Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
ETHAN
Present Day
The sharp bite of industrial-strength soap barely masked the ever-present stench of sweat-soaked gear in the locker room. Everywhere I looked, my teammates buzzed with that mix of nervousness and excitement that always came with the start of the season.
I forced myself to bask in it because if I didn’t, all I’d feel was exhaustion.
At thirty-four years old, I’d put a lot of miles on my skates, and I’d reached the point where I only had enough gas left in the tank for one final season. I wasn’t sure if I was happy or sad about my decision; only time would tell.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Jack “Viggy” Vignier asked, settling in at the stall catty-corner from mine.
Viggy was probably my closest friend on the team—not that we were all that close, considering I was a moody fucker who mainly kept to myself. But we’d played together long enough that I didn’t automatically wince when he spoke to me.
“How was Maine?”
“Good. Hectic.”
Every summer, I helped my brother Ryan out at the youth hockey camp he operated in our hometown half an hour outside of Portland, Maine.
“I don’t remember fourteen year olds being so fucking cocky, though. And don’t get me started on the parents.” I shook my head as I recalled the handful of times I’d had to bite my tongue instead of telling some guy with shit for brains to sit down and shut the fuck up. “Suffice it to say, I do not have a future career in coaching.”
Viggy huffed out a laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse than you could imagine, man. The mouths on these kids. I had to ask my nephew, Will, what it meant when one of them looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Bruh, you have no skibidi rizz.’”
Murdock’s booming laugh echoed from nearby. “I mean, is he wrong?”
My mouth hitched to the side in a self-deprecating smirk at Murdock’s harmless chirp. “Nope. I have zero game.”
His grin faded somewhat, his expression giving me the impression I wasn’t going to like whatever he said next. “So, um, speaking of. I hate to bring up bad shit, but I heard through the grapevine things with Lacey are over for real this time.”
I nodded, pasting what I hoped was a disappointed-looking frown on my face. “Yeah, she’s great, but the whole long-distance thing wasn’t really working for either of us. She met someone, and it sounds pretty serious. I’m really happy for her, to be honest.”
My on-again, off-again “relationship” with up-and-coming actress Lacey Bledsoe originally started as a temporary business arrangement put together by our agents. I got a pretty young thing on my arm for events, and her career saw a major boost from dating a pro athlete.
A few months after our scheduled breakup, Lacey surprised the shit out of me by asking if I was interested in getting back together. Given that our fauxmance was a complete lie, I freaked the fuck out. When she finally stopped laughing long enough to speak, she explained she only wanted to extend our contract since having a famous, hockey-playing boyfriend was the perfect cover for her new ‘friendship’ with a beautiful pop star who’d turned her world upside down. Now she wanted to marry the girl, which meant we’d staged one final breakup just before I left for Maine.
“Damn, man. Guess it’s time to rebound, then.” Viggy gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “I know a girl who’d be totally into that surly thing you’ve got going on if you’re interested.” He raised an eyebrow in question.
“Nah, that’s okay,” I said, fighting the urge to grimace. God, I hated all this pretending. “I don’t really think I’m cut out for relationships.”
The words felt hollow in my mouth, a lie on top of so many others I’d told over the years.
The truth was, I’d love to fall in love someday, come home to warm arms and a happy smile.
Sadly, I didn’t think that was in the cards for me.
Viggy shook his head. “Who said anything about a relationship?”
Ah, right . I should have known better. Viggy wasn’t a relationship guy, either. In fact, in the years I’d known him, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him with the same woman twice.
“Anyway,” he continued. “I’m glad you had a nice summer. It’s good to spend time with family.”
It was. Truly. But the older I got without settling down, the harder those visits were becoming. I was thinking about not even going back next summer.
“Thanks, man,” I murmured, turning back to my stall to finish getting ready, but as I finished tying up my laces, my gaze drifted to Stryker Bell.
His hair was longer than it had been in the photos he’d posted all summer long. Blonder, too. And he was still tan from the weeks he’d spent surfing in Costa Rica.
I dropped my eyes back down to my skates, hating that I knew how he’d spent his time off between college graduation and showing up in Austin.
Two seconds.
That was how long it took before I looked again, like an idiot. This time, I caught the cocky, lopsided smirk he flashed as he traded stories with Miller Fahn.
Miller was one of the Aces’ other new forwards, picked up from the Chicago Ice Foxes after their Stanley Cup win last season. Why they’d traded him, I had no fucking clue, but their loss was our gain—the kid was a beast on the ice.
He also happened to be gay, though he didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Not the way Stryker did about his bisexuality.
Still, as two of only a handful of out players in the NHL, it made sense they’d gravitate toward each other.
And fuck, did that sting.
What I wouldn’t have given back when I was just starting out to have had someone along for the ride who understood what it was like. Someone who made it feel possible to exist in this league without hiding who I was.
Would I have still wound up constantly afraid that someone would take one look at me and just know that I was gay?
Probably.
But at least then I wouldn’t have felt so fucking alone all the damn time.
Before I could sink too deep into that familiar pit of self-loathing and despair, I watched Stryker throw his head back and laugh, the sound bright and unguarded.
Oscar “Caveman” Cavanaugh grinned and reached out, knocking his fist against Miller’s in an easy show of camaraderie.
Miller smirked, tossing a quick comment back—something that made Stryker shake his head, eyes bright with amusement. And then, without a moment of hesitation, he reached out and squeezed the back of Miller’s neck, jostling him playfully before letting go. Just a quick, friendly touch. Nothing anyone else would think twice about.
But I did, because I would never do that.
