Chapter 1
CHASE
This is it.
The beginning of my life.
Not the beginning of “adulthood,” or “finally getting my own place,” or any of those milestones normal people brag about on Facebook.
No. This was the beginning of the thing I’d wanted since I was six years old, wobbling across an Alabama rec-center rink in rental skates that smelled like feet and despair.
I was lacing up my skates in a real NHL locker room.
My dream locker room.
And I was absolutely, undeniably, scared shitless.
The place buzzed with energy—low conversations, tape ripping, sticks clacking—like the world’s most intimidating beehive.
The lights gleamed too bright off every metal surface, reflecting back the brutal truth—I was the smallest fish in a pond full of piranhas wearing the colors of the franchise I’d worshipped since childhood.
And these weren’t just piranhas. No. These were ravenous beasts, the kind that would tear you limb from limb for fun and then chirp at you about it in the group chat afterward.
Get a damn grip, man.
But it was hard to keep a grip when Gavin Hayes—the Gavin Hayes, whose jersey I used to save birthday money for—was sitting eight feet to my left taping his stick like it was just another Tuesday.
Meanwhile, eight-year-old me was having a full meltdown somewhere in my subconscious.
That kid—the one with a chipped tooth, crooked helmet, and skates two sizes too big—was currently running laps in my brain screaming, “OH MY GOD! WE MADE IT!” like he’d just won the Stanley Cup, the lottery, and a lifetime supply of chocolate milk all at once.
If he had access to my adult limbs right now, he would’ve launched us into a cartwheel straight across the locker room, probably knocking over half the starting lineup in the process.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. The air tasted like sweat, cedar, menthol, and the kind of testosterone that could probably fog up a window from across the room.
I had been the best in my junior league. Then the best in my minor league. Guys used to chant my name. I used to walk into locker rooms feeling ten feet tall.
Now?
Now I felt like a well-meaning toddler who had wandered into a biker bar.
“Ready, rookie?” Brayden Cox slapped a hard palm between my shoulder blades as he cruised by, smelling casually like expensive cologne and a man who bench-pressed trucks for fun.
Brayden Cox.
What in the ever-loving fuck.
Is this real life?
I squeaked out, “Yeah, sure,” in the least masculine tone I’d ever heard come out of my own mouth. Real smooth, Harding. Very NHL of you. Maybe next I could curtsy or pass out.
Brayden didn’t seem to notice or care, already heading toward the tunnel, shoulders relaxed, posture loose. A man who had been bred for this environment. A man who had probably come out of the womb with a stick in his hand and a penalty minute already on his record.
My heart pounded so hard I could hear it over the murmur of the room.
I reached down, ran a hand over the stitched crest on my practice jersey, and tried to breathe.
I made it.
Holy shit, I actually made it.
The number eighty-six sat bold on my back—a reverse homage to the sixty-eight I wore in high school. Cox had been my hero then, and apparently I’d manifested myself right into his orbit.
If Past Me could see Present Me standing here, he’d probably pass out from happiness. Or cry. Or both.
I was halfway down Memory Lane thinking about the night I’d watched Hayes score his first hat trick with my dad and brother—one of the best nights of my life—when someone snapped their fingers in my face.
“Earth to Rookie,” Max Donovan snicker, grinning like he already had a hundred chirps locked and loaded for the season. “You passing out on day one? Want me to get the smelling salts? I think I can muster up a gurney or something for you.”
“I’m good,” I lied. “Really good.”
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” he muttered.
“I might have,” I murmured.
He barked out a laugh. “Welcome to the show, kid.”
No pressure there.
I stood, adjusting my gloves, and followed the steady line of giants heading toward the ice. The tunnel was colder than I expected—like stepping from a humid southern summer right into a walk-in freezer. Every breath puffed out in front of me in tiny clouds.
Then I stepped onto the freshly Zambonied ice for the first time.
And New York fluttered through my chest—not the claustrophobic version, not the one with taxis and sirens and crowds—but the dream version. The one where skyscrapers glittered like ambitions instead of threats.
The ice beneath my blades sang.
Cold. Clean. Perfect.
This was home.
This had always been home, even before I knew where in the world “home” was.
