Shane (Glacier Hockey #3)

Chapter One

Holding up my glass of water carefully, as the condensation is making it slippery, I prepare to toast my friend and teammate, Brock Lowrie, who is unequivocally the best defenseman on our hockey team, the Phoenix Bears.

I play right wing on our top line, and he and his defense partner are often paired with us. That’s how we’ve become such good buddies.

Right now we’re midway through lunch at a trendy downtown café, not far from where we play and practice at the Glacier Dome Complex.

Brock, nodding at my raised glass, puts his fork down, swipes a napkin over his mouth, and raises his own ice water to mine.

“To tonight,” I say. “May the hockey gods smile down upon us and grant us a win.”

Brock taps his glass to mine and replies with a solemn “You got that right, Shane. To the hockey gods, please hear our plea.”

Simultaneously, we down a couple of big gulps of icy cold water, which is absolutely refreshing on this sizzling, sunny day.

Though it’s only mid-May, it’s already hot as hell out here in Phoenix. And for some reason—I guess because we wanted some privacy and no one else was out here—we opted to sit out on the restaurant patio today.

At least there are a few strategically placed palm trees, providing some shade.

Hey, it’s the little things, right?

Brock, his fork moving quickly, gobbles up the last of his massive chef’s salad.

Pushing the bowl aside, he says, “Man, I hope our toast to the hockey gods works. We better win tonight.”

He’s not wrong.

This year, the Bears have had a great season. We made it to the playoffs, where we soared through the first round like champs, winning the series in four exciting, blockbuster games.

Yeah, it was a sweep.

This second round, though, has proven to be more challenging.

We’ve been playing the Colorado Avalanche, a damn good team themselves, and the series is currently tied.

We’re split at three games apiece, meaning whoever wins tonight moves on to the next round.

I just hope it’s us.

Otherwise, we’re done.

Blowing out an uneven, worried breath, I say, “Yeah, if we can’t pull this one off, we’ll be hitting the links on the golf courses around here instead of playing on the ice in the Glacier Dome.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Brock says.

I blow out a breath and declare, “Hell, I’m not ready for this all to end.”

“Neither am I,” my friend agrees.

The check comes, and because we forgot to ask our server to separate our orders, it’s all on one.

I grab it first and insist on paying.

“Oh, come on, Thoma,” Brock grumbles. He always resorts to my last name when he’s irritated. “You bought dinner last week when we went out with Lennox and Easton, and that was one big-ass bill. Let me pick this up.”

He does have a point. Lennox and Easton are my linemates, and the four of us went really big at an upscale steakhouse after the first game of this series.

We won that one and felt like celebrating.

“Oh, fine, okay.” I brush back a swath of my reddish-brown hair and reluctantly push the check over to him. “But the next one is on me.”

“Fair enough,” he replies.

It’s funny. When you first meet this guy, he’s this big, intimidating Viking-like dude with longish blond hair, a height of about 6’4”, and a body loaded with muscle. But once you get to know him, you discover he’s actually kind and a bit of a gentle soul.

You wouldn’t know that on the ice, though. Out there, he’s downright vicious and tough. He’s smart as hell too. That’s what makes him such a formidable defenseman who commands respect.

I respect him off the ice as well. He’s three years older than I am, having just turned thirty, and he has a lot of sage advice, especially regarding women. I guess you could say he’s a bit of a ladies’ man.

Lord knows I’m not.

I have the worst luck with girls. Brock has become my go-to for when it comes to some of the perplexing things chicks so often do, at least when it comes to me.

He tells me I’m a good-looking guy and should be killing it out there. He says I’m just too nice. I need more “edginess” about me in order to rein them in and hold their interest.

I don’t know about that.

I can only be who I am—me.

My thinking is that somewhere out there, there’s someone meant for me.

Shit, I hope that’s true.

Easton and Lennox found their significant others not all that long ago. It’d be nice to have someone as well. There are days that I tire of this lonely life I lead.

But hey, it just is what it is.

I’m done with trying and failing.

The way I see it, it’s in fate’s hands now.

The server comes around again and clears the table. She also refills our waters before she leaves. She returns a few beats later with a portable credit card reader.

Brock pays for the check at the table, adding a very good tip. The waitress thanks us and strides away.

Leaning back in his chair, he asks me, “Seriously, though, if our season does end tonight, what are your plans for the summer?”

I actually do have a plan, and I’m pumped to share it with him. “You’re going to love this, dude,” I say.

“What are you cookin’?” he replies as he crosses his arms over his wide chest and chuckles.

I smile over at him, then share, “Well, it’s not golfing, I’ll tell you that much. I scored a great deal on a sweet-ass beachfront rental property down in the Bahamas.”

“No way,” he says.

“Yep. It’s located on a small private island, but there is a little town, so you can get supplies and shit. It’s not total isolation. There are a few restaurants and even a tiny hospital, I think.”

Brock nods approvingly. “Nice. How long are you planning on staying?”

“Shit.” I blow out a breath. “I told the owners—they’re an older married couple—that I’ll be there at least through early August. I rented it for the whole summer basically.

But I also let them know that I may not make it down there till late June.

That is, if we were to go all the way to the Final. ”

I don’t dare say the words “Stanley Cup.” That might jinx us.

Raising a brow, Brock asks, “So, you can go in June…or earlier?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “From what I understand, it’s pretty much mine already. I can head down there anytime, even tomorrow.”

“Though we don’t want that,” he says, sounding concerned.

“No!” I exclaim. “Hell no.”

Yeah, hockey comes first.

Looking relieved, Brock says, “Well, when you do get there, it sounds like it’ll be peaceful and relaxing.”

“It does,” I agree. “Whether it’s sooner or later, it’s going to be me on the beach, soaking up the sun, sipping on some kind of a fucking frozen tropical drink, and enjoying the solitude with not a care in the world.”

All true.

After the stress of the regular season and now these high-stakes playoffs, not to mention the constant media and fan attention, I’m looking forward to spending time at that beach house fucking alone.