Breaking New Ice (New England Hockey #1)

Chapter 1 Cassie

Cassie

“Are you actually trying to murder me?”

Spencer—my desk neighbor and work rival—stares at the box on his desk as if it contains live snakes.

Which it really doesn’t.

I look down at my handiwork. Eight beautiful lilac cupcakes sit in two neat rows.

I woke up at 6 a.m. to make them. Spent an hour dealing with batter, an ancient oven, and a piping bag full of frosting in the cramped kitchen of my Boston apartment.

“No, Spencer.” I smile, as sweet as the sugar in the cupcakes. “For the last time, I’m not trying to commit any sort of crime. They’re just freshly baked cupcakes. For you.”

Spencer gives me a look of disdain, but I’m not discouraged.

It’d be hard to ruin my mood on a day like today. Bright morning sunlight floods in through the enormous glass windows of the sleek Legacy Sports office. Outside, I can just see the blue glint of the harbor, and the pops of burned-orange and gold leaves on the tree-lined streets.

It’s fall. The best time of year.

Fall means hockey season.

“These are definitely poisoned.” Spencer leans back further in his desk chair, folding his arms across his Sports Bro Puffer Vest.

By now, I’m used to dealing with Spencer and men like him in the agency office. They all make a habit of condescendingly mansplaining hockey to me as if I don’t also work in the business, and they all dress like a Kennedy decided they weren’t quite preppy enough.

“Can’t I do something nice without there being an ulterior motive?”

He snorts. “We work at a sports agency. No one ever does anything nice unless they have an ulterior motive.”

And yes, okay, I do have an agenda.

But it’s nothing to do with sabotage or poison.

When life hands you lemons? You make lemon-flavored cupcakes, of course. People always say the secret ingredient to their cooking is love.

For these cupcakes, the secret ingredient is hate.

I’m known around the office for being peppy and positive (“sunshine and rainbows,” as my roommate-slash-bestie Britt likes to refer to me, usually with an affectionate eye roll).

Well, mixing the hell out of cupcake batter is how I stay that way.

If I can pour all my negative feelings into some beautifully baked—and aggressively mixed—cupcakes, then the feelings usually stay beneath the surface.

If life has handed me lemons, one lemon-personified is definitely Spencer.

We’re both junior agents at Legacy Sports, where I’ve been working for the past five years.

We both report to Rick Hernandez, our boss and bigshot hockey agent—Rick, who informed us last week that a new, fully-fledged agent job is opening up at the agency.

I want this job more than anything, and Spencer is my biggest competition.

For the last five years, I’ve put the work in. Long hours, calls from Rick at all times of day and night, staying in the dark office poring over paperwork until my eyes ache. Drinking in everything I can possibly learn about how to be a sports agent.

People who say love is the most important thing in the world—well, I agree with them wholeheartedly. It’s just that my love is my work and the beautiful, chaotic sport of ice hockey that stole my heart as a kid.

But often it feels like the job doesn’t love me back. And only a masochist enjoys unrequited love. (At least, I imagine so, because I’ve been way too busy to even open a dating app for years.)

Spencer slowly peels back the paper on a cupcake and takes a bite. “It’s okay,” he mumbles, crumbs littering his blue polo shirt.

“Okay? Yeah, right.” I smile brightly at him. “It’s delicious, and you know it.”

Before Spencer can give a jerkish response, Rick bursts through the office doors.

He’s wearing an expensive gray suit with a bright orange tie that’s bordering on: 1) neon and 2) a fashion offense.

His phone is pressed to his ear, yelling something at full volume, which to him is regular speaking volume.

“I don’t give a goddamn shit, we are getting the kid into arbitration and that’s goddamn final—”

So, a typical morning entrance for our boss.

He hangs up, and as he blusters by our desks, I hold out a takeout coffee for him. “Good morning, Rick.”

“Cassie. You’re a lifesaver.” Rick grabs the cup before disappearing through the door into his office.

“Kiss ass,” Spencer hisses as I sit back down at my desk.

“Just being nice. You should try it sometime.” I give my most sunshiny smile, which I know irritates him.

The truth is, I like getting coffee for Rick. Despite his slick-talking agent veneer, he’s been a great mentor to me, and I’m grateful for him giving me my shot. Rick is one of the very few self-made men at the top of the agent business, which is packed full of wealthy nepo babies.

But the business is slow to promote, and being a woman in a boy’s club doesn’t help.

The day I passed the NHLPA agent certification exam was the best day of my life.

Now it’s a year later and I’m still waiting to be given a real chance.

Until then, I’m just an overqualified junior agent doing everyone’s unwanted work.

For every challenge other junior agents like Spencer face, I have to prove myself ten times over.

But the worst part? It’s more than that. Part of me is scared I’ll never truly belong here. Part of me is terrified that the whole hockey world would kick me out if it ever knew the full truth of who I am and where I came from.

Part of me is scared my long-estranged father will one day make sure of that.

I’ve barely opened my email when Rick sticks his head back out of his office. “You two,” he barks. “Listen up, kids. Who’s free tonight to help me with a special assignment?”

Spencer sprays crumbs across his desk, his mouth too full of cupcake to answer.

“I’m free.” I shoot to my feet so fast I nearly topple over, which would be embarrassing, but I’m long past being embarrassed by my over-enthusiasm for my job.

Rick grins, wide and wolfish. “Great. Meet me at the Nor’easters game tonight. I have to meet with Cole Taylor and I want a junior agent there as a note-taker… and as a human shield.”

Rick slams his office door shut before I can form a reply.

I sink back down into my desk chair. “Did he say… Cole Taylor?”

