Two
Fluorescent lights like ice picks. My skull’s threatening full structural failure, and it’s not even eight a.m. The smell of sweat-soaked gear and rubber flooring does nothing to ease the nausea clawing at my throat. Fucking fantastic start to the day.
“Fuck off,” I growl. “That bartender was a goddamn nightmare.”
He snorts. “Pretty sure the only nightmare was your attitude, bud. Girl was just doing her job.”
“Her job cost me a six-hundred-dollar shirt.” I shove through the locker room doors and throw my bag down hard enough to make the metal bench ring. The sound reverberates through my skull; I wince.
“Maybe if you hadn’t been such a dick, she wouldn’t have—”
I cut him off with a glare, ripping my practice jersey off, my stubbled chin snagging on the fabric. Should’ve left after the first beer. Should’ve stayed home. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”
Thompson raises both hands. “Whatever you say, sunshine.”
Elias Andersson is already at his stall, tape hissing over the blade of his stick. He smirks without looking up. “Morning, ladies. We talking about Castellano’s smooth moves last night?”
The locker room erupts in hoots and hollers, skate blades clattering against the floor as guys shift to get a better view of the show.
Defenceman Ryan O’Neill grins from his corner stall, Irish lilt warming his words. “Did he try to use that ‘don’t you know who I am’ line?”
My lip curls. The weight of two dozen eyes settles between my shoulder blades, making my fingers flex.
“Casanova here really knows how to charm the locals.” Thompson drops onto the bench beside me, angling half in front of me, his shoulder a wall between me and the rest of the room. It reads like a lazy sprawl. It isn’t.
I yank my skates on, the bite of leather against my ankles oddly satisfying. “Yeah, well, charm’s overrated,” I mutter, shrugging. “She was a stuck-up pain in the ass.”
A gorgeous one.
I don’t say that part.
Coach Wilson enters the room, arms crossed over his stocky frame. His weathered face is set, thin lips flat.
Half-dressed in gear, we drop into the folding chairs at the front of the room. I roll my neck, trying to loosen the knot that’s been wedged under my collarbone.
“Alright, listen up,” he barks, Boston accent creeping in around the edges. “We’ve got some business to cover.”
My mind drifts to last night, to that bartender and the way she looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe. I shift in my seat, the plastic chair creaking under my weight.
“—new community initiative,” Coach Wilson announces plainly. “Pending signatures, The Penalty Box will be our official team bar for the next three months.”
My head snaps up so fast that my neck pops. “Wait, what?”
Coach Wilson’s eyes fix on me. “The Penalty Box,” he repeats, slower this time. “Local institution. The trial run goes through New Year’s.”
“No fucking way.” The words tear out of me before I can stop them. “We can’t—” I catch myself, suddenly aware of the dead silence that’s fallen over the room.
Careful. Cameras always find you.
Every head turns my way. O’Neill’s grin fades. Andersson pauses mid-wrap with his stick. Even Captain Ethan Holt looks up from his notes, brows drawn.
Coach Wilson’s face darkens. “Excuse me?”
Fingers drumming against my thigh. Four beats. Stop. “Nothing, Coach.”
He stares at me, tapping the rolled lineup sheet once against his palm. “You want to explain your problem to the rest of the room, Castellano?”
I shift in my seat, the muscles in my back coiling. “Coach, that place is a dive. We’re supposed to be—”
“What you’re supposed to do,” Coach interrupts, his voice dropping to a quiet register that cuts through the room like a blade, “is remember you’re a Wolf now.
Whatever you got away with in Montana, that attitude doesn’t skate here.
Here, we support local. I don’t care if you think it’s beneath you.
I don’t care if they serve beer out of a boot. ”
Beneath me. Coach doesn’t know the half of it—the bartender dumped a pint of IPA on my chest and mocked me for it in front of a live audience.
“This is a three-month probation to see how the community responds,” Coach continues, his mouth set in a firm line.
“You will show up, you will smile for the cameras, and you will leave your ego at the door. You’re not here to be a VIP, Castellano.
You’re here to play hockey and do your job. Are we clear?”
I want to argue. I want to tell him that sending the Wolves into a bar run by a walking PR disaster is a mistake. But the words stick in my throat. Day two. Whole roster watching.
“Clear,” I force out.
He nods curtly. “Good. Now get your head out of your ass and act like the professional I’ve heard so much about.
And that includes showing your face.” He scans each of our faces.
“You’ll all be making at least three mandatory appearances at The Penalty Box this season for team events.
Consider it part of your new community integration responsibilities. ”
I’m about to respond when the conference room door swings open. Every muscle in my body instinctively straightens at the cadence of those footsteps.
Martin Westfield strolls into the room in a crisp navy suit, his presence naturally absorbing the attention.
Of course he’s here. A blockbuster trade doesn’t stay quiet, and neither does a bartender dumping a pint on the guy at the center of it. Westfield doesn’t leave PR math like that to chance.
