Chapter 6 Boone
“It’s cold as hell,” Penn mutters, shuffling into our shared Manhattan apartment kitchen in nothing but an obnoxiously plush navy-blue terry cloth robe that’s clearly hiding nothing underneath.
He tugs the robe tighter around himself and gives a theatrical shiver, as if he’s just braved the Arctic tundra instead of the short walk from his bedroom.
“It’s not even that bad,” I reply, barely glancing up as I pour steaming hot chocolate into my thermos, prepping to head out for my meeting across town with my new lawyer and PR team.
Penn’s eyebrows shoot up as he leans against the counter, watching me like I’ve committed some kind of crime.
“When are you going to give up the hot cocoa, stop playing Santa’s elf, and finally embrace caffeine like a grown adult?”
“Never. Ho, ho, ho.” I screw the lid onto my thermos and click my heels together like an elf. “Caffeine is a drug.”
“Exactly,” he grins, like he’s won a point. “And one that I fully enjoy being addicted to since I can't do anything else during the season.”
I roll my eyes, though what I really want to say is something like you're addicted to a few other things like women and blowing all your money, but I hold my tongue.
“When are you going to accept the fact that New York winters aren’t that bad?”
Penn scoffs dramatically, flinging a handout toward one of our frost-covered windows.
“January in New York is the worst. I don’t care what anyone says.
You can’t convince me otherwise. If we could give up a month, I’d volunteer January as tribute.
And don’t pull the whole ‘I’m from Canada, so I’m immune to the cold’ card.
That doesn’t mean this city doesn’t suck in the winter.
I’d much rather be down south right now.
And I know you'd rather be doing shots of tequila off some mamacita's stomach too.”
I can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s because I grew up in Canada, where snow and freezing temperatures are just part of life, or because I spent my childhood on the ice, skating for hours and finding comfort in the cold, solid surface beneath my blades, but I’ve never minded winter.
Hell, I enjoy it. Even on a bone-chilling 15-degree day like today, I’m perfectly fine in a long-sleeve henley and black suit pants. No coat.
In fact, I think I might go do an ice bath at the stadium after this meeting. Recovery and nostalgia all wrapped in one. If you want to feel alive, that’s one way to do it.
“You’re too soft to be on defense,” I tease, leaning against the counter as I watch him clutch his robe like it’s a teddy bear. “Maybe I should talk to Coach, see if one of the new guys can step in. Wouldn’t want you getting ice burn during the game this weekend because it’s too cold for you.”
“I hate you,” he grumbles, though his tone lacks any bite as I head out of the kitchen. He scoffs behind me. “As if anyone could replace me on defense!”
“I can think of about ten guys from the Boston Tea who could.”
“Fuck you!”
I smile and grab my shoes to pull them on while he trails behind me.
“Where are you off to now? Going to see Coach?”
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. It’s overdue for a cut, but I’ve been too busy, or maybe too distracted to make the appointment.
“I doubt he’ll be there. Supposed to be meeting with Caleb and my new lawyer to go over our strategy for the upcoming case.”
“That’s tough.”
“Eh, no big deal,” I say, trying to convince both him and me. “They think they can get the case dropped and clean up my reputation so none of my sponsors drop me. If it’s enough to get me through the rest of my contract and a shot at an extension, then it’s worth it.”
“Sure, man,” he says, turning to the coffee maker and flipping it on. The scent of fresh brew fills the room, but it doesn’t tempt me. Never has. I’d rather think clearly, unclouded by the effects of the caffeine.
“What’s your plan for the rest of the day?” Penn asks as he pours himself a cup.
“It’s a recovery day.” Which for me means stretching, rehab, sauna, ice baths, or any of the other methods the Mayhem club throws money at to keep us—their prized investments—in peak shape.
Normally, I mix it up. But today, after dealing with lawyers and team politics, I know I’m going to need an ice bath and to sweat it out.
“Probably hit some light weights, sit in the sauna, maybe get an IV to replenish whatever I’ve burned through.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He pulls his robe tighter and leans against the counter. “You can find me downstairs at Meghan’s apartment.”
“You’re still seeing her?”
He snorts. “Seeing is a loaded term. I’m certainly seeing her, alright.”
I roll my eyes as he salutes me. “Good luck, man. See you tonight.”
I nod and head out, making my way to the private elevator in our building. It takes me down to the lobby, where old man Lawrence, the doorman, is standing at his post.
