Chapter 2
Two
A cacophonyof voices filled the arena as I stepped into the rink, the sheet of ice glistening under the glaring floodlights. The audience was a kaleidoscope of color—all hues betraying allegiance to our team. New York was an away game for us, which automatically put us at a disadvantage in terms of team morale. As one of the Canadian teams in the National Hockey League, we were used to unfriendly faces in US sports arenas.
The energy of the crowd revitalized me all the same. I lived for hockey. Where the bitter cold of the ice bothered the other guys, it was the warm hug of an old friend to me. Whether we were playing at home or an away game, I came alive in the rink.
“Behind you!” One of my teammates, Mark, skated past me, his voice muffled by his mouthguard.
Our right defenseman, Hunter, was at his heels. “Yo, Trojan Warrior! Ready to live up to your name?” His eyebrows wiggled beneath his helmet.
I grinned. “Always.” I had earned the nickname Trojan Warrior after a vicious fight on the ice. It was expected that I uphold the glory.
My team glided on their skates in pursuit of orange jerseys or fans holding Halifax Trojan signs. I finally spotted a small herd wearing the familiar color—many of whom sported my name. I lifted my stick in salute, only to be met with the shrill screams of females, most waving signs in support of my athletic abilities.
Go Trojan Warrior!read one of the signs.
There were also others with signs that pushed a slightly different agenda.
I love you, Xander.
Marry me, Trojan Warrior.
I want to have Xander’s babies!
I rolled my eyes at the last one, which was thirstier than the rest. Regardless, appearances had to be kept. After graduating college, I was drafted by the NHL and later moved to Canada to join the new Halifax team. As an American recently traded, I needed to connect with my new fans. A significant portion of my income was derived from sponsoring Canadian brands, and I’d been advised to put my all-American, panty-melting smile and emerald-green eyes to good use.
Unfortunately, my all-American eyes were distracted, searching for someone I hoped would be among the strangers cheering me on.
It was an unrealistic expectation.
She had never attended my games, nor had I invited her to one. I knew the outcome, yet I got my hopes up every time.
Distracted, I struggled to hear what our coach was yelling about. She already occupied my mind every minute of the day. If I allowed my thoughts to dwell on this obsession any further, I’d sink too deep to dig myself out.
As we lined up for the national anthem, my eyes still scanned the crowd, searching for the face I knew wouldn’t be there. It was a ritual I couldn’t shake, even though it always gutted me. I tried to push down the hollow ache in my chest and focus on the game ahead.
The large-screen television zoomed into the singer and played a couple of messages from the sponsors. Meanwhile, I could barely stand still, itching to start the game. I wanted to pummel something—preferably the puck—at the net. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I waited, ready to burst from impatience.
The buzzer sounded, and the puck finally dropped. I shot one last hopeful glance at the stands. My heart sank despite knowing what I sought wouldn’t be there.
Rather than dawdle on the gut-wrenching disappointment, I surged forward, my stick connecting with the puck with a satisfying crack. The audience had come to know me for my brutal plays. My calm and collected nature from the real world didn’t exist on the ice. Here, I was unhinged, slamming opposing players against the glass and aggressively clashing my stick with theirs.
Coach shouted a warning from the bench adjacent to the ice.
“Are you trying to go to the penalty box already?” Kai, one of the defensemen, screamed from behind me.
“Half the reason fans pay good money for tickets is to watch grown men beat the shit out of each other,” I shot back. “I don’t want to let them down.”
“Just giving people what they asked for, eh?” Mark skidded to a halt as one of the opposing team’s players jabbed me on the side with his stick.
I didn’t think before taking off my helmet and gloves.
“Damnit, Maxwell!” Coach screamed as I pounced on the New York Islanders’ center, which quickly escalated into a fistfight.
I clocked him in the face, and he also got in a punch. The hit was a welcome distraction. The pain dulled away the gaping ache of disappointment, one I’d become agonizingly familiar with, and made me feel alive.
The roaring crowd egged me on, and I was suddenly grateful for loving a game that glorified violence. I never allowed myself to lose control off of the ice. This was the only time I had a pass. I barely felt it when he punched me again, and a penalty was announced.
