Prologue

EMORY

Fucking hell.

A narrowed set of eyes sharpens from across the table, and my stomach knots. Air becomes trapped in my lungs, and nothing but profanity wants to spew out of my mouth and into the gaping space between us. It's a known assumption that hockey goalies have a temper, and I'm no exception. However, given the last few weeks, I try my hardest to tone it down so I don't find myself in even deeper shit.

"So?"

I flick my attention to Joseph Curry—my new agent—and his assistant. I blink several times before opening my mouth and allowing my gruff voice to vibrate against their skulls.

"Well," I snap. "I don't have much of a fucking choice, do I?"

Curry's assistant jumps in her seat. I pay her no mind because after the most recent allegations, I have a hard time trusting any female.

"Not really, no." Joseph slides a paper across the table. As soon as I read the offer, I scoff.

It's the only offer, so he's right. I have no choice.

The signing bonus is decent, and the salary is more than most people make in a lifetime. It's not too far off from what they offered me at the start of last year, but the Chicago Blue Devils are nowhere near prestigious. They're not as respected as the other teams in the league, and they have a reputation—one that I now fit because I have a record.

In the last month, I've not only found myself in handcuffs, but I now have a whole lot of pent-up aggression and resentment swimming through my veins.

I was let go from the New York Coyotes for my poor choices, and to make things worse, half the shit that has come out isn't even true.

Flashes of that night spark as I sit and stare at the contract beneath my fingertips. The memory of the club's music mixes with my pounding heartbeat, and I look down to the tiny scars along my forearm from the sprinkles of glass that whizzed through the air from the commotion I was not only dragged into but blamed for as well.

"Fine," I finally bark, clearing my thoughts with a sharp shake of my head.

My signature is nothing more than a blur as I send the paper flying across the smooth conference table.

I stand abruptly, and although Joseph should be intimidated by my 6'1" frame and angry scowl, he matches my movements and sticks his hand out for me to shake.

My jaw locks as my grip tightens in his, and his meek assistant speaks from behind. "I'll forward you the practice schedule and a list of vacant homes in the area."

She continues to talk and dish out instructions with my back to her. Right before the door slams, I hear her shout, "The Chicago Blue Devils are happy to have you on their team!"

A sarcastic noise leaves me because of course they are. I was picked in the first draft right out of college and was one of the first rookies to have a substantial amount of ice time during the season. I'm skilled, and I know it.

But talent means jack shit when your reputation is completely obliterated. My parents continue to remind me that it could have been worse and that the league had the option of banning me altogether, but they chose not to—which is great considering I took the fall for an altercation that had nothing to do with me in the first place.

My sister says I should be thanking my lucky stars that a team still wants me, and all my former teammates from Bexley U, including my sister's fiancé and my best friend, agree—even if they believe my side of the story that the media pretends doesn't exist.

I should just play the game and be thankful I'm still in the pros, but I'm angry and feel cheated.

The only thing I can think to do with those two feelings is put it all out on the ice.

So yeah, the Blue Devils should be happy I'm theirs, because I'm going to demolish every fucking team we play this season.