2. Lucian
LUCIAN
Coach Wexler stands near center ice, puffed up like a general addressing his troops.
He’s tall, mid-fifties, still broad-shouldered from playing days he never stops referencing.
His hair is salt-and-pepper and buzzed close to his skull, and he’s got a scar down the left side of his face—from a puck, or a fight, depending on which version of the story you get.
He’s currently deep in the midst of his ‘First Day Back’ sermon. He claims it’s about setting expectations. Building cohesion between the rookies and returning guys. Laying the foundation for the season.
I’ve heard it three years in a row now. Spoiler alert: it never changes.
Same talk about legacy, about the weight of the Kings’ jersey. Same clichés about grit and brotherhood and sacrifice.
“A Kings’ jersey is earned,” Coach laments. “Through hard work. Through blood, sweat, and tears. Not just on game nights—every night. Every time you set foot in this arena.”
Yeah, sure. Whatever.
Around me, a few of the rookies sit rigid, wide-eyed, like they’re soaking in the gospel. It almost makes me laugh. Give it a few weeks; they’ll be just as dead-eyed as the rest of us.
I let Coach Wexler’s words roll off me like sweat after a hard shift on the ice as I move to get more comfortable on the metal bench.
I can’t feel the coldness of it through my practice gear—unfortunately.
It would be blissful against my overheated skin if I could.
The buildup of sweat from our first practice session of the season is starting to make me itch, and I’m getting fucking cranky.
I need a shower and to get away from all the fucking noise.
Maybe find a pretty little thing to stick my dick into.
A wicked smirk curls at my lips, my leg bouncing in anticipation of getting out of here before my ass goes completely numb.
Even though Coach has been droning on for the past twenty minutes, my thighs still burn from today’s scrimmage.
My stick leans against the bench beside me, and as I crack my neck, movement catches my eye at the far end of the rink, just beyond the plexi.
Bent at the waist, balancing on slim heels and reaching for a crate of sticks, is a woman I’ve never seen before.
Believe me, I would have remembered.
Skirt tight enough to show off the round curve of her ass.
Legs toned and bare, despite the chill, her calves flex as she stands on her toes to stretch for the box just out of reach.
Auburn hair is twisted into some impossibly tight knot at the nape of her neck, just begging for me to free it and wrap it around my fist instead.
Leaning forward, I’m not even pretending to listen to Coach drone on as I stare at her.
I think I just found my pretty little something.
As my eyes rake over her inviting form, I deduce that she must be this year’s intern.
Last year’s had a mouth like sin and zero gag reflex.
I wonder if this one will be just as much fun to play with.
“Who’s the new girl, Coach?” a junior player asks, interrupting Coach’s speech.
Scowling, Coach turns to see what has captured the attention of the entire team. The second he sees her, he sighs, shaking his head before hitting us with one of his lethal don’t fucking mess with me glares.
“The only thing any of you need to know about her is that she’s off limits.”
Too late.
I’ve already decided I want her.
Right now, the fantasy is nothing more than curious intrigue. A need to see her mouth. Hear her voice. Watch her face when I drag my knuckles up the inside of her thigh.
Then, with three words, Coach douses my filthy fantasies with ice-cold water.
“She’s a Winslow.”
The world stills.
“She’s Theodore Winslow’s daughter,” he adds, voice sharp now. “As in owner-of-the-Serpents Winslow. If you want any hope of a career in hockey, then she is as off-limits as you can get.”
Fuuuuck.
It’s like having your mom walk in on you mid-orgasm.
If screwing the coach’s daughter gets your jersey torched, then screwing the owner’s daughter of the team you’re slated to sign with gets your future iced…and your name quietly scrubbed from every roster in the league.
I clench my jaw, my gaze inadvertently finding its way back to her.
She is still bent over, still oblivious to the eyes on her as she tucks items into a duffel, standing too close to the edge of the rink like she doesn’t realize every guy on this team has stopped listening to Coach, too busy staring at the woman he just painted a bright red target on.
Theodore Winslow’s daughter.
I spent the entire summer at his satellite training facility in Springview, along with Ronan and Silas, doing conditioning alongside the team’s players.
I met the staff. Lifted weights in the gym and skated drills on the ice alongside his son—a cocky rookie with a slapshot that others in the league would kill for.
