1. Xander

CHAPTER 1

XANDER

“ K ovac! In my office—now!” Coach barks at me as I skate off the ice.

Two minutes ago we lost the Chicago series in overtime. Judging by the look on his Marzano tomato-red face, he’s not too happy about it. A pit yawns open in my stomach as I skulk into the small office and sink down into a chair.

I stare down at my bloody knuckles, a souvenir from busting the lineman’s nose. One hundred percent worth it, even though the move got me benched. Knee bouncing from leftover adrenaline, I wait for the stern warning from Coach.

No more fights. Watch your temper. Keep your cool out there.

I’ve heard it all before. But I rarely bother listening.

“Kovac.” Coach’s voice is low, ominous. He slams the office door behind him and plops into his seat behind the desk.

This isn’t going to be good.

Scowling, Coach shakes his head, running his fingers through his thinning hair. He’s clearly disappointed, I’m just not sure how much of that feeling’s aimed at me. I mean, I didn’t single-handedly lose the game for the team. Sure, it didn’t help that I was benched during overtime and he had to play the rookie goalie in my spot. But if the guys didn’t fuck up before then, we wouldn’t have been in such a tight position.

Coach slaps a tabloid down on the desk in front of me and the pit widens.

Oh shit.

There I am, front-page news. Me and Axl, drunk and disheveled, getting thrown out of The Cellar last night. A wave of nausea rolls through me as I stare down at the unflattering photo.

“I can explain.” I hold my palms up and act innocent, although I’m anything but. Truth is, we did get into a bar fight. The cops came and everything. But I’m not about to launch into the nitty gritty.

“Save it,” Coach growls. “You’re suspended, effective right the fuck now.”

“What? What about due process and all that shit?”

“Kovac, between your fights on the ice and your run-ins with the law outside of the rink, I’m beginning to think you’re more trouble than you’re worth. Take the suspension. And be happy you still have a damn job.”

Fists balled, I press my lips together hard to keep from saying something I’ll regret.

“Pack up your stuff. Go home and reflect on your behavior. Maybe try therapy—hell, I don’t give a flying fuck what you do. Yoga, jiu jitsu, go get laid. Whatever it is, get your damn act together if you want to stay in the league. Because this shit isn’t going to fly anymore. You got it?”

I nod, hot anger flooding through me. “Yes, Coach. Heard. Loud and clear.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out.” He shoots me an icy glare and I take the hint, hustling out of the office.

Eyes glued to the floor, I shuffle to my locker and shove a few personal items into my bag.

Fuck him.

Last night, I did what any guy with an ounce of testosterone would do. Some losers heckled me and Axl about the game and I told Axl to hold my beer. Then I punched the shit talker right in his ugly, smug face.

Shut him up real quick.

Unfortunately, I guess the paparazzi caught the altercation on camera as the bouncers hauled us out.

Stupid fucking media.

Slamming my locker shut, I storm out to the parking lot, my mood as dark as the cloudless Boston sky.

I’ve been in trouble before, but never like this. Benched is bad; suspended is worse.

Unlocking my Porsche, I chuck my duffel into the backseat and slide behind the wheel.

Fuck.

Cold reality sinks in as I watch my teammates filter out of the stadium. They’ll all be back here tomorrow morning, suiting up for practice, trying to score goals on the rookie.

The rookie who’s not me.

I’m supposed to be defending that net, not some punk-ass twenty-year-old kid.

Me.

Punching in my agent’s number, I listen as the phone rings. Once, twice, three times.

“Pick up, dammit!” I grumble, irritation bubbling up.

“Kovac,” Rick finally answers. “Shit game tonight, huh?”

“Gee, thanks, Ricky. Yeah, it was. Sweet of you to point it out.”

“I just got off the phone with Coach Kirkley.”

I huff out a heavy sigh, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “And?”

“Not good, Kovac. He’s pissed and so is the Commissioner. You’re suspended and they’re still deciding for how long.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I managed to keep you out of jail last night, but I couldn’t stop the paps from running the story. Free press and all that. The fight tonight pushed him over the edge.”

Aggravation and dread mix in my gut, a sour cocktail of desperation swirling around down there.

“Any ideas, Ricky? Or are you just here to recap my fuck ups?”

“A retired client lives in a sleepy little town on the coast, Starlight Bay. He hit me up last week, asking about hockey coaches for a youth league.”

“What? You want me to coach kiddie hockey?”

“Yeah, player, I do. Would make for good press. I know that’s not a concept you’re familiar with.”

“Piss off.” I soften my tone, realizing that Rick’s the only one on my side at the moment. “I mean, thanks for the option. But I’m not sure it’s the right solution.”

“Kovac, you don’t have a whole lot of options right now. This will get you out of the city, away from trouble. You can do good for the community and come out smelling like a damn rose. Think about it.”

I thrum my fingers on the cool leather of the wheel. “Fine. I’ll do it. Send me the details and I’ll head out in the morning.” I disconnect without saying goodbye and toss the cell into the passenger seat.

“Fuck!” I yell into the silence, slamming my palms down hard. I don’t have any desire to move out of the city and spend several hours a day with whiny kids learning to skate.

But if I lose hockey, I’ve got nothing. No wife, no family to speak of.

Hockey’s everything to me.

This sport is my entire damn life.

I’ll do whatever it takes to stay in the league, even if that means turning into a fucking Boy Scout.

Firing up the engine, I peel out of the lot, blasting Pearl Jam from the speakers.

Coach may think I’m out of the game, but I’m not.

Nobody backs Xander Kovac up against the boards.

Nobody.