CHAPTER ONE

V innie

There are some things in hockey you’re not supposed to do. You might call them rules.

The first rule? Never crush on your captain.

Everyone in the US knows Evan McAllister, Captain of the Boston Blizzards. His sandy hair, slate-blue eyes, and symmetrical, sun-kissed face can be picked from any lineup.

Even those who don’t watch hockey know about his sultry Argentinian supermodel ex-girlfriend. She normally appears in commercials requiring haughty glares, hair tosses, or ice cream licking.

Those who do watch hockey know about the adorable girl he’s raising. Evan’s earned every article proclaiming him sports dad of every year, usually with an accompanying photo of Stella perched on his broad, brawny shoulders.

The lockers slam, and my teammates put on their pads and jerseys, a flurry of freshly laundered pale blue and navy and white. Boston’s colors are fucking proper.

The guys whoop and holler around me, outdoing one another as they discuss how we’re going to destroy Montreal.

I wrap my hockey stick with tape and keep my gaze fixed on the aggressive-looking snowflake emblazed on the locker room floor.

Evan saunters toward me, flashing a shiny smile as if he’s in the middle of a commercial. But then, he stars in enough of those.

His presence stops everything. My fingers wobble despite their simple task.

I have to remind my body that this is real life and not sometime between the hours of two and six, when my body is so exhausted that it succumbs to sleep and its accompanying fantasies. He’s not going to wander through the locker room and kiss me.

I know better. I really do.

But then, I’m also certain what I’m feeling isn’t a crush anymore, not after three years.

I’m absolutely not going to look at Evan McAllister.

Nope, absolutely not.

My gaze swerves to him. How can it not?

Because despite all my efforts, I’ve found myself being the dreaded cliché: closeted and hopelessly in love with my straight best friend.

Evan plops beside me, and every cell in my body stiffens, warning me not to betray myself. His thigh touches mine, and even though I know it means nothing, and even though we’re covered by fabric and pads, his touch burns my soul.

I finish taping my stick, scowl as if I’m already facing Montreal, and rise.

He places a hand on my arm, unaware of the mini explosions of nerve endings his touch detonates.

I stiffen and sink back onto the wooden bench.

“You should visit,” Evan announces. “We haven’t hung out in forever. Come for movie night at my house.”

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine it. I allow myself to imagine showing up at his Beacon Hill townhouse and being led to his massive movie room with the oversized screen that rolls down at the press of the button. Nope, super bad idea. Evan and I are not going to share a couch in a dark room even if we’re chaperoned by his seven-year-old daughter.

Absolutely no way.

I do my best shrug and feign deep regret. “Busy.”

“Oh.” He flicks lint off his thigh. The action shouldn’t be distracting. Hockey uniforms are famously unsexy. Strapping pads to muscular men and obscuring their bodies should be a sin. But all I can think is that he’s right beside me.

I hate the way my heart constricts and contracts at random in his presence. I hate the way that even now it’s excited he’s beside me as if part of it thinks his next move is going to whisper sweet nothings or something similarly ridiculous.

“Are we cool?” His words wobble, and I hate the note of uncertainty.

“Absolutely.” I scramble up and pretend I don’t see the confusion flutter over his symmetrical features and don’t feel his gaze on me.

Look, I know that we’re in the 2020s. I know there’s nothing wrong, really, about the way I feel. I know it’s natural, at least for me. My eyes have always been drawn to men more than women. I haven’t dated a woman in years, back when I wondered whether maybe I hadn’t met the right one, that maybe I was more comfortable around men because I spent more time with them, that maybe my gaze lingered on men’s bodies out of an athletic urge to compare myself with other athletes.

But I know there’s no going back from the awkwardness of explaining that I like Evan...that way.

I don’t want to see pity in his perfect eyes, and I don’t want to hear stumbling vows that he doesn’t care, but of course he doesn’t return my feelings, and of course, he won’t tell anyone.

