Ice Deke (Milwaukee Steel Riders #3)

Chapter 1

jordan

“That wraps up another episode of Blabbing with Bougie, your home for all things hockey, being cocky, and living in Milwaukee. Join me next week when I break down what really goes on in the locker room between periods,” I tease into the mic recording the end of my weekly podcast. “Today’s episode is sponsored by Luca Bellezza Cosmetics and JJ Enterprises. Until next time, stay bougie, bitches!”

Dropping the headphones on the desk I lean back in my chair, a long breath escaping. Another episode done. I love my podcast. I love being an insider voice for the people. But being on all the time? It feels like the damn sky is sitting on my shoulders.

“Great job today, Bougie,” my producer says from the booth. “I’ll get working on this as soon as I get home. As usual, I’ll have it edited and posted by Wednesday.”

“Thanks, Jonesy! You’re too good to me.” I quickly shake off the weight of the world and tip him a salute, my signature grin sliding back into place.

“No, you are the one who’s too good to me! I’m so grateful for this opportunity. You have no idea what this job means to me and my family.”

Jonesy and his wife have three little kids, leaving chaos and love everywhere they go.

He was working at MKE Arena as a security guard when we met.

We’d chat about how he used to work at a radio station during college, and how much he loved it before life got in the way.

I liked him so much that when my producer turned in his notice, I brought Jonesy on full-time to learn the ropes.

He was a natural. He’s a hard worker, and it’s evident he has a passion for this.

He steps out of the booth, making his way over as I stand to shake his hand. “Glad to have you on Team Boucher. You’re coming to the game tomorrow night, right? The Riders should have sent you tickets for the fam.”

“You know I’ll be there! No way we would miss Bougie Bobblehead night. You still good to sign one for my kids’ school auction?”

I clap his shoulder. “I’ll sign that and anything else you want. Know what? I’ll get you a team-signed jersey, too.”

He shakes his head, a slight smile cracking his face. “Like I said, man, you’re too good to me.”

“Get home to that family of yours. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I say as he heads out, the door clicking shut behind him.

I close my laptop with a smile and send my stack of notes flying toward the desktop tray.

Jonesy is a great example of what I’m looking for in everyone I hire.

You can teach someone a skill or help them refine it, but you can’t teach them to be a hard worker or a decent human being.

I’ve spent enough of my life around people who got a job because they had connections to someone, then acted like total dicks to everyone and still couldn’t do the damn job.

My dad instilled in me from the day I could talk to treat everyone, regardless of where they are in life, with respect and humanity.

Except on the ice—that’s where all rules go out the window.

I turn off the lights in the studio and head upstairs to get changed.

Walking through the hallway, I smile at the photos of my family on the wall.

Most twenty-three-year-old guys probably don’t have pictures of their family hanging around, but what can I say?

They’re awesome. But being a part of the Boucher family, one of the top real-estate developers in Canada, hasn’t always been sunshine and roses.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I shuffle past the empty rooms of my house.

Yeah, we have money. I’m never going to act like I should be pitied or believe anyone should feel bad for the things my life has afforded me, but wealth comes with its own problems. People think they know me from my celebrity persona and the names I’ve been called.

Billionaire Bougie. The Trust Fund Troublemaker.

And then, of course, the world came up with the term ‘nepo-baby’ which was hurled my way instantly in the form of the Nepo Nuisance.

Honestly, I can own some of that. But my chronic insomnia isn’t because I’m a billionaire or a troublemaker—it’s because no one bothers to see beneath all that.

My parents had no involvement in me being good at hockey or my career on the ice, other than paying for my equipment and league fees.

I worked my damn ass off my entire life to prove I was more than just a kid with money.

I had no choice but to be the best. If I was on a team just barely cutting it, all anyone would say is how I only got the spot because of my parents’ money. I play because I fucking love it.

When I was little, I put on a pair of skates, grabbed a stick, and fell in love with the sport. It’s been my only constant. It’s what drives me to do everything.

But all the chirping about me, my family, and how people think I got to where I am? That’s where the gloves come off in treating people with respect.

In all honesty, I could not have picked a better sport than hockey.

A wicked grin spreads across my face. Someone calls you a name?

Slam them into the boards. Someone tells you how hard it must have been for Daddy to pay your way into the league?

Drop the gloves and give them a nice right hook to the face.

And when the chirp hits harder than I’d ever admit, I throw my signature move their way—The Ice Deke.

As we square up, they don’t notice me casually dragging my skate for a little snow.

I toss a dramatic fake punch—big swing, total miss—then drop low into a textbook bend-and-snap, courtesy of my personal hero, Elle Woods.

Then boom! I pop-up and give them a frosty face wash, gift wrapped by #68.

I’m the first guy in the league to ever do that.

I catch a glimpse of the awards and memorabilia from my career. Where’s my damn trophy for that?!

Aside from being a first-round draft pick and the accolades that come with it, I have an OHL record for the most number of suspensions in a season.

