a mere look or expression. Paisley and I never experienced that, and maybe the reason is because she and I were too young and naive to understand ourselves, let alone each other.
“We got him, Mama. I’ll have him home by curfew.” Drew chuckles and takes a drink of his water as she leaves with a wave.
Casting a glance across the street, my eyes narrow on the two-story house where the Malibu Barbie resides. Parked cars litter the road, my driveway is jam-packed, and the music thumps throughout the neighborhood. My teammates loiter in the yard; their laughter and loud voices can be heard over the blaring music. This get-together reminds me of the frat parties I attended back in my college days. A whole fucking lot has changed since then. One of them being hospitality; it doesn’t suit me very well. I hope like hell the neighbor doesn’t find my party as an invitation to pop in and introduce herself. The thought makes me groan.
I take a seat beside Ivan and lean back in my chair, for once enjoying the company. The warm sun beats down on my face and causes sweat to ripple down my temple.
As I stretch out my aching joints, Ivan hits me in the chest while he looks down at his phone. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. What is this? And since when did you get social media?”
I tip my beer back, taking a sip before replying. “Since Teagan made me sign up for it about a month ago.”
I loathe social media. Let’s go back to the days before technology, when visiting someone's house or dialing a landline phone was how we communicated. I guess I’m kind of old school. Teagan, our PR manager, says it’s good for my image, especially since as of late I’ve been labeled a broody asshole, but I hate being so accessible. And the thirst traps she makes me do! For the love of all that is holy, is it really necessary?
I do what Teagan tells me because she is the best. But sometimes, I think she makes me post stuff to make me uncomfortable on purpose. She gets a kick out of it. And I know this because she cackles as she tells me what to do. She insists being in front of people on social media makes me look like a real person to my fans. I don’t understand how people can think that because I’m a professional athlete, I’m not just like them—that I’m not a real person with genuine problems and feelings.
This month, my social media following was insane, and my phone was constantly dinging with notifications from my DMs until I finally figured out how to mute them. The number of women begging for my attention by sending me nudes is completely insane. The whole reason for me not having social media was so I could focus on hockey. But here I am on all platforms, making sure I show the world I’m a “real person” and not a “broody asshole.”
“Why didn’t you follow me?” Ivan asks with a frown, seeming completely butt hurt.
“He apparently hasn’t followed anyone,” Carter placates, patting him on the back. “Don’t get your feelings hurt. See?” He points to Ivan’s phone: “Zero following.”
I don’t follow anyone. Like I said, I have enough to worry about in my life than to worry about someone other than myself. If I had it my way, Teagan would handle all my social media shit, and I wouldn’t have access to it at all.
“So,” Trevor looks at each of us, “any word on the new team owner?” He casually changes the subject as if we all aren’t worried about what’s going to happen to our team when the new owner takes over.
“There’s been a lot of speculation in the media about a family member taking over. I hope he’s not a complete dick and trades all our asses.” Drew pauses with a contemplative frown before he continues, “I don’t recall seeing a single family member at his funeral.”
“There wasn’t,” Trevor responds. “Outside of all of us, the reserved seating for family was empty.”
Carter gives me a pointed look. “I guess that’s what happens when your career becomes your life.”
Since Mr. West’s death, I haven’t thought about the repercussions of a new team owner. He may let us stay where we are; then again, there’s the possibility he’ll want to rebuild.
Three hours later, I’m ten beers in with red solo cups lined up on either side of the table. When we have team-building dinners, we always accompany them with an activity or a game, but we rarely drink like this. Most of the time, the guys bring their family, but since it’s just the boys today, we let loose. Everyone is watching us, yelling and cheering. Jerome and Trevor have two cups left on our side, and Ivan and I have only one cup left on theirs. Not a peep rings out as Trevor throws the ping-pong ball . . . it misses his cup.
“It’s down to this shot, gentlemen. The pressure is on. Callan “Smiley” Miles pulled a hat trick in the last play, but can the center of The New York Blaze pull off the win for the 2025 Beer Pong Championship? We know Smiley’s ego has a lot riding on this win. Will he do it?” Drew commentates, drawing laughs out of everyone.
I throw the ping-pong ball . . . it sinks into the very last cup on the opposing team’s side. Everyone cheers and makes a ruckus as they jump up and down. In Trevor’s inebriated state, he goes to chug the beer in his red solo cup, but the beer completely misses his mouth and pours down his chin.
“Oh no! That’s a party foul! Now you have to chug an entire bottle!” Drew yells out. He produces a bottle of beer out of thin air, pops the top, then hands it over to Trevor.
“Those aren’t the rules,” Trevor throws his hands up in complaint, looking at Drew and the rest of the guys surrounding him in confusion.
“They are now,” someone in the back retorts as everyone chants, “Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”
Trevor raises his bottle up. “Cheers,” he shouts out, then downs the beer in one swift go, making sure not to spill a single drop from his lips. He thrusts the empty bottle into the air.
