Ice Devil (The Kendrick Brothers #2)

Chapter 1

Beck

Los Angeles Times: The Future Looks Promising for the Up-and-Coming Portland NHL Franchise

Phoenix Sun: Can the Kendrick Brothers Sustain Their Unearthly Magic Against the Phoenix Machine?

The Today Show, Carter Wainwright: “The NHL season has been very exciting, especially with the addition of the Portland Hellions, the new franchise taking the ice by storm. Some experts had accredited the team’s early success to the Kendrick brothers duo, both accomplished hockey players and both young male shifters, wolves to be exact.

There are also those, including members of Congress and owners of other NHL franchises whose rosters are one hundred percent human who fear continuing to allow shifters to participate on any sports team is the highest form of cheating.

Coming up, I’ll share a conversation held with the owners of the Phoenix Blades who will weigh in on the highly anticipated game with the Hellions and what the future of hockey might look like. ”

Winning.

That was the only goal on my mind, the only thing that mattered both now and into the future.

The arena noise faded into a dull, distant buzzing.

The only sound I concentrated on was the puck moving across the scarred ice.

I kept my eyes pinned on the Blades’ center as he glided toward me, acting as if he was paying more attention to the oversold crowd than to where I was standing in front of the cage.

There were some who called me a human statue, capable of remaining stiff and still for extended periods. One aspect about me was certain. I was a predator, a devil in disguise, my eyes sharp while watching the puck being shifted back and forth.

The moment was almost poetic, a study of art in the form of violence.

Every muscle in my legs was coiled and I’d slowed my heartrate.

I noticed everything. The center’s subtle shifts in movements.

In his eyes. His shoulders. Even with his blades.

Every action taken including those decided against was a foreshadowing, a telling statement of what was about to occur.

The best goalies in the league often missed the one final, slick tic that would provide the only answer needed. I’d honed my skills, refusing failure. And tonight wasn’t going to be any different. We would win.

This was my moment. Either head into overtime or win the game. My choice. My time basking in the sun.

With the clock ticking down, the moment was eerily silent. I rotated my shoulders and hips, facing the brutal man. Controlling my patience had become another art form. At this point, I refused to leave any angle open.

And there it was, the last shot possible of the period. Nothing else mattered but this moment. Everything around me slowed, every action of the other hockey players and the crowd, the coaches holding their breath while referees lingered close to ensure a clean play.

I locked onto the puck, holding my stance without flinching, without moving a muscle.

Until the very last second.

With my push off violent, I dropped to my knees, skidding across the ice. Without second guessing, I swung out my paddle while holding my breath. I knew even before the accurate deflection I’d made the correct call to action.

Also by the number of boos coming from the stands on the one side, the cheers near the rest of the team on the other.

With a slight nod to the center who couldn’t believe I’d caught the shot, I slowly rose to my feet while our fans went wild.

There was nothing like the chants along with boot stomps from the fans.

“Hellions. Hellions. Hellions.”

If only we’d won in Portland instead of Phoenix, but a win was a win.

I yanked off my mask, throwing my head back and taking a deep whiff of the chilly air.

Tonight, I was relieved, more anxious than I’d let on to anyone.

Maybe because the buzz with Phoenix was all about them going all the way, claiming the Stanley Cup.

I’d wanted to dethrone their brutal, unending power.

Then there’d been the goddamn Today Show clip I’d heard that morning.

Big mistake.

Huge.

I’d almost lost my shit when the sellout reporter had played the game that shifters were the root of all evils. When were the fifteen minutes of blaming shifters for all problems going to end?

With another deep whiff, a scent caught my attention, so subtle and at such a distance that even most wolves would have missed it. I had extraordinary senses, much to the chagrin of my parents. The scent of a woman, evocative and powerful.

At least to a beast like me.

With movement, I caught another delicate ghosting of her perfume, the seductive trace of jasmine and citrus with a hint of vanilla creating a magnetic pull.

“Woo hoo!”

My teammate’s loud, obnoxious scream forced my attention away from something far more delicious than Kai’s stench of sweat.

“Yes!”

“Fucking perfection!”

As occurred with every win, the entire team went wild, acting like five-year-olds jumping all over each other. Hey, there was nothing wrong with letting our inner children go, especially since there was so damn much testosterone on the ice.

And it never got old.

“Dis be the man of the hour!” Doc ‘the Doctor’ Wallens roared as he pumped his chest. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was puffed up and celebrating my brother’s come from behind goals, one after another.

Ford held a grin that could light up the entire stadium, accepting the thanks while his gaze searched the crowd.

“Nah,” he said as he pushed Cujo out of the way, the huge left wing moving on to giving high fives to another player. “This is the man of the hour.” His voice boomed above the cheers, his arm raised and his finger pointed down as if from the heavens above.

To me. His younger brother.

“Yeah, man. The Devil came out to play in Phoenix,” Trip ‘the Brute’ Jones shouted, deciding for some reason howling like a wolf would provide any moments of endearment.

The dude was even off key, which prompted me to chuckle as I sexy-skated, as my sister Samantha had coined my after-every-win skating habits, toward him.

Ford kept his arm held high and I lifted mine, grabbing his palm as soon as we closed the distance.

“You did fucking great, man,” he said so only I could hear while pulling me into a bear hug.

I’d never thought we’d play on the same team, yet here we were, both rookies in the NHL on a brand-new team that held a lot of promise.

Maybe we were a little jaded, but we’d knocked the socks off the team’s owner.

“You were fucking incredible.” Ford backed away, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t let that go to your head.”

“That’s Georgia’s line. I think that fiancée of yours is rubbing off on you.”

As soon as I mentioned the woman who’d managed to tame his wild ass down, the man beamed as if the world was full of sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns.

