CHAPTER 1 - LIFE - FRIDAY NIGHT

If they’d been on the ice, Conrad Kingston, center for the Blue Ox hockey team, would have done time in the penalty box.

And pretty boy, television talk-show host Ian Fletcher would have a broken nose, maybe a few gaps where teeth used to be.

Instead, the pretty man sat across from Conrad on the set of The Morning Brew, the “In the Locker Room with Fletch” segment, sporting a perfectly groomed fade-style haircut, blue eyes, and a too-wide smile, prying into Conrad’s life.

This was not a locker room Conrad had ever seen, with the Chesterfield sofas, a backdrop of fake lockers, and most important, bright lights that burned into his eyes so that the cameras could capture every expression in slow motion as he went over the glass coffee table and neatly put a fist into Ian’s prying piehole.

Or at least wished it.

But Conrad was working on his impulse control, at least off the ice, and using his words instead, and so far so good.

See, he could play nicely.

“So, do you have a date for tonight’s event?” Ian asked, waggling his eyebrows. “Seems to me that you might have a lineup after your centerfold.”

“It’s not the centerfold,” Conrad growled.

“Sorry. Mr. June .”

He should have expected the too-personal, off-script questions, what with his half-naked picture on the screen behind him. He couldn’t look at the photo.

One more of his many, many , bad yeses.

Instead, of course, he smiled. “Maybe we talk about the charity event tonight.”

“Of course.” Fletch leaned back, crossed his legs, his grin a sort of victory pump.

Please. Just thirty seconds without the cameras ? —

No, no. No. The last thing he needed was a splash on social media about King Con being unhinged. Not with the trade season still alive.

Conrad flicked his wrist and managed a glance at his Rolex Daytona. Four more minutes, and then he could flee?—

“I’ve heard tonight’s auction already has bids in the triple digits. Everyone wants a piece of Mr.—”

“It’s really about raising money for the kids who’ve been affected by crime.”

Something of challenge flashed in Ian’s eyes, but Conrad didn’t flinch.

“EmPowerPlay. Play strong, heal stronger, right?”

“Exactly.” Conrad kept his smile, tried to recall what Felicity had told him to say. “EmPowerPlay is dedicated to empowering young victims of crime by facilitating their involvement in sports. We fund local sports teams, helping children build confidence and resilience, and are designed to foster emotional healing and personal growth, offering kids a constructive outlet to channel their energies and reclaim their strength after facing adversity.”

Bam. Just like he’d rehearsed.

“And it was founded by the Pepper family, who are shareholders with the Blue Ox hockey team, right?”

“Apparently.” He refused to let Penelope Pepper flash into his brain, although the memory of her in his arms a month ago, after the craziness at his sister Boo’s wedding, had done a little number on him. Occupied his brain for far too long.

She’d texted him once, asking to meet for dinner. He’d promptly gone on the road for nearly two weeks with the Ox, and when he’d returned, she hadn’t answered his reply text.

So, whatever.

Still.

Nope. Not going back there.

“And you’ve met the Peppers, or at least Penelope.” Ian grinned and glanced at the screen behind him, and Conrad tightened his jaw at a bootleg paparazzi picture of exactly his memory—him carrying Penelope up the stairs into the wedding reception after she’d been attacked in the parking lot.

Great. He kept his gaze even, smiled. “She needed a lift.”

Ian laughed. “Ah, that’s a good one, King Con.” He turned to the cameras, somewhere out in the darkness and finger quoted the words. “Just like the lift you gave to Roxie Hartwell.”

Aw, shoot. That’s what he got for trying to be clever.

His mouth tightened. “That was different.”

“Right. That was Tyler Anderson’s girlfriend. Bit of a messy dustup there, if I remember right.” He winked at Conrad.

Conrad just needed ten seconds. Less.

He lifted a shoulder. “Just a misunderstanding. Torch and I figured it out.”

“Didn’t you take a restraining order out on Roxie?”

He said nothing.

“And then there was that fight on the ice?—”

“That’s in the past.”

“Maybe not”—Ian leaned forward—“given last night’s game. You deliberately kept the puck three times when Torch was open, and took failed shots on goal.” His smile dimmed. “Are you at all worried about the fact that your contract expires after this season?”

“Listen, it’s a fast game, and Torch wasn’t as open as you’d think.” Conrad’s smile had also vanished. “And no, I’m not worried.”

Really. He and Torch had ironed out the misunderstanding long before social media made it a deal. Bros over—well, ice bunnies.