“You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t fucking take—don’t forget that, rookie.” Hayes snarled the iconic line as he flew past me, dropping it casually like he hadn’t just lit my whole soul on fire.
My brain short-circuited.
My heart did too.
Did Wayne freaking Gretzky’s ghost hear that? Because I was pretty sure I was ascending.
The rest of practice blurred into a high-speed fever dream. Harder drills, faster players, sharper hits, and the kind of smack talk I could feel vibrating in my kidneys. But I kept up—barely—and every time my lungs burned, I reminded myself—You belong here.
Even if every neuron in my body was unconvinced.
By the time we made it to the showers, my legs felt like spaghetti and my pride felt like it had been wrung out like a glove.
Practice aside, it was the locker room that made me feel the most like the new kid in the cafeteria, praying someone would let me sit at their table. The teasing wasn’t unexpected, but I wasn't ready to be roasted alive before I’d even toweled off.
“Nice slap shot,” Crosby remarked as he walked past, sounding resigned but impressed. “First time my hand has hurt that bad through a glove in months.”
“Thanks, man,” I choked out, fighting the fan-girl scream my brain begged to release.
Holy shit, Crosby talked to me twice in one day. I was going to need my inhaler.
I tugged my practice jersey over my head, and that’s when it happened. My completely abused, dog-eared copy of And Then There Were None slipped out of my duffle and clattered to the floor.
Of course it made the loudest noise known to man. Like, not a soft thud. Not a gentle papery flutter. No. It sounded like I dropped a freaking encyclopedia onto a metal trash can. Every head within a ten-foot radius turned. And of course Gagnon saw.
“Awww, did the little boy drop his book?” he taunted in his thick French accent, laughing like he was auditioning to be a Disney villain. “What are you reading next, Rookie? The Cat in the Hat? Maybe Goodnight Moon?”
He cackled. Actually cackled. If he’d had a cape, he would’ve twirled it.
Before I even processed the humiliation burning across my cheeks, someone thundered to my side so fast I thought the ceiling was collapsing.
Cox.
“Don’t act like a prick just because Harding actually finished high school and can read something other than Clifford the Big Red Dog.” Brayden was hot and huffing, staring Gagnon down with laser focus, like this was the battle he’d been waiting his whole life for.
Gagnon puffed up like a pissed-off pigeon. “You want to say that again?”
The air tightened. A few guys paused halfway through taking off their pads, like they were watching pay-per-view. One dude still had only one shin guard on and froze mid-velcro. Someone else muttered, “Shit’s about to get good,” like this was premium entertainment.
And there I stood—half naked, clutching my murder mystery like a kid protecting his favorite stuffed animal—mentally drafting my obituary.
Then Gavin stepped forward, all captain energy and zero patience. “Cox, cool it. He’s gotta fight his own battles or he’ll never learn how on the ice.”
I swallowed. Damn it, he was right. The man spoke like a hockey-themed Yoda and I hated how motivating it was.
Gavin turned to Gagnon and smirked. “But if you want something to focus on, maybe obsess over the seven goals Rookie scored against you today instead of the fact that he reads.”
Crosby choked on a laugh so hard he sounded like a dying goose.
Gagnon scowled deep enough to form a second chin.
I shrugged, helpless. What else was I supposed to do?
If all they had to roast me for was loving murder mysteries and being the new guy, then hell…
I was sitting pretty. My dignity might’ve taken a hit, sure, but at least I wasn’t illiterate.
Gavin slapped Brayden’s shoulder. “Dinner at your place tonight. Shower, man. Your swamp ass is a biological weapon.”
Brayden flipped him off. Gavin winked at me.
And for the first time all morning, the knot in my chest loosened.
Maybe I could belong here.
Maybe Rookie didn’t have to feel like an insult.
Maybe, just maybe, this dream was going to work.
I picked up my book, tucked it safely into my duffel, and exhaled.
Whatever the hell was coming next, I was ready for it. Or at least, I hoped I was. Because I had no idea that in less than twenty-four hours, a girl with honey-brown eyes and a book in her hands was going to crash into my life like a plot twist I never saw coming.
And damn…Was I about to be cherry picked.