Chapter 1
Caleb
As the puck whizzes towards me, I see my opportunity to kick this lame-ass game up a notch. With a defiant smirk on my face, I extend my glove hand and snatch the puck out of the air, denying the opposing Blackhawks player a surefire goal. A grueling pain stabs at my arm from the effort, but I refuse to give it much thought.
As expected, the Tampa Bay crowd erupts in boos and loud slandering jeers, mirroring the simmering frustration felt by their adored home team players.
Doesn’t bother me any, though.
In fact, I revel in the moment, relishing the spike of adrenaline that comes with thwarting these assholes’ best efforts.
“Is that all you got, dipshit?” I taunt the asshole who thought he could get one past me.
As I skate back to my net and start to bypass him, I can see him seething with anger, his eyes locked on me with a mixture of disbelief and rage.
I can tell by the mad look in his eyes he’s two seconds away from using his stick to take a swing at me. But before he’s even able to try, I deftly sidestep his would-be blow and subtly nudge his stick out of his hand, sending the damn thing careening off course throughout the ice.
When I don’t hear the familiar blow of a referee whistle to call a penalty, I know I got away with one, but I don’t care.
I live for moments like these, where I can show the world not to fuck with me.
That I still got it.
That I’m not some wounded bird just because …
The referee missed the blatant interference entirely, but I can see the Tampa Bay’s coach shouting furiously on the bench. My grin just stretches further on my face as I welcome the confrontation, eager to prove that I am not only a skilled goaltender but also a force to be reckoned with on the ice.
I might be shit everywhere else, but here… I still know my worth.
And it would serve everyone well to remember it.
I am chaos and destruction.
On and off the ice.
I’m back to standing in the crease, pulling my focus back on the game when the so-called hotshot forward comes barreling towards me. He’s got a chip on his shoulder after I made a complete fool of him—twice—and is looking to create a little bit of trouble of his own.
Good thing that trouble is exactly what I’m in the mood for tonight.
As he gets closer, I can see the heightened rage in his eyes, challenging me. I’m so fucking ready to take him on and show him who’s boss that I’m practically salivating.
Yeah, that’s it.
Come at me, motherfucker.
I dare you.
Unfortunately for me, Nate beats him to the punch, placing his body right in between us.
“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Nate shouts at me, grabbing the titanium bars of my visor and giving it a shake to snap me out of my ravenous fog.
“Nothing,” I growl with gritted teeth, pushing him away while eyeing the motherfucker that is seething to put his hands on me.
“That shit wasn’t nothing,” Nate exclaims, aggravated, his gaze bouncing off me to our common rival behind him.
“Get your boy in check, Wilder, or his ass will be seeing the end of my stick,” the Blackhawks douche threatens.
“Stop giving me ideas on what I’ll do to your momma tonight.” I grin, adding a wink when the asshole’s face blanches. “Gonna have her licking my stick all… night… long,” I taunt, grabbing my junk to drive the insult further home.
“Don’t even think about it,” Nate warns, pointing a menacing finger at the prick when he looks like he’s about to charge at me again.
Nate’s lethal expression is enough for Blackhawks’ forward to bid his warning and coax him to promptly skate the hell away from us.
“Pussy,” I murmur under my breath, pissed that the forward didn’t take the bait.
“Really? Momma jokes?” Nate grumbles, frustrated with me. “What are you? Twelve?”
“Hey, they work,” I snicker with a nonchalant shrug.
“Just cool it, Caleb, before you get kicked off the ice. Or worse… lose us the game.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I wave him off.
Nate throws me a disappointed frown that is too reminiscent of the man who should be here wearing the letter ‘C’ stitched onto his jersey instead of him.
“Listen to me,” he says, grabbing my shoulder to ensure that my attention is fully on him. “This is a big game, Caleb. Don’t fuck it up for the rest of us just because you’re bored. Jack would be pissed if we lost to the Blackhawks on their own turf because of your shenanigans.”
