Chapter Two
Thirty minutes earlier . . .
Gale Knight cranked the shower knob hotter, wincing as scalding water cascaded over his knotted muscles. His skin turned an
angry red, but the pain was a welcome distraction as he fought the urge to slam his fist into the wall. Coach’s feedback and
the humiliation of yet another brutal practice looped through his mind like a mocking soundtrack he couldn’t mute.
Eyes squeezed shut, he braced one calloused hand against the onyx bathroom tiles he’d picked out a couple years ago. Back
when all his shots were top shelf where Mama hid her cookies. Now? It was like he suddenly couldn’t put the biscuit in the
basket even if his life depended on it.
The steam billowed around him, thick enough to choke on. Inhaling deeply, he caught the woodsy scent of his body wash—another
sponsorship deal hanging on by a thread. Desperate for any kind of distraction, he gripped his shaft and started jerking,
trying to find a trace of that easy confidence he used to have. Time was, everything just clicked. His low grunt echoed off
the shower walls—half relief, half defiance.
At least one part of him could still rise to the occasion.
He’d been in skates before he could tie his shoes, but the Regals hadn’t drafted him because of his famous family tree.
They’d wanted the kid who treated every second like sudden death overtime, the one who’d play through a high stick to the face and thanked the guy for snapping him back into focus.
“You’re stuck in your damn head again!” Coach had shouted earlier. “Look at that! A second of hesitation is all it takes for
Brandon to pick your pocket. Where’s your hockey sense? Quit treating every play like you’re defusing a bomb.”
Gale slammed his palm against the shower tile, welcoming the sting. He wasn’t finished—his career couldn’t be ending. At twenty-five,
he should be entering his prime, not fielding retirement questions from nosy journalists. He had to find a way to prove he
still had it, that he could be the generational player everyone had originally expected him to be. He braced his feet wider
and worked his fist faster, trying to find that sweet spot that kept dancing out of reach. Eyes shut tight, he fell into the
fantasy that never let him down—the thought of silk wrapped around his wrists, giving up all control, letting someone else
call the shots for once. He could almost feel the sharp bite of nails dragging down his skin, marking him, claiming him.
But now another memory was intruding. An hour ago, he’d been standing at the register of a Tex-Mex joint in the nearby shopping
center when he’d overheard it—some random guy’s assessment from the corner booth, voice dripping with a Central Texas twang:
“With Taylor between the pipes and Orlenko, Comeau, and Brandon, we should be be making a deep playoff run, no problem. Knight’s
holding us back . . . he’s a turn over machine right now, getting ragdolled by anyone who breathes on him.”
Was there anything Gale could have said that would have made a difference? That he was “working through it”? That the slump
was temporary? Empty words when his gameplay spoke volumes—and lately, it had been speaking in tongues.
He might not be Harvard Material, but he knew two things for damn sure. One: he just couldn’t catch a break. Two: some of these keyboard warriors clearly peaked in their mom’s basement.
Fuck. He was just jerking off for nothing at this point, so he killed the water and stepped out, his movements clipped and
angry as he toweled himself dry. Wiping the steam from the mirror, he barely recognized the guy staring back. The cocky grin
was gone, replaced by a clenched jaw and lost eyes. Was this how dreams died? Not with a bang, but with fans shredding you
over pitchers of cheap beer, while your dick ghosted you?
His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d stormed out of the restaurant without his enchiladas. Now he was stuck in his
gated community, hungry and spiraling—first-world fucking problems.
Padding out to the open-concept living area, Gale flopped onto the leather sectional, kicking his feet up on the wood coffee
table before grabbing his phone. A few taps on a delivery app and he’d ordered chicken green curry and papaya salad from his
favorite Thai joint. Okay, then. One problem solved. Ninety-nine left.
He didn’t bother turning on the massive flat-screen mounted above the limestone fireplace. Last thing he wanted was to catch
his lowlights on ESPN or hear a smug commentator yapping about his fall from grace. Instead, he reached for the acoustic guitar
propped by the end table, settling back into the couch with the instrument across his lap. His fingers found a few familiar
chords, strumming aimlessly as he tried to quiet the storm raging between his ears.
The notes drifted through the room, a melancholy soundtrack to his brooding. Outside, through the floor-to-ceiling windows,
he could see his backyard oasis—a custom-designed pool with a waterfall feature, surrounded by native Texas landscaping. Not
so long ago, it had been the site of legendary parties, the place to be for postgame celebrations. Now, it was just a reminder
of better days.
