Chapter 5
Connor
The glass doors to the Crestwood Ice Complex hiss open, cold air slapping me in the face. I step through, equipment bag digging into my shoulder, muscles so tense they could snap.
First practice of the season. It should feel like coming home. Instead, it's like skating into the offensive zone with all five opposing players converging. Every muscle is primed for the hit that's coming.
Time to face my friends.
No one’s dropped by since they got back, not even to kick my ass. Not that I’ve reached out either.
Fuck.
I swear it’s Feisty Mouse’s fault we’ve become caring. Before he came along, I always put myself first, never feeling guilty for it. Now, even with all the shit going on in my life, it gnaws at me that I missed the wedding.
Better they didn’t stop by, not with my fucking parents' home. I could barely stand being in the house for the three days before I got to move into the dorm. Even contemplated getting my gun from the lock box hidden in the wall of my closet and ending all this bullshit.
But parricide would have just landed me in a different kind of prison. So, I fucking drank myself stupid in my room every fucking day until I passed out.
I walk through the lobby toward the locker rooms.
Viktor and Zach aren’t the only ones I have to deal with today. Henneman wasn't in the room when I returned last night. And when I woke up this morning, his bed was still made, that damn teddy bear sitting on the pillow like a fucking accusation.
I waited until twenty minutes before practice to leave. Figured the coward would show up eventually. His gear was still in our room.
But time ran out, and I needed to leave. Doesn’t look good if the captain is late.
Where the fuck is he?
My grip tightens around my stick. That breakdown yesterday was similar to Merci’s. The way Henneman completely shattered when I'd gotten too close. How he kept repeating “please” like a broken record.
For one fucked-up second, my hand moved toward him to offer comfort. But caring, giving a damn, that’s how my father wins. I'd rather die than let that happen. So, I did the smart thing and left.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the locker room door. Someone nearly runs into me. I shove past him, and he falls on his ass, all wide-eyed. This one won’t last long.
The first few practices are always a shitshow. Like a bench-clearing brawl where everyone's trying to prove they deserve to stay on the ice. It’s how we weed out who doesn’t belong and fight for our previous spots. New and better players can show up. Returning ones might improve over the summer.
I fight for mine every year. Can't imagine losing it, especially to some freshman.
My friends are already at their stalls as I walk over. Viktor’s perched on the bench, half of his gear on, gesturing wildly with his hands while Zach laces up his skates. But the moment he spots me, he stops talking and nudges Zach.
They both glare, and I roll my eyes, dropping my gear bag. “Say what you have to say.”
Zach huffs. “Why didn’t you show up?”
I strip my shirt off and toss it into the cubby. “Had shit to handle.”
Viktor glares at me like he’s contemplating slitting my throat. “You ghosted your best friends on one of the most important days of their lives because you had shit to handle?”
“Yes.”
Zach stands and steps forward, crowding my space. “Talk. Now.”
I snort. “Really? Sit the fuck down and finish getting dressed.”
He grabs my arm, squeezing hard.
I don’t flinch, just lean in until we’re nose-to-nose. “Let. Go.”
His grip tightens. “Not until you answer.”
“It's handled.”
He releases me, then snatches his jersey from the bench. “You gave me shit about keeping secrets.” He puts it on, yanking the bottom too hard. “Hypocrite.”
He’s right.
And fuck if that doesn't sting worse than a high stick to the face.
“This is different.” I unzip my bag, pull out my chest protector, and put it on. “You fuckheads ever consider I might’ve been lying dead in a ditch somewhere?”
“You weren’t.” Zach drops down onto the bench, taping his shin pads.
“You just figured that out when I walked through the door. Didn’t know before.”
“We did.” He tosses the roll of tape into his bag.
I quirk a brow. “How?”
He snarls at Viktor, who’s putting on the rest of his gear, not bothering to look my way, lips pressed into a tight line.
Before I can insist on an answer, the locker room door opens and Henneman walks in, gear bag over his shoulder.
That motherfucker waited me out.
His eyes dart around the room before landing on me, then he immediately looks away. He heads to his stall, which is a few feet away from ours, shoulders hunched like he's trying to make his six-foot-seven frame disappear.
“He better have improved.” Zach doesn't bother to lower his voice. “Or Coach needs to bench his ass.”
Henneman tenses but doesn't respond. Just unpacks his gear and starts getting ready for practice, already wearing his base layer.
“He's stronger than you think,” I say, putting on compression shorts containing my cup.
Why am I defending him?
Viktor stares at me like I've grown a second head.
Zach’s expression doesn’t change. “No, he’s not.”
“We saw it last year a few times.”
“A few times isn't enough.” Zach’s tone is flat. “He’s too soft.”
The way Henneman's forearm crushed my windpipe yesterday says otherwise. Still hurts to swallow.
Viktor’s ice-blue eyes bore into me. “Care to tell us about your little adventure this past Friday?”
Fuck.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Funny thing about pet cameras. They pick up everything.”
Of course, the obsessive asshole has his cat under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Probably has multiple angles, night vision, the works.
Zach turns to me. “What happened?”
Suddenly, the room feels too small. Henneman freezes halfway through unwrapping tape, every muscle coiled like he’s about to bolt.
Run all you want. I’ll find you.
Viktor’s eyes narrow to slits. “You're lucky we didn't fly back early to put you through the fucking wall for putting my little princess in danger. She could have been hurt because of your bullshit.”
So, Coach Harper saw the footage. Saw the gun. Saw me drug his player. Explains why he looked ready to rip my spine out yesterday.
“Didn’t we talk about keeping secrets?” Zach's voice drops lower.
I square my shoulders, meeting their stares head-on. “My father tried to sell me to the Callahans like fucking cattle. So, I took myself off the market. Married Henneman instead.”
