Chapter 2 Collin
COLLIN
My phone’s sharp ring slices through the quiet of my apartment, yanking me from sleep.
The California king I’d insisted on buying for my six-four frame was a mess—pillows scattered, the duvet somewhere near the footboard, and sheets tangled around my legs.
A cold, wet nose presses against my hand, followed by an impatient whine.
Ace, my German shepherd, has apparently decided it is well past breakfast time.
I groan, head pounding as I fumble for my phone on the bedside table.
No luck. My fingers instead find an empty glass, then a wallet, and finally something that feels like a high heel.
Typical. The ringing stops, only to start again almost immediately.
I flip onto my stomach and reach further, finally unearthing the device from beneath a mess of sheets and—oh, right—the blonde.
The caller ID tells me everything I need to know. Marcus. Shit.
“King,” I mumble, squinting against the morning light.
“Where the hell are you?” Marcus’s voice is sharp, clipped, and absolutely not the tone I want to hear first thing.
“Uh... home?”
“Do you know what time it is?” I pull my phone away from my ear, glancing at the clock. 9:47. Practice started an hour ago. Great job, Collin. Another stellar morning for team MVP.
“Shit...”
“Yeah, shit.” Marcus shoots back. “You missed morning skate. Again. This isn’t just another slipup.
This is a pattern. You missed morning skate last week.
You were late to the team meeting on Tuesday.
The coaches are pissed and frankly, so am I.
Get to the office. Now.” Click. I let the phone fall to the bed, dragging a hand through my hair.
I hate this part, telling the girls they have to leave.
It’s always awkward, even though I’ve done it a hundred times.
Part of me feels bad, but another part knows this is just..
. easier. The blonde stirs again, this time rolling onto her side, her eyes barely opening.
“Hey,” I say, nudging her lightly. “You’ve gotta go.” She groans, burying her face in the pillow.
“Mmm, five more minutes?”
“I’m serious,” I say, sliding out of bed and grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the floor.
The cool hardwood feels harsh against my feet “I’m late.
Like, really late.” She sits up slowly, the sheets pooling around her waist. She looks good—they always do.
But as she starts to stretch and murmur something about coffee, I cut her off.
“I’ll call you an Uber,” I say, already grabbing her dress from the floor where it had been abandoned.
I toss it to her gently. “It’ll take you wherever you need to go.
” I drag myself to the bathroom, my head feeling like I’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
The shower controls squeak as I crank them to arctic temperatures—a move I instantly regret as the freezing water hits my shoulders.
Nothing kills a hangover quite like hypothermia.
The bathroom door creaks open just as I’m stepping out, water cascading down my abs—thank you, brutal off-season training—and wrapping a towel around my waist. The blonde, Ashley?
Ashley something? Leans against my marble countertop, black dress on, heels in hand, twirling a piece of paper between her fingers and giving me that look.
You know the one. The ‘let’s go back to bed and forget about the rest of the day’ look.
“You should definitely call me,” she says, biting her lower lip. She braces a hand against the wall, stepping into her shoes. “Last night was...”
“Fun,” I finish with a wink, accepting the paper while mentally calculating how long it will take me to get to the rink.
Marcus was going to kill me. I slip past her, grabbing my boxers, dark jeans followed.
The message was clear: show’s over. She lets out a frustrated sigh, lingering for a moment before finally turning on those sky-high heels.
The sharp click of her steps fades down the hallway, followed by the soft thud of the front door closing.
Ace emerges from wherever he’d been hiding—probably the guest room, his usual retreat when I have company over—and gives me his best judgmental look.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, scratching behind his ears as he pads after me into the kitchen.
“I know, I know. I’m late feeding you too. ”
After pouring a generous amount of kibble into his bowl, I tug my old U of M sweatshirt over my head as thunder rumbles low in the distance, making me groan.
Give me Michigan snow over this Seattle shit any day.
This morning’s guest definitely appreciated the view last night from the leather sectional.
The one I’d splurged on when I signed my latest contract, because apparently that’s what grown-ups do with signing bonuses.