I even met the man himself—Theodore—when he flew out from their Atlantic City base for the day.
But I never met a daughter. Never even heard mention of her.
As if she can feel the weight of every eye on her, she lifts her head. Slow. Cautious.
Honey-brown eyes sweep the stands, and time fractures.
Those eyes.
Today is a day for mind-blowing revelations, apparently, because any care for her being Theodore Winslow’s daughter goes out the window as I rake my eyes over the face that has haunted my dreams since that night freshman year.
Eyes that stare back at me from the shadows when I’m trying to sleep.
It’s a face I hadn’t expected to ever see again. Not in real life. A face that had taken me entirely by surprise when I saw her staring at me in The Stanley last year, while we were at BSU, playing against their team.
Wren.
I branded her name into my memory the second her friend said it. Even then, it felt important. Sacred. Like knowing it gave me something no one else had.
Wide-eyed, her gaze rakes over the team.
Eyes on me. Eyes on me. Come on, baby, look my way.
When she finally does, it knocks the air from my lungs.
Those sharp, guarded eyes land on mine, and I’m fucking gone.
Her face pales, and despite me begging her to keep staring, she snaps her eyes away, turning her back on us as she hurries to gather the last of the equipment and scurry out of the rink.
I move to follow her, not wanting to let her out of my sight for even a second, but a hand pressing against my shoulder has my ass smacking against the metal bench. I round on Ronan with a glare, but he matches it with one of his own, shaking his head in a silent not now.
Nostrils flaring, I don’t even pretend to listen to Coach as he continues on with his speech. I stare unblinkingly at the door through which she disappeared, demanding that she come back.
Ronan shifts on the bench beside me, and in my peripheral vision, Silas leans forward. I don’t need to look at either of them to know they saw what I did. That they are feeling it too.
We don’t talk about that night. After she escaped our hotel room and we couldn’t find a trace of her anywhere before we had to board the bus back to Valehurst, we never spoke of it again.
But now she’s here. In our territory. On our ice.
And I’m not letting her slip away this time.
The second Coach dismisses us, I’m on my feet and stalking toward the tunnel. Footsteps right behind me have me glancing over my shoulder. I’m met with Silas’s cold blue eyes.
“Did you see her?”
He nods.
“What the hell is she doing here?”
This time, he shrugs, but his closeness to my back gives away that he’s as eager to know the answer to that question as I am.
When I first set eyes on her, exposed and vulnerable in a way no human should ever be, I couldn’t name the feeling I got. It wasn’t pity. Wasn’t desire. It was something more volatile, but instead of red-hot flames of anger, I felt ice-cold.
Seeing her like that woke something dark and vicious inside me, a recognition I couldn’t ignore. I didn’t just feel for her. I knew exactly what had been taken from her.
Images of that night assault me while I take a cold shower, barely toweling myself off before throwing clothes on and meeting Ronan and Silas at the door.
There’s the same need in their eyes that resides in my chest. That need for answers. For closure.
We lost her after that night.
Lost her again at The Stanley.
But we won’t be losing her for a third time. She’s in Kings’ territory now, and if she tries to run, I’ll hunt her down myself.
The door slams into the wall as I march into the house, fury nipping at my heels. “How can one tiny little woman evade us so effectively?” I grouse, footsteps echoing off the worn wooden floor as I make a beeline for the kitchen.
The three of us live in a terraced brownstone not far from campus that Ronan’s US senator mother purchased for her darling boy when he started at Valehurst his freshman year.
The three of us have lived together ever since, and known each other for even longer.
Since Peewee hockey, when the darkness inside us that we didn’t fully comprehend back then called to each of us.
Over the past three years, we’ve made it a home.
Ronan’s laptop sits open on the kitchen table when I walk in, and pens and scraps of paper belonging to Silas are stashed all over the house.
Even the tall ceilings, mismatched chandeliers, paneled walls in deep forest green and burgundy, and the fact that the floors creak in the winter and sweat in the summer seem to fit our personalities.
The kitchen is cavernous, with black granite counters and dark oak cabinets that should feel heavy but perfectly match my ravaged soul. There is an old fireplace that hasn’t worked since the ‘70s in the corner of the room, where Ronan keeps a bottle of scotch like it’s his own private vault.