Chapter One
Clay
“Think they’ll fall for it?”
Liam’s voice carries across the table, lazy and sharp at the same time, like he’s been waiting for the perfect chance to needle me. He leans back in his chair, ankles crossed, beer hanging between his fingers. His grin is the kind of shit-eating smirk only a best friend can get away with.
“You, convincing them you’re suddenly coach material?” He gives a low whistle and shakes his head. “That’s one hell of a sales pitch. Guess we’ll see how gullible Kolmont really is.”
Kolmont. My alma mater. The small North Carolina college where I spent four years bleeding on the ice and turned a shot at the Frozen Four into a ticket to the NHL. Now I’m crawling back, hoping they’ll believe I’m cut out for a whistle and clipboard.
I take a long pull from my beer before answering, the bitter taste settling heavy on my tongue. “It’s not a sales pitch.”
“Sure it isn’t.” He raises his bottle in a mock toast. “Because nothing screams leadership like Clay Barlowe—grumpy bastard, professional hothead, two-time ACL tear survivor turned beacon of inspiration for the youth of America. Hell, maybe they’ll put you on the poster.
Get a few parents to sign their kids up with a big slogan underneath: Learn from the guy who threw away his career. ”
My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth might crack.
That’s the problem with Liam. He doesn’t care about the mess I’ve made of my career, not really, but he also doesn’t pull punches. He isn’t afraid to say the shit everyone else whispers behind my back. And the worst part? Half of it’s true.
Stubborn. Hot-tempered. Un-coachable. Every teammate I’ve ever had would sign their names to that list. It doesn’t matter that I played hurt, that I bled for the jersey, or that I showed up even when my knee screamed with every stride.
The only thing people remember is the suspension, the fights, the headlines that paint me as a problem they couldn’t fix.
And then came the call that finished me—released from the team, like I meant nothing. Years of my life devoted to hockey, and all I get is a three-minute phone call and a one-way ticket home.
My agent didn’t even wait a week before he dumped me. “You’re not marketable anymore, Clay,” he said, like I’m just another piece of broken equipment collecting dust in the locker room.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I just stopped answering the phone. Cut everyone out before they had the chance to tell me they’re sorry, or worse—pretend they understand.
Everyone but Liam.
He’s the only one who looks at me, not the wreckage of my dreams going up in smoke. He still invites me out for beers, still calls me an asshole when I deserve it, and still treats me like the same guy I was before my career went up in flames.
My old coach’s words still linger from earlier in the week, like they’ve burrowed into my skull. Coach Rudnick is retiring at the end of the season, which leaves an opening on my staff. I want you here. Think about it.
That’s all it takes. One damn call.
And now here I am, staring at an empty glass and a half-packed duffel bag in the corner of my apartment, debating if I’m really about to fly back to the one place I swore I’d never set foot in again.
Back where it all started. Back where it all fell apart.
If I’m lucky, maybe I'll figure out who the hell I’m supposed to be now that I’m not Clay Barlowe, NHL defenseman.
And if not? Well…at least I’ll know I tried before walking away for good.
The kitchen smells like coffee and cinnamon when I walk in after lunch with Liam. Mom’s at the table, phone in one hand and recipe cards spread out in front of her, already planning the holiday meals.
“There you are,” she says, setting her phone down and looking up at me.
Her eyes brighten instantly, that familiar spark telling me she’s been waiting to drop news I probably don’t want.
“I just got off the phone with Lisa St. James. Can you believe it? We’ll all be at the lodge together this year. Finally.”
I stop halfway to the counter, my stomach knotting. I know where this is going before she even says the name.
“And Tessa,” she adds with a little clap, like she’s announcing a surprise guest on some talk show. “Lisa said she’ll be there too. Isn’t that wonderful? It’s been years, Clay. It’s been too long since all of you kids were under one roof for Christmas.”
Her excitement bubbles over so easily that I almost feel guilty for the weight that drops into my chest. Almost.
I keep my face neutral, or at least I try. “Yeah. Great.”
She doesn’t notice the edge in my voice. She never does when she’s on a roll. “I can’t tell you how happy I am. I was beginning to think those traditions were over for good, but maybe this year will feel like old times.”
Old times. I nearly laugh. Old times were simple—snowball fights in the yard that left our gloves soaked through, stockings lined up by the fire with our names embroidered in red thread, and family dinners that lasted until midnight with too much pie and too much noise.
But old times ended the second I kissed Tessa St. James against the hallway wall, her mouth hot and desperate under mine, my hands tangled in her hair.
Everything shifted in one heartbeat, and the following morning, I had to watch her open the ring Evan had gotten her, like the night before never happened at all. Like I’d imagined the whole damn thing.
I clear my throat, forcing the memory back into the shadows where it belongs. “I’ll be landing a little late. I’ve gotta fly back to Kolmont for that coaching interview.”
Mom blinks at me, startled. “You got the interview?” Her whole face softens with pride.
“That’s wonderful, honey. Tessa will be arriving late too.
She has finals to wrap up before she can leave.
Maybe you’ll even be flying with her—” She breaks off with a laugh, reaching for her coffee like she can’t help herself. “Oh, wouldn’t that be something?”