Buy furniture instead of, I don’t know, a jet ski or something fun.
Her number is still crumpled in my pocket, destined for the same fate as all the others.
It wasn’t like I was trying to be a dick about it.
Hell, half the time I actually meant it when I say I’d call.
But then there’d be an away game, or a tough loss that needed drowning, or just..
. life. Hockey life. And calling turned into texting turned into nothing at all.
Better that way. No expectations meant no disappointments.
No one waiting up on game nights, no one to feel guilty about when road trips ran long.
No one depending on me for anything more than a good time and a decent breakfast recommendation.
Which, okay, they weren’t even getting the breakfast part lately, but whatever.
Point was, keeping things simple kept everyone happy.
Or at least not actively unhappy. Catching my reflection in the hallway mirror, I fit my ball cap backwards on my head.
I turn to Ace, who’s watching me from the kitchen doorway, and point at him.
“Ace, you’re in charge. No ragers while I’m gone.” And with that, I’m out the door.
The sharp blast of a whistle echoes down the hall the moment I push through the facility doors.
The sounds of morning practice carry through the building—pucks hitting boards, sticks on ice, skates cutting sharp turns.
The team deep into drills. I’m halfway to Marcus’s office, passing the wall of team photos, when heavy footsteps approach from behind.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.” I turn to find Beckett, still in full gear minus his helmet, sweat dripping down his face. His mouth pulled up into a shit-eating grin. “Lookin a little rough, bud. Where you been?”
“You know.” I shrug. “Just tending to my adoring fan base.”
“Ah.” Beckett’s smile widens as he leans against the wall. “The ‘fan base’ have a name this time?”
“Ashley, I think?” I scratch the back of my neck. “Something with an A? Look, there were more pressing matters to discuss than proper introductions.” Beck snorts, shaking his head.
“Like what? Her star sign?”
“What can I say?” I grin. “I’m a good listener.”
“Right.” His eyebrows shoot up. “Because when you left the bar with her last night, it was definitely just to talk.” I mean, there had been talking. For a while. Until there definitely wasn’t any talking happening at all. Unless you counted—
“Dude.” His amusement shifts to something closer to pity, and he actually winces.
“You are so fucked. Marcus turned straight-up purple when you weren’t here.
Like, not even normal mad Marcus purple.
I swear to God that vein in his forehead was about to explode.
” He wipes at his nose, shaking his head.
“He made Nick run suicides for five minutes just for asking if we should wait for you.”
“Damn.” I try to laugh it off, but it falls flat. Marcus making examples of my teammates because of me doesn’t sit well. He’s never done that before.
“Wouldn’t wanna be you right now, man.” He claps me on the shoulder, his glove still damp from the ice. “Maybe lead with an apology. Or your retirement speech.”
“Thanks for the support!” I call after him as he starts back toward the rink.
“Really feeling the love, Beck!” I pinch the bridge of my nose, the fluorescent buzz overhead drilling straight into my temples.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t been in trouble before—showing up late, the occasional hungover practice.
But Marcus and Coach Wilson always cooled down eventually.
A few extra suicides, maybe riding the bench for a period if they were really pissed.
No big deal. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I push open his door.
“Marcus, look, I—” The words die in my throat.
He sits rigid behind his desk, fingers drumming an angry rhythm against the polished surface.
Vein bulging from his bald head. His jaw is set so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding from here.
Though it was the others that made my stomach drop. Shannon from PR stood to his right, arms crossed, tablet pressed against her chest. PR meant I’d really stepped in it this time. And there, looming between the whiteboards, stood Coach Wilson. Three-on-one. Not good odds.
“Don’t,” he bites out. “Sit down.” The chair creaks as I lower myself into it.
Three pairs of eyes fixed on me. This wouldn’t be another slap on the wrist. This was the kind of meeting that ended careers.
For once in my life, I keep my mouth shut.
Marcus closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, the vein in his forehead pulsing as he visibly tries to collect himself.
“Look, kid, I like you. You know I like you...” He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
“You’ve got talent. Raw talent. But this shit you’re pulling?
Not gonna fly.” I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand.