Pickled (The Bailey Brothers #2)

1. Gideon

GIDEON

The puck slammed into the net, and the cherry-red goal light spun to life.

For a split second, everything from the past year—the trade, my brother, my fizzling career—faded into the roar of the crowd.

I wasn’t a flashy player, so instead of raising my hands in celebration, I arced a turn and headed to the bench.

Even with its state-of-the-art climate control, the ice in Miami’s “fishbowl” rink seemed soft, almost waxy.

By the time we skated off the ice with the win, beads of sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes.

Steam hung heavily in the dressing room as I got out of the shower and toweled off my hair.

The atmosphere was upbeat, and laughter filled the room.

It was my first official game as a center for the Barracudas, and it felt damn good to be on the ice.

After a tough year playing for the Toronto Tigers, I was finally getting my game back.

My time with the Tigers had been tainted by the rivalry with my brother. Sure, at the end of the season, we reconciled, but it was too late. I had already been traded, and that’s how my grumpy-ass attitude and I found ourselves in a dressing room in Miami.

Drama aside, it had been the right move. I’d instantly found my stride with the Miami team during summer training camp.

I put on my silk boxers and tossed the towel into the bin.

“Loved that clapper from the blue line.” Jamie Owens, one of the defensemen, pulled a T-shirt over his head and smiled.

“Thanks,” I grumbled but forced myself to return his smile.

I didn’t care about making friends, but I needed to put in an effort not to be hated.

The bare minimum was what I was going for.

I didn’t need to be liked, but Toronto was a prime example of what happens when a team has toxic energy between its players.

As much as I hate to admit it, camaraderie is important, and even a lone wolf needs to be accepted by his pack.

That’s why I found myself putting on cologne and getting ready to go to a club when I’d rather be at home. Loud music, thousand-dollar bottles of booze, and picking up puck bunnies wasn’t really my thing anymore.

“Hey, Jameson, are you coming with us?” Owens shouted across the room to Mitch, the only married guy on the team.

“Only if I can bring my wife,” Mitch Jameson drawled. He was Texan, and even though he had played for Miami for three years, he still had a thick cowboy accent.

“You’re no fun.” Owens tossed a towel at him, which Jameson caught and hurled back to our side of the room.

“One day, you’ll get it.” Mitch shrugged and slid his wedding band onto his finger. “I’d rather go home and hang out with Bethenny than any of you idiots.”

I chuckled. Clearly, there was no room for the old me here anyway; the role of team grump had been taken. I didn’t know Jameson but already had mad respect for him. He wasn’t one of the top players in the league but was consistent. He loved the game, his wife, and seemed content.

Owens leaned into me. “Get what? Only having one pussy for the rest of my life? No, thank you.”

“I can hear you.” Jameson zipped up his Barracuda sweater and put on his hat. “My wife is the best person I know. I’m the luckiest man alive.”

He was gone before anyone could reply.

“What an idiot.” Owens rolled his eyes. “He’s going to snuggle with his wife. I’m taking home the hottest bunny at Riptide.” He leaned in and whispered, “I’ve got a goal for the year.”

It was the first interesting thing he’d said all night.

I paused in getting dressed, my feet stuck in the legs of my jeans.

“What’s your goal?” I had a couple of my own; I wanted to beat my record for shorthanded goals, and I wanted to bench at least twenty pounds more by the end of the season.

Both were tall orders. I was number one in the league for power play goals, and I could already bench one and a half times my weight.

“You’re still doing that?” Landon Riley, the player who was sitting on the other side of me, didn’t move his eyes from his phone.

“It’s a new year, new start.” Owens rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to get a BJ for every goal that I score.”

Riley looked up from his phone, a wry grin on his face. “So what’s that for the year, two?”

Owens laughed. “Dude. At least I’m getting one tonight.”

We had won the season opener three-nothing. I scored one goal, Owens had tipped in another—a lucky shot, if you ask me—and Viktor, the young Russian phenomenon, had skated circles around Minnesota’s defense to score our third goal of the game in the last ten seconds.

The Barracuda’s organization had been around forever, but most of the players were new. It shouldn’t have surprised me that the players had the maturity level of a Junior A team. Hell, half of them could barely grow peach fuzz, let alone a full playoff beard.

“Grow up.” Riley slipped his phone into the pocket of his backpack.