The mention of my brother’s name sours my mood.
“Well, Jack isn’t here now, is he?” I snarl, slapping his hand off me.
Nate’s pissed-off expression turns solemn, instantly creating a painful knot in my stomach.
“You’re right. He’s not. But you are. So step the fuck up and don’t let us down.”
He then skates away, leaving me fuming with his parting remark.
Right.
I am.
And I shouldn’t be.
That’s what he meant.
That’s what they all mean.
That the better brother… the good brother… is gone… when it should have been me instead. They got the scraps while their real hero was torn away from them.
Because of me.
And they all fucking hate me for it.
Oh, they don’t act like they do.
No.
They act like they care.
Like I fucking matter.
“Are you sure you should be back playing so soon?”
“Did your doctor really give you the all-clear to return to the team after such a devastating accident?”
“How’s your arm and ribs? Shouldn’t you have had more physical therapy before coming right back to work?”
“You can come back next season. No one will fault you for needing some extra time to deal with … “
So much fake concern for my well-being. So many whispers behind my back when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. They don’t fucking care about me. I can feel the resentment in their gaze when they all look at me.
They hate me.
Funny thing is… I don’t care.
They can’t hate me more than I hate myself.
So fuck them.
Fuck all of them.
Hot burning rage blinds me momentarily, making it impossible to see anything but my anger, much less the Blackhawks’ forward coming at me at full force.
One fractured moment … .
A second …
A breath …
A heartbeat …
It’s only when I see a puck slide past my head and hit the net behind me that I snap out of the red-hazed fog.
It’s also at this moment that I decide to lose my goddamn mind.
Without warning or real provocation, I charge at the celebrating shooter and swing my stick so hard behind his kneecap that I swear I hear his bone crack over the crowd’s loud cheers.
“ARGH!” he shouts in pain, falling onto the ice and grabbing his knee while I look down at him and grin maniacally.
Before I have time to kick the wailing dog when he’s down, a pair of strong hands pull me away from him, only to spin me around and sucker punch me in the gut. I smile at the pain of it all, thankful it lessens the ache in my crippled soul. My new opponent throws two more punches into my stomach, my still-bruised ribs unhappy with his assault. But just as he’s about to punch me again, I loosen my visor and pull it off, bashing it against the left side of his helmet and plummeting into the ground.
“Caleb! Watch out!” I hear Nate call out a few feet away from me.
It’s enough to coax me into action, so I turn around to my blind side just in time to see another Blackhawks motherfucker ready to take a piece out of me. But before he gets the chance, I swing my helmet hard under his chin, making him fly back and land on his ass. Full chaos only ensues when one of our rival team players throws a punch at Nate, preventing him from getting any closer to me, to which he retributes without mercy or hesitation. That’s all the encouragement the rest of my teammates need to create total and utter anarchy on the ice.
Fuck referee whistles.
Fuck the loud cries from the Floridian fans.
Fuck it all.
I laugh as unknown knuckles split my lip open one second and then beat my face black and blue the next. I sing and dance as my own fists collide with flesh and bone, uncaring of the consequences.
It’s only when I find myself sitting on the ice, my legs sprawled wide apart as blood pours down my face, that I fully take in the scene before me. Sticks, helmets, and fists are used against their opponents, but the image of it all quickly bores me all of a sudden.
A second ago, I felt fucking exhilarated by the havoc that I created.
But now… I feel nothing.
No pain.
No sorrow.
Not even guilt.
Nothing.
Absolutely fucking nothing.
And I doubt I’ll ever truly feel anything ever again.
The plane ride home is tense at best.
No one talks with anyone, preferring to be stuck in their own private thoughts, trying to make sense of the clusterfuck we’ve found ourselves in. There is no question in my mind that the National Hockey League will fine every single player here for their misconduct. If we’re lucky, that’s all they’ll do. But if we’re not… then the NHL might take harsher disciplinary measures to keep us in check.