His pale blue eyes sweep over our faces with a kind of proprietary pride before landing on me. There’s a weight to his gaze—the heavy expectation of a man who staked the future of his new franchise on my shoulders and makes sure I feel it every time he looks at me.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
Coach Wilson steps forward, his demeanor shifting to professional deference. “Martin, welcome. Just letting the team know about the new partnership.”
“Excellent.” Westfield’s smile is warm, carrying that effortless charisma that makes you want to agree with whatever he says next. “Good timing for Gabriel to learn about his role as liaison.”
Me. Liaison. Not Thompson, who actually likes people. Not Holt, who’d do it right. Me—because Westfield decides where I go, and everyone in this room knows it.
“Gabriel, good to see you settling in.” He claps my shoulder, firm and supportive, the way he’s done since I was a kid.
I force my jaw to unclench. “Mr. Westfield.”
His eyes hold mine as he rights his cufflink without looking down at it—an old habit, like even his own sleeves need to fall in line. “I heard about last night. Word travels fast in a town this size.”
“It was just a misunderstanding,” I say, shrugging. “No issues.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” His smile widens, paternal and proud.
“The Penalty Box partnership matters to this organization, and I need everyone doing their part.” He says it to the room, practiced—then his hand lands on my shoulder again, and his voice drops low enough that it’s just for me.
“That includes you especially. Smile more. Brood less. Can you do that?”
The words are carefully chosen, an appeal to the leader he thinks I can be.
“Understood,” I say.
“Perfect.” He gives my shoulder one last encouraging pat. “I’ll let you all get back to your meeting.”
With that, he strides away, his oxfords echoing down the hallway. I watch him go, rolling my shoulder to ease the sudden tension coiled there.
The Penalty Box. That bartender.
I’m going to smile for every camera in that room and mean none of it.
Not exactly new work for me.
On the ice, everything else falls away—or it should. The cold air bites at my lungs; the scrape of blades against ice usually centers me. But today, everything is wrong. My passes are sloppy, my shots wide. The stick feels awkward in my hands.
“Focus, Cas!” Coach Wilson barks from behind the bench as I miss an easy one-timer.
I grit my teeth, adjusting my grip. Sweat stings my eyes under the helmet on the follow-through. My head’s still pounding in time with my pulse, dull and mean behind my eyes. I can’t stop seeing her face. The way she tilted that beer, the glint in her eye.
During a line change, Thompson skates over, breathing hard. “You’re skating like you’ve got concrete in your skates, bud.”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
He gives me a look—the one that says he’s known me long enough to know it’s bullshit. “This about the bar thing?”
The whistle blows before I can answer, but his question haunts me. This about the bar thing. Like it’s that simple. Like it’s just about spilled beer and a ruined shirt instead of the way she looked at me—like she knew exactly who I was beneath the mask and hated me for it.
In the locker room after practice, the chatter feels muted. I strip off my gear, hurling each piece into my stall harder than I need to.
“So,” Karl Forsberg says, breaking the relative quiet as he towels off his hair. “The Penalty Box. Anyone been there besides our friend Castellano?”
“Great craft beer selection,” Thompson offers diplomatically.
“The owner knows her stuff,” Andersson agrees.
The owner. My stomach drops as if I’ve missed a step going downstairs. Of course I managed to piss off the one person we’re supposed to be working with.
“Whatever,” I mutter. “It’s just business.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re not true. Last night felt personal.
As the guys start filing out, Thompson hangs back, his gear bag slung over his shoulder. “Walk with me?”
It’s not really a question. We head toward the parking garage in silence, our footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. The late afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
“This is about more than the accident, isn’t it?” he says finally.
Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. I stop walking, preferring to keep this conversation contained.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re full of shit.” He stops walking. “We’ve known each other since we were fifteen. You don’t lose your shit over spilled beer, and you definitely don’t let a bartender get inside your head.”
I drop my bag, the thud echoing in the empty stairwell. My hand drifts to my shoulder, kneading the spot where old scar tissue sits just beneath the skin.
“She caught me off guard, that’s all.” I lean against the concrete wall, the rough surface catching on the suede of my jacket.
“That’s not all.” His eyes narrow. “Most people would be tripping over themselves apologizing to you. She looked like you’re a piece of shit. And you looked like she actually rattled you. What aren’t you saying?”
“Nothing,” I mutter. “Just drop it.”
Thompson watches me for a long moment. “Fine. But Westfield wants you to play nice. Make this partnership work.”
“And you’re worried I can’t?”
“I’m worried you don’t want to.”
I push off the wall, grabbing my bag. “I’ll handle it.”
Thompson is quiet for a long moment. “Just make sure you figure out how to smooth things over before you walk back in there.”
His words follow me all the way home, echoing in my head like the headache I haven’t been able to shake all day.
What aren’t I saying?
That she should’ve been thrilled I walked in. Comped rounds. A shaking hand pouring my beer. That’s usually the whole script.
She read me as if she’d already seen the tape.
I couldn’t read her back.
Fuck.