The Power of Love (The Barracudas #2)

Prologue

DREW

Two Years Ago

Freshman orientation day. To say I’m giddy as fuck would be an understatement. While high school was a blast, I’m ready to trade my varsity jacket for a whole new level of chaos.

The quad at Berkeley Shore University reminds me of the final scene in Grease.

A golf cart cruises by with a cotton candy machine strapped to its back, leaving behind a sticky blue cloud of sugar that clings to everyone’s hair and skin.

A Ferris wheel from some carnival graveyard in the Midwest creaks ominously every time it completes a rotation.

A guy in full Kiss face paint performs an interpretive dance to “Love Gun,” and the way he waggles his tongue is making me horny.

Along the perimeter are several dunk tanks.

In one of them, the dean of students perches on a metal platform, his knobby knees pressed together, the neon yellow Speedo riding up his pale thighs.

Water drips from the leather collar around his neck, leaving dark trails down his chest hair.

“That was a lucky shot!” he sputters, shaking water from his ears as a beefy quarterback winds up for another throw.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize that BSU is a fever dream designed by someone who was homeschooled and thinks this is what college is supposed to be.

I weave my way around the chess club (hard pass), the anime society (harder pass—although I’ll watch the porn), and a medieval reenactment group (hardest pass).

Nothing here excites me, although I wouldn’t say no to the roller skate club.

And then, like a sign from God, the students part, and sunlight beams down to spotlight one particular table with a banner that reads:

BARRACUDAS! COME GET BIT & PLAY HOCKEY!

As I take my place in line, my jaw drops.

The guy in front of me can’t possibly be human.

He’s easily six-five, maybe six-six, and genetically engineered to destroy both sports records and the dignity of anyone who stands next to him.

His hair is a wild tangle of gold that catches the sunlight, and I have to squint to check him out properly.

My eyes pop out of their sockets when they land on his feet. They’re massive and legitimately intimidating. The pink socks he’s wearing—bold choice, buddy—stretch over what have to be size fifteens. Maybe sixteens. And I have to physically stop myself from dropping to my knees to worship them.

As my gaze travels upward, I take in his tree-trunk thighs wrapped in khaki, thick and powerful enough to crack walnuts or skulls, depending on the mood.

The muscles shift and flex as he adjusts his stance, and my brain immediately supplies a vivid image of those thighs locked around my neck while I’m face-first in his—

Oh, dear God. He bends down to scratch his ankle, and I swear time slows down. His ass—and what an ass it is—moves in those khaki shorts like two perfectly sculpted boulders having a conversation. I bite down on my knuckle to keep from moaning fuckkkk meeee out loud.

“You okay back there?” The golden giant turns around, and holy shit, his face is even better than his ass. Bright blue eyes peer down at me with genuine concern, framed by that mess of golden curls.

“Peachy,” I manage to squeak out, my voice cracking like I’m thirteen again.

He grins, and it’s sunshine and puppies and everything good in the world. “I’m Gerard. Gerard Gunnarson.” He extends a hand the size of a dinner plate.

“Drew Larney,” I say, shaking his hand and trying not to think about what else those massive fingers could do.

“You here for hockey?” His enthusiasm is infectious, and when he bounces on the balls of his feet, I try and fail at ignoring all the movement in the front of his shorts.

“Yeah, center.” I clear my throat, attempting to regain some dignity. “You?”

“Right wing!” He beams. “This is so exciting! Are you living on campus? Have you met anyone else from the team yet?”

Before I can answer, someone calls out, “Gunnarson! Stop terrorizing people!”

A guy built like a brick shithouse approaches, all muscle and confidence. His spiky black hair gives him a punk rock vibe, but his green eyes are warm and friendly.

“This is Oliver,” Gerard says, throwing an arm around the newcomer’s shoulders. “Ollie, this is Drew. He’s a center!”

Oliver gives me an appraising look. “Welcome to the madhouse, man. You look like you can handle yourself.”

“I can handle a lot of things,” I say with a wink, because apparently my mouth has decided to operate independently from my brain.

Oliver barks out a laugh, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “Oh, I like you already. Takes balls to come in hot like that.”

Gerard’s brow furrows, his golden retriever expression shifting to one of adorable confusion. “What do you mean? Drew was just talking about hockey, right?” His eyes dart between us, clearly trying to work out what he missed. “Centers have to handle the puck a lot. That’s their job.”

