Chapter 2
Two
Colt
“Siiiiix. Seven.”
Lake Jordan, the captain of the Sierra, curses from where he sits next to me. “It’s come for us.”
His reply is almost drowned out by the sound of the rookies who’ve joined the roster for this season bursting into laughter.
“I don’t understand kids these days,” I mutter.
“Tell me about it.” He bumps my skate with his. “We’re getting old.”
“Older, maybe.”
Lake is at the prime of his career—with the points to prove it. He’s strong and fast, an incredible goal-scorer and my first emotion upon learning that I was traded to the Sierra was relief.
That I wouldn’t have to chase Lake around the ice any longer.
He flashes me a grin that’s graced many a billboard and magazine ad. “I knew I liked you.”
“But I’m still your favorite, right?” Knox says.
“Depends.” Lake starts taping his socks.
“On what?”
“Whether Evie is going to say the same shit at Game Night next week.”
Knox’s step daughter is in second grade and a total spitfire…kind of like his wife, Ivy. The Sierra’s strength coach is as fiery as her bright red hair and kicks our ass in the weight room on the regular.
Hell, I know my quads will never be the same.
Knox winces as he tugs on his jock. “Unfortunately, Evie has fully embraced meme culture.”
“Christ,” Riggs, our taciturn teammate and killer at the blue line, says.
One word.
But it’s enough to capture the emotion of the moment.
“I think I’m too old to understand what meme culture is,” I mutter.
“We’re definitely too old for that,” Lake says, though his eyes slide to the other side of me, where Storm is sitting.
I know exactly why.
Normally, the younger player would jump on the chance to give us shit, especially when such a softball like us all being a few years older than him was lobbed in his direction.
Decrepit. Gray hairs coming in. Is that a wrinkle?
Yeah, it’s almost too easy.
But—like he has far too often over the last months—Storm is silent…one might say stormy. The cloud of his anger constant and pitch black.
He’s talented, but struggling this season, and I know it’s because of the woman who’s just walked into the room.
Josephine—or, as she’s more commonly known—Coach Joey.
Storm fell hard for her.
And she…fell hard for Damon.
Fuck, but I feel for Storm. Sure, there are plenty of single guys on the roster for him to relate with—myself included—but it’s one thing to be single by choice and another to be single because the woman you want picked someone else.
Then to have to see that woman almost every day…
To have to work with her…
To have to watch her fall deeper and deeper in love with a man who isn’t you…
He’s spiraling.
And, based on the parade of women leaving his hotel rooms when we’re on the road, he’s been doing his best to fuck away his feelings.
I’m clearly not the only one who sees it isn’t working.
Lake’s gaze comes back to mine and he shakes his head slightly. I know he’s watching out for Storm too, same as Knox and Riggs are. We’re a team, but we’re a team that’s been through hell, so we’re not going to let him suffer alone.
But an intervention isn’t going to happen today.
He’s not ready.
Instead, tonight we’re going to play some fucking hockey—score some goals, make some plays, dish out some hits, maybe get into some fights, and—
Soft laughter drifts through the open locker room door and…
Yeah, more importantly.
We’re going to win.
Because Kylie is watching tonight.
Kylie Connors, little sister of Damon Connors, general manager of the Sierra and the man who can make my life miserable here on the Sierra.
By all accounts, she should be off-limits.
But her laughter…fuck.
The first time I heard it, swear to God, it felt like phantom fingers wrapped themselves around my heart and squeezed hard.
And haven’t let go since.
Every time her pretty blue eyes come to mine my pulse speeds. Every smile she gives me is like fucking poetry and sunshine, a gift I shouldn’t accept but can’t turn down. And don’t get me started on actually being responsible for her laughter.
If her smile is poetry, her laughter is…
Beauty personified.
She’s not shy—at least not around anyone aside from me. Something I can’t decide if I love or hate. Is she scared of me?
The man who raped her was her brother’s teammate.
Damon might not be playing any longer but, for all intents and purposes, I occupy the same position as that monster.
So if that reserve was because she was scared of me…well, I would fucking hate that.
But maybe, my mind whispers, my soul hopes, maybe she’s shy with me because of something else.
Maybe it’s the same something that’s drawn me to her.
A connection, a thread of hyperawareness, a need prodding at me to seek out her attention, her smiles and laughter, her…touch.
That I would love.
Unfortunately, months into trying to ferret out the answer to the question of Kylie’s feelings about me, and I’m no closer to the answer.
Or her touch.
Something that has me wanting to get to my feet and go out into the hall, to trail the soft threads of her laughter through the winding corridors, to draw her close and taste the lush curves of her mouth…
And likely put me and my future career into the crosshairs of her big brother.
Yeah.
I don’t want to die today.
I need more time to puzzle out the mystery that’s Kylie Connors.
So, I keep my ass firmly on the bench as I finish getting ready for the game—tying my skates with precise movements (finger-tight on the tops of my feet, snug through the bottoms of my ankle, loose on the last eyelet for maximum speed and flexibility).
And I stay there as I redo the tape on my stick, as the starting lineup is announced, as I pull on my shoulder pads, strap on my elbow pads, tug on my jersey.
I’m just about to slap my helmet on my head when my cell buzzes.
I reach up, snag my phone.
And grin.
Blake: I better not see you slacking tonight.
My grin widens and I send my brother a middle finger emoji.
Blake: I mean it. I’ve seen your stats, bro.
Shit-giving.
Always.
But something settles in me as I shove my phone away, stand up and follow the guys out into the hall.
I fucking love my younger brother, annoying little shit that he is.
And he’s watching too.
So yeah, we’re going to fucking win.