His phone rang. No name, just a number with an Austin 512 area code. Even with his current curse, there were still puck bunnies who’d work hard to get his digits. Better not to answer. But then he remembered the food order and the gate. Shit. He had forgotten to include the access code.
“Hello?” he answered, bracing for an annoyed delivery driver. A pause when no one answered. “Who is this?”
“Oh, hi,” came a woman’s voice, low and a little flustered. “I thought I was going to voicemail. How are you?”
Gale’s brow furrowed. This was definitely not his food delivery, must be a booty call attempt after all. “Look, the way y’all
track down my number is creepy—”
“Creepy? Hang on a sec!” The woman’s voice rose with indignation. “Gale, you gave it to me.”
He blinked, phone pressed to his ear. Now that he was focused, something in her voice tickled the edge of his memory like
a persistent itch that he couldn’t quite scratch.
A barely audible sigh came through the phone. “It’s Harriet, you know, Brooke’s friend who’s been in your life since peewee
hockey and voice cracks were your biggest problem?”
Harriet? Harriet Smythe?
Recognition hit him like a blind-side check. “Oh hell, Harriet—” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m an idiot. Got a new
phone the other week.” The lie tasted sour, and Gale winced as the excuse fell flat even to his own ears. Still better than
admitting the truth: that he’d deleted her contact during a whiskey-fueled “reset” after Brooke casually mentioned Harriet
might be getting engaged soon. He’d wanted the distance then. Now he was paying for it.
“Oh, it’s fine.” Her tone was light, too light.
Shit. He might not know much, but he knew whenever this woman said she was fine that it was a neon sign to shape up. He swallowed hard, scrambling for the right words to salvage this. “Hey now, I’m curating a very exclusive contacts list over here.”
“Oh really?” A sliver of amusement crept into her tone. “And what exactly does one have to do to be blessed to make the cut?”
“Simple.” He rocked his head back and closed his eyes. “Just keep talking. I’ve always loved listening to you, Smythe.” And
for the first time in this disaster of a call, he was being honest.
A kitchen materialized in his mind, with yellow walls and a linoleum floor curling at the edges. He saw himself there, a lanky
teen hunched over a bowl, inhaling cereal as if it might vanish. Across the wobbly table—propped up by a folded take-out menu
under one leg—Harriet’s voice drifted, patient and steady. “Okay, so if x approaches infinity, then . . .”
His big sister’s brow furrowed as she scribbled equations in her math workbook, the seventies-style refrigerator humming its
familiar, off-key tune in the background. He found himself hanging on Harriet’s every word, not for the math, but for the
comforting cadence of her voice.
After they moved to that duplex after Dad split, she’d always been around. And when puberty hit him like a semitruck and he
went all muscle and jawline, the other girls noticed. Fuck, did they notice. But she always just kept being . . . Harriet.
He’d sometimes catch himself waiting for it—a lingering glance when he stripped off his shirt after mowing the lawn, maybe
a moment of tension when they squeezed past each other in that narrow hallway. But there was nothing. No calculated brushes
of skin, no heated looks.
In a world that acted like he was some kind of Everest to conquer, Harriet had treated him simply like Gale. And yeah, maybe
he’d wanted her to see him in that idolized way, just a little. But what really drew him to her was how she seemed to see
and like him for exactly who he was. That hit different.
“So, uh, I guess you’re stuck on my exclusive list now. No take-backs.”
“Stuck? That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement to making this list,” Harriet shot back. “I prefer to think of it as being
granted VIP access.”
“VIP? Fine, but don’t let it go to your head. The perks are limited.”
“Way to burst my bubble. Here I was anticipating five-star customer service and unlimited free refills.”
Gale’s shoulders sank away from his ears. He hadn’t realized quite how much he’d missed this—just hanging out, zero pressure.
“Best I can offer is decent company and maybe some creative Finnish or Russian terms that I picked up from some of the guys.”
“Tempting,” Harriet mused. “But I might need a little more incentive to keep my VIP status.”
“I’m open to negotiations, what you got?”
A moment of silence passed before Harriet delicately cleared her throat. “To be honest, there is a professional reason behind
this call.”
“Really?” Gale opened his eyes. “That’s interesting, considering you work with computers and I work with, you know, frozen
water and vulcanized rubber.”