I press my lips together to keep from cackling. This beautiful, massive specimen of a man is a grade-A himbo, and I am one-hundred percent here for it.

“Sure, buddy,” Oliver says, patting Gerard’s shoulder. “That’s exactly what he meant.”

Gerard nods, satisfied with this explanation. I’m about to say something else when the temperature around us drops by about fifteen degrees.

“What’s going on here?”

The voice is flat, almost bored, but carries an undercurrent of don’t fuck with me. I turn to see a guy with sandy-brown hair falling into eyes as dark as coal. He’s about six feet tall, lean but athletic.

“Kyle!” Gerard jolts as if someone shoved his finger into a wall socket. “This is Drew! He’s trying out to be our new center!”

Kyle’s dark gaze lands on me, x-raying his way into my very soul. “Larney.”

It’s not a question. Somehow, he already knows my name, which is impressive and terrifying.

“That’s me.” I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Kyle takes my hand, and I immediately regret every decision as my knuckles pop.

“Goalie,” he says, releasing my hand.

I flex my fingers, checking for permanent damage. “Good to know. I’ll try not to score on you in practice.”

His expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker. But something in those obsidian eyes shifts, like he’s filing me away for future reference.

Here’s the thing, though—despite the fact that Kyle radiates serial killer on his day off energy, I can’t deny the guy oozes sex appeal.

It’s in the way he holds himself with coiled tension and barely restrained power.

Even the brooding thing works for him. If he showed up at my door in the middle of the night with a bottle of whiskey, a pack of condoms, and zero explanation, I’d let him in. No questions asked.

“Kyle’s our starting goalie,” Gerard explains helpfully, still oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “He’s really good! And scary! But like, good scary.”

“I can see that,” I say, still cradling my possibly fractured hand.

Oliver clears his throat. “Alright, children. Let’s get Drew signed up before the line gets any longer.”

The three of them turn around and approach the table as a single unit. The synchronized jiggle of their hockey butts nearly kills me.

Manning the registration list is a kid who must have wandered in from the local high school. Bright red hair, freckles for days, and these huge hazel eyes that make him appear even younger. He’s wearing a BSU hockey jersey that drowns his thin frame.

“These guys don’t need to sign up, Alex,” the guy seated next to him cuts in. He leans back in his chair, and it creaks ominously. “Gunnarson, Jacoby, and Graham are legacies.”

Holy shit. Legacies. That explains the confident way they carry themselves.

What was I thinking? I’m just some nobody from Boston. Like hell I have a shot at making it on this team. My earlier excitement deflates.

Gerard flashes Alex an easy grin. “We’re here to get our boy signed up!”

He pats my stomach for emphasis, his palm pressing against me through my shirt. My toes curl inside my sneakers because the warmth of his hand is doing things to me. And that’s not even the worst part—his hand spans nearly my entire abdominal region.

“Drew Larney,” I croak out, stepping forward before Gerard can accidentally feel me up again.

The redhead glances up at me with those doe eyes. “Are you nervous?”

I let out a laugh that sounds slightly hysterical even to my own ears. “Terrified, actually. Like, might-vomit-on-your-clipboard levels of terrified.”

Something softens in Alex’s expression. He glances at the guy next to him, then back at me. “My dad’s the coach, so I’ve seen a lot of tryouts. They’re…intense.”

Wonderful. I’m going to die on the ice, and this tiny angel child is going to watch his father scrape my remains off the boards.

But then Alex continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if you’re friends with Gerard, you’ll be fine.” He fidgets with the pen in his hand. “Gerard’s dad played with my dad back when they were students here. Anyone who knows Gerard comes highly recommended.”

I blink, processing this information. Gerard, still standing behind me like a golden retriever guarding his favorite chew toy, beams at Alex.

“Aw, thanks, Alex! Your dad’s the best. Remember when he taught me how to do slap shots in your backyard, and I broke, like, four windows?”

“Seven,” Alex corrects, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “It was seven windows.”

“Er, right.” Gerard’s cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Seven. I knew that.”

Oliver snorts. “Sure you did, buddy.”

Gerard shakes it off with a flourish of his hand. “Anyway! Drew, you should come hang out with us. We’re heading to The Brew. You in?”

I glance between the three of them—the golden giant, the brick shithouse, and the serial killer—and wonder if this is some sort of elaborate hazing ritual. “The Brew?”