Chapter 2

2

Colver

I'm the first in the locker room.

First showered.

First dressed.

I walk into the media area and have ten reporters surrounding me as I stand over them, looking down with phones shoved near my mouth.

How did it feel to score the game-winning goal?

How about this game, Colver - two goals and a fight.

What's the thought process for this team now that you've won two in a row after dropping eight?

Has the locker room changed at all since the beginning of the season?

Do you think there are any big changes to be made?

My agent Arty loves to fuck with me over these situations.

He always texts me a copy of my contract, showing off those numbers and commas. A reminder that me answering questions is part of the gig.

Now, do I have to be nice about it?

No.

I push my limits.

I curse until our head coach - Patty O'Nahn - calls me into his office and gets all worked up until his face turns red. I promise to calm down, but don't. Then I get a fancy lunch with the GM. Michael Hondres. His sleek suits and slicked-back hair and paid-for smile, telling stories of his father playing hockey. This guy never touched a stick in his life. He can't even skate. And he's the one telling me there will be fines.

But I keep going.

I push some more.

Then the league steps in and threatens to suspend me.

That's when I finally calm down.

The thing is - I've got it down to a science.

When to start and when to stop.

According to my calculations, the slate has been cleared.

"Let me just say something here," I say, feeling that good ol' rage building. "What happens in the locker room is our business. I'm not going to speculate and stir the pot and start shit with my teammates. You guys want some fucking celebrity story, go walk down the street and find a movie star."

I can see the headlines now…

COLVER CASPIAN CAN'T CONTROL HIS MOUTH AGAIN!

Yeah?

Fuck you.

I'm back in the locker room and I grab my bag.

"Hey, where are you running off to so quick?"

It's our goalie, Faust.

He's in a hoodie with his hair wet.

A pretty boy who loves the attention.

"Good game tonight," I say to him. "That one goal was brutal. No stopping it."

"There's always a way to stop it," he says. "But that's for another time. I've got us a spot at Valencie's ."

"You love your strip clubs, man."

"It's not a strip club. It's a gentlemen's club. There's a difference."

"It's a strip club with good food."

"Exactly," Faust says. "Come on, man, it's tradition. You scored the game winner. We all owe you a drink."

At the words we all , some of the other guys stroll into the locker room.

"Hey, you think Michelle is working tonight?" Dax asks Faust.

"She is working you so hard," Turner chimes in. "Good for her. Getting paid and she doesn't have to touch you."

Rhett and Ben chuckle.

Ben points at me.

I shake my head. "I'm out. I've got plans."

"Whoa," Rhett says. "You have plans? What kind of plans?"

"Are you finally screwing someone?" Dax asks.

He grabs the air at hip level and humps.

As though I need an explanation for what screwing someone means.

"Colver doesn't talk about that stuff," Faust says. "Give the man a break. He's a gentleman about that stuff."

"Do you do care packages?" Rhett asks.

"What?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"There was a story about some famous guy who would have women over," Turner says. "He'd made them sign paperwork and shit. Then the next morning he'd give them a basket of stuff. Soaps. Fancy chocolates. Perfume. A robe or something. A care package."

"Like a thank you basket for fucking him?" I ask.

"Basically," Turner says.

"I'm thinking about doing that," Dax says.

"You pay women by the hour," Ben says. "They don't need anything extra."

Dax steps closer to me. "We owe you, Colver. Our lucky thirteen. "

"I'm out of here," I say. "Don't get into any trouble."

I push my way through the guys and they say shit to me but I ignore them.

I leave the arena and toss my bag into the back of my truck.

I hear a voice call out, "Colver! Dude!"

When I look back I see a young kid standing outside the gates, pulling on his jersey, showing me. He turns and I see the number thirteen and then my name.

CASPIAN

I strut my way over.

The closer I get, the more this kid seems afraid of me.

He slinks back behind his mother a little.

I stand there and look down at him.

"Say hello to him," the kid's mother says. "It's okay. He doesn't bite."

"Only when provoked," I say.

The mother lets out a nervous laugh.

Hey, cut me some slack here. My social skills blow.

"You have to ask him," the kid's mother says.

"Look, little man, not to be a jerk, but I've got plans," I say. "Speak your mind right now. Deal?"

"Will you sign my jersey?"

You would swear the kid asked me to give him a million dollars.

"Got a marker?" I ask.

Sure enough, the kid has a marker.

He gets close to the gate and I reach down through.

I sign the back of his jersey, right near my name.

His mother takes a few pictures.

And that's that.

The kid thanks me. The mother too.

I walk to my truck and get the hell out of the parking lot, hidden very well by my illegally tinted windows.

Every now and again a cop will pull me over, wanting to break my balls.

Most of the time they recognize me and we bullshit about hockey, take a picture and accept the warning that we both know I'm going to ignore.

Fuck it. Life goes on.

The drive from the arena through the city is a pain in the ass.

Traffic sucks in the city.

As much as I just want to get to my condo, I think about my private house in the woods. Upstate. My closest neighbor across the lake.

It's heavenly up there.

If I get a few days off from hockey I always find myself road tripping up there, alone, and just enjoying the quietness of it all.

No chance of that tonight.

I grit my teeth, battle the city traffic, and arrive to my overpriced condo building.

At least I have a designated parking spot in the underground garage.

As I start to make the turn, I kid you not, someone walks right in front of my truck.

I have no idea how I don't hit the person and end up all over social media and news outlets, then end up forced to step away from the team and the sport of hockey so I can focus on whatever legal stuff would ensue…

Luckily the brakes work. The truck stops.

My hands are white knuckled on the steering wheel.

Instead of letting out a slew of curse words, I roll the window down.

This is worthy of me half climbing out of the truck to berate this damn idiot.

There's just one problem.

When I lean out of the truck, I realize I know who this damn idiot is.

My jaw drops, almost hitting the side of my truck and the ground.

"Sorry about this," her voice says.

Her voice.

A voice I haven't heard in a really long time.

Years.

I can't even bring myself to say her name.

But I sure as fuck think it.

Abrielle.

This was a girl who lived in my house and was kind of like a stepsister to me for about ten minutes before her mother and my father split up.

I haven't seen her since… well…

I still want to yell at her. For a lot of reasons.

I haven't said a word yet. Maybe for good reason.

Abrielle has blood all over her.