The Secret Play (Pucking Daddies #3)

1. Casey - 5 Years Earlier

Chapter 1

Casey - 5 Years Earlier

I adjusted my mask again, trying not to feel ridiculous.

The elastic strap bit into my scalp. A quick glance around the ballroom told me I wasn’t the only one fussing with theirs, but somehow everyone else looked like they belonged.

It was always that way for me at formal events. Tonight, the women were in shimmering gowns, and the men were in perfectly tailored tuxedos, their masks ornate or elegant, making it all look effortless.

Meanwhile, I was a forty-three-year-old man in a penguin suit, fidgeting like a kid at a school dance.

Get a grip, McConnell.

The ballroom was elaborate—polished marble floors, towering floral arrangements, and chandeliers that dripped with crystal like they’d been plucked from some Gatsby fever dream. The Atlanta Fire’s newly promoted PR manager, Whitney, had outdone herself, and for her, that was saying something.

I’d never complained about these events to her face, but she always seemed to know they were not my style. Whenever we talked about them, she did that subtle head tilt thing women do when they know you’re putting up with something. Sympathy and patient humor.

From the auction tables piled high with team memorabilia to the cocktail waiters gliding through the crowd with trays of champagne, every detail was perfect.

Every detail but me.

The whole scene made me feel like I was wearing someone else’s skin.

I felt most at home in my skates and the Atlanta Fire team jacket with 'COACH' stamped across the back.

“This is for the kids,” I muttered to myself. That phrase had been my mantra for weeks now. It was why I’d agreed to this masquerade ball in the first place, even though black tie formals were not my thing.

Hell, tuxedos weren’t my thing. But this wasn’t about me. It was about raising money for Atlanta Children’s Hospital, helping fund a new wing for kids who deserved a fighting chance. If dressing up like a waiter at a Michelin-starred restaurant got that done, then so be it.

Still, I felt out of place. Maybe it was because most of the people here were half my age, all young professionals and twenty-something influencers who probably didn’t know a puck from a football.

Or maybe it was because every time I was in a room like this, I couldn’t help but think about how much simpler life had been twenty years ago, back when all I needed was my skates and a stick.

“Looking sharp, Coach.”

I turned to see Sebastian Blue grinning at me, his own mask tilted slightly askew. Seb was one of our oldest centers, an oddity in the league. He was the son of a tech mogul, and everyone had thought he’d burn out in his first year. A spoiled brat with a complex. But he’d shocked everybody with his hard work ethic and determination.

I’d watched him grow into a solid, dependable player. Tonight, though, he looked more like he was trying to survive a family wedding than attend a charity gala.

“Seb,” I said, nodding. “You clean up well.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, tugging at his bow tie. “This thing’s choking me.”

“Try wearing a mask,” I muttered.

He laughed. “You look good, Coach. You should dress up more often.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Seb’s grin widened. “The guys are betting on how long you last before you ditch the tux.”

“Tell them to focus on staying out of trouble,” I said, though I couldn’t help smiling.

“Will do,” he said, giving me a mock salute before disappearing into the crowd.

I watched him go, shaking my head. The thing about coaching players like Sebastian—and most of the team, really—was that they reminded me of just how long I’d been at this.

The younger guys called me “Pops” behind my back, and though I pretended not to care, some days it stung. I wasn’t just older than my players. I was as old as some of their dads.

“Casey!”

I turned to see Matthew Edwards, the Fire’s owner, shuffling toward me with his cane. At seventy-four, Matthew was one of the few people here older than I was, though he carried his age with the kind of confidence money could buy.

His tuxedo fit perfectly, his silvery hair was tucked beneath his top hat, and his mask—simple black with gold trim—looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Matthew,” I said, shaking his hand. Minus the mask, he was dressed like the Monopoly Man, but I’d never tell him to his face. “You’re looking sharp.”

“So are you,” he said, his voice warm. “Though I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a tuxedo.”

He had. I’d worn a tux to four other charity events for the team. But Matthew wouldn’t remember any of that. His memory was starting to go. I wasn’t sure who else knew it, and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. The old man was a kooky oil tycoon and a good team owner. He loved the Atlanta Fire, doting on everyone at every possible chance. So, bringing up his diminished capacity would have been cruel.

I merely smiled. “First time for everything.”

“I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for tonight. Whitney says you’ve been a big help.”

“It’s her show,” I said. “I’m just here to nod and follow orders.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Matthew said, his gaze steady. “The players look up to you. They trust you.”

The words caught me off guard, but before I could respond, he gave my shoulder a pat and shuffled off toward the silent auction table.

I sighed, turning my attention back to the crowd. The team was spread out across the ballroom, mingling with sponsors and donors like we’d trained them to do. Beau Fournier was at the bar, his hulking frame making him impossible to miss, while Victor Sokolov held court near the dessert table, his Russian charm on full display. The rest of the guys had scattered, blending into the crowd as best they could.

And then I saw her.

She was standing near the edge of the dance floor, her long red hair catching the light like embers in a fire.

Her gown, a deep teal blue, shimmered with every subtle movement, and her mask—a dazzling peacock design—was a perfect match. The long feathers on the sides framed her face, drawing attention to her sharp cheekbones and the faint curve of her lips.

I couldn’t explain why she held my attention, but my breath stopped as I watched her.

The room was full of beautiful women, all of them dressed to the nines, but there was something about this woman that made it impossible to look away.

Whatever it was, I was captivated.

She wasn’t trying to draw attention to herself. She wasn’t laughing loudly or surrounded by admirers. She just stood there, poised but unassuming, her gaze drifting across the room as she observed the goings-on.

She was like me. In the room, but not a part of it.

For a moment, I wondered who she was. A player’s date? That didn’t seem likely. She was too refined for their tastes. I loved my team, but they were notorious for hooking up with puck bunnies, and this woman was no puck bunny. Maybe she was someone connected to the hospital? There were plenty of them here—administrators, managers, and so on.

Before I could stop myself, I took a step toward her. Then another. But just as I reached the edge of the crowd, Whitney appeared at my side, her clipboard in hand.

“Casey,” she said, her tone brisk. “I need you.”

It was hard not to bristle at hearing my first name. She was one of the few team-related people who used it. “Not now, Whit.”

Whitney followed my gaze and smirked. “A woman is enough to distract you from work? Since when?”

I turned to her, narrowing my eyes. “What do you need?”

“The hospital’s CEO wants to meet you. He’s over by the photo wall.”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” she said firmly. “And after that, you’re doing a lap around the room to thank the donors. Remember, this is your event as much as it’s mine.”

If I thought I could have changed Whitney Dobson’s mind about anything, I might have argued about it. But there was no point. I’d once tried to argue my way into a better parking spot that she wanted, and by the time I’d left her office, somehow she had gotten me to agree to personally handwashing her car for a month.

The woman was a word ninja, and I was smart enough to know when I was beaten.

“Lead the way.” I reluctantly followed her across the ballroom. But as we threaded through the crowd, I couldn’t help glancing back.

The peacock was still there, standing by the dance floor, her head tilted slightly as she scanned the room.

For a brief moment, her gaze landed on me, and my breath caught in my chest and my cock twitched. It was just a second, maybe less, but it was enough to leave me wondering who she was—and how I was going to meet her.