“Easy, Riles.” Owens shrugged. “Maybe you should join my challenge, you know, have a little incentive to hustle out there.”

All eyes in the room turned to Riley. “I’ve got no problem scoring goals, and I’m definitely not going to hold myself back from getting as many hummers as I want. I’m not limiting it to a small number, like you.”

“Ooooh.” The room fell quiet with Riley’s burn.

They all needed to grow up, but I gulped down my criticism. Judging jerk Gideon was gone. Gideon the goal machine was back, and that’s what I was here to do. Score goals and win games.

Could I end the night with a model’s lips wrapped around my dick?

Of course. But my no-strings-attached days were gone.

The Groundhog Day of tanned blondes and vapid conversations reinforced my decision to forego forgettable one-night stands.

I didn’t have the energy for the marathon of a real relationship.

My valuable time was budgeted for hockey and hockey alone.

The line for Riptide snaked down the street and around the corner. Groaning, I wondered how much I was going to have to grease the bouncer to avoid standing in the dense humidity all night. It turned out I didn’t have to worry—I was a Barracuda.

The valet bounded to meet me as I pulled up in my 1974 Porsche 911.

“Nice goal tonight, Bailey.” He held up his hand for a high five.

“Thanks.” I obliged and handed him the keys.

“Head right in.” The bouncer pointed to his colleague, who unhooked the red velvet rope. As a small-town guy, I hated this kind of preferential treatment but hated waiting in line even more.

Riptide was exactly the hellscape I’d imagined.

Pulsing lasers, deafening music, and wall-to-wall gyrating bodies.

All I wanted was to be at home with my book.

Sighing, I accepted my fate and slipped into the crowd to make my way to the VIP section.

I found the guys and slid onto the turquoise vinyl bench seat next to Riley.

I poured one drink, tried to have a conversation, and didn’t dance. What was a grand total of fifteen minutes felt more like fifteen hours. “I’m going to head out,” I shouted to Riley as I finished my drink.

“What?” He pulled a bottle of vodka from the ice bucket and filled his glass.

Pounding bass vibrated our drinks. I pointed to the door. “I’m going to go.”

“Ah.” He nodded, putting it together. “Thanks for coming out, man.” He smiled and joined me as I stood. To my surprise, he grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a dude hug.

“No problem,” I grumbled. I pulled away and tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table. Wishing I’d pulled an Irish exit, I waved at the rest of the guys.

“Nice goal tonight, Giddy,” Owens shouted from the far side of the table. He was already surrounded by two beautiful brunettes. The rest of the guys had disappeared into the smoke and neon lights of Riptide.

I stiffened.

Nicknames and hockey players go together like ice and pucks.

It was only a matter of time before I was given one by my new team.

It didn’t surprise me that Owen had chosen the unoriginal “Giddy”—we are hockey players, after all, not linguistics majors.

Most nicknames are the player’s name with a - y or - ster added to the end of it.

Giddy. I thought I’d left that shitty nickname buried deep in the Toronto snowbanks. I hated it. It was the opposite of my personality. Surly would’ve been more apropos. Hell, I’d have accepted Gidster over Giddy any day of the week.

“Don’t call me Giddy,” I growled loud enough to be heard over the music. It came out harsh, but my first instinct had been to go full asshole and throw some fists, so it was better than that. I took a breath. “How about we go with Bailey?”

“Bailes, Bailster, Bailman. I can work with that.” He grinned. “See you at practice tomorrow, Bailman.”

I cringed. Bailman was bad too, but at this point, anything was better than Giddy.

My ex had called me Giddy, and the name brought on some serious PTSD.

“I’m just here to play hockey,” I whispered under my breath and gave Riley a send-off wave.

I was trying my best, but the grump inside me was a wild man, one who was hard to keep contained.

Weaving through the sweaty crowd, I decided I’m just here to play hockey was going to be my mantra for the season. Shut up, give it my best, be happy—giddy even—and maybe I’d have the chance to hold the cup up over my head again.

The Stanley Cup is the pinnacle of this sport, and natural talent alone isn’t enough to get it. So many things have to come together, including a team that has synergy. Everything was falling into place with the Barracuda. I couldn’t fuck it up over a beef with a nickname.

The air outside didn’t provide much respite from the club. It was late September and a sultry ninety degrees at 11:30 p.m.