Ian held up his hands, as if surrendering. “Just wondering, given the fact that rookie Justin Blake scored for the win.”

“Blade is a solid young player, great potential.” Oh, Felicity would be so proud of him.

“And a center, ready to take your spot.”

Maybe those were veneers. Conrad had a couple of his own veneers, for different reasons.

“It’s Coach Jacobsen’s call. I’m just there to play hockey.” He looked at the camera, gave them a photoshoot smile. “The calendars are available at the Minnesota Blue Ox website?—”

“Right,” Ian said, following Conrad’s lead. “Visit the website to donate or volunteer.” He turned back to Conrad. “Thanks for being here today.” He stretched out his hand.

Conrad took it. Gave him a firm hold. Added a squeeze.

Ian’s eyes flashed and Conrad let go, then waved to the camera.

“And we’re out,” said a voice in the shadows, and Conrad stood up, ripped off the mic, turned to Ian.

Ian stood also, his smile gone.

And oh, the urge?—

No. Impulses always turned to regrets.

Conrad shook his head, headed off the set.

“All press is good press,” Ian shouted after him.

A PA met him. “Mic?”

He dropped the mess into her hands and stormed out into the hallway. Ian stayed on set, probably saving his life.

“I thought that went great.” Felicity Grant stood in the hallway, holding two cups of coffee, wearing an earpod, her blond hair cut short, an athletic build. She’d played women’s hockey at the U of M, and of course knew the sport well enough to talk shop with the players. Now, she shoved a coffee into his hand. “Just breathe.”

Conrad headed down the hallway toward the greenroom. “None of those questions were in the pre-interview chat.”

“He does that.” She followed him inside and stood at the open door as he grabbed a couple wet wipes and ran them over his face. Makeup coated the cloths, and he scrubbed under his chin, hating how it stained his dress shirt.

“I’m never doing this again.” He threw down the cloths and grabbed his coat, headed for the door.

Felicity put out her hand and even stepped in front of him. “Yes, you will.” She arched a brow. “Attendance is down, and a little good will from our starting center doesn’t hurt. You were handsome and fabulous, and who cares what Ian says—you got our message out. Live above it.”

“I hate the press. Torch wasn’t even dating Roxie?—”

“I know. But drama sells.” She lifted a shoulder.

His gut tightened. “Wait—you didn’t . . . I mean . . .” He met her eyes. “You weren’t the one who called the cops that night, right?”

Her mouth opened. “And possibly get you pulled over for DUI?”

“I don’t drink.”

She smiled. “I know.”

He frowned, narrowed his eyes. “That photo with her made me shut down my Instagram account.”

“I know. I set up the new one, remember?”

He did know. “Just—no drama tonight, okay? I don’t even want to be there.”

“You have to be there. It’s required in your contract.”

“I know. I just . . . Are they really auctioning off dates ? C’mon—the 1990s called and they want their charity gimmicks back.”

She laughed. “It’s not a date. It’s a seat at the table. Calm down.”

“It’s hard to stay calm about being property.” He stepped past her, headed down the hall.

“You’re a professional athlete,” she called after him. “Of course you’re property!”

He took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and dumped it into the garbage on his way out of the building. The Charger sat in the lot under a dour gray mid-February sky, the air brisk, the snow piles grimy. Winter refused to surrender, a forecast of snow and ice over the next week, which made it uberfun to live in Minnesota.

He got in, turned the car on, and let the motor rumble a moment, the heat turning from ice-cold to warm.

Maybe he should visit his sister Austen down in the Keys during his next game bye week.

The sun hung low, casting late afternoon shadows over the river as he drove out of the city, into uptown, and to his remodeled mid-century-modern home on W 24 th , near Triangle Park in south Minneapolis.

Black exterior, angled roofline, too many floor-to-ceiling windows, and inside, despite the hardwood flooring and beamed ceiling, the place felt too austere, too modern.

Another yes he should have thought through.

He pulled into the underground garage, got out, and took the elevator up to the main floor. Amber sunlight streaked the white wooden floor, the bouclé sofa, the concrete countertops. He picked up a remote and shut the shades to the street, then voice activated his audio system.

He had his shirt unbuttoned and off, spraying on stain remover as Tommy Emmanuel came on, plucking out a rendition of “How Deep Is Your Love” on his acoustic guitar.

Breathe.

The sunlight had found Conrad’s master bedroom through the transom windows, but the picture window (covered in a one-way film that his brother Doyle had helped him install) overlooked the back of his property and Cedar Lake, still snow covered.

