Bluffs & Brawls (Venom Next Gen #7)

Chapter One

Owen

Being an NHL goalie means learning how to stay calm while chaos explodes around you. The crowd screams. Bodies crash into the boards. Grown men try to screen your vision while frozen rubber rockets fly toward your face at terrifying speeds. Most days, I can handle that just fine.

The second I step into the Venom arena, the familiar chaos crashes around me instantly. Music blasts through the speakers. Equipment managers wheel carts down the concrete hallway.

Standard game day sensations.

My phone buzzes again in my hand before I can even finish my coffee.

Mama Bird: I think this contractor is trying to screw me over.

I stop outside the locker room door and stare at the message.

Immediately irritated.

Not at her.

At the idea of my mother standing in that old house alone, trying to deal with some asshole contractor pretending she doesn’t know what’s happening.

Owen: Which contractor?

Another puck smacks the glass hard enough to rattle it beside me while Mom starts rapid-fire texting back.

I picture her standing in that house alone, arms crossed, trying to act like she’s not getting taken for a ride. Trying to sound tougher than she should have to be. She shouldn’t have to deal with this shit by herself.

But she always has.

Last month, I replaced half her plumbing after a pipe burst behind the kitchen wall. Before that, it was the furnace. Before that, outdated wiring that nearly started a fire. That house eats money and spits out disasters, but Mom refuses to leave it behind because my grandparents raised her there.

Home, she calls it.

Some days, I call it a death trap.

“Everything okay, Owen?”

I look up from my phone and blink at Camden, one of my teammates. He’s stuck in the doorway, trying to squeeze his way through without bashing the door into my back.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I shuffle aside to let him in.

Camden steps through, but he waits beside me, his brow furrowed in concern. “You look kind of… pissed? Did something happen?”

I lift my phone and force a smile. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just family stuff.”

He grimaces. “Oof, I know how that goes. Is your mom okay?”

Camden and I aren’t that close—sure, we hang out, but we don’t talk about our feelings and shit like some of the guys do.

A bunch of the legacy players grew up together and were friends as kids, and they’ve formed a tight-knit group that’s the core of the Vegas Venom.

They’ve never been rude to me, but we’re not best buds, and Camden doesn’t know the details of my life.

All I’ve really told him is that my mom’s the only one in the picture and that I spend my holidays and vacations in Boston with her.

“Yeah, she’s fine.” The other words I want to say get stuck in my throat.

My thumb hovers over her name like I’m about to call anyway. Like I can fix it from three thousand miles away if I just hear her voice. I don’t.

Game day. No distractions.

The thought sits wrong in my chest.

I’m annoyed that she didn’t tell me there was a problem until now. I’m frustrated that she waited until right before a game to tell me that there was a problem, but I also feel guilty as hell for leaving her in that house all on her own.

To admit any of that to Camden would require sharing more about my personal life than I want to get into right now, so I grip my phone tight and start walking again. “Dot coming tonight?”

At the mention of his wife, Camden’s eyes light up. “No, she’s actually at a conference this weekend. She’s going to meet so many other people who work in pet rescue and animal placement. Did I tell you that she finally got funding to expand the foster program?”

Camden spends the whole walk regaling me with stories of his wife, with whom he is maddeningly in love. My participation isn’t required, though I nod and smile along. Ordinarily, I’d be paying closer attention, because I actually like Camden.

It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying, though, when I’m worried about my mother.

When we join the rest of the guys gathering outside the locker room, Camden leads us over to Bowen and Tristan.

“You watching film on their top line tonight?” Camden asks me.

“Already did.”

Knight grimaces. “Their left winger keeps shooting blocker side from stupid angles.”

“Because half the league still thinks goalies are weak there,” I respond automatically.

Viktor points at me. “See? This is why I could never be a goalie. You guys are all clinically insane.”

“Says the forward who tried to eat smelling salts straight out of the container last playoffs,” Bowen says.

I nod to show that I’m listening, even though my head is miles away. Almost three thousand miles, to be exact.

“Relax, man,” Tristan says, nudging my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Just relax. No problem.”

Owen: Wait until tonight. I’ll call after the game.

Mama Bird: Oh, baby, you don’t have to do that.

Mama Bird: I can handle it.

Mama Bird: You just focus on doing your best! I’ll be watching on TV.

I let out a sigh that has a bit of grit in it. Some might go so far as to call it a growl. How the hell am I supposed to focus when, apparently, Mom’s house is causing issues again, and she didn’t even tell me?