The penalty only fueled my fire. The moment I was back, I darted across the ice for my first goal. Canadians loved their hockey. What they lacked in number on American soil, fans made up for with enthusiasm and cheered until their voices gave out.
I wasn’t done chasing this high, though. Since she wasn’t here, there was only one way I could seek euphoria. I played with a single-minded focus, channeling all my pent-up frustration into the puck. Before the end of the second period, I made three more attempts at the net, one of them making successful contact. The continuous roar of the crowd was intoxicating, urging me on as I slammed opponents into the glass and racked up goals.
It still wasn’t enough to numb me. The three-hour game made me feel alive with adrenaline and ice spray, knowing I’d crash and burn from this high right after. It was always the same—I was all right on the ice, then it was empty numbness until the next time.
We were up 4–2 by the final buzzer, but the high was already fading. Unable to help it, my eyes drifted once more to the stands. The familiar wound ignited in my chest as I looked out at the unfamiliar faces. Like always, I was disappointed when her radiant face didn’t pop up in their midst.
Even though today’s game was set during the day, it was five o’clock when I left the arena. It was the last game before our bye week, and we had to tie up loose ends. As soon as I threw my duffel in the back seat of the rental car, my phone pinged with a fury of incoming texts.
Jasper: Did anyone make it to Xander’s game today? I have a group project until 8 p.m. Otherwise, I would’ve been there.
I studied the first message in the group thread. Guilt was evident in Jasper’s tone, even through a text. He had been my number-one fan since the day I picked up a hockey stick, and I was the reason he started playing. I didn’t want him worrying about attending my games, though. I wanted him to focus on school, hockey games, and being a college kid.
All the same, I internally cursed him for shedding light on forgetting to inform my cousins about being geographically close.
Caden: Xander’s in town?
Damon: I would’ve gone to his game had I known.
Jasper: Oh, shit. I thought he told everyone.
Damon: Nope.
Bitterness seeped through the messages. Perhaps their complaints were justified based on my prolonged absence from the group. I was honestly too distracted about seeing her again.
Xander: It slipped my mind.
Caden: Really?
Damon: How does it slip your mind that you’ll be in New York?
I stared at the disgruntled messages and tried to make amends.
Xander: My bad. Let’s get together. I’m free after dinner.
Against my best judgment, I scheduled a visit with my father… and her. Unfortunately, I had to brace against her alone since Jasper had bowed out. At least I could line up a distraction for later in the evening. When it came to her, lots of distractions were required.
Caden: Damon wants to crash an Ambani party tonight.
Jasper: What!?
Damon: I’ll explain later.
Jasper: Have you guys lost your minds?
Caden: Calm down. It’s a masquerade party. No one will recognize us with masks on.
I frowned.
We have had a long-standing enmity with the Ambani family. They also owned a notoriously rich company that competed with ours. Attending one of their parties, even under guise, was downright dangerous.
Jasper: What if they find out?
Caden: They won’t.
Something about Caden’s tone was insincere. For as long as I had known him—which was my entire life—he had never proposed going to a party, let alone one at our enemy’s home.
I phrased my next text somewhat skeptically.
Xander: Why are we doing this?
Caden: Because we can.
Damon: Are you in?
I heaved a sigh.
Xander: Text me where we’re meeting.
Jasper: This is a terrible idea.
Caden: It’s a great idea.
They continued bickering while I muted the chat and started the car. The delays had already grated on my nerves, though a week off during mid-season was a luxury. The other players wanted to spend time with their families and flew back to Canada.
Meanwhile, my childhood home was forty minutes away in Connecticut. New York’s finest invested in real estate here to live the posh suburban lifestyle while being within reach of city life.
Every fiber in my body screamed impatiently, begging for a glimpse of her before I went mad. My heartbeat accelerated the closer I got to the sprawling Greenwich neighborhoods. I was teetering between excitement and antsy edginess at the mere thought of seeing her again. I got carried away in my restlessness and hit the gas pedal harder than necessary.
