Chapter 2
Chapter two
Checking from Behind - A dangerous hit delivered to an unsuspecting player.
Phoenix
Hunger wasn’t just a feeling anymore—it was a habit. My first thought when I woke up and the last before sleep.
If I slept.
The Avalon Hotel glittered like a diamond against the night sky of Denver.
I adjusted my too-tight shirt in the lobby bathroom mirror, rehearsing a smile that had to suggest both innocence and experience.
I’d borrowed these knock-off clothes from Ricky—he always said, “Dress for the job you want.” Tonight, the job I wanted was simple: get upstairs to the Dragons’ victory celebration and find someone with deep pockets.
I had a specific target in mind, the one with a rich British daddy that would want to avoid a scandal, but really, any of them would do.
“You got this,” I muttered to the gaunt reflection staring back. Twenty-five shouldn’t look so hollow. Twenty-five shouldn’t have cheekbones that sharp from skipped meals and rent I’d never be able to make unless something changed.
I slipped past hotel security with practiced ease and a fake ID.
Confidence was my con: walk like you belong, and most people assume you do.
I’d crammed enough hockey lingo off YouTube to survive small talk—player names, positions, that spectacular goal Cole Armstrong scored in the final two minutes.
The Colorado Dragons had been at the bottom or nearing it the last two seasons, but things were definitely looking up.
Apparently, they had their eyes set on a wildcard placement—whatever that was—but I’d read enough to know no one, not the team, not the managers, not the sponsors, were gonna want to mess that up.
Especially after the scandal of three years ago that had nearly ended the franchise.
I paused and scrolled to the article posted today in case I learned something I could use.
Three Years After the Forge Scandal, the Dragons Finally Start to Rise
By Jenna O'Keefe, Denver Sports Daily — January 6
Three years ago, the Colorado Dragons were the shame of the league.
The Forge Scandal—illegal betting, leaked locker-room data, and the lifetime ban of then–head coach Victor Dane—left a franchise in ashes.
All but three players gone, two seasons at the bottom of the standings, and a fan base that vowed never to trust again.
Only three men survived the purge. Maxim Renard, then sidelined with a shattered ankle, is now the captain and heartbeat of the team.
Taranis Rees, the Scottish-Canadian goaltender brought in at the tail end of that cursed season, became the quiet constant through the worst years the franchise has ever seen.
(For the non–Scottish-speaking Dragons among us, Taranis is the name of a Celtic God meaning Thunder.
Seems fitting that the only guy who kept the franchise alive shares a homeland with the original fire-breathers.) And Ash Thorne who was a rookie for the scandal season and seems to be trying to prove himself now.
Everything else changed. New management. New systems. New code. And at the center of it all stands Theron Kincaid, the coach who walked into a crater and started over.
“You don’t rebuild something like that,” Kincaid said earlier this week. “You reforge it. Fire makes steel stronger—if it doesn’t melt it first.”
For two years, Kincaid’s “Reforge Project” has been exactly that—slow, methodical, and brutally honest. The team he’s built doesn’t carry ghosts.
They’re rookies with something to prove, veterans such as Taranis from losing franchises, or straight transfers.
And among them, one name stands out: Cole Armstrong-Wells, the British-born center who joined the Dragons last season and has quietly become the pulse of their new identity.
Armstrong isn’t loud. He doesn’t chase cameras.
But his line—anchored by Maxim Renard, captain, on the right and Ash Thorne on the left—has scored in seven straight games.
Heading into tonight’s matchup against the Las Vegas Vipers, the Dragons ride a three-game win streak, their best since before the scandal.
For the first time since the fire, Dragon fans are daring to believe again.
The Forge is sold out. The upper decks that sat empty two winters ago are packed, banners waving under the lights. There’s a new chant rolling down from the rafters: “Burn bright, Dragons!”
It’s still early. It’s only January. But if you listen closely, you can hear something that hasn’t lived here in a long time.
Hope.
Not sure what to think after reading that, I decided to add my game face to the players’ and breezed into the ballroom, snagged a flute of champagne, and positioned myself by the bar, scanning for potential marks, especially my particular one.
The wealthy were easy to spot—they wore their money differently than the pretenders.
My eyes landed on a tall figure sitting slightly apart at the bar, shoulders taut beneath a tailored suit.
