Chapter 1 #2
I looked up and gave him my best PR smile, the one that had sold a thousand jerseys and convinced sponsors I was worth millions. “Never better. Just tired.”
He studied me for a beat longer, clearly deciding whether to push. Rook was good at knowing when to press and when to let things breathe. “Get some rest. New coach starts Monday.”
“Yeah.” He walked away, and I finally exhaled.
I finished undressing and grabbed my towel, heading toward the showers where half the team was already congregating. The locker room after a win had its own specific energy: loud, loose, the chaos that only happened when bodies were exhausted but spirits were high.
Finn was already under the spray, singing something off-key and terrible while Benny threw a bar of soap at his head.
“Callahan, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna drown you.” Benny said, but he was grinning.
“You love my voice. Admit it.”
“I love silence more.”
I stepped under the hot spray and let it beat down on my shoulders, feeling the tension start to drain from my muscles. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind the bone-deep exhaustion that came after sixty minutes of hockey.
“Hart!” Mace's voice echoed off the tile walls. “That second goal. Fucking beautiful, man. Looked like the old you out there.”
“Thanks.” I scrubbed shampoo through my hair, trying not to think too hard about what the old me meant.
“Yeah, seriously,” Finn chimed in. “I thought you were gonna pass it like you've been doing all preseason. Nice to see you actually pull the trigger for once.”
“Rookie's got jokes,” Volkov rumbled from two shower heads down, his accent thick. “Maybe you pull trigger more often, yes? Instead of skating into corners like scared baby deer.”
The shower erupted in laughter. Even Finn couldn't help it.
“That was one time!” Finn protested. “And I recovered!”
“Was three times,” Volkov corrected. “I count.”
“Nobody likes a counter, Dima.”
“Is why I am plus-eighteen and you are plus-two.”
More laughter. Tate appeared in the doorway, towel around his waist, shaking his head. “You guys are fucking children.”
“Says the guy who spent ten minutes in front of the mirror earlier,” Benny shot back.
“That's called personal grooming. You should try it sometime.”
“I'm plenty groomed, thanks.”
“Your eyebrows say otherwise.”
I rinsed the soap from my hair and just listened, letting the familiar back-and-forth wash over me.
This was the part of hockey no one saw: the stupid jokes, the chirping, the way grown men reverted to teenagers the second they were behind closed doors.
It was oddly comforting. Normal. A reminder that despite everything else, I was still part of a team.
“So,” Finn said, turning to me with that mischievous grin he always got when he was about to say something stupid. “New coach. Think he's gonna be difficult?”
“Probably,” I said. “They usually are when they're trying to prove something.”
“What's he got to prove?” Benny asked.
“That he deserves a second chance.” I turned off the water and grabbed my towel. “He got fired from his last job. This is a make-or-break situation for him.”
“Great,” Mace muttered. “So we get to be his redemption arc. That'll be fun.”
“Better than Mitchell,” Volkov said flatly. “Mitchell was soft. Let everyone do what they want. No structure. No discipline.”
“You would miss the Russian authoritarian approach,” Tate said.
“Is called winning.” Volkov stepped out of the shower, water streaming down his heavily muscled frame. “You play with structure, you win. You play like children, you lose.”
“We won tonight,” Finn pointed out.
“Was exhibition. Means nothing.” Volkov grabbed his towel and headed back toward his stall. “New coach will make us earn it.”
The mood shifted slightly, the reality of settling over all of us. A new coach meant new systems, new expectations, new ways to fuck up. It meant proving ourselves all over again, earning ice time, earning trust. It meant nothing from last season mattered anymore.
“Well, this is depressing now,” Finn said. “Someone say something funny.”
“Your contract,” Benny offered.
“Fuck you.”
“See? Funny.”
I finished drying off and wrapped the towel around my waist, heading back to my stall. The banter continued behind me: debate about Tate's hair product and whether it was worth the forty dollars he spent on it. I was already mentally checking out, already preparing for what came next.
The reporter came in twenty minutes later. Avery Shaw, beat writer for the Northgate Tribune. I didn't hate them personally, but I also didn't trust anyone whose job was to turn my words into headlines.
“Jace, two goals tonight. Feeling good heading into the season?”
I turned on the charm like flipping a switch. Easy smile. Relaxed posture. Golden boy. “Yeah, felt good to be back out there. Exhibition games are about timing, getting the legs under you. The guys played great. Elias was a wall back there.”
“There's been talk about last season's playoff exit. How are you approaching this year differently?”
“Every season is different,” I said smoothly. “We've got new coaching staff coming in, new systems to learn. I'm focused on what I can control, which is my effort and preparation. The rest takes care of itself.”
Meaningless platitudes. Perfect.
They asked a few more questions and I answered each one with the same polished nothing. When they finally left, I felt like I'd run a marathon. Performing was exhausting in a way hockey never was.
I checked my reflection in the mirror by the door on my way out. Clean-cut. An expensive haircut courtesy of a sponsor deal. A jawline that photographed well. Eyes that looked bright and focused if you didn't look too close.
Golden boy. Franchise face.
I wanted to punch the glass.
Owen's bar was called The Penalty Box, which was embarrassingly on-the-nose for a place that catered to hockey players and their hangers-on, but Owen had never been subtle.
It was tucked into a side street downtown—a spot that looked divey from the outside but had craft cocktails and a bouncer who knew exactly who to let in and who to turn away.