He’s in his seventies, but he knows all of us hockey players by name. This building might not have the tightest security, but it’s in a prime location to the stadium, and none of us would stand for anyone replacing Lawrence.
“How you doing, son?” he asks, his voice gruff but kind. To him, we’re all his “honorary sons.”
“Not great,” I admit, stopping by the door and shoving my hands into my pockets. “On my way to meet with the new lawyer. Hoping they can help me beat this case and turn my reputation around.”
Lawrence nods knowingly, pulling open the door for me. The icy January air hits my face, sharp and biting, like a cold embrace I didn’t realize I’d been missing.
It reminds me of home in Canada. Of the rinks where I’ve played for decades. Of the countless hours spent skating, practicing the sport that I love and the only constant I've ever had in my life.
“You got this,” he says firmly. “Stay strong. Stay true to yourself. We’ve all got your back. The whole city is behind you.”
I nod, appreciating the advice even though I doubt he knows what I’m being accused of.
I also doubt he knows that some of the city isn’t behind me anymore.
Because when people find out, they don’t usually offer words of encouragement.
They’re too busy blaming me for something that wasn’t my fault.
Or telling me that I need to be careful about the company I keep.
And that's probably sound advice. I do need to be better about allowing myself to get dragged into my teammate’s antics. I should probably find some friends outside of hockey who know how to have a good time without alcohol, women and a brawl.
And most of all, I should probably just focus on hockey. Cut out women and alcohol, not sure what more I can cut out.
I pound knuckles with Lawrence as I step out into the cold, shoving my hands deep into my pant pockets.
It’s only a five-block walk to the Law Offices of Prescott and Associates, but the biting January wind has me second-guessing the distance by the time I hit the second block and feel my shoes slip against the pavement.
The building isn’t hard to spot—it’s impossible to miss with its revolving doors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a constant flow of people spilling in and out. I'm just surprised I've never noticed it before given its close proximity to the rink and my apartment.
The suits outside the building are no joke. All tailored, pressed, and probably worth more than my entire closet. Everyone’s got Bluetooth earpieces jammed in their ears, barking orders like they’re saving lives.
A steady line of taxis idles out front, engines puffing little clouds into the frozen air as passengers shuffle in and out for their morning commute.
I can already tell I’m going to hate this place. It even looks expensive. This is why I liked working with the team’s lawyer. They handled things quietly, efficiently, and with minimal involvement from me. No stuffy boardroom meetings with people in suits involved.
I check my phone and see a text from my mom in the group with my brother’s.
Mom: Love you, Boone. Chin up. These new lawyers will see just how great you are and turn this all around!
Levi: I think the words that the headlines used was ‘irresponsible, out of control and reckless.’
Seth: Did you see the photos, mom? He was holding a knife to that guy’s throat!
Levi: I gasped when I saw it.
Mom: Leave him alone.
Boone: I hate you all.
Boone: Except mom. Love you, mom!
I slip in behind a guy shaking snow off his overpriced coat like it personally offended him. “Fucking hate the snow. So goddamn pointless,” he mutters, loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear.
A few people around him grunt in agreement. I hold my tongue because, honestly, if he hates snow, New York is the wrong place to set up shop.
A few minutes later, I’m sliding in the elevator, riding up to the twelfth floor like Caleb told me.
When the doors open, I almost stop in my tracks.
The law office of Prescott and Associates is next level. I’m talking velvet furniture, rose gold light fixtures, and a marble floor so shiny it’s like staring into a mirror.
The place practically oozes money and feels like a billionaire villains fever dream. And all I can think about is how much this is all going to cost me.
I step up to the front desk, where a woman with a razor-sharp bob and a manicure that could cut glass is typing away without looking up.
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m Boone Tremblay. Here to meet with my new lawyer. My team owner should be here any minute.”
She finally glances up, flashing me a smile so fake it’s almost impressive. “Have a seat. We’ll call you when your lawyer is ready to meet with you.”
“Sure,” I mumble, turning toward one of the velvet chairs that look more like art pieces than furniture. I sit, knowing I’m going to soak this with snowflakes, and try not to fidget, but it’s hard to ignore how out of place and nervous I feel right now.
Thankfully, it’s not long before Caleb steps off the elevator, brushing snow off his coat and looking awfully dapper.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, striding over.