The only silver lining is that the game was played in Florida.
Tampa Bay can’t lose more points or risk having their best players suspended, just as the Eastern Conference is ten games away from calling its victor.
Boston could survive and play with their B team.
Florida… not so much.
It wouldn’t come as a shock to see the game garnering headlines for a few days, with discussions of hefty fines and suspensions dominating every sports news broadcast, only to fade into obscurity a week later.
There’s always an ugly side to every sport—greasing palms and under-the-table bribes are just one of them.
Still, from the way everyone is acting, it’s like we lost or something.
We didn’t.
We beat the Blackhawks, fair and square.
Usually, after a win, the Guardians’ private plane would be buzzing with electric energy. Guys celebrating in the rows, dancing to the loud hip-hop music playing in the background, laughing as they congratulate each other for a game well won.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the silence is so deafening that you could hear a pin drop.
Not that I care.
Not anymore.
A few months ago, I would have been the first one up from their seat, trying to make everyone laugh and rejoice just to get everyone out of their funk.
But that’s not me anymore.
That version of me no longer exists. The sooner people can get on board with that, the better.
I close my eyes to block my teammates’ melancholy out and lean back into my seat, shifting the ice pack from the left side of my face to the right. I mutter a low curse and flinch when my ribs protest the sudden movement, reminding me to take it slow for their sake. My arm is also being a little bitch, often sending sharp stabs up and down the limb with every movement I make. But I refuse to take the meds the doctors gave me at the hospital to deal with the inflammation right now. They make me feel like a belligerent zombie. At the moment, I would rather have my wits about me than give my fellow teammates any more ammunition to use against me. I’ll just have to deal with the intense throbbing ache a little while longer until we land.
After a quick look at the time on my phone, I see we’re just an hour away.
I can handle an hour.
Shit. I’ve survived the worst pain for longer than that.
As I’m storing my phone away, I feel someone sit beside me.
“I need to talk to you,” Nate says somberly.
“Then talk.”
“This shit that went down tonight… could have been avoided,” he says, his gaze focused on the front of the plane, preferring to stare into the distance rather than look at my ugly mug.
Not that he looks better than me. His face is just as jacked up as mine. The only difference is that he’s got a woman at home ready to tend to his wounds and kiss the pain away.
The only thing waiting for me back at my house is a cold beer and an empty bed.
“It could have, but what would have been the fun in that?”
“I’m serious, Caleb,” he snaps. “What was that? What the hell were you thinking?”
“Hate to break it to you, big guy, but I don’t usually put much thought into the stuff I do. Just not wired that way. Sorry to disappoint.”
Nate stares at me like I’ve grown a second head or something. The disappointment and critical judgment swimming in his hazel eyes compels me to close my eyes and let out a loud yawn.
“Are we done here? I’m kind of tired after having to fight off five guys on my own tonight.”
“That’s just the thing. You weren’t on your own. You took us all down with you,” he rebukes in a severe tone.
“Not how I saw it all go down. You did what you wanted to, Nate. All of you did. No one forced you. So don’t come crying to me about it. My hands are clean.”
“They are anything but clean,” he mumbles to himself, the silent insinuation of his comment tightening my chest. “But have it your way, Caleb. You always do.” I keep my eyes closed, shielding myself from the disappointment in his gaze.”FYI,” he adds after getting up from his seat beside me, “I came over here to tell you that Nichols wants to see you in his office tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Good luck with that.”
I throw him a thumbs up and listen to him walk down back to his seat.
It’s only when I’m sure he’s no longer watching me that I open my eyes.
Meeting the GM after such a fucked-up game would drive the best of men into a tailspin.
But not me.
Fuck Trent Nichols.
And while we’re at it… fuck the Boston Guardians.
Fuck all of it.
I couldn’t care either way.
It means nothing to me.
Not anymore.
Not without him.