Even in celebration, he radiated isolation—Cole Armstrong, the British import whose lightning-fast reflexes had made such a difference and were steering them to the title.
Up close, he was more striking than his posters: sharp cheekbones, haunted green eyes that didn’t match his celebrity status.
Perfect. The lonely had fewer complications.
I slid in beside him at the bar just as the bartender set down his whiskey, and made sure not to meet Ricky’s eyes. I leaned my elbow against the counter, casual but deliberate and repeated the memorized conversation I’d overheard in the line outside.
“Everyone keeps replaying your goal in the third,” I said, keeping my voice smooth. “But what really won the game was the faceoff you took right before it. You broke their defense beautifully in the neutral zone—most guys don’t even see that lane.”
His hand stilled on the glass. He turned his head, eyes narrowing as they swept over me. Not dismissive. Assessing. “You watch hockey, then,” he said, his accent making the words sharper, cleaner. I smiled, letting just a little nervousness slip through the polish.
“Enough to know the difference between a lucky shot and a playmaker.”
For the first time since I'd studied his moves, his mouth curved into something real. Not the polite smiles I’d seen him flash at teammates and executives. Interest. “Most people only notice the puck hitting the net,” he said, lifting his glass and watching me over the rim.
"Maybe," I allowed.
“Clearly not you,” he replied, accent clipping the words, and sounding vaguely bored. I might’ve been guilty of overplaying my hand, but I knew fuck all about hockey, just how to fake my way through most things. He signaled the bartender. “Whiskey, neat.”
“Make it two,” I said before thinking.
He arched an eyebrow; I backed off. “Sorry—shouldn’t assume.”
He smiled thinly. “It’s fine. It’s free anyway. I don’t think we’ve met. I haven’t seen you before.”
I felt the lie take shape. “Sort of. I handle…promotional events. First time at one of these celebrations. To be honest, I’m a little out of my league.”
He lifted his glass without drinking. “We’re all out of our league somewhere. What’s your name?”
“Phoenix.” I clinked my glass against his. “To spectacular matches.”
He let a ghost of a smile flicker. “Cole. To getting through the night.”
We drank. I felt the spark of something unplanned. His loneliness was magnetic. “You must have people at home proud of you,” I ventured. “Star player, crossing an ocean…” It would sound completely implausible I didn't know who he was.
He scowled at his glass. “Something like that.”
“Not the supportive type?”
He paused. “They have specific ideas of how success should look—and how to achieve it.”
I nodded. “The kind who love the result but hate the way the person delivers?”
He met my gaze. “Surprisingly accurate.”
In that moment our masks dropped. I knew I was reeling him in, and I wasn’t sure how that made me feel.
Then I remembered I’d been lucky to get a bed at a shelter last night, and the alternatives if I didn’t even get that.
“I’ve known that type,” I said quietly. “They’re never satisfied, no matter what you do. ”
He studied me. “You sound like you speak from experience.”
I let a half-truth slip. “My family had expectations, too. None involved me being…me.”
He glanced toward the entrance. A tall man with silver-streaked hair argued with security—his accent sharp, refined. Cole’s posture stiffened. “Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to be here.”
I followed his gaze. “Who's that?” But I knew exactly who it was. Perfect timing.
“My father,” he said flatly. “I need to handle this before he causes a scene.”
I reached to stop him. “Need him distracted?”
He stared at my hand. “My father is complicated.”
“So is mine,” I lied, though I meant it in a general sense. “Besides, maybe you need backup.”
But then his father’s voice cleaved the celebration.
“Cole! There you are—magnificent performance, though your positioning was sloppy in the second.” Edward Armstrong-Wells approached with the confident stride of a man accustomed to commanding attention.
He was impeccably dressed, radiating the kind of wealth that came from generations of privilege.
His smile was sharp and calculating as his gaze swept over me dismissively before settling on his son.
"Father." Cole's accent had sharpened, matching his father's aristocratic tones. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Surprise visits keep one honest," Edward replied, clapping Cole on the shoulder with enough force to make him tense. "I flew in this morning. Couldn't miss celebrating my son's triumph, could I?"
Phoenix noticed how Cole's jaw clenched at the possessive emphasis on “my son.”
"And who's your friend?" Edward's attention turned to me with predatory interest. "I don't believe we've been introduced."