1. The Alpha

ONE

THE ALPHA

CAM

"T

ake that, Vegas' Newest Bad Boy," Max Largente taunts with a smirk, quoting the latest entertainment and sports news' favorite label for me. I roll my eyes at him and the others sitting around the gaming table.

With his uncle, Anthony Largente, observing from the other side of the room with much interest—being the owner of this establishment, the Largess Hotel I'd say his uncle cuts a more menacing figure. Although I've worked my way into this high-stakes game over the past month, gaining my own reputation, it's time I drop the hammer. It's time I show them who Cam Castillo is.

Fuck it. They want to see the bad boy?

I plant my cards one by one on the felt, my eyes locked on Max, taking in every bit of satisfaction at his smug mug disappearing. He never knew what hit him because my poker face is that good.

Big D leaves the chick and rushes up behind me, gloating. "Holy shit. You mother fucker. A Straight Flush."

That's right. Cards six, seven, eight, nine, and ten of diamonds beat the piddly nines. Max slams his fist on the felt and shoves off from the table, the steam practically visible coming out of his hot head. He exits the suite, throwing open the door so hard it slams against the wall.

I hold in a laugh at his tantrum. His entourage follows after him, while I help the dealer stack my chips. There's probably a million dollars or more here; I shrug.

It's not about the money, it's about winning and being the best. It's about proving that I belong on this earth and proving everything my father said about me wrong. I'm not a worthless piece of shit. That's why I play hard on the ice. And why I'm a formidable opponent in a poker game.

Hello Las Vegas. Welcome your new alpha with open arms.

The woman Big D left behind at the bar eyes me up and down, and slinks closer, licking her lips. Yeah, she knows an alpha when she sees it, too. She's attractive and she could do for the night, because that's the other label the media have given me.

Playboy of Hockey.

I play hard and fuck harder, never staying with one woman more than one night. And I never reveal my true self to anyone.

The other card players leave, each of them shaking my hand or slapping my back or giving me a you've-got-some-balls type of grin.

Anthony approaches, his hand extended. He's brawny, with a crooked nose that could have been broken at least a time or two. Not a handsome man, I'd say, but certainly one who carried himself with the utmost confidence. Oh, and he's probably the richest asshole in sin city, and likely connected to the mafia in some form.

I should fear him, but I've been around men like him my whole life and I long ago stopped letting any of them intimidate me.

"Good game. You're welcome at my private table any time. Just call my man to arrange it." He snaps his fingers and motions to his bodyguard in a dark suit on his right. He's massive and built like a football player on steroids, and hands me a card.

It's glossy and black, with only a phone number printed on it in raised gold letters. Classy.

"Thanks. I hope I didn't upset Max too badly." Well, I do, but I'm kissing up to Anthony. He owns the newest and best casino on the strip, hailed around the world for the way his entertainment group has expanded. Doesn't hurt to keep on his good side.

"My nephew could use someone knocking him down a few pegs. Feel free to bring your teammates around sometime. We'll treat all of you to anything you want. After all, this is Vegas, and I welcome your team with open arms." His one gold tooth brightens the corner of his crooked smile. It's hard to say if you can trust a man like him.

I nod, and Big D follows me out of the room. I wink at the woman as I pass by. She smiles and would probably leave with us, but Anthony comes up behind her and draws her into his arms like he owns her. He probably does.

Big D doesn't speak until we're in the elevator going down. He bends over with a hoot, his hands on his knees, and his dirty blond hair falls forward into his eyes. "Jeez, that was insane. Remind me never to go playing poker with you again. Look, when we get home, you think we could keep this night just between us? Kallie will never let me out again if she hears about all of this."

He's a good old boy originally from some ranch in Montana, and grew up doing the two things he loves: bull-riding and hockey. He played semi-pro hockey for the Puckers in Southern California before getting called up to play for the Vipers in Los Angeles. Then they traded him to a team in Austin where he and Kallie hooked up.

There's a story behind that, too, involving some messed up shit with her ex, plus she was the owner's daughter. But Big D came out on top and took care of all that. Eventually, like me, he was traded here.

I don't usually have a lot of friends, often a loner. But I keep up relationships with my teammates for the good of the game.

We get along; we play better; we win. Friendliness serves a purpose.

Anyone getting too close to me would only get mired in the ugliness of my life and the past I try hard to rise above. So this night must have been a shock to him to see a part of the real me.

"Who said anything about going home? It's only one in the morning. Let's hit this gentleman's club I've heard a lot about," I suggest, the adrenaline from winning needing an outlet, and I'll have my pick of women at that club.

"Shoot, knowing you, there's nothing gentlemanly about it. I'll pass. Besides, we've got practice in seven hours. I can't stay out later than this and be any good on the ice."

He has a point and I relent a little too easily. Our first pre-season game is in three days, so I need to be at my best. Besides, I consider Vegas a do-over for me.

They can call me the bad boy on the ice all they want. Off the ice, I made a deal with myself to improve my image. As much as I'd like to party the night away, thanks to Big D, I'll be good and get my ass home.