Shutout Heart (Renegades Ice Hockey Romance #4)

Chapter 1

Logan

Nolan is talking shit again.

We're three minutes into the first period, and he's already at it. “Nice fucking pass, bro. My grandmother moves the puck faster than that.”

I'd flip him off, but the refs are watching. Playing against my brother is one of the best parts of this job. I taught him how to handle the puck when he was six. Now he's twenty-five and wearing an NHL jersey.

I was in the stands the night he got drafted, clapping so hard my hands hurt.

I’ve never told him that, but I don’t need to. He knows. Doesn't mean I won't put him through the boards if he cuts through my zone.

“Talk to me when you've got a Cup ring, little brother,” I say.

He laughs and skates back to his bench. The Long Island crowd loves it. They always do when the Shaw brothers go at each other. It's good television, the announcers eat it up, and Nolan plays to the camera better than anyone I know.

I don't play to anything. I just play.

The Runners are fast tonight. Their top line has been cycling the puck in our zone for thirty seconds. I close the gap on their center, pin him against the boards, and strip the puck clean. Blake is already moving up ice. I hit him with a stretch pass, and he carries it into the neutral zone.

No goal. But we reset.

Between periods, Coach Mercer keeps it simple. Stay disciplined. Win the battles along the boards. Stop giving them the middle of the ice. I sit in my stall and retape my stick, listening without looking up.

Second period is where it goes wrong.

Their power play is clicking, and I'm caught cheating to my left when their winger one-times it from the circle. The puck is in the net before I can get my stick down. 2-1 Runners. Shit.

Nolan scores the third goal. He points at me as he skates past the bench. “That one's for you, big brother.”

“Fuck off,” I say.

He blows me a kiss.

We push hard in the third. Cole ties it up, and for a few minutes, the building goes quiet. But with four minutes left, their defenseman walks the blue line and rips one through traffic. 3-2.

The buzzer sounds, and the Long Island crowd erupts, and my brother is at center ice, celebrating with his teammates.

I tap his pads as we shake hands in the line. He grabs my jersey and pulls me close. “Good game. Tell Dad I said hi.”

“Tell him yourself. He's upstairs.”

“Yeah, but he'll be too busy telling you what you did wrong to notice me.”

Dad played defense in college. He played in the AHL for two seasons and got called up to an NHL training camp once, but they cut him before the regular season started. He never got another shot.

He's been watching us play since we could barely stand on skates. He hasn't missed a home game in six years.

Mom's the same way. She played field hockey and lacrosse at UConn. She knows sport. She reads the game as well as any coach I've played for, and she's not shy about sharing her opinions. Between the two of them, we grew up in a house where hockey was the family business.

Nolan's right about the rest of it. Dad will spend the entire dinner telling me what I did wrong. But that's just how he's built.

The drive to my parents' house takes twelve minutes from the arena. I could do it with my eyes closed. I pull onto Maple Street and drive to the end of the block. The house is a red brick with white shutters and a wraparound porch.

Two maple trees frame the front yard, one for each side of the driveway. Mom planted them when we moved in, and now they're taller than the house.

Nolan and Dom’s cars are on the driveway, which means they beat me to it.

My back is tight from the third period, and I press my knuckles into the muscle along my spine until it releases. I grab my bag from the backseat and head inside.

Dom is at the table with Sarah. She’s seated with her hands folded in her lap, her posture straight, and a polite smile on her face. She always looks like a guest who hasn't been told she can stay when she’s here.

“There he is,” Nolan sings with a smug smile. “The man who let me score on him.”

I huff a laugh. “I didn't let you do anything. You got lucky.”

“Luck is just preparation meeting opportunity,” Nolan says, raising his beer.

Dom snorts, and I cock a brow at Nolan. “Did you read that on a poster?”

Dom grins from the table. “Good game, Logan. You played hard.”

“Thanks,” I say, flashing my youngest brother a smile.

“You were flat-footed on that second goal,” Dad says, pinning me with a look.

At least he’s waited until we’re all settled and dinner is on the table.

I serve myself and dive into the roasted chicken. I’m ravenous. “I know.”

“You cheated to your left. Brennan had the whole back door, and you weren't even in the frame.”

My jaw tightens. “I saw the replay.” And I was there, I almost added, but don’t. I learned a long time ago that if I just sit and agree, the lecture will be over faster.

“If you hold your position another half second, Blake rotates, and that shot doesn't happen. You rushed it.”

“Okay.”

“And your gap control in the third. You were giving them too much room through the neutral zone. That last goal, their defenseman walked right through because nobody was pressuring. That's on you.”

Silence fills the table. I focus on eating.

Nolan clears his throat. “Did I tell you guys what happened last week? Our backup goalie has been growing this mustache all month. Thinks he looks like Tom Selleck. The boys taped a photo of a walrus to his locker, and he didn't speak to anyone for two days.”

Everyone laughs, and the tension is broken.

Dad waits for the laughter to die and turns back to me. “I'm serious about the gap control, Logan. You can't give skilled forwards that much ice. Not at this level.”

“Got it, Dad,” I say, trying to control my irritation. I have no issues with criticism, but it’s starting to get to me. “Can we eat?”

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “I just want what's best for you.”

He backs off, and the rest of dinner is easy. Later, Mom brings out dessert. It’s homemade apple pie, and of course, Nolan will eat half of it. She serves everyone, moving around the table with plates and forks and napkins.

We move to the living room after dessert. Dad turns on the hockey broadcast.

“Hey,” Dom says. “You free tomorrow? Sarah and I are catching a show in the city. Dinner after, maybe.”

“Can't. Sponsor event at MSG.”

Dom raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you do sponsor events voluntarily?”

“Since I wear the A on my jersey.”

“Right. The alternate captain thing.” He shakes his head. “They really picked the most antisocial guy on the team for a public-facing role.”

Cole pulled me aside on the first day of training camp and told me the organization wanted to give me the A. Shocked into silence, I didn't say anything for a long time.

The alternate captaincy is a huge responsibility. It means the team trusts you to lead when the captain can't. It means you represent the organization on and off the ice. You get to attend sponsor events and charity appearances.

I'm not Cole or Novak. I don't light up a room, but I've been showing up for this team for six years, and the organization saw that. When Coach told me, I shook his hand and said I wouldn't let him down.

Talking to strangers about things that aren't hockey doesn't come naturally. But I’m doing my very best. “Cole's idea of a joke.”

Nolan doesn't look up from his phone. “Just stand in the corner and look intimidating. That's basically your personality anyway.”

I deadpan .“Thanks.”

“I'm helping.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting Blake or the team group chat.

It's a number I don't have saved.

Hi Logan. It's Jasmine Bennett. I wanted to let you know my firm has been assigned to handle the Renegades' sponsorship contracts, and I'll be the lead on the account. I'm sure we can keep things professional. Hope you're well.

I read it twice.

The living room shrinks. Jasmine. My Jasmine. Well, not mine anymore. She hasn’t been mine for a long time. My face twitches. I close the message and put my phone back in my pocket with a shaking hand.