Not to a teammate, not to a friend, not to anyone unless I absolutely had to.
And yet Stryker moved like it was nothing. Like he had never once second-guessed himself, never worried how someone might perceive him.
Never wondered if the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he touched would betray him.
God, I hated how easy it was for this guy.
Hated that he could be exactly who he was without apology.
And yet, as much as I hated him, I still looked .
Still fucking noticed every fucking thing about him.
The broad shoulders. The thick, muscular frame. The sharp cut of his jaw, half hidden behind soft, pale scruff he didn’t normally wear, and the wild mess of blond hair that practically begged to be wrapped around my fist as I?—
No.
No .
I cemented my mind against the thought, against the sick twist of guilt in my gut that came every time I let myself want him.
Let myself obsess over him.
Over the summer, I’d spent hours tracking down interviews, replaying hockey clips, and scrolling through his social media accounts until my phone battery forced me to take a break.
And now I knew things about the guy that I had no business knowing. Things I told myself were just part of doing my job—learning about my new teammate and understanding his style.
And all that studying, that obsessing? It had surprised me.
For all the fans Stryker had, there were many folks who dismissed him as nothing more than a pretty face with fast reflexes. They saw his sometimes rambling book reviews, the way he bounced from thought to thought, the near-constant movement of his hands when he spoke, and decided he was just another dumb jock.
But they weren’t looking closely enough.
If they had, they would have seen the way his eyes sharpened in interviews when the conversation shifted away from his personal life to the sport he’d devoted his entire life to. Or the way he sidestepped reporters with humor whenever they tried to pin him down on a topic that wasn’t strictly about hockey. His critics never gave him credit for his meticulous breakdowns of defensive systems in post-game interviews or the way he remembered tiny details about the fans he interacted with.
I could see it happening here, too.
The way he held court, his charm seeming to mask something lingering just beneath the surface.
Outwardly, he moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly who he was and precisely what people expected him to be.
But there was something that seemed almost calculated about his interactions, about the way he made each of his teammates feel like the center of his attention while revealing virtually nothing of himself.
I recognized it because I’d spent years perfecting the same skill. But while I hid in the shadows, Stryker somehow managed to hide in plain sight.
And fuck if I didn’t find that sexy, too.
As if my thoughts had summoned him, he swiveled his head to look my way, his grin widening when our eyes connected. Patting Miller on the shoulder, he broke away and strode across the room, his right hand extended in greeting. “Ethan Harrison, Stryker Bell. So great to finally meet you.”
I hesitated just long enough for his confident smile to falter before reaching out to grasp his hand. There was an edge of challenge in the way his fingers tightened that instantly put me on the defensive, sparks of adrenaline firing through my veins.
“Likewise. Welcome to the team,” I answered, trying to keep my tone neutral even as my pulse quickened at the contact.
Stryker looked me up and down appraisingly, his gaze lingering a beat too long to be purely professional. The intensity in those bright blue eyes made my breath catch in my throat. “Big opportunity to learn from one of the best in the game,” he said eventually.
I nodded, forcing a tight smile. My ego wanted to believe the compliment was sincere, but I was a far cry from the best at anything anymore. Hadn’t been for a few seasons now, to be honest. “Hmm, we’ll see.”
If my indifference bothered him, the rookie didn’t let on.
“This is where I’m probably supposed to say I’m sorry about breaking your record at Thackery,” he continued, his eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “But I’m really not.” He tossed me a slow, knowing grin and sauntered back over to his stall, basking the entire way in chirps from nearby teammates.
“Had to happen sooner or later,” I murmured to myself while trying to ignore the way my skin tingled where we had touched.
I couldn’t remember the last time someone had affected me like this, and it was more than a little unsettling.
Once out on the ice, it became immediately apparent that Stryker’s bravado was well-earned. He was like a rocket—blowing past guys with blazing speed, sniping pucks from every angle, and hitting anything that moved. His hands were incredibly soft for such a physical player.
After a while, Coach Mackenzie split us into two teams for a scrimmage, Stryker and I going head-to-head on opposing sides. I didn’t know if I was being paranoid, but it felt like a deliberate choice from the coaching staff—a test of sorts.
So much for easing us into things.
When the puck dropped, everyone jumped into action, the sound of skates cutting across ice filling the air. Oscar hit me with a crisp pass, and I immediately felt the pressure of Stryker’s forecheck.
I shielded the puck with my body, just like I’d done countless times before. But the kid was relentless. His stick was everywhere , constantly threatening to pry the puck free. I managed to chip it past him to Cian O’Leary just as Stryker’s body slammed into mine, pinning me against the boards.
For a moment, we were tangled up, breath and muscle and heat. My body stiffened, but Stryker barely seemed to notice.
And then, as quickly as it happened, he was gone, racing away with that incredible speed of his.
A few moments later, when my side had regained possession, I couldn’t resist taunting him as I skated past. “Nice try, rook, but you’re gonna need to work on your control.”
Stryker’s answering grin was absolutely filthy with promise. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of control.” His voice dipped just low enough to make it sound like a challenge. “Maybe I’ll get to show you someday.”
I stared at him, my brain short-circuiting and my mouth suddenly incapable of speech. For a second, I forgot how to skate. My grip tightened around my stick, my pulse kicking up in response to his stupid fucking smirk.
He was still grinning when I finally forced myself to move.
“You wish, kid,” I said, brushing past him and definitely not thinking about what it would feel like to let him take control in the one place I longed to give it up.
Fuck. I needed to get my mind out of the gutter.
If I survived this practice, it’d be a miracle.