Chapter 1

1

JACK

When you’re a ten but are hiding in a supply closet, are you really?

I lived a charmed life until last Tuesday. Now, I’m rethinking things. I rub my hand down my face. No, I’d rather not give it another thought. At least, not right now.

A female voice calls, “Where did he go?”

“Maybe he’s teasing us, playing hide and seek,” the other puck bunny trills.

The first replies, “I promise that he’ll find a prize at the end of the yellow brick road.”

I bite my tongue and resist the urge to shake my head so I don’t accidentally give away my location. At the very least, the comment deserves a solid eye roll. Not that I have any idea what it means.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” the second one singsongs.

“We have cookies with your face on them.”

Once, an overzealous female fan made me a carrot cake with an icing design that was supposed to look like the two of us kissing. I left it in the locker room. Having forgotten my gear bag, I went back. Some of the guys on the team were waiting and shoved it in my face. Yeah, I probably deserved that.

A crunching sound follows, and one of the puck bunnies purrs, “So yummy and scrummy, Jackie. Come have a bite.”

I nearly growl. The only person allowed to call me that was my mother. That’s the way I’d like it to stay, but I hold back to not give away my location.

After the game, I got the alert that the puck bunnies were on the prowl. When a large group left the locker room, I tried to blend in but only made it as far as this closet. I sniff the air. Odd. It smells like pickles. They still think I’m showering. Never mind. I don’t want them to imagine that.

Yes, I’m a grown man taking refuge amidst mops, the floor buffer, and an assortment of chemical cleaners, but I’ll admit I’ve done this to myself.

Unfortunately, this is business as usual. It’s my fault I have female fans constantly on my tail. In the not-so-distant past, I welcomed the attention. Lately, it’s lost its luster. Then, last Tuesday, I had a close call, prompting me to reevaluate things.

If I kept a journal, it would read something like this: After the LA Lions crushed our team in a four-zero blowout, I sat in traffic for thirty minutes, stewing about how our netminder allowed in two short-handers. At one point, I’d tried to slot the puck back to our D for a zone entry, but Duffton was napping in his skates. The Lions’ forwards got a gimme as they tic-tac-toed it into the goal.

It was brutal.

Sitting there in traffic, I mentally replayed the game for an hour, which lapsed into nearly two. The driver couldn’t monster truck his way over the other vehicles. I could’ve walked to the private airstrip instead of beating myself up about the game .

With the clock ticking like a fuse on my freedom, I plugged the airport address into my phone, got out of the sleek black SUV right there on the one-ten freeway, and started walking.

With my cap pulled low and my bag slung over my shoulder, I hoped no one recognized me.

Having successfully avoided being mobbed by fans, when I exited the offramp on foot, a car came out of nowhere, nearly careening into me. I dove out of the way as it smashed headlong into the cement overpass column.

Turns out that I accidentally walked onto a movie set, which explained why the offramp was closed, clogging up traffic.

Still, it shook me up, especially since it was the anniversary of my mother’s passing.

After getting a cameo shot in the film and spending the rest of the day recounting the experience, since I missed my plane, I opted to fly out to Jewel Island Resort the next day.

Then, I had a Wednesday that made me wonder how many of those remained in my life.

The private plane made a rough landing at our destination in South Carolina because a gear shaft was faulty, so said the mechanic. Turns out one of the ground crew guys left his metal water bottle next to the extension actuator while lubricating it. Suffice it to say he didn’t get to use the lifetime warranty.

Then came Thursday, which I wanted to avoid and not because I feared for my life, though they do say things happen in threes.

My father was hosting the New Year Celebration of Rising Stars in the Trust Coalition. It would’ve been as obnoxious as it sounds. Guaranteed.

There’s nothing worse than rich people who think they’re doing good deeds by throwing money at causes they’re told are virtuous. Call me jaded, but half the time, they’re getting ripped off. Though, I suppose, it’s their cash. They can set it on fire for all I care.

My problem is everyone in my father’s circle thinks they’re better than everyone else because of the zeroes on checks they write.

Then again, I am one of those rich guys, so don’t listen to anything I say.

I’d originally declined to attend because of my busy schedule, but due to the delay while I waited for the jet to be repaired, I had no reason not to go. I didn’t want to take any chances by leaving on a commercial flight. Hockey players can be a tad superstitious.

I’m just - stitious .

Instead, I snubbed Dad and his new wife. I’m still waiting for the fallout.

Back to the present day: Friday. I'm in the supply closet, hiding from overzealous fans. The Oklahoma Thunder just obliterated us. We should’ve won the game because the Thunder is just OK.