I fully own that shit. They were all my fault, and I would do them again in a heartbeat—no take backsies.

Off the ice, I’m Mister Cool. Nothing phases me.

Nothing gets to me. But when my skates hit that cold glistening sheet of glass?

All my anger and aggression from the rest of my life comes out in full force.

It’s my outlet, my escape, and the spark behind my game.

Stepping into my bedroom, I seriously debate nosediving onto my bed, skipping the plans I have tonight in favor of some extra sleep.

My shoulders slump as I realize I’ll have to wait a few more hours.

Some of the guys are going out to celebrate Colton Taylor’s birthday.

While the thought of having to be on again for the evening has me already regretting not plopping down for a nap, Tay’s a good guy, and we need to celebrate.

We aren’t supposed to get too crazy since we are in season, but I make no promises as to my behavior tonight.

Not to mention, the game tomorrow night is all about me.

The Milwaukee Steel Riders have chosen to honor me, star defenseman Jordan Boucher, with a bobblehead night.

It’s exciting as hell to have my own little mini-me and, to be honest, a damn dream come true.

But it’s also slightly terrifying. My stomach twists, feeling like someone is taping up their goddamn stick deep in my guts.

Because as much as the fans will pour out, so will the haters.

I’ve learned to ignore them, but it doesn’t mean it still doesn’t get to me every once in a while.

Also terrifying—the fact that we fly out directly after the game.

I get to see her again. The woman I’ve been pining after.

The woman who haunts my dreams. Who acts like I don’t exist. Kennedy Kramer.

One of our team’s pilots and everything I’ve dreamed of.

Not only is she the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, but she’s smart, successful, and she doesn’t seem to give a shit about my family’s money, as evidenced by the fact that she doesn’t give me the time of day.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw her.

I thought my heart was going to crack through my ribs and fly down the aisle of the plane to get to her.

The way her long, wavy blonde hair flowed down her shoulders.

Her uniform hugged the curves of her body in the most perfect way.

And that sexy as hell blue scarf around her neck.

My dick presses against the zipper of my jeans.

I see her every time we travel. I smile, say hi, and she just dismisses me like I’m beneath her.

Goddammit, I would like to be beneath her.

Sadly, she still acts like she doesn’t know who I am when I speak to her.

She seems to be literally the only person on the face of this planet that doesn’t want to get to know me.

It’s fucking torture. The number of people who want to be my friend just because of my status, whether for hockey or my family name, is disheartening.

But not her.

I see how she acts around her friends. Once in a while, when I’m at a get-together, one of the WAGs will invite her. Everyone loves Kennedy. I see the way she laughs. The way she makes everyone feel at ease. The way she seems to do everything in life with a sense of purpose.

And the way she does everything in her power to stay as far away from me as possible.

I’ve been sending her gifts. Anonymously.

Not in like a stalker way, more like an I want to impress her way.

I like to think of myself as a year-round Secret Santa—secret because I’m too much of a chicken-shit to sign my name.

As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I keep a running list of gift ideas waiting for one to wow her so I can fess up.

Truth is, I would give everything up to focus on this full-time if it were actually working.

I even bring her a latte every flight. Granted, she doesn’t know it’s from me since I have one of the flight attendants drop it off to her, but it’s the thought that counts.

Right? I groan, burying my face in my hands.

I am so fucking confident in every other area of my life.

I run my fingers through my hair, ready to pull every strand out in frustration. What’s my problem being confident around Kennedy? If Elle Woods were here, she’d help me figure out how to impress her.

I guess the fact that I got majorly burned by one woman and caused a massive PR crisis, endless shame and embarrassment, a complete change of my lifestyle, and, oh, I don’t know, a million other things could be part of the problem.

I swallow hard, trying to suppress the anger that still bubbles up, thinking back to that fucking disaster.

And let’s not forget the other fun fact—the fucking bizarre messages I’ve been getting lately.

Threatening texts from an unknown number.

Texts that specifically say to stay away from Kennedy.

I haven’t told a soul outside of my dad and my cousin Hannah that I like her.

So how the hell does a random texter know?

I keep getting that creepy as hell feeling like I’m being watched every day.

Yikes bikes. I’ve got my security detail on it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t freak me out a little. Okay, a lot.

I shake away the thoughts that have been eating at me for days as I grab a white T-shirt and throw on some jeans and sneakers, splash on a few drops of cologne, and head out to celebrate my friend.

Having rehashed the disaster my public life turned into a few years ago, I’ll also be having some drinks to drown those feelings.

Because even on my worst day, I know someone else is probably having a worser day than me.

Is worser even a word? I shrug my shoulders and head downstairs to my car.

Being my chipper self is why I’m known as Mr. Sunshine.

Making other people feel special is the one thing outside of hockey that fuels the fire inside me.

I do a final fit check in the mudroom mirror, flashing myself a smirk and a wink to get into character.

Tonight I’ll be Jordan ‘Bougie’ Boucher, life of the party. And oh, do I bring my fucking A-game to a party.