2. Jake

I'm in a group jail cell, and I honestly can't remember what I did to wind up here. The last few hours are a fuzzy blur. I rub my eyes, get up from the bed I was apparently napping in, and take a look around.

There are half a dozen or so guys in with me. A few look like the typical drunk tank types. Torn, dirty clothes, and signs of bar fights on their knuckles and faces. A guy in a ragged suit looking disheveled.

I stand up, look down, and realize I'm not wearing a shirt. Why am I not wearing a shirt?

"Oh, come on," a guy wearing a backward ball cap says. "Mr. Greek God is gonna stroll around now and make us all feel bad about ourselves? Did they plant you here as part of the punishment?" He clutches his gut through the dirty white tank he's wearing and gives it a little shake for emphasis.

There's apparently a separate cell for women across from ours. I hear an appreciative whistle, and then a few less-than-savory-looking women start catcalling me.

Wonderful.

I flinch when cold fingers touch the side of my stomach. The baseball cap guy is squeezing my skin and leaning in, brows furrowed. "Bro, really? I swear you just made up some fuckin' muscles, didn't you? What does that one even do?"

I give him the glare I usually save for rookies who are slacking off on the ice.

He lifts his palms and takes a few steps back. "Alright, alright. Don't smite me, Thor. I was just curious."

I walk up to the edge of the cell, hoping to catch sight of an officer. I want to ask what the hell I did to land myself in here. I know it involved alcohol, but that's about as far as I've got it figured.

"Wait," another guy says. "That's Jake fucking Summers, dude. Vandals team captain."

"No shit?" a balding man says. He digs around in the pockets of his jeans and produces a black marker. "Can you sign me? I don't watch hockey, but I won't say I didn't get myself signed by a celebrity. Hell no."

"Hold up," the guy with the baseball cap says. "They emptied my pockets before I came in here. Where were you keeping that marker, bro?"

"My pocket…" he says. He looks down at the pen, then lifts it higher with a shrug. "If you don't believe me, you can sniff it."

"I'll pass," I say.

"I got this, Jake," says the baseball cap guy. He goes over, pulls a serious face as he leans down, and sniffs deeply. He pauses, then gives me a nod. "It's good. We're good," he announces more loudly to the rest of the room. "I've smelled an anus marker before. Can't miss that stench."

A man with a bulging gut, wild eyes, and a scraggly beard nods. "The forbidden felt tip, fiendishly ferried in the forbidden forest. It's a stench one does not forget."

I want to roll my eyes at the bizarre scene but decide not to be a dick. For all my life, I've seen the same pattern play out. People fall over themselves, trying to follow me. I never ask for it or completely understand it. All I know is people see me and expect me to lead them somewhere. Usually, the burden isn't so hard to bear. But lately, it feels different.

I take the marker and sign the guy's balding head. I wait patiently as most of the guys in the cell produce random objects and body parts for me to sign. The bearded guy occasionally alliterates from his corner of the room, adding to the sense of weirdness.

"How long do they usually keep us here?" I ask. Something tells me most of these guys are regulars and probably know the ins and outs of drunk tank bookings.

"At least through the night," one guy says. His long hair looks like he washed it with duck fat and olive oil. He's also missing a handful of teeth. "They like to chuck us in, leave us to simmer down, and then they come back in the morning. If you really fucked up, you may be in here a day or two while they set up a court date or move you to the real show."

"Listen, Jake," the balding one with my signature on his head says. "You want my advice? Don't tell them shit. They gonna try to trick you, okay? They'll say they're your friends. They'll say they got everything under the sun on you. But they ain't got shit. Trust me on that, brother. You just clam the fuck up, sit through it, and rock on."

I nod, eyes narrowed. "Thanks."

I hear the distinct click of high heels on concrete. I go to the edge of the bars and see a woman in a navy pencil skirt and a perfectly arranged, platinum-blonde ponytail coming into view.

Vanessa.

Normally, I'd be relieved to see my agent coming to the rescue. But the combination of the look on her face and the fact that I have no idea what I did makes me less than thrilled this time.

I wait, watching her approach.

She folds her arms just outside the jail cell, glaring at me and shaking her head.

A couple of guys whistle from behind me, but I turn and give them a look that shuts them up.

"Seriously, Jake?" Vanessa says after a few moments. "And where is your shirt?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. I don't remember what I did to get myself in here."

She sighs and pulls a folder out from under one armpit, opening it up. "Why don't we jump right into the police report?"

I wince. "There's a police report?"