Now I’m really itching to leave. To break this losing streak and how it’s messing with my head. But more than anything, I want to spend the weekend at Jewel Island, alone, in my mother’s memory. Had I been able to do as originally planned, I would’ve had full forward line focus. Instead, I’m huddled next to a gungy mop bucket.

Still pacing in the hall waiting for me, one of the puck bunnies says, “If we don’t find him, I’m going to have a menty-b.”

The second one sounds frantic with worry. “Like a mental breakdown?”

A rapid cry of frustration comes from the other side of the door. “Yes! What other kind of menty-b is there? If that happens, I’ll lose control and eat all the cookies. All of them.” Her voice shakes.

“No, no. Don’t do that. We have to save them for Jackie. Are you sure there’s not another exit from the locker room?”

“Just the rink.”

“Come on. Let’s see if he’s by the press area.”

Having given up for now, the puck bunnies retreat. When the clicking of high heels fades down the hallway, I peer out of the closet and dash in the opposite direction.

When I round the corner, several other players and members of management gather in a wide circle.

From a distance, I overhear Duffton, one of our defensemen, saying, “Anyone know where Jack went?”

Involuntarily freezing in place, I hope they didn’t spot me. Silently whistling, I’m just a man of above average height and build lingering over here in the hallway studying the bulletin board.

Doo-dee-doo-dee-doo.

Nothing to see here. Looks like the upcoming figure skating showcase is seeking volunteers.

Cole, our center, says, “He’s probably hooking up with his flavor of the week.”

No, this week I’m supposed to be mourning my mother and wondering how things would look in my life if she were still here. It’s the one time I let myself feel anything other than the high of being a rich and famous hockey star. Though lately, it’s more of a low, and not only because of the game losses. It’s like I’m playing a role.

My mind floats to that magical night at the resort when Jasmin and I snuck into the pool—though I'm pretty sure that's not her real name. She was like sunshine wrapped in a hug with bright eyes and a smile so sweet I couldn’t resist kissing her—a total dream girl. Way too good for me .

It may as well have been a fantasy with us playing different people. Yet, with her, I felt the most “me” I’ve ever been. Too bad I haven’t a clue how to track her down again.

That was the last time I felt anything other than this hinky. Something in my life is out of whack. I’m just not sure what.

If Mom were still around, my billionaire father certainly wouldn’t have had a three-quarter life crisis and remarried. She would’ve also kept him from applying the pressure that I say, “I do” to a woman whose family connections would benefit Bouchelle Luxury Properties.

I’m not looking for love, but if I were, it might be to the woman I saw at the resort with the ruby heart necklace, who I shared a milkshake with. The one who swam with me under the stars. The one who called herself Jasmin and smelled just as good. It will not be to Duchess Lucia von Fritsch of Denmark. Or is it Holland? Germany? I don’t know, but it’s whatever country my father wants to conquer next with his real estate developments.

Duffton’s voice floats my way down the hall. “Jack had better make himself scarce because Coach was not impressed tonight.”

Cole adds, “Number ten has been off lately.”

“Getting old,” Gunther, the goalie, jokes.

I don’t feel picked on because they’re in the crease, but I am a man, even if I occasionally hide from puck bunnies. Lurking over here isn’t a good look.

Making my presence known, I announce, “Thirty is not old. Plus, I’m three months younger than you, Gunther.”

There’s a moment of shared sheepishness as they collectively calculate how much I overheard.

“Yeah, my shots were shoddy, my transitions lacked, and the assist to Clemmons during second period was poor. But I can’t think of any good reason why that may have been the case.” I let out a sigh that points to the harrowing week I’ve had, but I instantly regret it because I never make excuses. It would also help if we played like a team and not a bunch of “Look at me” wannabe hockey heroes.

Cole juts his chin. “Well, Remy did say he wants to see you.”

Gunther adds, “Seems, uh ...” he trails off, leaving me to wonder.

They’re retaliating because I called them out on talking about me behind my back. But is that all? My contract is up for renewal. It shouldn’t put me on edge, so why has my stomach been in knots since the stunt driver almost hit me with the car?

My phone beeps with a message from my father’s assistant. He wants me to meet him for dinner. No doubt he’s ready to punish me for bailing on the New Year Celebration of Rising Stars in the Trust Coalition event. Aston, his new wife, is also probably ticked because she recently asked me to call her Mommy . She’s my age. I refused. She’s probably still having a tantrum.

I delete the message. If only erasing this week were that easy.