Everyone is yelling and cheering when the crowd breaks apart, and my eyes snag on a kid wearing a ball cap. With a basketball tucked under his arm, he stops Aiden Brodie, one of our right-wingers, who stepped away to take a call from his agent. I can’t see the kid or hear their conversation, but I see Aiden shake his head.
A feminine voice with a slight southern drawl cuts into their conversation. She speaks loud enough for me to understand her clearly. “Get back to the house, Buddy. I told you to stay in our driveway if you’re going to play basketball.”
Out of curiosity, I crane my neck to see what’s going on, but my view is blocked by my teammate’s big ass body.
“I was just trying to make new friends, Mom,” he counters.
“We don’t know these people. You can’t go walkin’ into someone else’s yard; it’s rude . . .” She trails off. Although I can no longer understand her words, the southern drawl of her voice still reaches me, and if I were a man with a voice fetish, I could sit and listen to her speak all day.
I plop down on the outdoor sectional and bend to grab another beer out of the cooler stationed by my feet. I close the lid and stretch out, propping a foot on top of the Yeti. I lounge back alone in my seat, basking in dopamine and serotonin from the alcohol coursing through my system, while watching my teammates wrestle around near the pool. Before he even knows what’s happening, Carter is pushed in, clothes and all. I choke in a fit of laughter. It’s nice. It feels good to laugh for once. And now that I have a few drinks in me, I can admit to myself that I’ve kind of missed hanging out with people. Aiden snags my attention as he ambles toward me.
“You want another one?” I nod toward the cooler.
“Yeah, man. Last one, then I’m out.” Aiden parks himself in the chair across from me.
I reach into Yeti and grab him a cold one. “You got a ride home?” I ask, since Drew just left with a car full of people.
Aiden reaches over and plucks the bottle from my hand. “Sure do,” he says as he twists the top. With the cap between his middle finger and thumb, he snaps his fingers, sending the cap flying into my chest. I chuckle and tip my beer back to take a long pull from the bottle.
“Someone has party tricks, I see.” I toss the cap back at him, hitting his chin.
Aiden snickers. “Stick with me, and I’ll teach you a hundred more.”
I breathe out a short laugh. Resting my head back against the cushions, I stare at the Edison lights hanging above us. That woman’s sexy-as-sin voice plays out in my head. “So, what was up with the kid?”
“I have no idea.” He leans back in the chair, removes his ball cap, and tosses it onto the small patio table. “Some kid looking for someone to play ball with, but did you see his mom?”
“Nope.” I pop the p.
“Fuck me.” His eyes roll to the back of his head as he clutches his chest dramatically. “Listen, dude.” He sits back up with the most serious expression on his face. “She’s so fucking hot, I would drink her bath water one sip at a time and simultaneously try to guess what part of her body it touched.”
“Where the hell do you come up with this shit?” I laugh, picking the label from my beer bottle. Aiden is from Dallas, Texas, and he is as country as they come.
“I don’t know. What I do know is she’s hotter than a tweaker’s spoon in a trap house on payday.”
A deep, wheezing laugh burst out of me. I cough into my fist as I try to breathe through the laughter. I’m doubled over, my face heated, trying to catch a breath.
The guys and I hung out well into Sunday morning. I nursed a hangover from hell all day Sunday. Fuck, I haven’t been that hungover since my early college days. Of course, I don’t really drink, so it’s no surprise I spent the day lying around with the worst headache known to man. Once you hit thirty, your body changes, and I realized yesterday that I’m no spring chicken. After spending Monday morning running my usual errands, I hit the gym at the hockey facility.
When I’m in the gym, I lose myself. I shed my concerns and focus solely on releasing frustrations. There’s no media circus, no facade to put on, and if I get here early enough, there’s no best friend breathing down my neck to “live life.” Mondays are my days to mentally prepare for the week, so I do light weights and forego someone here to spot me. Despite the off-season, the facility remains busy. New professional league draft picks make it necessary for all of the veterans, like me, to maintain top shape. That means extra workouts, ice time, and clean eating. I may look like I have the body of a twenty-year-old, but my joints say otherwise. That’s why I stretch daily and do yoga to keep myself flexible.
Pantera’s “Walk” blares through my iPod as I pull my chin to the bar for the very last time. I drop down to my feet and bend over with my hands on my knees, taking in deep breaths. Sweat streams in rivulets down my exhausted body and drips onto the floor. I chug down a bottle of water then toss the bottle into the trash as I make my way to the showers.
Drew walks into the locker room while I’m lacing up my shoes. “What’s up? Great party Saturday.” He gives me a fist bump. “It was nice to see you let loose for once, man.”
“Yeah. Hey, I was thinking about getting in some ice time tomorrow. You down?”
