Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Rylan

January

W hen I got to the practice facility earlier this morning, the first thing we did was go over video from the game last night. We played Toronto, whose offense is annoyingly fucking good. But I did my job, protecting my goalie and keeping those motherfuckers as far away from the net as I could, and Mads was on point, blocking all but two of their shots. It wasn’t a perfect game, but we pulled out the W, 3–2, and that’s what matters.

“Fuck, I wish we didn’t have ice time today,” Mads says as we make our way to the locker room to get in our gear.

“Can’t hack it?” I joke, though I wouldn’t mind a break. I’m fucking sore as shit from all the hits I took.

“That last puck went between my pads. Hurt like a bitch.” He rubs a hand over a spot on his torso. “My D-man let them slip by.”

“Who? Stevens? Because I know it wasn’t me,” I tease, making Mads laugh. Kason Maddox is my closest friend on the team. He was drafted one year after me. We’ve both been lucky enough to play for LA our whole careers so far. With him being a goalie and me a D-man, we play closely together. Plus, we’re both bi and have similar backgrounds—parents who didn’t have jack shit for money but busted their asses to help us succeed. He’s a little quirky, but then, he’s a fucking goalie and most of them are. Mads is my boy, and I’m thankful as hell I get to play with him.

We hurry into our gear, tape our sticks, then head out to the ice for stretching and drills.

“Short and sweet today, guys. You deserve it after last night,” Coach Warren tells us. He’s a bit of a hard-ass, but he’s also made the Rebels what we are today. We were shit before they hired him, then brought me and Mads on, and now we’re one of the best teams in the league. We haven’t gotten the cup yet, but I can guaran-fucking-tee it’s gonna happen.

Coach only keeps us on the ice for forty-five minutes before he lets us go. We do a little cooldown on the bikes and have a quick session with the trainers, before we’re both dressed—Mads wearing his backward Rebels cap, as usual—and heading out to our vehicles.

“What’s so interesting on your phone?” I ask Mads.

“That poor fucking guy who got humiliated when he proposed at our game is still all over the internet.”

Mads doesn’t always show it, but he’s a big fucking softy. He’s a kickass goalie and a tough motherfucker, but also tears up at commercials and gets emotionally invested in other people’s lives. He watches these queer soap opera–type shows online, and it’s not strange to have him telling me who is fucking whom, who died or who got their heart broken. It’s just how Mads rolls.

“Yeah, it’s fucked up. Do people really have nothing better to do with their time?” I don’t know why the media—and hell, every person with internet access—latched on to this story so completely, but they have.

We’ve gotten wrapped up into it some because it happened at a Rebels game. The organization tried to offer the guy—Hayes, I think his name is—tickets for another game, but he declined. Can’t blame him. If I were him, I’m not sure I would want to go back to the place where that shit went down.

“I can’t imagine such a difficult moment going viral. They’ve even tried to get them in for interviews and shit like that.” I haven’t watched any videos, or interviews. I don’t know if he’s done them or not. I’ve made it a point not to consume any media about the situation out of respect, but I’ve picked up bits and pieces, and apparently the boyfriend has a list of significant others and exes long enough to form his own hockey team.

“People are shitty,” Mads concurs. “They don’t consider the person on the other end of the story. Or hell, just the other person they’re hurting in any situation.”

“And this is why I avoid relationships.” Well, that, and the fact that it’s hard to find someone you trust when you play professional sports. Being used isn’t real high on my priority list, and it’s happened before. My bio dad sure didn’t want anything to do with me until he realized the son he walked away from became a professional hockey player. Then, of course, he was a changed man who has only ever wanted to be my father. Fuck that. I have a dad, and he’s the man who came into the picture when I was three years old and raised me like his own.

“Eh…I would be in a relationship, if I found the right person.”

“I know you would, Madsies.” See? Big fucking softy. “See you in a few.” We fist-bump, then jump in our vehicles.

Mads and I are both scheduled to do an event at a public rink in downtown LA. There’s a new youth hockey program for troubled and at-risk kids, and we agreed to spend some time with them today. I’m tired as hell, but no way I would skip something this important.

Mads and I arrive at the same time. It’s noisy when we walk in, a bunch of teenagers laughing and talking, but everyone goes silent when they see us. It blows my mind sometimes, that I get that kind of reaction from people. It’s fucking cool as shit, but also, like, what the fuck world am I living in where this is my life.

“I’m here, everyone’s favorite Rebels player!” I joke. I don’t have to look at Mads to know he rolls his eyes.

The kids all snicker, and it breaks the ice on whatever nervousness or maybe a starstruck feeling they had when we arrived.

One of the rink managers comes and shakes our hands. “Thanks for being here.”

“Thanks for having us,” Mads tells her.

“You guys can have at it. They’ve all been excited for you to arrive.” She steps aside so Mads and I can address the kids.

“Hey! We’re glad to be here. I’m Rylan Pierce, defenseman for the Rebels, and this guy is Kason Maddox. He’s our goalie, and I’m here to tell you that yes, the rumors are true and goalies are weird.”

“Have you met you?” Mads asks, making the kids laugh even harder than when I called him weird.

“No one listen to this guy. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” I use my thumb to point at my best friend, who playfully wrestles me to the cheers and clapping of the kids. “Hey, man. Save that for the ice.” I pull away and pretend to straighten my shirt. “Who’s ready to play some hockey? I need to show Mads here what’s up.”

“Yes!” the kids shout, and I can’t keep myself from grinning. I fucking love this. Love my life.

We spend the next two hours teaching and talking hockey with enthusiastic teenagers. This is one of my favorite parts of the job. I love seeing the excitement in young people about the game, remember how it made me feel when I was their age. My parents worked their asses off for me to be able to play, and it feels good to give back like this.

When our time is technically over, Mads and I still hang out for a little while, signing autographs for the kids and the staff. Afterward, we go our separate ways, and I head straight from El Segundo to Hermosa Beach, where I bought a house last year. I always wanted to live on a West Coast beach, and now I finally have the chance. All the guys live in the South Bay area, except Mads, who likes to be different, and has a place in another part of LA.

I step out of my shoes as soon as I get home, my black cat, Puck, nowhere to be seen. I go to the back deck that overlooks the beach. It’s fucking beautiful, ocean and sand as far as the eye can see.

I breathe in the ocean air. My life is fucking perfect. I don’t ever want it to change.