Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Cam, Present Day

The crowd boos, but I don't give a fuck.

That's par for the course in professional hockey.

And since we're the away team tonight, the jeers from the Grizzlies fans mean we're doing something right.

I grunt as I take the elbow to the back of the head, but don't give up the puck.

Instead, I focus, ignore the pain that radiates down my neck, tensing my core, digging my skates into the ice, and look for my teammate.

Rome cuts hard toward me, exactly like we planned, freeing up space, moving along the play we drew up, giving…

King the lane.

Before I can take advantage of that, my face is all but slammed into the boards, another fucker from the Grizzlies coming in hot. He's big as shit with a long, scraggly beard.

Connor Smith.

Or Smitty, as he's colloquially know to the hockey world at large.

Nice guy. Funny guy.

But pain in the fucking ass to play against.

Another shove has me eating glass, but I've delayed long enough. "Fuck," I grit, shoving back and flicking my stick, sending the puck flying toward the center of the ice.

King sweeps it up, drives toward the goal, and?—

The crowd roars in happiness as he's slashed hard and loses the puck. In a flash, the play swings the other way, the Grizzlies taking control and sprinting toward our end of the ice.

And just that quickly we're on defense, chasing down the other team, hauling ass to protect our goalie.

Digging in.

Not giving up.

The entire game is a grind, spending sixty minutes trying to eke out a win, something we don't quite manage in the end.

Which means that the mood amongst my teammates is shit as we exit the ice and move down the hall to the locker room. It's just a game, but it's our livelihood and we get paid the big bucks to win—literally, since the Eagles gave me my first big seven-figure contract. So, losing in any capacity is unacceptable, but most especially in the playoffs.

Expected.

But still not good enough.

Especially when the play I came up with resulted in the goal that cost us the game and put us down in the series.

Cursing under my breath, I drop my helmet into the bin the equipment guys have wheeled in to the center of the locker room and sink down onto the bench so I can change out of the rest of my gear. The space is quiet, most everyone pissed off and sulky like the man-children we are. It's frustrating, especially after working our asses off, even more so when it means that we're going to have to battle even harder.

At least we're close enough to Oakland that we can drive ourselves home and I don't have to wait for my teammates so we can board a fucking bus or plane.

King drops down next to me with a sigh. "Tough one," he grumbles as he rips his jersey over his head, sending it sailing across the room and into another bin.

"Tough one," Pat, resident asshole on the team, sneers. "Fucking brilliant, King Bang."

Duncan, the team's manwhore—who's never met a woman, or man for that matter, he isn't interested in fucking—chuckles like the dumbass he is. And, as always, he has to chime in. Today it's with the gem, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

I roll my eyes, start yanking at my skate laces.

King just shakes his head and tears at the Velcro on his shoulder pads.

Rome, our captain, just grunts in response, ignoring both Tweedledee and Tweedledum and the smirk they exchange.

I shove down the frustration and the disappointment, the feeling that the loss is my fault. I know shit happens, that it was all of us out there on the ice, so it's not solely my fault, same as I know we'll regroup and keep moving forward—mostly because we've found a way to work together over the last months to cinch the top spot in our division.

Last place in the league to roaring into the playoffs.

Unfortunately, that momentum seems to have come to a screeching halt.

Same as the unity we cobbled together in the locker room is beginning to unravel.

Pat laughs like Duncan is the most hysterical comedian in the world.

Unity? What fucking unity?

We have those two idiots. Along with hotheaded Kane, Lazy Matt, Asshole Anthony. All of whom are looking around for someone to blame who's not themselves.

Ugh.

Sometimes my job sucks.

Especially when I fuck up and they should blame me and?—

King exhales, nudges his knee against mine. "Shake it off, yeah?"

"I'm good," I mutter, but I know he knows it's bullshit. Thankfully, though, he doesn't call me on it further—just shoots me a look and continues getting changed.

"It's one game, boys," Rome says, taking off his frustrated player hat and replacing it with his captain one. Focused. Steady. Good. That's Rome. "There are two more in the series," he adds. "So there's plenty of time to knock 'em out." He tears off and tosses his own jersey in the bin. "We just need to calm down and stay focused, to keep playing our system and grinding it out."

Except the Grizzlies are now up three games to two.

And if they win one more, our Cinderella season—last place to first, and a real contender for the Cup—is over.