I used to be the center of attention—the fun friend who liked crowds and parties. Drew reminds me a lot of myself from before . . . well before everything. Everyone knows I’m not the type to “let loose,” and I have absolutely no desire to hear how nice it was for my teammates to see me have a good time. Those words remind me of the person I used to be, and fuck if I don't wish I could be that person again. The presence of others can be excruciating. I prefer solo drills; actually, I prefer to do everything on my own—if for no other reason than to avoid awkward conversations like this. Yet, I find myself here, striving to make an effort, to take the advice Carter shelled out to me on Saturday and connect with my teammate. I pull on my charcoal henley, ready to flee, and then sling my gym bag over my shoulder.
Drew throws his bag into his stall and removes his shirt, tossing it onto the bag. “What time?” He asks.
“I’ll be here around ten thirty.”
“Sorry, dude. No can do. I take Gran to lunch on Tuesdays.”
Well, at least I can say that I tried.
“Don’t forget about the team meeting tomorrow at two.” I give a wave and head out the door. “See you tomorrow.”
I’ve been following the little, black, beat-up Honda in front of me since the exit about five miles back. I’m a mile or two from my house, and I cannot wait to plop my ass on my couch, watch some sports with a beer in my hand, and do nothing for the rest of the night. Except this person is driving so slowly it will be a fucking miracle if it’s not tomorrow before I have that luxury. Come on. Come on. Come on. I could go around them. Just as I’m about to pass them, the car swerves a little, then corrects. I go for a second attempt at passing them; the car swerves again to the left, then overcorrects to the right, before straightening. Fuck, this person either cannot drive or they're drunk off their ass. S hit or get off the pot, asshole. Better yet, learn how to fucking drive. I lay on my horn, lift my hand to flip them the bird, then remember who the fuck I am and put my hand back on the steering wheel where it belongs. I can’t be driving around with road rage, flipping people off. Man, Teagan would just love me to death if I created a PR nightmare for her to clean up.
Suddenly, the person in the car slams on their brakes. Though neither one of us is going over thirty miles per hour, it’s at the very moment when I stomp my foot to the brake pedal that I realize I don’t have enough time or space to stop my vehicle from hitting theirs.
I only have a few seconds to brace myself. My head jerks forward as the front end of my car smashes into the back of the Honda. Theres a bang and a crunch, followed by a pop. My bumper is surely fucked.
What the ever-loving . . .
Fuming with anger, I practically fly out of my car and slam the door. The woman jumps out of her car, races to the front, and bends down. What the fuck is she doing? If this woman is under the influence, I swear to all that’s holy that I’ll . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I know I’d rather not call the police. The media circus would eat me alive, even though this woman obviously has no business behind the wheel of a car.
I try to get a look at her face to see if she’s maybe high or drunk, but all I can see is a mass of waist-length, thick, black hair whipping around her face from the wind and a puppy in her arms.
“What are you doing in the middle of the road? I could have run you over,” she coos at the pup while scratching its head.
That voice. Holy shit, that fucking voice. Sexy as hell with a slight southern drawl. All I can think about right now is self-preservation because I know without a doubt this is the woman I heard during the party. Which means she lives not too far from me. Which also means I’m more than likely to see her again. Her voice played on repeat in my head all Saturday night: a low, sultry tone. The way she drew out her vowels. That alone had me wanting to seek her out, even after I had told Carter and myself that I wasn’t interested in dating. But a woman with a voice like that can't be anything other than fucking gorgeous.
I haven’t even seen her yet, and my fight-or-flight reflexes have kicked in. Nevertheless, I can’t keep my eyes from traveling all the way down her long, toned, tanned legs in a pair of denim shorts that are short enough to make any man salivate. My eyes roam back up her body, taking in the wide curve of her hips. A white tank top is stretched tight across her chest. Her body is sexy as hell. I’ve always been a man for curves. Wide hips and big tits; that was my motto back in the day. I cast my eyes down to stop myself from eye-fucking the woman who just caused me to fuck up the frontend of my car with her inept driving skills.
“What you did was very dangerous. Yes, it was.” She scolds the puppy.
My attention shifts back to her as she lifts the brown fur ball to her face. He wiggles his tiny body in her hands, then relaxes before stretching out his neck to lick her face. I saunter closer to her—like a moth to a flame—just to get a better look. Or rather, to see if she's drunk or high. That’s what I tell myself anyway. I’m still pissed. Beyond furious. It’s going to take a whole hell of a lot more than a rockin’ body and a sexy ass voice to get her out of the clusterfuck of a mess she’s made with me. The wind blows her long, raven locks out of her face and back behind her.
Fuck me!
I’ll need to use all my resolve to avoid this woman regardless of my current anger towards her. She is insanely beautiful, just like Aiden said. I don’t even know if beautiful is even the correct adjective to describe her, because she is beyond that.
I don’t have time for this shit, is my last thought before stunning, teary, green eyes lock with mine.