Any day the cold would break, and the thaw could turn the ice on a lake deceptively lethal, cracking and snapping as the currents beneath awoke. But for now it was a glistening, brittle beauty under the twilight hues.

He threw the shirt in a hamper, jumped in the shower, and felt recovered by the time he emerged, donned a towel, and leaned over the sink for a beard trim. His cell buzzed from the bedroom, and he recognized Jack’s assigned ringtone—“Go Your Own Way,” Fleetwood Mac.

Although recently Jack had decided to put down roots at the family homestead some sixty miles west, at least until he sorted out his relationship with reporter Harper Malone. So maybe Conrad needed to change up songs.

Maybe “Home,” by Daughtry.

Video call. He thumbed it open. “’Sup, bro?” He turned his video off, left the call on speaker.

Jack sat in the kitchen of The Norbert, one of the heritage homes their parents rented out on the King’s Inn property. Jack’s dark hair lived below his ears and had its own mind, just like Jack. He wore a flannel shirt and a dark grizzle of beard, the perfect look for a handyman, despite his real job as a finder of all things lost.

His most recent finds had been himself, forgiveness, and a second chance with the girl next door he’d never forgotten. And a job, taking over for little bro Doyle, who took care of the grounds and lived in The Norbert. For now.

Apparently, Doyle had decided it was time to escape his grief and the broken dreams of the past, and start new. He hadn’t yet left for the Caribbean, but his mother planned a sendoff party next weekend.

About time, really.

“So, just a heads-up,” Jack said in greeting. “Penelope is going to be at tonight’s gig.”

Conrad had been filing through his suits—not the Armani, of course, but maybe the cashmere-wool charcoal Canali Kei. He pulled out the jacket. Slim fit.

He’d put on some muscle since he’d purchased this a couple years ago.

“I figured, since it’s her family’s gig.” He put the suit back, pulled out the HUGO BOSS. “The Pepper Foundation started EmPowerPlay, and they’re sponsoring the event.”

“You two ever connect?”

Again wool, slim fit. And boring. He put the suit coat back. “No. I texted her after I got back from Nashville. She never answered.”

“Probably because she’s still working on her murder podcast.”

He pulled out the Tom Ford windowpane. He’d worn it for the Blue Ox Man of the Year awards ceremony last year. Understated. Elegant.

“Her only lead in the Sarah Livingston case—Kyle Brunley was killed the night he posted bail,” Jack said.

Conrad stilled, his hand on the midnight blue velvet and silk Brioni smoking jacket. “Wait. Kyle Brunley is dead? The guy who tried to kidnap her and Harper?”

Penelope had vanished from his sister’s wedding event last month in a move many pegged as a PR gimmick for her show. Nope. Conrad might never forget her worn but tough-edged expression when she’d been found . . . having escaped on her own and hidden out.

“Yep. He was arraigned, posted bail, and the next day, vanished. They found him in his car about a week ago in a ditch off Marsh Lake Road. Harper told me about it last night at dinner.”

Conrad carried the smoking jacket out to the bedroom. “That’s the third person murdered in the Sarah Livingston case.”

“If you don’t include Sarah.”

“Right.”

“Harper’s worried about Penelope. Penelope hasn’t answered her texts either, so . . . track her down, and find out how she’s doing.”

Conrad found a light blue shirt, matching trousers. “My bet is that she’s just fine. She’s smart, resourceful, and tough. After all, she did survive four days in a freezing ice house?—”

“For ratings. ”

Well, not quite, but Conrad could see why Jack, who’d found her, might think that.

“Which makes a guy wonder just what else she’d do for her story,” Jack continued.

Conrad pulled on a T-shirt shirt, then the dress shirt. “I’m not sure what I can do. She’s got her own mind.”

“Just . . . I don’t know. Harper asked me to call you. She seems to think that Penelope likes you.”

He pulled on the trousers. Still a good fit. Then he returned to his wardrobe and opened his tie drawer. Pulled out a black satin bow tie and flipped up his collar. “Fine. Sure. But let’s not overthink this. I have a full roster of games, and I need to be on point if I hope to be in a position to renegotiate this summer. And frankly, Penelope is . . . She’s all over social media. I’m not going there again, bro.” He flipped down his collar. Smoothed it out. “Besides, I doubt she has any bandwidth in her life for anyone extra.”

“Even Mr. June?”

He stilled, walked out to the bed and picked up the phone. Jack was grinning.

