Dirty Fight Off the Ice

Chapter 1

Off-Season

Jason

Parked at the edge of the Liquor Oasis lot, I open the trunk as three of my Slayers Hockey teammates climb out. Lattner and Huska stretch their oversized limbs, talking smack about some game on their phones I’ve never heard of while Matt Wexler lounges against the side of the SUV.

“A fucking island?” he asks again, head tipped to the sun, legs crossing at the ankles. “The whole island? Who are you?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately. And then finding something that needs my immediate, undivided attention so I don’t have to figure it out.

“Just a guy with a great-grandfather who made some good investments early on and decided he needed a place to get away with his wife for the summer.” I start reorganizing the bags and coolers, trying to create space where none exists. How much did these guys pack?

We’re still a month out from training camp, but none of us are huge drinkers, and Lattner’s only nineteen, so I’m not expecting them to buy the place out. But there isn’t room for a single longneck in here.

“We’re professional hockey players, guys. We spend half the year on the road. We know how to pack. What the hell is all this?”

“There tennis courts? A pool?” Lattner leans in beside me and shoves a duffel I sure as shit hope is his into the corner with enough force there’s a crack from within. He doesn’t notice. “Do you own a fleet of side-by-sides to get around the grounds?”

The grounds?

I stop, turning to the youngest player on our team, and watch as he leans into the other side of the vehicle in a mirror image of Wexler.

Rookies.

It’s adorable. But also, the kid is just begging for some shit. Especially because we’ve been over this already. I told him at the start that the cabin only has three bedrooms and, aside from a few outbuildings, the rest of the property was mostly left as nature created her.

But the kid was so desperate to hang with the team in the off-season, once he got the invite, he must have heard “island” and stopped listening there.

Never one to pass up an opportunity to pull one over, Huska pipes in. “Yep. Two courts. Pool’s got this grotto thing, but there are only three side-by-sides.”

And because Wexler is always paying attention and has been backing up Huska all season, it’s no surprise when he adds, “Don’t worry though. There’s a Jeep on hand for longer distances.”

Lies.

The only Jeep is a Hot Wheels, long lost to an off-roading adventure through a muddy corner of my grandma’s garden.

It’s a lake island that’s far enough north that the harbors will be closed for winter by October. We’ve got power and plumbing thanks to some deal my grandfather worked a million years ago, but it’s pretty remote.

Which is just the way I like it.

This island and its limited amenities hold all my best memories of my dad and grandparents. It was the home of my youthful expeditions and adventures, my only true downtime from hockey, and once my dad remarried… well, the cabin was the one place where it was just me and him.

To me, the two-mile-long, wooded island with its rocky cliffs and shitty cell service is a paradise surpassing any tropical resort our rookie could dream up.

“Go grab whatever you want inside. I gotta make a call.” I catch Huska’s arm. “Lattner’s underage. He’s not drinking up here, so don’t buy him anything.”

He gives me a salute before following the guys into the store.

I dig my phone out and dial.

When the line connects, I don’t mince words. “Can’t believe you bailed on me, man.” I watch through the store window as shoulders bump, and a shoving match threatens to erupt between Lattner and Huska.

Jesus.

What was I thinking inviting them to my cabin for a week?

Except I know what I was thinking. I didn’t want to be alone. Not there. Not the first time I’ve been back since losing my dad in a car accident.

“Didn’t bail,” Ben Boerboom says around a bite of something that sounds suspiciously too big for his mouth. “Told you from the start I wasn’t coming. A week away from Lara and Z in the off-season isn’t happening.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Boomer and Lara are total relationship goals. Add in Zamboni, and I guess he’s got dog goals covered too.

I’m not jealous of what they’ve got. But man, how the hell did Boomer, of all the guys on our team— in our league —land a wife before me? “How’s Mrs. Boerboom doing anyway?”

“She’s hot. Smart. Funny. Kicking ass heading up a new project too. So, yeah. Good. When you gonna get your own girl? We’ll plan couples’ nights, take vacations together and shit.”

“Sounds great. Why don’t I just run into the store here and grab one. ‘I’ll take the Cuervo… oh, and actually, throw in the brunette from the top shelf too.’”

Sad thing? Now I’m actually looking through the window to see if there happens to be a woman with a nice smile and an easy laugh behind the counter.

Nope. And the dude with the liver spots and combover isn’t my type.

I’m a decent guy, despite my rep on the team. Really.

I date more than I hook up. I’m not looking for a supermodel or a trophy. And I’m not one of these commitment-phobic players who tells anyone that’ll listen he doesn’t want a relationship… then turns around and is suddenly married to The One he never saw coming.

I come from a long line of relationship guys.

I just haven’t found a woman I connect with in a long time.

An extra heavy sigh blows through the line. “Dude, I set you up. With a very nice, non-puck bunny. Your single status is on you.”

I cough, looking around like maybe there’s someone to hear this shit. “You set me up with your dog walker… who lets Zamboni lick inside her mouth.”

Like back molars, deep.

Hard pass.

I stare through the plate glass of the store at where the guys are waiting to check out.

“Yeah, Z likes her toothpaste, and she doesn’t mind. Which tells you what a sweetheart she is.”

“Boomer, I’ve seen where your dog’s tongue has been. It’s not just dick, man. We’re talking the whole southern hemisphere smorgasbord of meat and salad.”

“Whoa, dude! So judgy. Small wonder he’s still single, right, buddy?”

He’s talking to his dog now. I close my eyes and shake my head.

I want to be indignant, but Zamboni is pretty great. “Give him a scratch for me.”

I wrap it up with Boomer as Lattner walks out into the lot, and the six-foot-five guy waves like he’s some little kid who just found his parent at the amusement park. He has a serious baby face, but not nearly so serious as his slap shot.

And I should probably try to stop thinking of him as a kid. He’s a player, a teammate. A professional.

“Blow Pops, bruh!” He holds up his hand, filled with suckers. “I bought ’em all!”