I parked two blocks over and walked, keeping my hood up. The last thing I needed was to get recognized and have photos show up on social media of me at a bar the night of an exhibition game. The optics would probably be fine, but I didn't want to deal with it.
The bouncer nodded when he saw me. “Hart. Owen's behind the bar.”
Inside was dimly lit, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs. Crowded but not packed. A Friday night energy without the desperation. I spotted Owen immediately, working the bar, pouring something amber into a rocks glass while laughing at whatever the customer was saying.
He saw me and his face split into a grin. “There's my superstar. Two goals tonight, I heard.”
“You watched?”
“Had it on in the back. You looked good.” He slid a glass of water across the bar toward me. “Start with this. You look dehydrated.”
I took the water and found a spot at the end of the bar where the wall gave me some cover.
Owen had been my best friend since we were fifteen, back when we both thought we'd make the NHL together.
He'd been good, really good, but not quite good enough.
A blown knee at nineteen, a career over before it started.
Now he worked here and didn't hate me for succeeding where he'd failed, which made him either a saint or a masochist.
He was also the only person in the world who knew I was gay.
“New coach starts Monday,” I said, because that felt safer than admitting how anxious I actually was.
“Could be good. Maybe he'll actually push you instead of treating you like a PR asset.”
“I don't need to be pushed.”
Owen gave me a look that said he wasn't buying it, but he didn't push. Instead, he got pulled away by another customer, leaving me alone with my water and my thoughts.
That's when I noticed the guy.
He was sitting three stools down: mid-twenties, an athletic build, dark hair, wearing a button-down that fit well enough to show he worked out. He'd been glancing over periodically, and when our eyes met, he smiled.
My pulse spiked immediately.
He picked up his drink and moved closer, sliding onto the stool next to mine with easy confidence. “You're Jace Hartley, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. Saw you play tonight. Those goals were sick.” His smile was warm and genuine, and when he extended his hand, I shook it on autopilot. “I'm Connor.”
“Hey.” My voice sounded normal, which was a miracle considering my heart was trying to escape my chest.
“You come here often?”
I'd spent years perfecting the art of deflecting this exact situation with women. But this was different. This was a guy, and he was good-looking, and he was definitely interested, and I had absolutely no idea what to do with any of it.
“Sometimes,” I managed. “A friend of mine owns the place.”
Connor's smile widened. “Lucky friend.” He leaned in slightly. “Can I buy you a drink? Or are you one of those athletes who doesn't drink during the season?”
“I—” My throat was tight. My hands were starting to sweat. Every instinct was screaming at me to shut this down, make an excuse, leave before anyone saw and started asking questions I couldn't answer. “I should probably—”
“Hartley!” Owen's voice cut through my panic like a knife. He appeared at our section of the bar, wiping down the counter with exaggerated attention. “Your usual?”
I grabbed the lifeline. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Connor looked between us, clearly reading the room. “I'll let you catch up with your friend.” He pulled out his phone. “But if you want company later, I'm around.”
He was offering me his number. Openly. Casually. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Thanks,” I said, not taking the phone, not giving him mine. “I'm good.”
His smile didn't falter, but a shift moved through his eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or disappointment. “No worries. Enjoy your night.”
He moved back to his original spot, and I sat there feeling my heart pound against my ribs like it was trying to break free.
Owen set a glass of ginger ale in front of me. Not alcohol. He knew what I needed. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I took a drink and tried to steady my breathing. “Just tired.”
“He was cute.” Owen's voice was low, just for me. “And very interested.”
“I know.”
“But you panicked.”
“I didn't panic.”
“Jace.” Owen leaned against the bar, his expression gentle but direct. “You can't keep doing this to yourself. Running away every time someone shows interest.”
“I'm not running. I'm being smart.” I took another drink. “You know what would happen if anyone found out. It's not worth the risk.”
“Maybe not yet,” Owen said carefully. “But eventually you're going to have to decide if hiding is worth more than living.”
I didn't have an answer for that. Couldn't have one, not when the stakes were my entire career and everything I'd built.
Owen watched me for a moment longer, then sighed. “At least eat something. You look like you're about to fall over.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a burger and fries, setting it in front of me without comment.
I ate mechanically, grateful for a distraction, grateful for something to do with my hands while Connor sat three stools down and the weight of everything I couldn't have pressed in from every direction.
I lasted another twenty minutes before making my excuses and heading out. Owen hugged me before I left and squeezed my shoulder hard. “Get some sleep. And Jace? You're allowed to want things. You know that, right?”
“I know,” I lied.
The drive home was quiet, just me and the city lights blurring past my windows. I parked in my building's underground garage and took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, to my expensive condo with floor-to-ceiling windows that made me feel like I was on display even when the curtains were closed.
I took a shower hot enough to burn. Ate a protein bar because my nutritionist would kill me if I skipped meals. Then I stood in my bedroom and stared at the pill bottle on my nightstand: the one with the label that didn't quite match what was inside.
They helped with the anxiety. With the spiraling thoughts and the panic that hit when I was alone with my brain. My therapist had prescribed it months ago, said it was temporary, just to get me through the rough patch.
Except the rough patch hadn't ended.
I dry-swallowed a pill and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for my pulse to slow, waiting for the chemical calm to override the chaos in my head.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my brain kept replaying the moment Connor had smiled at me, the moment I'd seen interest in his eyes and felt terror instead of anything resembling hope.