Viktor blinks once, twice, then throws his hands up. “Greattt. Someone else gets married before me.”
Trust Viktor to make this about himself.
“Didn't have a choice.”
“And he was the best option?” Zach stands and grabs his stick. “You can’t even handle what happened in Miami.”
“Gender was irrelevant. I needed someone I could own completely. Someone without the connections to fight back. Henneman checked every box.”
I glance back. Henneman’s putting on his elbow pads, fumbling with the straps. Fucking disaster. Can't even dress himself properly. But he keeps checking the players beside him, maintaining careful distance from them.
Same thing Jackson did after Buckland attacked him. Fuck, did someone—
No.
Not my problem to solve.
The coaches’ office door opens, and Harper strides out, Rinne behind him. “Asses on the ice in five minutes!”
He pauses, gaze lingering on Henneman, then me. I give him my best fuck you stare right back. I won't apologize for doing what I had to.
Five minutes later, I step onto the ice. The scrape of my blades against it, the cold air filling my lungs, for a second—just a second—makes something in my chest loosen.
This is my last year here. The NHL comes next. Fame, fortune, dynasty. Everything my father planned.
But do I want it?
Hockey was always part of the plan. His plan. Elite prep school, Crestwood, then the Capitals. Not sure if it was ever my dream.
Viktor glides up beside me. “Weird, it’s just the three of us left.”
Our circle is smaller.
Incomplete.
Zach grunts from my other side. “Can't believe Reed. Fucking traitor.”
“What happened?”
Viktor smirks. “Nope. You didn’t come to Austria, so you have to wait to find out.”
Coach Nieminen's whistle blares. We gather at center ice, the entire team forming a loose circle around our coaches.
Nieminen surveys us all. “Welcome back. It might be a new season but expectations are the same. We are here to win. Not to participate, not to try our best. To fucking win. That means every practice, every drill, every moment on this ice matters. No excuses, no exceptions.”
“Walsh will be running captain practices during preseason. Miss one, and you'll wish you hadn't.” Nieminen turns to me. “Keep the antics to a minimum this year.”
I nod.
The coaches run through the schedule for the next few weeks, then practice begins. Viktor, Rinne, and our backup goalie head to the net. The rest of us run through skating and stickhandling warm-ups.
I push into a series of tight c-cuts, working the inside edges, feeling the burn in my hip flexors. The physical demand grounds me, everything else fading to background noise.
Across the ice, Henneman’s struggling. His movements are stilted, hands too tight.
Pathetic.
Most of this stuff is routine. Should be second nature.
If he keeps this up, he’s done. Then I’ll have no scholarship to hold over his head. No leverage to keep him in line.
The whistle blows and the team skates to center ice.
“Line it up for Minnesota one-on-one.” Coach Harper looks at the freshman.
“Forwards are going to come up with a puck, circle back at the red line, and then attack the defenseman. The defenseman is going to come up, close the gap on him, then come back. As he’s coming back he’s going to stay tight with the forward, keeping the gap and playing the one-on-one fold down the end. ”
“Game speed. Make it count,” Nieminen adds.
I grab a puck, not bothering to look at the freshman lined up on defense. The whistle blows, and I push hard and circle back at the red line.
The kid scrambles to close the gap. He stays too high, giving me the inside. I drop my shoulder, fake wide, then cut in hard.
He tries to keep up, but I’ve got a step and drive the net.
One move, then I roof the puck, bar down behind our backup goalie. I don’t even glance back at the kid as I skate off. Let him figure out what just happened.
I glide up to Zach, and we watch the next pair set up—Henneman’s on defense.
The forward takes off. Henneman moves to close the gap but catches an edge and nearly trips. By the time he recovers, the forward is already past him. Viktor blocks the shot.
Zach shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake. He’s a disaster.”
Henneman glides to line up again, cheeks red, not meeting anyone’s eyes. My grip tightens on my stick. Whatever the fuck he did last night instead of sleeping, it's showing.
We run through drills for another thirty minutes, then head to the bench for a water break. Viktor skates over, helmet tipped back, grin already in place. “Your husband’s struggling.”
My grip tightens around the water bottle.
Husband.
Fuck that word.
Henneman’s nothing more than a legal technicality, a loophole meant to destroy my father's plans. And Viktor’s going to ride that term into the ground. The asshole lives for this kind of shit.
But I need to stop balking at the term if this marriage is to be believable.
“My husband will get his ass into gear before the season starts.” I squeeze another stream of water into my mouth, harder than necessary.
Viktor nudges Zach. “Eli and Merci are going to lose it when they hear about this.”
Zach grunts. “Don’t stir shit.”
Viktor rolls his eyes. “I already promised Feisty Mouse I’ll play nice with Merci. But your little scorpion trying to kick Walsh’s ass will be just as enjoyable for me.”
I smirk, just a little. “When did hell freeze over?”
Zach puts down his water bottle. “At the wedding. Merci tackled Viktor into the wedding cake.”
I sputter, almost choking. “No shit.”
“Fuck you, Knight. You’re just pissed you lost that bet. Can’t wait to see what Merci has in store for you.”
I smirk, staring at my friends. “What bet?”
Viktor smacks our friend in the chest with the back of his hand. “The dumbass bet that I would actually behave. Me.” He scoffs, glaring at Zach. “Did you honestly think Becks being there would magically transform me?”
“Don’t be so proud of yourself,” Zach deadpans.
Viktor waves him off and zeroes in on me. “Anyway, so what's next in this brilliant plan of yours?”
“Announcing my marriage at the press conference next week. It should put an end to whatever nonsense my parents and the Callahans agreed to.”
This all better be over quickly because I didn’t fully know who I was marrying. And in the Walsh family, one miscalculation is all it takes to lose everything.