His proposal over Valentine’s Day had been over the top.

How did I know? Because the entire family had been forced to watch the video of the proposal and be subjected to the photo display for over an hour.

No more family get-togethers for me.

He laughed and together, we took our victory lap. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you have a human mate.”

“Why does it seem like her being human bothers you?”

“Maybe because we’ve started talking about having a family.”

“Why don’t you get married first, brother,” I tossed out at him. “And get through the first season in the big leagues. Unless you no longer want that million-plus-dollar account, in which case I’ll take it.”

He turned the opposite way, skating backwards while doing one of his signature dances that had all the puck bunnies going wild.

Including now.

He didn’t mind one little bit flirting with them, taking bows and even winking at a few who had their faces pressed up against the plexiglass partitions.

“You better watch out, big brother,” I told him. “Georgia might not have sharp canines, but she does have claws.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, why don’t you come down to the hotel bar tonight?”

“Wifie let you off your leash?” I teased.

To which my brother clandestinely offered his middle finger. “Something like that.”

“We’ll see.”

He waved me off. I wasn’t interested in dealing with a bar full of puck bunnies or dudes determined to become hockey stars at forty plus years old.

Tonight, every muscle ached. I longed for the very few muscular therapy sessions Georgia had provided before being engrossed in her classes at medical school. She had the magic touch; the one hired by Coach Griffen was every player’s nightmare.

“Good game out there, Beck,” the coach said as I headed off the ice.

“Thank you, sir. Just doing my job.”

He hung his head as I passed. He and the rest of the team knew me as a prankster, a man always laughing. Yet right now, all I wanted was a solid, long night’s sleep.

After easing on the blade guards, I headed for the locker room, finding the hallway buzzing with activity. Reporters swarmed the corridor, all hoping to provide the perfect clip for the nightly news.

I didn’t need to worry. As soon as Ford made his way off the ice, the swarm would be all over him. That was fine by me.

“Time to par-ty!” I wasn’t even certain who’d made the announcement. I didn’t blame him. There was talk we could make the playoffs, which would be fucking amazing.

The roar in the wide-open space was deafening.

“Alright, gentlemen, remember we have a plane to catch late morning,” Assistant Coach Parker reminded us dutifully. Okay, so a couple of us had almost missed a flight two weeks before. That was another reason I was trying to be a good boy.

A short snicker pushed up from my throat. Good boy, my ass. I had a sordid reputation to uphold. Right? I ripped off my shirt, tossing it toward the laundry bag, noticing the open doorway was crowded with reporters.

I guess beating the home team was big news.

Turning my back, I continued undressing, eager to take a long, hot shower.

Before I grabbed a towel, a sharp and intense series of vibrations smashed into my system, sucking out every bit of air from my lungs.

There was the scent again, sweet and sultry, lingering on my skin while it pumped into my nostrils.

I’d be damned if my entire system wasn’t immediately shoved into a raging firestorm. Which was particularly bad since I was suddenly experiencing a cattle prod to my scrotum. In my case, my cock immediately jumped to full attention.

“Uh-oh. Lady in da house, boys.”

“Who do you want to talk to?” I heard Coach Parker ask while I took my time reaching for a towel.

“Beck Kendrick.” Her voice wasn’t soft and breathless like I was used to hearing from every woman determined to carry my baby to term, but edgy, defiant.

On fire.

Maybe upon some lengthy reflection I might think the sun suddenly made an abstract appearance in the dark, almost underground space offered to members of an opposing team, but I wasn’t that kind of man.

There wasn’t a romantic or passionate bone in my furry body.

I’d learned a long time ago women used whatever it took to get what they wanted.

And this woman wanted an interview.

Wait. She’d asked for me. Interesting. Maybe my brother was too busy being the team star.

My initial thought was that she was in the wrong place, although my way of thinking was Neanderthal at best. Mandates allowed female reporters access, which usually caused mixed, often vindictively mischievous reactions from male players.

Especially if the female invading our space was cute.

However, I was a professional, which was why I snatched a towel from the rack, tying the thin material around my waist. As soon as I turned to face the din turning into a hungry roar, the terrycloth swiped across my aching dick.

What the hell was wrong with the arena owners? Couldn’t they afford Egyptian cotton?

“Hey, Beck, a reporter here to see you.” Coach Parker was used to wrangling reporters and by the time I started to push my way through the crowd of guys, a slow and steady throng of them from newspapers to local television stations were actively seeking a player in hopes of capturing their fifteen minutes of fame. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re always a ham,” he corrected, grinning as he did. It wasn’t but so often I was interviewed by a reporter, but the Hellions’ presence on social media had increased the last few weeks.

Maybe one day I’d be a star. At least I could snicker from the thought.

I swaggered closer, running my fingers through my hair.

While I approached, a few of the guys winked, a couple striking a pose offering full frontal nudity.

Did the assholes think we were auditioning for a reality show?

Knowing them, yes. The closer I came to the unknown reporter, the more curious I became.

She had cocks and butts inches away with no indication any one of them were impressive.

The reporter was busy studying the space around us, her back turned. With her long, dark hair in a high ponytail, her even longer legs wrapped in bell-bottomed black trousers, and wearing a white tee shirt, there appeared to be nothing spectacular about her.

Other than that her clothes couldn’t hide her voluptuous curves.

She was also wearing bright chartreuse tennis shoes that undoubtedly glowed in the dark.

“Ms. Winters, I located Beck,” Coach Parker said and passed right by where she was standing.

As if bored to death with her task, she slowly turned to face me.

And in those few seconds, my body had a ridiculous reaction, one that defied logic but certainly not chemistry.

The unknown reporter was without a doubt the most insanely gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. A single word filtered through my active brainwaves that turned into a brutal, unyielding physical need.

Mine.