I exhale, trying to take Rome's words to heart.

He's right. We have time.

We just need to chill. To focus and play our game and keep moving forward.

But all of his calm confidence still makes me want to smack my friend. He's self-assured. He doesn't waver. He just puts his head down and keeps driving toward his goals. Exactly the same way the Eagles' owner and Rome's future father-in-law, Jean-Michel Dubois, does.

Probably why they get along so well…

And why Jean-Michel didn't have Rome killed for daring to touch his daughter.

Or propose to her.

Or move in with her before they officially tied the knot.

The tension in my shoulders loosens.

I bet that was a fun conversation.

Grumpy billionaire with a decidedly scary edge having to face the fact that his baby girl is all grown up.

Thank God Rome has all that calm confidence—he can walk into the dragon's den and come out unscathed.

Now, if only I can channel some of that.

And stop thinking about that fucking play.

I'm still struggling with that as Cassie, who works in Game Day Operations (or basically, who works in the gets-to-boss-us-around-most-of-the-time-and-we-just-shut-up-and-follow-her-lead department), pops her head in through the door. "Media coming in."

Not a question.

Just…a heads up wrapped around an order.

Give good sound bites we can chop up and use on social media, don't flash anyone your junk, and absolutely no fucking fist fights that can be caught on camera.

The last, one would think is hyperbole.

With this team?

Not so much.

The Eagles and scuffles in the locker room are synonymous. Pat and Duncan. Pat and Asshole Anthony. Pat and hothead Kane. Pat and Lazy as shit Matt. Pat and Duncan again.

For a while, I swear my parents didn't see a single clip of my team actually playing hockey.

It was all pushing and shoving, fists connecting, bleeped curses and fucking Pat .

And, as fate would fucking have it, the one game my parents have made it to in a while is tonight's.

The one where we lost.

Because of me.

Cool. Cool.

A fist fight in the locker room that gets splashed all over social media would be the cherry on top of that.

Sighing, I slap on a hat to cover my helmet hair, shove down my whiny baby bullshit, and turn my focus to the press core who are walking into the room, cameras on shoulders, phone with recording apps open already pointed in our directions.

I give my sound bite.

Take my shower.

Pull on my street clothes.

And then I'm nodding my goodbyes to King and Rome, both of whom are still stuck talking to the press, before slipping out into the hall and heading for my car.

My phone buzzes.

MOM: We're headed back to your house, honey. Will have your post-game snack ready for you.

That makes me feel like something other than a failure (for the record, hungry because my mom is a great cook)…and I hurry to the parking lot.

It's been ages since she's made me a recovery meal but I know it'll be right in line with my diet and fucking delicious and that it will absolutely be the best thing to happen today.

So, I don't waste any time in driving home, in parking in the garage, in grabbing my stuff and hustling my ass into the house.

Apples and cinnamon—my favorite combination on the planet—greet me before I even turn the corner into the kitchen. It's that delicious smell that has me belatedly recognizing there are voices echoing into the hall, that has me not processing that my house is full of people until I actually step into the brightly lit space.

"Surprise!" they shout.

My brothers—all six of them (biological and otherwise)—and my sister (not biologically related, but still my sister) are filling up the room.

And their spouses.

And their kids—half of whom are passed out in arms or on my couches, while the other half are running around like the tiny terrors they are.

I'm engulfed in hugs and hellos and conversations for several minutes before everyone begins to peel off, my mom shoves an apple-cinnamon oat cookie into my hand, and I see there's someone else in the room who I missed.

Athena, or Ats as she prefers to go by, is here, hanging back as usual—a part of the festivities but also separate—as she stands in my kitchen talking to my brothers.

Everything in me goes still.

Because Athena , as she hates to go by, is looking like the goddess she is, her curls flowing around her shoulders, an Eagles jersey clinging to her delicious body.

She laughs at something Lex says as she nibbles on an apple oat cookie.

And I want to drop to my knees in front of her and beg her to see me.

Unfortunately, that will never be.

I've had a decade to come to terms with that fact.

A decade to understand that she won't ever be mine.

So, I pull it together, tuck down the draw I always feel when she's near, but when she turns…

I lose all semblance of focus as my brain processes what's on the back of her jersey.

It's my name. My number.

Mine.

Only…not.

Because she's in love with my brother.