Sirens blared behind me, a swift consequence for running a red light.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pulling the rental car over to the side of the road and watching the police car follow suit.
A middle-aged officer in a dark navy-blue uniform approached my car and knocked on the window. I rolled it down, hoping for the fresh air to cool my heated temper. You’d think hours of contact sports would drain my frustration.
“Good evening. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
It was an idiotic question because we both knew why he pulled me over. Dragging it out was an insult to my intellect and his time. “No, I don’t believe I do. Is something wrong, Officer?” According to the tag pinned to his chest, his name was Officer Thomas.
“You ran a red light,” he replied.
I played naive. “I must’ve mistaken it for a green light.”
The man regarded me from behind his dark sunglasses before deciding he didn’t buy the transparent excuse. “License and registration, please.”
Great. I fished out my driver’s license and registration and handed them over. I rolled my shoulders to work the irritation out of my tense muscles while he studied the documents. I didn’t care if he gave me a ticket, only the valuable time we would waste while writing me up.
The problem resolved itself when recognition flared in his eyes upon scanning my license. “Alexandros Maxwell!”
The stars had aligned in my favor with those two words, but I maintained a humble mien. “Please. Call me Xander.”
“My son is obsessed with you,” he said excitedly.
“Is that so? Then why don’t we take a photo, and you can show it to him?”
His eyes glowed as if he had struck gold. I had an inkling he’d no longer bother with the tedious paperwork of writing me up.
Officer Thomas fumbled with his phone and crouched beside my window for a selfie. Flustered, he rambled about his son, Brad, who had followed my career from when I was first drafted by the NHL to winning Rookie of the Year and then my transfer to Nova Scotia’s newest hockey team.
Over the next two minutes, Officer Thomas shared his entire life story while snapping away photos of us from various angles. He was divorced and split custody of Brad with a bitter ex-wife. Their interactions had been rare since Brad blamed him for the breakup and rarely came over.
“This is going to make me very popular,” the tangent continued. “The divorce has been hard on Brad. Once he sees these pictures… he’ll definitely come over for dinner to hear the whole story.” Hope radiated in his voice.
I said nothing, intentionally letting my eyes rest on the license and registration he was still holding. Officer Thomas followed my gaze. “Tell you what,” he said kindly. “I’ll let you off the hook with a warning. Just drive more carefully from now on.”
I gave him my practiced and perfected million-dollar smile. “You have my word, Officer. Thank you.”
As I shifted to drive, I noticed he was already sending the photos. His copious excitement at bonding with his son stank of desperation, yet the effort was palpable.
“Hold on a second.” I reached for the back seat and grabbed the jersey I had worn earlier and a Sharpie from my duffel bag. I signed my name on the jersey. He caught the shirt on reflex when I tossed it to him through the window. “That’s for Brad.”
It was unlikely an officer of the law would accept gifts since they could be misconstrued as bribes. So, I drove off without letting him respond and glanced at the rearview mirror. Officer Thomas appeared awestruck. I had no idea what compelled me to do it, except a desperate father was better than one with no vested interest in their kids.
I gunned the engine of the Bentley Flying Spur, zooming through traffic until reaching my childhood home. I hadn’t learned my lesson nor kept my promise to the officer. The day had gone on longer than expected, and I was wound too tight to drive like a sane person.
I’d skillfully avoided my father and her for years, which fueled speculation in the press surrounding the Halifax Trojans and their center’s estranged father. Wary of the bad publicity, Henry had asked me to visit numerous times over the years. This was the first time I accepted his invitation. This visit was Henry’s publicity stunt so the paparazzi could photograph us together.
Wind whipped against my face on the chilly night as I shut the car door. Swinging the duffel bag over my shoulder, I stepped onto the estate I hadn’t visited in years. I had managed to remain busy between practice and away games, but I knew this day would come.
My stomach churned with anticipation, and I mentally prepared myself before knocking on the heavy door. Once, twice, nothing. The house was dead silent. After a few more moments, my knock grew heavy-handed. I lifted my knuckles for a third time when the door flew open…and she was finally in front of me after three long years.