At least now we’re still strong on the ice. I’m not going to destabilize my career with the hope of the impossible. The man’s ex is a supermodel, after all. And not the skinny kind with no bosom and a constant glower, the latter to remind people to look at the clothes. Nope, Valentina graces the cover of a different magazine each month, flaunting her not insignificant cleavage, a fact I’m reminded of each time I pop into CVS or Walgreens.

I hurry past the other guys. I’m the first person in the tunnel. I wait for the others to join, relieved when it’s time to skate. Bright lights fill the arena, shielding me from the recesses of my mind and reminding me to remain in the present.

All that matters is the puck and how many times we can score.

Calmness ripples through me as I hurry into the cold rink. This is where I belong. The crowd is a sea of blue and white. Lights blaze from the high, expansive metal beams that crisscross the ceiling, and the DJ is playing an upbeat song.

The crowd explodes, exclaiming and clapping when Evan’s name is announced, just in case people don’t know that 37 means him.

Evan blows a kiss toward the puck bunny section, but I know it’s not aimed at the assortment of jersey-wearing sultry blondes and brunettes sporting impeccable makeup—which half of them applied on Instagram and TikTok for their own fans—and large glittering rocks, but at Stella who is wedged somewhere there.

I swallow away my desire to glance at Evan, his uniform even brighter under the strong lights. I know his smile has to be big now.

This is the part of the day I live for. These hours are what I trained and dreamed my whole life for. Skates scruff and scrape the ice, and sticks clack against the puck.

It’s a home game, and the crowd is happy, cheering and roaring and clapping.

Evan scores two goals quickly, and I have an assist.

Montreal is furious, skating fast and sloppy, happy to hammer us against the boards.

It’s not going to work.

We’re going to win. We can feel it in our hearts, a happy cloud that makes us seem to fly, so that I’m surprised each time it’s time for us to swap lines. I lean forward on the bench, craning my neck, eager to get on the ice again.

Then, finally we’re there. Bright lights gleam above, and the crowd cheers.

I get the puck and pass it to Finn, our right winger, who carries it into the offensive zone. His golden-brown curls fly, and his skates hiss, grinding the no longer freshly zambonied ice. Evan charges forward, and I’m close behind. My muscles tense. I’m so ready for this.

Suddenly one of the Montreal players, some rookie eager to impress puck bunnies, crashes into Evan.

I growl.

That so isn’t cool.

My new least favorite number is 89, and I’m ready to fight.

I wait for Evan to grunt and curse. I wait for him to show that over-eager defender that we’re Boston and nobody tosses us against the wall.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Evan slithers to the ice, and my stomach goes cold.

“Evan!” I race over to him.

The ref blows the whistle, stopping play, and the arena is silent.

I reach Evan first, my hands shaking. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.

“I-I didn’t mean to—” the Montreal idiot stammers.

“Fuck off.”

His eyes probably widen, but I’m focused on Evan whose eyes aren’t doing anything. Like opening.

The medics rush to the ice, the faint scraping of their skates merging with the pounding of my heartbeat.

“Daddy!” Stella’s scream sails over the shocked crowd.

The medics secure Evan’s neck with a brace, then load him onto a stretcher.

I’ve seen them practice with human-sized dolls.

This is the real thing.

Fights are common, becoming unconscious isn’t.

Evan’s had injuries before, we’ve all had, but he’s never not opened his eyes.

Oh, God.

He has to be okay.

I skate after the stretcher. I have to follow him.

“Get back on the ice, DeLuca,” Coach Holberg yells. “This game isn’t over.”

“But McAllister—”

The other players shoot me confused looks. Half of them probably don’t even remember that Evan and I used to be friends.

“Now, DeLuca,” Coach Holberg barks, losing his Swedish cool. God, I didn’t know that was possible. But then I also didn’t think Evan would be hauled off the ice. Coach rakes his hand through his thinning blond hair, and his pale blue eyes are as piercing as any laser.

My stomach wobbles, and I swallow back the lingering fruity taste of my last sports drink. I rejoin my line, avoiding looking at my teammates. My protective gear is suddenly way too heavy and utterly ineffectual.