Chapter 1
DREW
Present Day
The walk from my car to the entrance of Infinity Arena never gets old.
My legs know the journey by heart—roughly the length of three football fields—but my chest still tightens with anticipation when those glass doors come into view.
Some guys get a boner walking into strip clubs.
Me? I get it from a hockey arena that has been my second home since I joined the team.
The walls are made of steel and glass that reflect the setting sun, forcing me to squint as I approach.
Barry the Barracuda glares down from his perch above the entrance—all razor teeth and menacing fins.
A not-so-subtle reminder to visiting teams that they’re swimming in dangerous waters.
The university clearly blew its budget to ensure this place screams “Barracuda Territory” to every car passing on the highway.
The doors whoosh open, and I’m hit with that familiar cocktail of scents I’ve come to love. Zamboni fumes, industrial cleaner, and the decades of sweat and dreams that have soaked into the foundation of the building.
The sound of my sneakers squeaking against the floor bounces through the massive atrium as I turn in place, head tilted all the way back.
The ceiling soars three stories up, and every inch of wall space is plastered with action shots of Barracudas past and present, while championship hardware gleams behind solid glass.
Around the edges, merch stands hawk everything from game jerseys to boxer briefs with Barry’s teeth strategically positioned across the crotch.
Championship banners hang from the rafters, and I take a second to appreciate the 2014-2015 Frozen Four one.
Last season’s finale was a night to remember, and I can only hope that this year’s will be even more memorable.
I walk down the hall and enter the code into the keypad on a door that takes me into the bowels of the arena.
Down here, the glamour gives way to function.
Exposed pipes, concrete walls painted in the team colors of navy blue and white, and the omnipresent hum of the HVAC system.
Voices and laughter echo from the locker room before I fully round the corner.
“—swear to God, if Coach makes us do suicides today, I’m transferring to a school in Florida where they’ve never heard of ice,” someone complains.
I push through the door right when Gerard decides it’s the perfect moment to moon the entire locker room as he digs through his gear bag.
It’s an ass that was made famous by an anonymous blogger last semester. An ass that could smother me in my sleep. An ass that’s about to be the victim of a vicious attack.
Thwack! Oliver’s towel connects with Gerard’s left cheek.
“Fiddlesticks!” Gerard yelps, using his made-up curse word because he’s too pure for this world. He shoots up and spins around, his cock swinging freely with the motion. “Ollie, you absolute buttmunch!”
Oliver grins and keeps on walking, dressed in nothing but a jockstrap. “Sorry, G-man. I couldn’t resist. You were presenting like a baboon in heat.”
Nearby, Kyle is already fully suited up in his goalie gear, resembling a Transformer with all the extra padding he’s wearing.
I head to my locker and strip out of my street clothes. “Does anyone think Coach is going to murder us today? It’s the first practice of the new year. He probably spent the break sitting at home and plotting new and creative ways to make us suffer.”
Oliver adjusts himself in the poor, overwhelmed jockstrap. “He texted me asking if I’d been ‘maintaining conditioning.’ That’s never a good sign.”
“I maintained conditioning,” Gerard says with a hand raised in the air before stepping into a pink jockstrap, his favorite color. It takes him three tries to stuff his penis fully inside of it. Some guys have all the luck.
“Sex with Elliot doesn’t count,” Kyle says flatly, his voice muffled by his goalie mask.
“I’m betting on power play drills until someone pukes,” I say. “He was pissed about our performance against Brickwood before break.”
“That wasn’t our fault,” says Nathan Paisley, one of our freshmen defensemen, whose hair is spikier than Oliver’s and pinker than Gerard’s jock. “Their goalie was a freak of nature. I swear he had six arms.”
“Try telling Coach that. I can already hear him saying, ‘Gentlemen, if you can’t score on one goalie, how do you expect to win a Frozen Four?’” My impression of Coach Donovan is terrible, but it gets a laugh.
“Maybe he’ll be in a good mood. Christmas miracle?” Gerard offers cheerfully.
“When has Coach ever been in a good mood?” Kyle asks, standing up. In full gear, he’s even more massive and terrifying. “Remember when we won against Maine by six goals, and he still made us do sprints because our passing was sloppy?”
“Fair point,” Gerard concedes.