I completely forget that I have an audience until Viktor Abbott drops into the chair beside me and shoves a baggie of Cheetos under my nose.

“Somebody’s hangry!” He sing-songs the words and gives the baggie a shake. “Open wide, Owen. I’ll baby-bird you.”

Our captain is the kind of guy who turns everything into a bit. I learned a long time ago that I’m better off going along with his nonsense than trying to argue. Arguing with Viktor is the emotional equivalent of getting a gremlin wet after midnight.

So I open my mouth while clutching my phone in both hands, expecting him to feed me the Cheeto. Instead, he eats it.

“What the hell, Vik?”

He holds up one finger, then gestures for me to come closer. His words from earlier finally click.

“No. Absolutely not. If you try to spit chewed-up Cheeto into my mouth, I swear to God…”

“It’s what birds do,” Viktor says around a mouthful of orange paste. “I’m helping.”

I shove my phone into my pocket and snatch the rest of the bag out of Viktor’s hands. “I can eat just fine on my own, thanks.”

“You can baby-bird me,” Knight offers. He opens his mouth.

I turn in my chair, angling my body away from them, unwilling to get caught in the crossfire of their one-upsmanship.

Some days I can bring myself to play along, though I’ve cast myself as the straight man in their little play.

Today, I’m too annoyed. My job has always been to help my mom.

To look out for her when nobody else will.

I’ve been the man of the house since I hit puberty.

I may not live in said house anymore, but I’m my mother’s caretaker.

I’m supposed to make things easier, not watch from afar while her life goes up in flames.

If I can’t even help her solve a little household problem, what good am I? Why didn’t she tell me about the problem earlier? Doesn’t she trust me?

“Um, Owen?” Camden taps my knee. “You sure you’re okay?”

While I was stewing, Viktor somehow got Knight in a headlock.

Tristan’s egging them on, but Camden’s wearing that worried expression again while he stares at me head-on.

It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve been crushing the bag of Cheetos in my fist, reducing the puffy snacks to neon orange powder.

“Oh, yeah. I’m good. I, uh, like them this way.”

The furrow in Camden’s brown deepens. “Oh… kay?”

“No, for real. They’re great when they don’t, you know. Crunch.” To demonstrate how totally fine I am, I tip the crumpled bag upside down over my open mouth.

Camden’s still gaping at me open-mouthed.

I need him to stop looking.

I immediately regret all of my life choices. I might as well have a mouthful of sand. I cough and sputter, misting the air with cheese dust.

Viktor releases Knight to cover his face with both hands. “Owen, what the hell?”

Knight fans his hand in front of him and grimaces. “Actually, that’s not a bad mid-game strategy. Put some of that in your pocket so that you can blow it on the enemy.”

“Yeah, but not on me!” Viktor complains.

“A real team captain would applaud his team for their creative strategy,” Knight says.

Their scuffle resumes. I choke down a bottle of water to clear the dust out of my mouth. Before Camden has a chance to ask me any more questions, it’s time to head out to the ice.

I put my phone on silent and dump it in my bag. Get your head in the game. There’s nothing you can do to help right now. She’s not in danger. She’s safe.

My head knows that. Now, if only my nervous system would get the memo.

* * *

Once it’s game time, the ice settles me just like it always does. The cold air in my lungs. Clean lines. Predictable movement. There are rules out here. Angles. Physics. Cause and effect. None of that gray-area bullshit from real life.

I tap my posts twice and settle into the crease. My own personal playground.

The crowd is already loud, a low roar under everything, but it fades to background noise as I track the puck through warmups. Stick to blade. Blade to tape. Tape to net.

Simple. Controllable.

I like controllable.

“Hey.” Viktor glides past, tapping the top of my helmet. “You with us tonight, Rourke?”

I give him a short nod. “Yeah. All in.”

He studies me for half a second longer than I like, then skates off to line up for the anthem.

I reset my stance, rolling my shoulders, digging my edges into the ice.

Get your head in the game. There’s nothing you can do for her right now.

That thought lands about as well as the Cheeto dust. Once the anthem ends, the lights brighten.

Then the puck drops.

The first period starts fast.

Knight wins the draw clean, sends it back to Camden, and we push up ice. I track the play from my crease, knees bent, stick centered, eyes locked on the puck.

Viktor loses an edge near the boards, and suddenly the puck’s going the other direction.