Chapter 2

two

brYCE - PRESENT DAY

Two days per year, every year, I get fucked up. Does it help? Temporarily, yes. Will I wake up tomorrow feeling worse? Yes. I’ll have a headache in addition to the jagged, open wound in my heart, in memory of my brother’s death. At least I have my guys, even if they think I’m a grumpy asshole. Only one of my Georgia Jets teammates knows what I’ve been through—Reed Bauer Cross, the best damn human being on earth. We played for the Kentucky Stallions together, and in the off-season, he was a free agent and ended up here on the Georgia Jets.

As we enter the club, I can’t help but remember that he was with me on my brother’s birthday, years ago when he and some friends came down to watch me in my first season as a professional. A friend’s wife, Lettie, was competing in a Grand Prix event to make it to the Olympic Trials. I’m not sure what it’s called, but she won a medal in the Olympics.

The VIP host seats the team in the same location as that night. I was a rookie, and the way I skated had everyone wanting me. God, that seems like a century ago. I was dancing with some girls when I saw this fiery redhead across the floor. Her hips swayed hypnotically from side to side. From the moment I saw her, her mesmerizing legs caught my attention. Their length and fullness were like an invisible force drawing me in and captivating me completely.

Her hands were above her head, and she looked like a fantasy goddess set ablaze. The rhythmic waves of the strobe lights outlined her hair as it swung.

Damn, that was quite a night. I don’t remember many one-night stands, especially one so many years ago, but this one was different. We danced for an hour and then came back to this cordoned-off area with my Stallions teammates and some other friends from college. For weeks, the guys teased me in our group text.

Hagan: She gave you, Rookie of the Year, a fake name. Rusti.

Reed: The girls loved her.

Flynn: Wish you would have gotten her name.

Dane: Lettie won’t shut up about how perfect she would be in our group.

Rusti? Probably fake. That’s why she felt different and why she’s never been far from my thoughts. The night was epic. Hands down the most fun I’ve ever had. The best sex of my life. Not that it was hard core, but it was like we were both unleashing the monsters inside us. Uncontrollable passion. Fuck, it was a connection unlike any I’ve ever had.

“Wynward? What do you want?” Rustavelli, who was traded to the Jets this year, snaps. He’s seasoned like Reed and I, but I would be lying if I said we were friends. Now, we tolerate each other. We’ve been rivals since college, but on the ice, we need to know our teammates have our backs. And now that we’re into the season, I’m doing my damnedest to forge a relationship with him. Not too long ago, he made headlines for all the wrong reasons which is why he’s no longer on the Vipers. As captain, I intend on capitalizing on his time with the Jets. It’s been two years since I won a Cup, and Reed and Roman are the missing pieces.

Management and I had a conversation about Roman Rustavelli joining the team and even though I’ve detested him for a long time, I really want to get back to the championship and win the Stanley Cup one more time before I hang up my skates.

“Rustavelli, I called ahead. Twenty-five-year-old Pappy is on its way.” My voice is tinted with annoyance. Not because it’s expensive bourbon, but shitty memories cloud my space.

Roman Rustavelli’s mouth opens, “Blowing a week’s check, Captain Grump?” he asks with sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Nah, just a day’s pay.” I grin, knowing I’m the highest paid player on the team at eighteen million a year. Yep, fifty thousand a day is ridiculous, and I have no one to spend it on, so we’re getting trashed in honor of my brother’s birthday. He turns to the hostess and asks her to bring the Rip Van Winkle, and I swear the thin, model-like girl sees the biggest tip of her life in her future.

With Rustavelli’s eyes on the hostess, Reed takes a pull of his beer, standing by me as we survey the crowd of people below. “I can’t stay long, but I wanted to be here with you tonight. Bryce?”

He rarely calls me Bryce, so I know he’s concerned. “What?”

“When are you going to quit punishing yourself?”

Shaking my head, I say, “I can’t. He deserved this life.”

In a club where the walls echo the heavy bass of the music, it’s silent. What have I done with my life? I play hockey and have done it well since I was a kid. But I have no one to share my success or failures with. No family. My dad lives overseas, and my mom passed away from a broken heart years ago.

I wish it would have been me. It should have been me.

This is why the guys call me “Grumps.” In college, they called me introspective, quiet, a leader, and friend. But it’s different in the pros. Most have wives by their third year in the league and then come the babies. Reed has five children: Caleb, Colby, Christina, Carly, and Cannon. It’s a tongue twister.

“Listen, Brooke and my brother Stone are developing a dating app for the holidays. She wants you to sign up.”

I cough into my hand, laughing, just as the hostess delivers the high-priced bottle of bourbon. She pours a glass and hands it to me. “Not a chance.” She looks stunned, and I realize she thought I was speaking to her. “Sorry, I was talking to my friend.” A polite smile crosses her lips.

Rustavelli, Reed, Lykins, and our goalie Snow, all single but Reed, sit down on the couch, and we each take a shot. Rustavelli is in as bad a mood as I, even though we just beat his former team. If my team traded me after giving them seven years of playoff appearances and stats that rival hockey greats, I would be pissed too.

Reed says, “All right, men. I need to get home and give Brooke some relief.” He winks. “Caleb and Cannon have hockey tomorrow; Carly has a ballet recital, and Colby and Cannon have basketball.”

