Chapter 2 Cole
Cole
“It’s been… four games without Cole causing trouble. Congrats, buddy, that’s a season record!”
He said he was going to make a sign.
I didn’t think he’d actually make a sign.
“Are you serious?” I ask, my tone dark. “You actually spent real American dollars on this?”
I just recorded a shutout game against Miami on home ice tonight. Which should feel good—does feel good, though everything about hockey has felt kind of muted lately. Fresh from the shower post-game, the thing I feel most is the familiar ache of muscles along my back.
Probably doesn’t help that I’m supposed to be meeting my agent Rick after this.
That never puts me in a good mood.
“Blame the team for giving me all this disposable income,” Miller grins. “Blame my talent for the team wanting me so bad… just like the ladies do. But there’s enough Miller to go around.”
Miller is the Nor’easters’ forward, a cocky young bastard who thinks he’s god’s gift to hockey, and irritatingly really is (almost) that good.
“Never refer to yourself in the third person again.” I glare at him, and he has the decency to look a little afraid. “Cap, are you going to put a stop to this nonsense?” I call across the locker room.
Landon, our team captain, strolls over and crosses his arms. “Huh. Didn’t think he’d actually make a sign.”
Landon has been on the Nor’easters even longer than I have.
Except Landon does everything right. In a locker room full of big egos, he’s the level-headed, mature leader.
Half of our female fans are obsessed with him; the bucket load of charm and the slight Southern drawl probably help.
(Even if I don’t believe on principle that hockey should be played somewhere hot enough to melt a rink in winter.
Hockey is about suffering through freezing your ass off, and no one can convince me otherwise.)
I roll my eyes, ignoring Miller’s snickering. “Yeah, let’s all praise Miller for his dedication and follow-through with this project.”
Landon fixes me with his gaze. “Well, ain’t there some truth to it, Freeze? You’ve been starting a lot of shit lately, and you won’t tell us why.”
I frown down at my black sneakers, lacing them up with more-than-necessary focus. This is not where I wanted the conversation to go. Because our captain is right.
I’m lucky I’m not a baseball player—there’s not nearly enough fighting in baseball to get me interested in that sport anyway—because I’ve blown way past three strikes by now.
There were the times I missed practice.
And the time I bailed on media availability.
And the time I told a prying paparazzi to shove his camera somewhere that I won’t repeat (not after Coach Reed yelled at me for twenty minutes—Jesus, the sound is still ringing in my ears).
The team’s front office is getting sick of my shit, I know that. I want to fix that. Except where hockey was once my total priority, now I’m questioning how it fits into my life.
What it’s taken from me.
Sure, I’ve never been the most warm and fuzzy guy. Landon once described me as ‘slightly warmer than a polar bear in a walk-in freezer’. That, along with my role as goalie, was enough for the stupid nickname to stick: Freeze.
But I count Landon, Miller, and our defensive enforcer Roman as some of my absolute closest friends in the world.
Before last year, I’d have gone to war for this team, for my brothers-in-arms. Unlike most of the guys on the team, I’m New England born and raised.
Winning a cup with this team is my ultimate dream.
Was my ultimate dream.
I’m a private person. Too private, probably. That’s why I haven’t told my teammates the truth of it all.
Last year, I got off the ice after a game to find fifteen missed calls.
Fifteen missed calls telling me my sister Jess was three hundred miles away back home in northern Maine—in the hospital.
I wasn’t there. Hadn’t been there for a while. All because I was chasing my hockey dreams with this team.
And that’s something I now live with every day.
I grab my water bottle and rise to my feet. “All right, enough discussing my various flaws. I have to go meet my agent, which somehow will be even less of a good time. See you at practice.”
Landon softly taps his hand on my shoulder as I pass, his voice lowering. “I’ve been your friend for over a decade now, man. You know you can tell me what’s wrong whenever you’re ready.”
Fuck, I feel bad brushing him off. But won’t share it, or don’t want to, or just plain old can’t.
“Got it, Cap,” I say gruffly, “but I’m fine,” and I feel his hand fall as I leave.
At this point, I’m used to the routine.
Step #1: I fuck up.
Step #2: I get an angry phone call from Rick, which turns into an angry visit.
Step #3: I tell Rick it won’t happen again.
Rinse and repeat.
Rick has been my agent for my entire career. I like the guy. He’s a tough negotiator with enough morals to not be a total asshole. It was smooth sailing until a year ago.
And now I’m Rick’s least favorite client.
I glance down the hallway outside the locker room. Where the hell is he? I don’t want to be stuck here all night. I want him to get his lecture over with so I can go home, turn on whatever old movie is playing on TCM, and crash.
“Hi, Cole!”
I hear my name being called and turn around.
And then I do a double take, like a fucking cartoon character. Because the person who’s walking toward me is…
Well, it’s sure as hell not Rick.
He’s damn sure not a young woman who is—holy shit. I’ve never thought the word beautiful was insufficient before. It always seemed just fine to me. Just another word in the dictionary, one I’d casually use on various women in the (distant) past.
But suddenly it sounds like a random collection of letters in my head that can’t do justice to the woman walking toward me.
She’s clutching a notebook and an iced coffee.
Her eyes glitter pale blue, bright against the warm tan of her skin.
She smiles, and I can’t look away from the dimples that appear on her cheeks—who actually has honest to god dimples?
Her full lips are a light, glossy pink. Her sleek brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that bends in a coil, bouncing as she walks.
A thought floods my brain like liquor poured into a shot glass, filling it up in an instant. Her hair, if she let it down, would fall in waves, long enough to reach the slight curve of her breasts.
She can’t be much over five foot four (a full foot shorter than me, my brain unhelpfully supplies). She’s dressed all corporate: a white button blouse and a blue pencil skirt.
But my stare falls to her shoes. They’re a pair of sunflower-yellow heels.
The Nor’easters’ arena is made up of cold, hard colors: storm blue, steel gray, ice white. My stare catches on this flash of warmth. Bright things don’t belong here.
Fucking hell. Focus up. No creeping on strangers.
The woman clears her throat. “My eyes are up here,” she quips in a warm, sweet voice.
When I raise my eyes from those absurd yellow shoes, she looks thoroughly pleased with her joke. It’s… annoying.
Or adorable.
Or both.
“Are the shoes too much?” She shrugs, glancing down at them. “I like a pop of color.”
“Not my personal style,” I deadpan. “And look, as nice as it is trading fashion opinions—who are you, exactly?”
She offers me a handshake, which is surprisingly firm for how small and soft her fingers feel in my hand.
“I’m Cassie Wells. I’m a junior agent on Rick Hernandez’s team at Legacy Sports. Rick had something come up, but I’m here to speak to you on his behalf.”
Of course.
I laugh. But it comes out more like a grunt and feels more like a stab wound. Because it’s really not funny.
I see the first woman I’ve been attracted to in god knows how long.
And she works for my agent.