Chapter 1
MADDOX
NINE YEARS LATER, AGE TWENTY-SIX
My thighs burn, the muscles tight and heavy with fatigue, but I don’t slow down. If anything, the pain only pushes me to pick up my pace. In a blink, I’m shaking off the two Vegas Crowns players trying to tag team me and driving toward my target.
A smirk twists my mouth when I catch one of their defensemen by surprise and poke the puck out from right in front of him as he tries to clear it from their zone.
Arrogance brightens my disposition as I bump his shoulder a bit harder than necessary and take off, leaving him spitting my name through his mouthguard.
It’s my second breakaway of the game. Fuck yeah.
Drops of sweat fall from my forehead and hang off my eyelashes as I close in on the goalie, his six-five frame doing a great job of blocking the net.
Travis MacAvoy is one tough son of a bitch, but he’s also weak on the glove hand.
It’s been a running joke with the team since we got on the plane and flew to Vegas yesterday.
Travis MacAvoy couldn’t even stop a beachball.
We’ve kicked Vegas ass tonight—leading by three with ten minutes left to play. The rumours about good ol’ Travis have held up, but with my sights set on that sweet spot of netting peeking out from behind his left shoulder, I ache to test the theory again.
I calm my breathing and flash a smile at the crowd before tightening my grip on my stick and snapping a shot off. It all happens so fast, just how I like it. The goal horn blares at the same time I quickly turn my skates to the side and come to a stop at the boards behind the net, snow flying.
The fans are silent, disappointment pungent in the air, and it only makes me smile wider.
I wave a gloved hand at the ones sitting behind the boards, dripping in black and gold, their scowls etched deep.
One bulky guy with a receding hairline and Vegas tattoos on his cheeks flips me the bird and boos loudly, encouraging the people close by to do the same.
The sound spreads through the arena, and I soak it in, loving every second.
A body crashes into me from behind, and I laugh when my left winger and good friend, Bentley Daniels, claps the top of my helmet and jostles me around.
“Quickest shot in the league, baby!” he shouts in my ear.
There’s nothing to do but grin and let the remaining Vancouver Warriors players on the ice join in on the celebration.
The adrenaline in my blood cools as we break apart and I head to the bench, swinging my body over the boards.
A water bottle is handed to me, and I grab it with a dip of my head before squirting the cold liquid all over my face and into my mouth.
The game clock ticks down as our second line works to keep the puck away from Vegas.
The home team pulls their goalie with a minute left in the game, and Coach smacks me on the back as our lines switch again.
I head back out to the ice and roll my shoulders as my linemates fall beside me and get into position, prepared to help our goalie secure his eleventh shutout of the season.
“Ready?” I ask them both as we set up for a faceoff.
On my left, Bentley grins wickedly while Logan Hart nods on my right. I rest my stick across my thighs, pushing down on it as I bend at the waist, and then tap the heel of my skate on the ice three times.
I nod. “Bring it home, boys.”
Freshly showered, I sit between Bentley and one of our best defensemen, Colt Warner, at a table in the media room with a microphone, a bottle of water, and a sea of reporters in front of me. The game ended half an hour ago, and like usual, we’re the first players out of the dressing room.
The flashing lights make my skin itch, but after spending the past seven years in front of this level of media, it’s become less terrifying. Everyone wants to talk to the captain, even when he would rather be anywhere else.
Bentley finishes answering a question about our next game and what we’re hoping to accomplish—a win, obviously—when another reporter speaks up. He stands and introduces himself from one of the bigger sports reporting websites while I give him my attention.
“Maddox, can you describe how it feels to have another four-point game?”
Two goals and two assists. I clear my throat and rest my elbows on the table, leaning toward the mic. The reporter is familiar, like most of them are at this point. He wears an easygoing smile, and it helps settle the nerves I can’t seem to get to piss off.
“It feels good. I have amazing teammates that help me get the job done,” I answer.
He nods and glances down at his notes before meeting my stare again. “Any updates on your plans for next season?”
“Not any we’re ready to share yet.” I cover the slight bite in my words with a smile.
Again, he nods and sits back down. Another reporter is chosen, this time a woman with narrowed, calculating eyes. I straighten my posture.
“Rose Carpenter from Sports Weekly,” she introduces herself, her tone sharp. I subtly lift my brow, feeling cautious. “Maddox, the fans are growing restless. Are you sure you don’t want to say anything about your upcoming plans this off-season? Clear the air?”
I swallow down my discomfort. “The air doesn’t need clearing yet. We still have a season to finish here. That’s where my head is at.”
Talks about my upcoming contract aren’t the media’s business, as far as I’m concerned.
But I do understand the fans’ curiosity.
Vancouver is my home. Of course I want to stay here.
My agent knows that. Everything else is beyond my control.
There’s still a lot more hockey to play this season, including the playoff spot we clinched a couple of weeks ago.
The playoffs start in just over a week, and the team is ready. Hungry.
“Despite the rocky start to your career, I’m sure the other teams are frothing at the mouth for a chance to have you. Thank you for the time.”
