Her Brother's Hockey Rival

Prologue

“Sorry about your face, pretty boy.” Victor smiles, smug and arrogant, as he skates by me.

I glare hard at him, the movement making the two butterfly stitch bandages on my left eyebrow pull against my skin.

The four-minute double minor penalty he got for high-sticking me in the face during the first period should have been a major penalty and a game misconduct.

He might have played it off like an accident, but I know better.

“I feel sorry for you.” I hold my stick horizontally as we prepare for the face-off.

“For me?” He laughs. “Why? Have you seen the scoreboard?”

I don’t need to look to know we’re down by two goals, but I do anyway. My jaw works back and forth. With less than three minutes to play, it isn’t impossible to come back, but we’re going to need a miracle.

“I feel sorry for you because the only way you look good is by making others look bad.”

“Compared to you, everyone looks good. Tell me, how many of your points this season are from scoring in your own team’s goal?”

“Fuck off, Aven.”

“I plan to fuck everything in sight tonight. Just as soon as we win. The ladies love me, Shepard.”

“Do I look like I care?”

Victor is the worst kind of player. He cheats, plays dirty, and does whatever he has to, to make himself look good. Sometimes even at the expense of his own teammates.

“Sadly, I hear that isn’t an area of excellence for you. I guess your face doesn’t make up for the total lack of personality.” His lips part with a grin. His mouth guard hangs from one corner of his mouth. He moves it back into place seconds before the puck drops into play.

I know what he’s trying to do—bully me into losing focus. It’s his specialty, but it won’t work. Not tonight.

This is it. Game seven. Winner goes on to the final round and the loser just goes home. I can’t think of anything worse except watching Victor Aven lift the Stanley Cup over his head.

And how the fuck does he know that I struggle with women? I don’t. I mean, I do, but . . . it isn’t any of his business.

We win the face-off, and my teammates on the ice get into position, looking to score. Struggle is etched into our faces. If we can get a goal here, we might be able to use the momentum to change things in our favor.

Houston was never supposed to make it this far, and no one expected them to give us this much trouble.

All season they’ve been consistently inconsistent with scoring and defense.

Now that it’s the playoffs, they’ve miraculously pulled it together.

If I thought Victor was capable of masterminding this sort of grand scheme, I’d say it was all part of his elaborate plan to lure every other team into a false sense of security.

But that’d be giving the guy too much credit.

His style of play is more brute force than smart and patient.

Travis moves the puck to the wing, then passes it to me in front of the net.

I’m prepared for the shove at my back, most certainly Aven trying to push me farther from the goal, as I focus on getting possession and assessing my teammates.

I’m not afraid to take the shot, but I want to make sure no one else is in better position.

Galaxy is a few feet away, two Houston players covering him on either side. Travis moves high in case I need to dump it back out to him.

“Ticktock, Shepard,” Aven taunts with another shove. He uses his stick and grinds it into the gap below my shoulder pads and pants.

“Enjoy watching me hold the Cup from your couch,” I say to him, then grit my jaw and wheel around, taking the puck with me. I aim over the goalie’s right shoulder, but at the last second, Victor clips me on the chin with the butt end of his stick. Pain lances through me and throws off my balance.

I see red, but before I can get to him, Travis is already shoving Victor back and getting in his face.

The referees blow the whistle and get between them.

I’m only vaguely aware of the words being yelled by both teams as the refs continue to break up the fight.

And of the crowd on their feet, booing the unsportsmanlike behavior that isn’t all that uncommon from the league’s biggest asshole.

My focus is on the puck. More accurately—the puck that didn’t go in the net.

After a short replay, the refs finally give Victor the major penalty he deserves. He sneers as he skates off to the penalty box. I’m pulled off the ice, again, so the trainers can check me over.

“I’m fine,” I tell them.

“It’s going to leave a hell of a bruise,” Coach says.

“I don’t care. Get me back out there.”

“Take a breather,” he says instead. “I need you fresh.”

Every second on the bench feels like an eternity. This can’t be how we go out this season. It just can’t.

When I finally get back out on the ice, I can feel the defeat of my teammates. It’s cloaked in panic that has us rushing shots and making risky passes. Houston doesn’t let up. If anything, they’re stronger without Aven. I inadvertently gave them the upper hand by letting that prick bait me.

On the next possession, Houston scores, and there’s a collective groan. With less than a minute left, there’s no way we’re coming back from a three-goal deficit.

As I take a seat on the bench, my teammates pat my back and helmet, but I can still hear Victor’s stupid voice in my head. “Ticktock, Shepard.”