“At least we’ll suffer together,” I say. “Misery loves company and all that shit.”
The locker room fills with the sound of twenty-something guys putting on their hockey gear.
Velcro ripping, pads clicking into place, tape being wrapped around sticks.
It’s a symphony that I’ve missed over break, as weird as that sounds.
The routine is comforting, like reading a book on a rainy day or lying in front of the fireplace with your loved one.
Not that I’ve had any experience in the latter.
“Five bucks says Paisley pukes first,” someone calls out from the other side of the locker room.
“Hey!” Nathan cries as another guy says, “I’ll take that bet!”
“Just remember, boys,” I say after I finish lacing up my skates, “what doesn’t kill us makes us marginally better at hockey.”
“That’s the spirit,” Gerard says, slapping me on the ass as I walk by him. He’s now fully dressed, though even in full gear, his ass is still impressive. “Now, let’s go see what fresh torture Coach has planned.”
We file out of the locker room, a parade of warriors heading into battle. Or, at the very least, into an intense practice that’ll have us all questioning the meaning of life by day’s end.
Coach Donovan is an imposing presence on a rink that’s supposed to bring joy and success.
If Oliver is a tank, then Coach is a behemoth.
He’s squeezed into a BSU tracksuit that has long since surrendered to his physique.
The navy fabric stretches across his frame, and I have to remind myself that staring at your coach’s body is probably grounds for being benched.
He glides across the ice with the kind of effortless grace that makes you forget he’s pushing forty-five.
Those Adidas track pants pull tight around thighs that could crush a watermelon, and his ass rivals Gerard’s in sheer magnitude.
Might even edge him out by a smidge, though I’d need a measuring tape and far more courage than I possess to confirm.
Jack Donovan is a living legend at BSU. The guy played an entire period with a dislocated shoulder during the 1992 championship game.
There are plaques in this very building dedicated to his achievements.
His jersey hangs in the rafters, number thirty-one, a constant reminder that mere mortals skate where a god once dominated.
He’s also the source of approximately seventy percent of my horny distress since freshman year.
I spotted him at that first practice, full of commanding presence, and my brain just…
broke. The crush on him was sudden, painful, and completely unavoidable.
Two years later, and nothing has changed.
If anything, it’s gotten worse. The man aged like fine wine left in a barrel made of pure sex appeal.
I don’t feel guilty about it anymore. Used to, back when I thought lusting after authority figures made me some kind of deviant. Now I’ve accepted it as another quirk of mine.
I may or may not have found highlight reels from his playing days on YouTube. I may or may not have watched them repeatedly. I may or may not have taken matters into my own hands until I was tapped out.
That’s between me and my browser history.
“Alright, gentlemen!” Coach’s voice booms across the ice, snapping me out of my inappropriate reverie. “I hope you all enjoyed your holiday break, because playtime is officially over.”
He skates to center ice, and I force my eyes to stay on his face. His fiery red hair catches the arena lights, and those hazel eyes scrutinize us. Finding us wanting, no doubt.
“We’re halfway through the regular season,” he continues. “Gives us plenty of chances to prove we deserve a spot in the Frozen Four. Based on your performance before break, I’m not convinced you remember how to hold a stick.”
Beside me, Gerard’s shoulders hunch forward, his chin tucking down toward his chest protector as his entire body seems to fold in on itself.
“So today, we’re going back to basics. And by basics, I mean I’m going to work you until you either improve or collapse. Any questions?”
Nobody says a word. We might be cocky men, but we’re not stupid.
“Good.” Coach’s smile is lethal. “Let’s begin.”
He blows his whistle, and I have to fight every instinct in my body not to imagine those lips wrapped around something else.
The first drill is suicides, skating from the goal line to the blue line and back, then to center ice and back, then to the far blue line and back, then the full length of the rink and back. Over and over until my lungs feel like they’re filled with glass shards.
“Gunnarson!” Coach bellows after the third set. “My grandmother skates faster than that, and she’s been dead for fifteen years!”
Gerard pushes harder, those massive thighs pumping as he races across the ice. His face is already flushed red beneath his helmet, and I catch the telltale shine in his eyes that suggests tears are imminent.
“Again!” Coach demands when Gerard finishes. “Just you. Everyone else, watch and learn what not to do.”