"There is. And it appears to be written by a female officer with no shame."

"What do you mean?"

"Just wait," she says, smiling tightly. Vanessa is in her mid-thirties, no-nonsense, and does a hell of a job as my agent. She has been by my side through the ups and downs of my career, but meeting her from behind bars and without a shirt might be a new low for me. If the discomfort on her face is any indication, it's a new low for her, too.

She clears her throat. "The suspect was observed causing a disruption at ‘Pete's Sloshy Swill's' on Tuesday at 11:37 P.M. Witnesses reported Jake Summers was engaging in an impromptu "ice hockey game" with bar furniture. One witness claimed the suspect's ‘chiseled abs glistened in the dim bar light' as he participated in the solo match."

I sputter with a surprised laugh. "Does it actually say that?" I ask.

A few of the guys whoop in approval. They're gathering around like it's fucking story time. One of them claps my shoulder. "They do glisten, bro. No homo, of course. Not that there's anything wrong with that, either. Just saying I'm not saying–"

"Shut up, Rosenbaum," another voice says from behind me.

"Shutting up," Rosenbaum says.

Vanessa eyes me. Disapproval is all over her expression, but there may also be a touch of amusement. "It gets better. Should I keep going, or is this ringing a bell yet?"

"Vaguely," I say slowly. "But keep going. I need to hear if I won or not."

Her lips purse, but she puts her finger on the page and continues. "From the witness section," she says. "Mr. Summers commandeered a mop from the janitor's closet and used it as his stick. Witnesses say he took great pains to explain the game"s rules to the onlookers, like how the stools were his opponents and how he ‘didn't need teammates since everybody is quitting, anyway.' Despite stumbling and slurring his words, Summers deftly maneuvered around the stools and used the janitor's mop to imagine he scored several times, proclaiming, ‘Summers scores again, fuck yeah!' each time. Mr. Summers was described as six foot four, hot enough to melt your socks, and possessing a jawline that would make a statue of Adonis cry with jealousy." Vanessa's delivery is so dry it almost makes me laugh out loud.

"So the game went well?" I say.

She gives me another look, then continues. "Mr. Summers eventually attempted his ‘trademark power shot,' resulting in the mop head detaching from the stick and flying across the bar. It narrowly missed a pregnant patron, hit a mounted TV, and then landed in a bowl of peanuts, much to the dismay of snack-seeking patrons. The responding officer has collected the peanuts and presented them to evidence, along with the mug Mr. Summers is said to have put his full lips on while becoming impaired."

"Oh, come on," I say. "This has to be a joke, right?"

As Vanessa reads, a police officer who looks a bit like a librarian approaches. She has thick prescription glasses that make her eyes seem a few sizes larger than they probably are. She slows her pace, eyes narrowing as she seems to wait and listen to what Vanessa is saying.

Vanessa continues. "Summers cooperated with the responding officers but became belligerent when he wasn't ‘allowed to finish the third period because he was on the verge of a hat trick.' Property damage includes one slightly worse-for-wear mop head. Several bar stools bearing the marks of intense one-on-one matchups. A bowl of peanuts, now deemed unfit for consumption. During the arrest, Mr. Summers' eyes sparkled with unspoken intensity and the promise of passion."

The police officer turns slowly and practically tip-toes out of the room with bright red cheeks. I suspect I just witnessed the author of my police report.

I fold my arms, grinning. "Come on, Vanessa. You've got to admit it's a little funny." Even if I'm trying to find the humor in this, I can't help feeling the twinge of disappointment in myself. I know I'm acting self-destructive. Lately, it feels like all the shit that matters to me is slipping away. My team. Hockey. And, of course, the one thing I haven't whispered a word of to anyone: Caroline. Finding out some other guy knocked her up hit me in a way I still haven't been able to shake off. Betrayal, confusion, anger. I felt it all. I still do. If I remember correctly, thoughts of Caroline were what drove me to the bar in the first place.

She scowls at me. "Would it be funny if this wasn't happening right before contract negotiations? No, it probably still wouldn't be. But considering the Vandals are about to decide whether they are extending your old ass for one last contract, I'd say this falls firmly into ‘not funny' territory, Jake."

I nod slowly. "Fair points."

She chews the side of her lip, then lets out a breath. "Listen. I know it's hard watching the team change. Nolan retired last year. Jesse is talking about walking away this season. And you mentioned Carter, Maddox, and Liam have all started talking about hanging up their skates, too. Everybody is getting older."

"And?" I ask, feeling a little testy, even though it's not as if she's wrong.