The woman sits down, and I grit my teeth. The dig was obvious, and I don’t like it.
Despite that, I plaster on a smile and thank her before the pressure is finally shifted to the other guys. My skin is hot as frustration bubbles beneath the surface. When will the past stop haunting my present and future?
As far as I’m concerned, what happened after I was drafted is in my rearview. I don’t dwell on it—I use it as motivation. As a reminder not to trust so easily.
Having it hinted at in front of my teammates and several media outlets isn’t ideal.
It’s outright annoying. It doesn’t matter how many hundred-point seasons I have or how many times I’ve nearly brought the Warriors to the Stanley Cup finals, I’ll always be Maddox Hutton, the guy with the stick up his ass and his nose in the air.
The guy who passed on his draft team because he felt like he was “too good” for them. Assholes know nothing.
I suck in a breath when someone kicks my ankle bone beneath the table. Bentley is staring at me with a barely contained smile as I take in the emptying room.
His bleached blond hair has been freshly buzzed, and he’s freshly shaven, like always. Personally, I think he just likes to show off his jawline because he knows it’s his best feature, but while he might be vain sometimes, he’s not vain enough to admit that out loud.
“Time to go,” he says, patting my shoulder.
“Tell me I wasn’t sitting here staring off for too long.”
“Nah. You’re good.”
Thank fuck.
I push my chair back and walk beside him out the back door. Colt is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He pushes off and settles on my other side.
“That chick was harsh,” he notes, a slight Nashville twang brushing the words. It was only last season that he was traded to the VW from Nashville. He spent six years there.
Bentley grunts, “Must be new.”
We walk into the dressing room and break apart to grab our shit. I throw my bag over my shoulder, swallowing a groan at the weight of it. “There’s no reason to worry about where I’m going next season. The VW have been open about wanting to keep me.”
“Why wouldn’t they want you? You’re in your prime.” Bentley pulls his phone out of his bag and starts typing. “Wanna share an Uber back to the hotel? I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Sure,” I say. I’m running on goddamn fumes. A good long sleep sounds like heaven.
“You aren’t coming out tonight?” Colt scoffs, bag in hand, when he joins us. “You’re not taking an Uber. I’ll take you back.”
A few other players are still hanging around the room, but most of everyone is long done.
This is our fourth away game in a row, and I know we’re all ready to go home.
My mom has been texting me about an overdue family dinner for the past few days, and I know I won’t hear the end of it until I give her what she wants.
Plus, I miss her food. Restaurants have nothing on Ma’s baked potatoes and Dad’s steak.
Bentley pushes the door open at the back entrance of the arena, holding it wide for us as we step into the underground parking garage designated for players only.
Colt’s rented Escalade is up a few yards, the windows dark, too dark to see into, and lifted just enough to appear big and beefy.
I half expected to see an old truck in the Escalade’s place.
“Hell no. All I want is a hefty serving of Chinese food and a good porno.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Fuck off.”
Bentley shrugs. “What?”
“You’re going to watch a porno instead of going out and getting laid?” Colt asks, bewildered.
“That still surprises you? We all know little Bentley here is shy when it comes to women,” I tease.
Bentley deadpans, “Ha-ha. Hilarious.”
Colt groans. “Whatever. Have fun spending your night with your hand and a pervy pizza delivery guy instead of free beer at a bar with your friend.”
“Your taste in beer is revolting.” I shudder for good measure.
Colt reaches out and tries to swat at my balls, but I quickly step out of reach, roaring a laugh. “Nuh-uh. Not the family jewe—fuck!”
I stumble forward when Bentley sticks his leg out behind me and presses his foot to the back of my knee.
With my arms out to catch my fall, I hit the hood of Colt’s SUV, and the alarm blares.
I slant Bentley a withering glare over my shoulder as he howls in amusement, his hands on his knees. Tears make his blue eyes twinkle.
Colt is leaning on the driver’s door of the SUV, his eyes squeezed shut as he wheezes and presses a button on his key fob that turns off the alarm. “Get in the . . . SUV . . . Maddox. I’ll drop you both . . . off,” he says between laughs.
I glower. “Fuck you.”
“I need the security footage of that,” Bentley says breathlessly. He shoots his hands up in the air and stares off dreamily while spreading them apart slowly. “Maddox Hutton stumbling out of the arena after a win. Drunk or just unbalanced? I can see it now.”
Rolling my eyes, I push off the hood and walk around to the passenger seat of the Escalade before pulling it open. “Get in the car.”
“Lighten up, sweetheart,” Colt teases with extra twang in his voice. “You made my damn night. Thank you.”
“Always aiming to please,” I grumble, folding my large frame into the SUV. The dark interior is hot to the point of discomfort. “Hurry up. I’m going to pop like a popcorn kernel in a microwave if I sit here without A/C any longer.”
Colt opens the driver’s door and grins when he gets in, dropping his keys in the cup holder. He presses the engine start button, and I groan as the warm air starts to blow, trying to cool down.
“Good, princess?” he teases.
I tip my head back and close my eyes. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
Bentley gets in the back seat, and we do just that.