Conrad turned on his own video.

Jack raised an eyebrow as Conrad’s mug showed up. “Wow. Seriously?”

“I swear to you, if I see one calendar at the King’s Inn?—”

“Dude. I caught your “In the Locker Room with Fletch.” You’re going to sell truckloads. Did you wax before you?—”

Conrad hung up. Threw the phone on the bed. Clenched his fists for a second, staring into the mirror.

The sweat broke out along his spine, his heart slamming against his chest.

And just for a second, the world narrowed.

Breathe. He sank down on the bed. Put his hands on the cool comforter. In. Out.

Visualize. His eyes opened, his gaze finding the picture of the sailboat, the one pitched at an angle, the splash of the deep blue lake catching the sun. He sat holding the tiller, hair wild, no beard, barefoot.

He could smell it. Lake water. Wind. Spray.

His heartbeat softened. More breaths.

Getting up, he went to the bathroom, downed a glass of water. It sat in his gut without returning . So far so good.

He just might live through this night without being the center of paparazzi attention. Please.

The Daytona Rolex said he had thirty minutes before the event—so great, he’d be late. Maybe he could slip in the back.

Except, as he drove up to the event—at the historic Frederick mansion in Minneapolis—the coned entry directed him to the valet entrance.

He surrendered his keys to some youngster in a suit. “Don’t dent anything.”

The kid—okay, probably a college student—nodded and Conrad got in line to enter the building. He recognized a few of the other Blue Ox players—rookie Justin, of course, grinning for the press, and Wyatt Marshall, their goalie, with his pretty, petite wife, and player Kalen Boomer, and even Coach Jace with his wife, Eden.

A heater blasted the portico, so he wasn’t cold as he stood at the bottom of the grand staircase.

A plaque near the walk said the place had been built in the late 1800s. It bore an Italian Renaissance aura, with pillars flanking the doorway of the covered entrance.

Massive floral arrangements in the blue and white of the Blue Ox stood in urns on either side of the door. And from the terrace over the entrance hung a banner with the EmPowerPlay logo.

Music spilled out—Pharrell Williams’s “Happy.”

This might not be a disaster. He’d get inside, glad-hand a few donors, eat some shrimp cocktail, give Coach Jace a thumbs-up, endure dinner small talk, and then skedaddle.

No harm, no foul, and he’d escape the media chaos.

Except as he neared the door— no. Oh no.

Inside the foyer, larger-than-life posters of the calendar models flanked the stairway leading up to the ballroom, and even from here . . .

He looked like he might belong in a Magic Mike movie. Shirtless, his body photoshopped into a tan. What hockey player sported a tan in April (when they’d taken the shots)? His beard was tangled, the red hues accented, his hair mussed, and good grief, they’d added blue to his eyes.

Forget Magic Mike—he could be on some sordid magazine cover, or worse a romance novel.

No, he couldn’t do this?—

He turned, and nearly plowed over?—

“Conrad!”

Penelope Pepper. She held her hands up, catching his wrists, balancing herself a little.

If he thought he’d lost his breath before . . . He just stared at her, not sure if his thundering heartbeat was panic or . . . awe.

He’d forgotten—or maybe simply tried to—the effect she had on him. The high cheekbones that framed the curve of her face, those golden brown eyes, dark on the outside, radiating to a glimmer of light around the irises, her full, shaped lips, now smiling.

She wore her dark hair swept back and up, trickling in chocolate waves around her slender neck. A white faux-fur shawl wrapped over a white V-necked silk top with puffy sleeves, and a belted long teal skirt. And she smelled—well, not quite exotic, but exciting and fresh and tempting.

And right then, something he’d dismissed awoke inside him.

“Penelope,” he managed, aware of her hands on his wrists. He turned them and grabbed hers back. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to plow you over.”

“I missed you too, Con.” She laughed, pushed out of his grasp and smoothed her hands on his chest. “And I should know better than to stand too close to a Blue Ox.” Then she winked, and yes, Jack, Penelope seemed Just. Fine. “A gal can get knocked over way too easily.”

He had no words for that.

She peered past him toward the foyer, and her eyes widened, her mouth opening to a perfect O. “I see the problem.”

“A poster-sized problem.”

Then, just like that, she turned him around, stepped up beside him and slipped her hand around his arm. “Steady on, soldier. This is for the kids.” Then she looked up and winked. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Cameras flashed as she walked him into the event.

And he didn’t know whether to hold on, or run.