I grunt, dropping into the chair across from her.
The wood creaks under my weight, and the steam from her mug curls between us.
Flying with Tessa? Christ. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but the thought of sitting shoulder to shoulder on a plane, close enough to breathe the same air, pretending I don’t remember the last time we were alone together… yeah, no thanks.
The truth is, I remember it well. Too damn well.
The burn of vodka sharp in my nose, the feel of her body pressed against mine, the way her lips parted when I asked if it was wrong.
The way her eyes said it wasn’t, even when her voice never did.
It’s haunted me every holiday since, carved itself into the quiet moments when I’m too tired to bury the memory.
I’ve managed to stay away from her. Away from the St. James family altogether. It was safer that way.
But this year? There’s no avoiding it.
She’ll be there. And I’ll have to look her in the eye, knowing the last time we crossed paths, I had her pinned against the wall, her breath mingling with mine like she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.
And I’ll have to act like none of it ever happened.
***
The air smells like cinnamon and peppermint mochas—because apparently, everything has to smell like Christmas.
The airport is packed. People bump shoulders, dragging overstuffed suitcases and crinkling gift bags.
Kids in elf hats run wild while their parents yell after them.
A guy in a Santa sweater hums off-key to the carols playing, like the noise isn’t bad enough already.
It’s chaos, but the kind people smile through.
Me? I cut straight toward the rental counter. Get in, get out, get to the interview. That’s the plan.
The girl behind the desk has a strand of garland wrapped around her monitor and a candy cane tucked into her bun. She beams when I step up, like this job hasn’t worn her down yet. “Name?”
“Barlowe. Clay.”
Her nails—red with little snowflakes painted on them—tap across the keyboard. “Perfect, it looks like you reserved your rental online. I just need you to fill this out, and I’ll get your keys.”
She slides a clipboard across the counter. I pick up the pen, the cheap plastic thing bending under my grip, and fish my wallet out of my jacket. I’m halfway through signing when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Of course. Mom probably tracked my flight and saw I landed thirty seconds ago. I yank it out, bracing for her voice, but the screen shows a number with a local area code.
“Hello?” I say, more bark than greeting, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear as I hand over my ID.
“Barlowe.” The voice oozes smug satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for me to slip up. “Trevor Gaines. Finally caught you, huh? Been chasing you for months.”
My hand tightens on the pen until my knuckles ache. Gaines. Christ. The guy has been circling since the day I got cut—calling, emailing, and leaving messages I never answered. A vulture waiting for me to die so he can pick apart what’s left.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter. “Lose my number.”
“Come on, Clay.” His voice gets that false-friendly lilt reporters love.
“People want to hear your side. You disappeared. You cut your agent loose. Everyone’s wondering what happened with the knee, the suspension, the release.
What’s next? Is it true you’re interviewing for a coaching job?
Kolmont’s got an opening at the end of this season, don’t they? ”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pulses. Around me, a family in matching plaid pajamas poses for a selfie in front of a fake tree covered in silver ornaments.
A group of college kids stumble past with Santa hats tilted sideways, laughing like they don’t have a care in the world. The whole place reeks of holiday cheer.
And here I am, spitting venom into the phone. “You think I’m gonna hand you headlines just for you to twist every word to fit your narrative? Find someone else, Gaines. I’m not your story anymore.”
I hang up before he can answer, the click of the line cutting through the noise like a crack of thunder. My pulse is pounding.
The phone buzzes again immediately.
This time, it’s Mom.
I let out a breath through my nose and swipe to answer. “Yeah, Ma.”
“Did you read my texts?” Her voice is already wound tight, like she’s been pacing the kitchen since I boarded. “Clay, there’s a storm heading your way. They’re saying flights might be grounded for days. You need to be careful.”
I glance at the departure board. A row of red letters blinks back at me: Delayed. Delayed. Delayed. Flights out of Kolmont—and across the rest of the East Coast—are backing up like dominoes.
“Don’t stress,” I say, switching the phone to my other ear as the rental clerk rifles through a drawer. “I’ll drive.”
“Drive? Honey, that’s hours in bad weather. And you—”
“I’ll be fine.” My flat tone is sharp enough to cut off her panic before it spirals. It’s the only way to get her to give it a rest. “I’ll call when I get close.”
I hang up before she can argue, sliding the clipboard across the counter. The clerk scans it, then types something into her computer. Her expression flickers.
“Looks like you’ve got the last vehicle available.” She spins the monitor toward me. On the screen is a bright red sports car, sleek and impractical, the kind of thing someone buys in the middle of a midlife crisis.
I blink. “That’s a joke, right?”
She winces. “Afraid not. We’re cleaned out with the holidays. Everyone booked weeks ago. You’ll have to take what you reserved.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
Families load into SUVs, luggage stacked high and holiday music blaring.
Meanwhile, I’m gearing up to take on icy backroads in a car built for speed, not snow.
Mom’s probably glued to the Weather Channel like it’s Game 7 of the Stanley Cup.
And Trevor Gaines? He’s somewhere with a half-written story, just waiting for me to screw up so he can finish it.
And me? I’m standing here with the keys to a ridiculous red sports car, wondering how the hell I went from NHL defenseman to this.