Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Zach

I've learned a lot of things from being a billionaire in my thirties, but so far, the most essential is that you can't have thin skin. Everyone wants a piece of you and when you're not giving them the time or attention they think they deserve, they set out to tear you down. Case in point, Yolanda Simms, the entertainment reporter for KBIZ and the most annoyingly fame-seeking woman it has ever been my displeasure to know.

Yolanda and I went out three times, which is a record for me as I barely have a minute for myself. Given my busy schedule, you might be wondering why I would spend my precious free time with such a person. When I first asked her out, I didn't see her for who she truly was. I may have also had a hidden agenda.

I'd recently been called out by a national tabloid for not putting my money where my mouth was. As in, they didn't think I donated enough to charity. And while supposedly no press is bad press, I really don't like people thinking of me the way I was being portrayed.

I figured if I wined and dined Yolanda—who had previously flirted with me outrageously every time she saw me—she might spread the word that I was a decent guy. Self-serving? Yes. But I'm not the villain the press would have you think I am, and I wanted a chance to prove it.

Unfortunately, Yolanda got ahead of herself regarding our friendship and decided to announce on air that she and I were in an exclusive and committed relationship. As we had never so much as kissed, I took exception to her declaration.

"Zachary!" my assistant Anabelle yells out. Before I can ask her what she wants, she says, "Your brother is on line three."

I have five brothers, so I ask, "Which one?"

Instead of answering, I overhear her tell someone else, "Mr. Hart has no comment on Ms. Simms' allegations." Great, another day fending off the aftermath of Yolanda's interview on The View . She told Whoopi Goldberg I was an egomaniacal alpha-male.

I hesitantly reach over to the landline on my desk. "This is Zach."

"Hey, big bro," my younger twin says. In my mind's eye, I see his lopsided grin, which, even though we're fraternal twins, is remarkably like my own. MacElroy, aka Mac, is four minutes younger than me and has four times the personality. "It's starting to look like you're wading through a herd of cows in a rainy field."

"What does that even mean, Mac?" My brother recently bought a sustainable farm in Oregon and his metaphors have taken on a rural sort of charm.

"Where there are cows there are cow pies. Need I explain that a rainy field full of heifers is full of wet …"

"Manure. Got it." Gross.

"Why don't you set the world straight and tell them the majority of your charitable donations are given anonymously?" he wants to know. The man definitely cuts to the chase.

"You do know the definition of anonymous, don't you?" I condescendingly inquire.

"Yes, Zach. What I don't know is why you don't just come clean about what a good guy you are. "

"Because if I bragged about doing good deeds, they wouldn't feel like good deeds," I tell him for the hundredth time.

Shifting in my chair, I stare out of my home office window onto Wilshire Boulevard below. You'd think all the short skirts and tanned legs would be one of the benefits of living in Southern California. Yet no matter how good the view is, wealthy Beverly Hills women are not my type. They're simply too high maintenance, not to mention too self-involved.

"I'm just saying…"

"Let it go, Mac." Removing my feet from the edge of my giant mahogany desk, I ask, "Did you call for any other reason than to bust my butt about Yolanda? Because if not, I have work to do."

"What are you buying today?" he wants to know. "Another office building? A high-rise? Malibu ?" While I like to have a diversified financial portfolio, as a real estate developer, I am obviously partial to buying property.

"I'm giving a speech at Pepperdine," I tell him. Tongue in cheek, I add, "I call it ‘One House, New House, Big House, You House.'"

"Ah yes, a nod to your childhood love of Dr. Seuss." Releasing an exaggerated yawn, he asks, "Has anyone ever told you that you're becoming kind of boring?"

" You tell me that at least twice a week," I remind him. "Now, why are you calling?"

Instead of putting me out of my misery, he wants to know, "When was the last time you strapped on a pair of skates and played a game?"

"Not since that gong show when Howie Heller whacked my left knee with his stick." Not a coincidence, that also marked the end of my college hockey career.

"Are you serious, man? That was over a decade ago."

"What's your point?"

"The Hart brothers were practically born on the ice!" He's not kidding, either. Our mom went into labor with me and Mac while ice skating—something she most certainly shouldn't have been doing four weeks prior to her due date.