Spencer finally swallows his mouthful of cupcake and snorts. “Lucky you. Have fun spending your evening with the crazy goalie.”

My stomach is suddenly a pit of nervous energy.

Cole is the veteran goalie for the New England Nor’easters—the NHL team that plays here in Boston, named for the wild storms that crash into the Northeast coast every winter.

But Cole Taylor was the last name I wanted to hear.

I know Cole’s face by heart. The stubble over that killer jawline. The way his emerald eyes glint when he frowns under dark brows. Intense and simmering and painfully gorgeous.

I’d never seen eyes that deep, dark shade of green before. Not until the first time I met him five years ago and—

Nope, Cassie. Not going there.

I scroll through my emails, pretend very hard to read something about a rookie’s contract, and repeat those words to myself for the next eight hours.

Definitely, one thousand percent not going there.

“Cole Taylor has been a major pain in my ass lately,” Rick complains as we walk to our seats that evening—good ones right by the ice, because Rick always has the best seats comped for him.

For a second, I’m too caught up in the atmosphere of the Nor’easters’ home arena to answer. It’s one of my favorite places on earth. That sharp scent of ice, the electric buzz of fans’ energy, the raw display of talent from the athletes on my favorite team. It’s addictive.

The Nor’easters are beloved with a ferocious passion by hockey die-hards throughout New England. The team is a way of life here. They were once a hockey dynasty, but it’s been sixteen long years since they’ve won the Stanley Cup.

“Sure, Cole’s always been…” Rick searches for the word, waving his hand.

“Icy? Gruff? Grumpy?” I volunteer.

A total jerk? I hold back from adding. My voice is light; I don’t think Rick hears the tiniest edge underneath it.

“Right.” Rick grunts with laughter. “But Christ, this past year he’s all over the place. You know how many other clients I have to deal with? Yes, he’s an elite goalie, but I don’t have time to keep putting out PR fires for him.”

That’s what this meeting with Cole is about. It’s a warning shot from Rick, a discussion of how to reset Cole’s reputation before the team’s management gets too pissed off. I’m sure Cole is going to be thrilled about this.

The deep thud of the arena’s music and commentator’s booming voice kick in, interrupting our conversation. The atmosphere in the stands lights on fire as the team takes the ice.

My stupid heart gives a fluttery jolt as my eyes immediately gravitate toward Cole.

He cuts across the ice to take his place in the goal, right in front of our seats, and I try very hard to act casual.

But I can't help feeling a treacherous rush of warmth as I stare at him.

The towering height, the broad span of solid muscle under his jersey, the flash of his criminally handsome features before he pushes down his goalie mask.

God, it’s a shame he’s such a jerk.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to a Nor’easters game in person. Though Cole is one of Rick’s star clients, he’s the only Nor’easter that Rick represents, and I’ve never had to work directly on his account much before.

I’ve definitely never had to accompany Rick to an in-person meeting with him.

The game kicks off, and Cole effortlessly blocks shot after shot as the periods fly by. His public image has taken a hard tumble this year, but after twelve years in the league, his skills on the ice are as blade-sharp as ever.

By the end of the third period, New England is up 3-0, and the fans are going wild around us. Rick is already standing up. “Let’s get back to the players’ area so we can chat.”

That’s when Cole skates right by where we’re sitting, and—

For the length of a few heartbeats, Cole locks eyes with me.

My stomach flips.

His mask is off, hanging from one of his hands (his hands are so big, I can’t help but notice) and he runs the other through the dark waves of his hair. There’s a sheen of sweat on his brow.

Time seems to freeze.

Does he remember me?

…but then the moment evaporates like morning mist, and he’s skating away.

Jerk.

Of course he doesn’t remember me.

But the truth is, Cole isn’t just the veteran goalie of the team I love… Cole is a big part of the reason I love them.

Cole Taylor is my huge, embarrassing, former celebrity crush.

As a teenage hockey fan, I fell for him hard when he entered the league, and who wouldn’t? He was the young, strong-and-silent, rising-star rookie goalie. Over time, he grew into a valued, gruff leader of the team he stayed fiercely loyal to.

Until the past year, when things suddenly changed.

Gruff became cold. Loyal became missed obligations. Strong-and-silent became yelling at the media.

And when I say former crush, I mean it. Because during my very first year working at Legacy Sports, I met Cole Taylor at an agency event for approximately two minutes.

What’s the best way to get over a crush? For your crush to crush it. And Cole didn’t just crush it. With one cutting remark, he pulverized it until it was like powdered sugar.

Which is something I’m going to try very hard not to think about when I’m face to face with him in ten minutes’ time.

We’re showing our visitor passes to security when Rick’s phone buzzes four times in quick succession. And then another three times.

Uh oh.

He lets out a string of curses directed at his phone about another one of his clients, a left-winger on a different team.

“Hell, I’m getting walloped with messages about this little punk in New Jersey. Cassie, you go start the meeting with Cole yourself, and I’ll join when this is resolved.”

Start the meeting. With Cole. Alone.

My stomach nosedives, and it must show on my face.

Rick arches an eyebrow, already pressing his phone to his ear. “You can handle it, right?”

I made it this far from nothing. What can one troublemaking goalie do to me?

“Of course, Rick,” I say with my brightest smile, ignoring my heart in my throat. “I can handle it.”

Rick gives me a thumbs-up and a wink, then strides off, yelling something about free agency into his phone.

I take a deep breath and imagine beating a bowl of cupcake batter very hard.

Then I head past security to go see the man I once idolized.

And the only hockey player in the league I absolutely can’t stand.