Chapter 1
DECLAN
Coach is shaking his head while biting back words by chewing violently on his gum.
The entire arena can see that he’s less than happy with me right now.
It’s the last period in our game against the Florida Panthers, and we’re trailing by two goals.
The sea of red and gold Panthers fans are roaring through the arena, some of them pressed up against the penalty box I’m currently occupying.
I squirt water from my water bottle at the camera pointing at my face while I’m sitting in the box…again. Half the time I’m in here for something that’s just basic instinct.
But somehow, I’m the guy with the penalty.
The fans pound on the glass, like I’m some kind of wild animal in the zoo. This really is the naughty corner on steroids. I have half a mind to squirt them with water too when the penalty box attendant leans in to let me know my time is up.
We didn’t manage to kill the penalty, but at least the Panthers didn’t score.
Mitch, my defense partner and our team captain, shoots me a look full of disapproval.
A flicker of guilt twists in my chest. This is his last season and I know he wants to go out with a bang.
And since we won the Stanley Cup last year, he won’t settle for anything less this year.
Play resumes, and the opposition switches lines.
Just as the Panthers’ center hops over the boards and heads to our net, I follow.
He loves popping short-handed goals into the back of the net, which means Nikolai, our goalie, might need some help.
Pumping my arms to get more speed, I glide past their right winger.
Then the whistle blows.
Again.
“What now?” I bark, throwing my hands in the air watching as the ref skates toward me.
He makes the signal for high sticking and I scoff in disbelief. Loudly.
“It’s not my fault the man can’t look where he’s going!” I shout at the ref, looking over to where the right wing is clutching his nose like I ripped it off. “He’s exaggerating!”
I turn toward the opponent, Jones, whose face is twisted in theatrical agony.
“Stop faking it, idiot! Your nose is still on your face and ugly as ever!”
Beneath his hand a small smile is evident and before I know it, I’m launching toward him. The ref grabs me just in time, pulling me back before my fist can connect with his smug face.
One of the linesmen skates up to Jones as I’m being dragged to the penalty box by another. Jones lifts his hand to reveal his lip—cut open and bleeding on the ice. My stomach drops. That means…
“Four minutes!” the ref bellows. “Double minor!”
“Oh come on!” I argue. “Do you have eyes in your head?”
I turn to the official who’s already skating away from me.
Mitch skates up toward me. “Stop fighting it Murphy, or it’s going to get worse.”
Other players drift over, apparently thinking it’s a party.
The Panthers’ third line is on the ice right now, and everyone knows they’re a bunch of rats strung together.
As I make my way to the penalty box for the fourth time tonight, Marachino, the Panther’s center, throws his arm over my shoulder.
Since he’s significantly shorter than I am, he pulls me down, locking me in place to press his mouth against my ear.
“You’re my favourite player here, Murphy,” he says, grinning as he presses closer.
I try to get out of his grip, shoving him before he grabs me again.
“Can I get your autograph after this? I’ll bring a pair of those new skates you just brought out.
They’re terrible, is that why you’re struggling to skate out there? ”
He chuckles and it breaks my last restraint.
I turn and shove him hard into the boards before getting in his face.
There’s a triumphant smile on his face as he puts up his hands in mock surrender.
He lives for this kind of chirping, everyone in the league knows it.
He’s got a big mouth and he uses it every chance he gets.
He digs beneath your skin, into your personal space, and stays there until you combust.
Rat.
The ref pulls me away from him again, blowing his whistle, and shoving me toward the penalty box.
I sit down, trying my best to breathe and ignore the fans pounding on the glass panels.
When I have to be in here, I’ll take it.
But there’s no way they can put me in the box for something like an accidental high-sticking.
All three officials gather around the monitors, talking into their mics and reviewing the play. I watch them like a hawk, waiting for them to figure out that this was an accident and that they can put me back on the ice.
After a few minutes they skate toward me.
“Ten minute misconduct,” one says, with a foreboding nod as he holds the door open to the penalty box.
I rise slowly. The anger now a raging storm inside of me.