"I'm wondering if your behavior tonight has anything to do with feeling like the team is slipping away from you. Or worrying that hockey could be coming to an end in your life."

"Damn," the bald guy says from behind me. "That stings, man. I'll be your friend if you need one."

"Uh, thanks," I say, returning my attention to Vanessa. "I have more than hockey and the team in my life. You realize that, right?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Such as?"

I gesture in a circle, feeling annoyed that she's asking. "I have things. Plenty of things. I've got my apartment."

"I've seen it. The one you still have decorated like you're some Spartan warrior? No curtains. No rugs. A mattress on the floor. An expired bottle of ketchup in the fridge?"

"Wait, my ketchup is expired?"

"You live like a poor college bachelor, Jake," Vanessa says. "I worry about you."

"You're exaggerating," I say, shooting a slightly embarrassed look over my shoulder. I don't want my new prison buddies to think I'm some kind of loser, after all. But seriously, when did my ketchup expire? I didn't even know ketchup could expire. "I've got those curtains. The ones in the bathroom. And what's even the point of a bed frame? The mattress works perfectly well on the ground. I'm supposed to elevate it like I'm some kind of goddamn king? Is that it?"

"Normal people have bed frames. And the curtain in your bathroom is a shower curtain. Doesn't count."

I make an annoyed sound. "What's your point?"

"You've poured your life into hockey and your team. Now, it feels like that might all be ending, and I'm worried you don't know how to handle it. So you're…" she points to my shirtless and temporarily imprisoned state. "Doing whatever this is."

"I'm fine. And hockey isn't coming to an end. I'm going to get that next contract. Just watch."

She works her lips to the side. "About that… I just spoke with the Vandal's front office staff. It sounds like they are worried about your off-ice conduct. I don't know if that means a pay cut or if it means no contract at all. But I do know this isn't helping. It would massively benefit you to clean your shit up, Jake. Find some way to look like you've got your act together. Prove to the team they can trust you going forward. If you don't, there may not be another contract. Not from the Vandals, at least."

I swallow hard. Fuck. I know I'm getting older, but I'm still the team's leading scorer. Most of the other NHL teams would happily scoop me up if the Vandals don't sign me. But I never considered the Vandals letting me go. Not yet. I've always intended to retire a Vandal. I've put in too much with helping mentor the rookies and building the team to leave it to somebody else. I've got my local charities, which I've built up in the area, too. This team is my legacy. It's like my family, from the equipment staff to the security guards on game day and all the way up to the coaches and players.

"Alright," I say, voice firm. "I'll find a way to make sure they know I'm done fucking around. Consider the problem solved."

Vanessa cocks her head. "I can't decide if I'm an idiot for actually believing you. But you really do have an almost supernatural ability to fix things. Once you decide to, that is."

"I'm going to fix this," I say. I feel some of my old fire coming back. She's right, after all. Mostly. There's nothing supernatural about my abilities, though. It's just pure, hard, unrelenting determination and a willingness to do whatever it takes. For example, when I decided I wanted to be in the NHL as a little kid. As soon as I knew what I wanted, I worked toward it tirelessly. I never took days off. I never slacked off during workouts. I never zoned out when my coaches were talking or eased up in games because I was tired.

When I want something, I fucking get it. And I'm not about to let the Vandals pass me off to some other team.

"Do I get to know what your grand plan is?" Vanessa asks.

"I'll let you know as soon as I figure that out. I'm going to Frosty Harbor tomorrow, assuming you can pull some strings and get me out of here tonight."

"Lucky for you," Vanessa says. "The bartender isn't pressing charges. He's a big fan and says the barstools you roughed up in those ‘intense one-on-ones' will be souvenirs for him. I already talked to the officers out front. You're free to go."

I glare. "So we could've had this conversation outside the jail cell?"

Vanessa smirks. "I think you deserved to sweat it out in there a little longer. And those girls over there seemed to be enjoying the view."

I look to the side and see the crowd of women in the other cell watching with big smiles on their faces. They wave when they notice me looking. I hesitantly wave back.

The ball cap guy sees the wave, thinks it's for him, and goes to the bars. "Hey, Babes. Ignore that guy. You wanna get bruises from bumping against all that muscle in bed? Nah. You want a soft ride. Air suspension, baby." He grips his love handles and leers at the women.

The bearded alliterator tilts his head and raises his palms like he's about to deliver a sermon. "Wicked welts from her wrestle with the wildly well-built Romeo…"

I meet Vanessa's eyes and mouth the words, "get me out of here."