“Is it difficult letting someone coach your sons in hockey? Obviously, you know more than a middle school coach,” Rustavelli asks.

Reed answers, “I try to be a parent, but I coach them plenty on the fundamentals. Usually, their coaches ask me for pointers. Dane’s father also played in the NBA. He said, ‘It’s hard growing up in your father’s shadow.’ So early on, Brooke and I decided to let our children choose what they want to do and if that changes a million times like it has for Caleb, it’s fine as long as they’re happy.”

“Caleb plays football too, right? Didn’t they win the city championship last month?” I ask, impressed by his twelve-year-old son.

He smiles like any proud dad. “Yep. I want him to play as many sports as he can until he can’t anymore. Look at Mac Callaghan. Do you remember him?”

“Yeah. Cocky son of a gun.”

“He is, but that’s why he’s the MLB All-Star and a Heisman Trophy winner.” Reed Bauer-Cross swallows his last inch of beer. “See you at practice on Monday. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

After fist bumps and back slaps, Reed goes home. Snow, Rustavelli, and Lykens head down to the dance floor. I don’t feel like dancing—not tonight. Since that night with the redhead, I haven’t enjoyed it. What or who could top her? The hostess pops her head in. “There are some women who want to come up. Security passed them.”

“Sure.” I wave my hand for her to bring them in. They can help me forget my brother’s birthday. As three puck bunnies push through the curtains, smiling like a predator in a kid movie, wearing dresses that should be called a tube top, I wonder why my dick doesn’t stir. All I have to do is say the word. Worse, I could pull out my dick right here, and they would take turns sitting on it.

The women are carbon copies of each other—winged eyeliner, stick-straight hair, unnaturally plumped red lips. Two sit beside me, but one sits on my lap. I lean back with one arm on the couch.

“Are you ladies from Atlanta?”

Her long, pointed fingernails climb the placket of my fitted shirt. “We are. You can have us as many times as you want. One at a time or all at once.”

I have nothing against long fingernails. In fact, I enjoy the pain as they scrape down my back. But for some reason, I mentally calculate the number of women I’ve been with. And now I want to know if these ladies are in the same league. “How many professional athletes have you fucked? Just so we’re open, I’d say I’m in the two or three hundred range.”

They don’t blink. They. Are. Undeterred .

“Baby, we’re a package deal. We’ll do anything. We love girl-girl as much as guys. We promise you haven’t had a threesome that will be more memorable. You’ll beg for more.”

“I don’t beg.” A grin tips the edges of my lips, not because I want what they’re offering but because an image of the vixen with the ruby strands that stuck against my skin until the wee hours into the morning, eight years ago, dances in my head. And I did beg her that night. Pleaded for her to come one more time. To soak my shaft, mouth, and fingers with her arousal.

When will I get her out of my mind? Now I have two people haunting me.

At that moment, another woman pushes through like she owns the damn place. “Well, well. I see some things never change,” she hisses. It’s a puck bunny who has managed to corral Lukas Gustafson, a Swede from a team in our division. I remember having sex with her before she landed Lukas Gustafson, but I can’t remember her name or where we were.

“Sorry, sir. She pushed past me. Please, ma’am, you can’t be in here,” the hostess insists before looking at me for help.

I laugh. “One more puck bunny won’t make a difference. It’s fine. Want to join us, Mrs. Gustafson?” Honestly, I can’t remember her first name—our romp was years ago.

“We need to talk.”

Not feeling the puck bunnies, I stand. “Sorry, ladies, not tonight.” I look at Mrs. Gustafson. “Let’s go outside.” They’re disappointed but immediately scout the area for other professional athletes. I have no doubt they’ll hook up tonight, and my teammates are a possibility .

As I guide Lukas Gustafson’s wife out, I look him up on my phone to find out his wife’s name and to see if there’s a reason she has hunted me down at a club. I haven’t heard his name in a year.

Francesca.

When we slide out the VIP exit, she turns and says, “Don’t act like I’m a stranger.”

I shiver, feeling as if I have spiders crawling all over me. Athletes have no dignity, screwing whoever’s willing. Francesca had been with at least four of my teammates, and none of us gave a shit, even comparing experiences. Did she do reverse cowboy with you?

What was I thinking, being with her? Don’t get me wrong, she’s beautiful in a cookie-cutter kind of way.

She’s parked in the VIP lot, same as me.

“Francesca, is Gustafson okay?”

She pulls a photo from her oversized Louis Vuitton and holds it between her pointer and middle fingers. I look at her hand as my brows draw together.

“Take it.”

I study the photo and see my reflection in the window of her Maserati with my brows pinched and jaw tightened.

“How old is she?” I ask.

“Five, almost six.”

I don’t even know how to explain my emotions. Gut punched. “Almost six?” Has it been that long? I guess it has. It was my second year in the league when I slept with any and all puck bunnies. After the night with the redhead, I tried everything to push her from my mind, and that includes Francesca.

There’s little question about this girl being my daughter. She has clear-blue eyes like mine and blond hair. But Lukas is Swedish and has similar features.

“Is this my daughter?” I question but don’t give her a chance to respond. “And if she is, why the fuck are just now telling me?”