“What?” I bark, watching Mitch and Lucas shaking their heads behind the ref. They know what just went down, and as much as I hate it, I know when I’ve been beat. The warning in Mitch’s eyes is clear: Stand down.
Clenching my jaw, I cut out the explanation from the ref as to why they decided a misconduct was the way to go.
The taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite my tongue, literally, not to say exactly what I want to say right now.
I shove past the ref, shoulder-checking the player that has to watch his back the next time I see him on the ice, and head straight into the locker room.
There’s barely any time left in the third period, so I might as well take off my gear since I won’t be going back out there again.
Not tonight. I’ll have to cool off in the showers and start getting myself ready to face the questions in the post game interview.
Because there’s no way they’ll let me leave without hammering me about it.
Barging through the door to the guest locker rooms, I take off my gear, chuck it all in the bins before heading to the showers.
I let the cool stream of water hit me, willing it to cool down the fire burning inside my bones.
I try to ignore the fact that my team is still out there.
I need to calm down. My heart is racing inside my chest, my fists balling against the tiles as I try to control my breathing.
I want nothing more than to punch something, anything.
It takes everything inside of me to not put my fist through the wall while imagining it’s the face of Marachino.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this angry.
I can’t let it control me. I can’t let it control my game.
I’ve always been an aggressive player, but for some reason those Panthers brought out the worst in me tonight. Shutting off the water, I dry off and pull on a pair of sweats just as the team gets off the ice. By the looks on their faces, it didn’t go well.
And I’m to blame.
“What was that?” Mitch comes walking into the locker room, his gaze fixed on me as he tosses his gear into the bin. “We all know you can throw down Murphy, but not if it costs us the game.”
“We lost to those—”
“We did,” he says, marching past me to sit and unlace his skates.
I take my own seat, unable to look my teammates in the eye. I already know what I’ll see on their faces. Disappointment, frustration, disbelief.
“What did Marachino say?” Lindgren asks, walking in, winded and sweaty. “Because he tossed a few chirps my way too.”
He tosses his gear in the bin, his blonde hair still short since it’s the start of the season.
After last season he looked like a golden retriever, but luckily he got a haircut.
Marachino’s chirps won’t land on Lindgren.
The rookie is too good a guy. Too young, too filled with naive belief, humor, and excitement for life.
No wonder the guys on the team call him Barney.
Although I think he’s worse than the giant purple dinosaur.
No, Marachino’s chirps were for me because he knew they’d land.
That’s how he operates. He didn’t say anything I haven’t heard before…
or worse. But it was everything else. The whole night, the build-up of the game, the moment the momentum shifted…
and then having him yank me down to his level, spewing his garbage into my ear.
I snapped.
Maybe it was his proximity. Or maybe it was the reminder of my failed shot at a skate endorsement.
It’s no secret that Lucas is the hot one in the media right now because of his Vegas wedding and marriage success story.
Which only casts shadow and doubt on my own reputation…
which isn’t good, especially when it comes to potential sponsors.
“Nothing he hasn’t said before,” I say, shaking my head. “I just need to get my head clear, that’s all.”
With that I get up and refuse to look at them. Pulling on my sweatshirt and my cap, I grab my duffle and make my way to the media room, hoping to skip the lecture from Coach right now. I’ll talk to him when I have answers to give him.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I groan inwardly, knowing who it is before even looking.
Brady Sullivan: I thought I told you to ease up, Dec. As my little brother, you’re supposed to be making my job easier, not harder.
Letting out a sigh, I hit reply.
Sorry about that bro, I tried. Really. But luckily I’m sure your mad skills will somehow spin this my way.
Brady’s my brother first and my agent second. How he’s managed to put up with me and still agree to take me on as one of his clients, is beyond me.
Brady Sullivan: If you keep handing me kindling, there’ll be nothing to do but start a fire.
If you burn down my career, I’m taking you down with me.
Brady Sullivan: Speak for yourself.
I’ve known my brother for a long time, well technically he’s my step-brother. He’s still family in all the ways that count. Right now, he’s ticked off at me and he has every right.
A familiar urge rises within me, not only to fix things, but to prove that I can. That I’m more than just the hot-headed defenseman the press makes me out to be.