Even without our auspicious start in this world, skating really is in our blood. It's also the only reason we all went to college—go, scholarships! Instead of agreeing with my brother, I grunt, "I don't want another year of physical therapy. Not to mention, my surgeon guaranteed I'd need a knee replacement if I took another hit like that."

"Dude, who are you?"

Rolling my eyes, I tell him, "I'm a grown adult who knows when not to take a stupid risk. Now, why did you call?"

He releases a snort of disdain. "Troy and I have a plan to get you out of trouble with the press."

I don't usually pander to the media, but between being called a skinflint, followed by Yolanda's revenge quest to bring me to my knees, I'm seriously starting to worry about my reputation. "I'm listening."

"Troy and Kelly just bought a skating rink in Maple Falls." My oldest brother and his wife live in a small town in Washington state. Buying a rink seems like a reasonable thing to do as all their kids are skaters.

"So?"

"Troy is hoping to get the contract for the Olympic team to train there."

"I guess that makes sense, being that he was on said team back in the day. But why would the Olympics go to a one-horse town like Maple Falls?"

"Why wouldn't they? It's a great little town. There aren't a ton of distractions so everyone can focus on training."

"They only have a few restaurants, two gas stations, a handful of streetlights, and no Costco. They might die of boredom."

"They also have a diner, a hardware store, a bookstore, and a bakery." He hurries to add, "I think there might even be a movie theater. "

"A veritable metropolis then," I drawl. "Where would the team stay if they went there? Is Troy going to build a compound?"

"They'll stay at the lodge." Ah, yes, the forty-room hotel my brother bought as an investment. While not the kind of establishment that comes to mind when I think of luxury vacationing—as in, there's no spa and only one restaurant—I suppose I could see a bunch of athletes living there. They wouldn't have to cook or clean, and they could spend their free time zip-lining through the woods on the property.

Endeavoring to bring Mac back to the point of this conversation, I ask, "So, Troy needs cash to update the arena? I'm happy to give it to him, but I can't see that fixing my bad press."

"Nah. The rink is in great shape."

Confused, I walk over to the large picture window in my living room and watch a group of tourists make their way toward Rodeo Drive. My brother continues, "Troy has formed a charity league full of current and retired NHL players, along with some memorable college players. His friend, Angela Davis, started a charity called Happy Horizons Ranch that serves underprivileged kids."

He's got my attention now. "Who are the players and who are they going to compete against?"

"He got Dan Roberts from his Blizzard days, and Dawson Hayes, who used to play with Dan in college. Then there's Copper Montgomery, Noah Beaumont, and Ted ‘The Bear' Powell. There are others, but these guys are the real heart of the team."

"That's an impressive group, but I thought Ted was recovering from a nasty knee injury."

My brother explains, "His coach wants him to rest, but he's ready to get back to it. Troy thinks he has what it takes to give it his all for the charity."

"What are the stakes?" I want to know. "When does Troy want to start?"

"I knew you'd be in!" my brother shouts excitedly. "You can take the man off the ice, but you can't take the ice out of the man. "

While I'm clearly impressed with the idea, I need to make something clear. "I'm not going back into the trenches, even to help poor kids." My knee aches at the very thought.

"He doesn't want you as a player, he wants you as a backer."

"That I can do."

"Troy talked to Hank up in Ontario. Hank is putting together a Canadian team, and the two teams will play each other. Best out of five wins it for their charity." After being on the gold medal Olympic team, my oldest brother played for the NHL, which is where he met Hank York.

"You know I'm up for anything to help kids."

"Troy wants to make sure families have enough food and clothes. He's even going to teach hockey for kids at his new place."

"How much does he want?" Having grown up wearing a long line of hand-me-downs, I have a soft spot for children in need. So much so, I would gladly hand my brother a blank check.

"He wants you to match all corporate donations up to two million."

I don't hesitate before answering, "Done. What else?"

"He wants you on site for the whole thing. The way the press has been hounding you, he'll have the attention of the world. Which should bring in corporate sponsors out the wazoo."

Even though I'm sick to death of the press, this kind of exposure could do a lot to help me regain my previous reputation. "How long would I have to be in Washington?"

"The team has already been picked and they start arriving next week. Troy figures six weeks ought to do the trick. You can leave for meetings and stuff, you just have to make Maple Falls your base."

Without hesitation, I walk toward the back of my condo and call out, "Belle, I'm leaving town!"