Prologue

Braxton

This is a fucking nightmare.

Last night was bad enough when my name wasn't called during the first round of the draft with a camera pointed in my face the entire time. But today, as I listened to a name that wasn't mine called out every three minutes, it began to sink in that this was really happening.

With two picks left in the seventh round, I wasn't getting drafted.

Never once hearing my name over the loudspeakers, I was unable to tune out the hushed whispers coming from all around.

"Is there an injury we don't know about?"

"Did he bomb his draft interviews?"

"You'd think his brother would be enough to get him drafted somewhere."

"Maybe he just isn't as good as Jaxon."

Gritting my teeth, I tried to remain calm, knowing the entire hockey community was watching my public humiliation.

It always circled back to Jaxon. How could it not?

My brother was Jaxon Slate, the captain of the Connecticut Comets professional hockey team. He wasn't just a good player; he was a superstar, a generational talent.

And I'd been living in his shadow since the day I was born.

Don't get me wrong, I idolized my brother. But I had been only nine years old when he was drafted number one overall, the hottest recruit in a decade, and suddenly all eyes were on me, expecting me to be Jaxon Part Two.

But the pressure to live up to Jaxon's talent began long before that day. With such a large age gap between us boys—eight and a half years apart—by the time I was old enough to don skates, Jaxon was already making waves in the youth hockey circuit.

My brother had natural talent. I wasn't quite so lucky, even if we shared the same parents.

But that didn't matter to our dad. He held me to the impossibly high standard Jaxon had set.

I could hear him in my head even now, as I once again failed to measure up to my superstar brother, about to become the undrafted Slate brother.

Jaxon did it this way.

Jaxon was the team's leading scorer at your age.

Why can't you be more like Jaxon?

For so many years, I bit my tongue when all I wanted to do was stand up and scream, "I'm not Jaxon!"

Jaxon was effortless on the ice; he could see the game in his head like no one else—almost as if his brain were computing the opposing team's play before it materialized, or finding the perfect open spot on the ice to cash in.

I had to work my ass off every day and still never came close. They said hard work could beat talent when talent didn't work hard, but unfortunately for me, my brother was the most dedicated player I'd ever met. He didn't take days off. Hockey was his life.

Sometimes, I wondered what my life would have been like if we'd had more siblings, if Jaxon and I were closer in age, or if perhaps I'd been born a girl. Would any of those changes have made a difference? Would there be less pressure on me now to follow in my big brother's footsteps?

Maybe this was a good thing, not getting drafted. It could be my way out.

I had earned a full-ride scholarship to play hockey at Hartford State. I didn't need anyone to point out that for someone trying to escape my brother's shadow, I willingly put myself in the same city where he played—we all had our issues. Perhaps I could keep my head down, play hockey, but focus on getting a degree. There were tons of college players who knew going in that those were their last years of playing. Outside of beer league, at least.

This might be my chance to carve my own path. One I chose for myself.

What would my life even look like without hockey consuming every waking moment?

As I mulled over that thought, the commissioner of the league stepped up to the podium to announce the final pick of this year's draft. It was time for him to put me out of my misery.

Leaning into the microphone, he said, "This year, it seems we have a little excitement coming into our final pick. The Chicago Crush have traded their seventh-round pick this year to the Connecticut Comets for their seventh-round picks the next two years."

Jaxon gave me a slight nudge with his elbow, and what the commissioner was saying sank in.

The Comets . . .

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please, God, no.

"With the 224th pick in the draft, this year's Mr. Irrelevant, the Connecticut Comets select Braxton Slate, a forward from the US National Junior Team."

My parents, Jaxon, and my girlfriend, Lacey, rose to their feet, but I was glued to my chair.

Being dubbed this year's Mr. Irrelevant, the final draft pick, was bad enough, but at least that usually meant you were going to a team that was that year's champions. This was worse. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that strings had been pulled out of pity. The Comets felt bad that their star player's brother was about to go undrafted and made sure that didn't happen.

My dad threw me a glare, forcing out through teeth clamped down in a fake smile, "Get up. You're embarrassing us."

Hewas embarrassed? I was the kid whose big brother had to swoop in and "save" the day.

I stood, letting my family hug me and my girlfriend kiss me, before walking on autopilot to the stage.

How the hell was I supposed to separate myself from Jaxon now that we would be playing for the same team? And after the stunt he just pulled, I could forget about working my way up through the minors after college. I wouldn't put it past him to have me out on a shift with him—the left wing to his center.

If I was going to be thrown into the deep end—and likely the national spotlight—I would have to make these next four years count. Improving my game and preparing for the professional stage would take every ounce of my focus.

Lucky me.

The draft rotated between the cities housing professional teams; this year, it was Vegas's turn to host. As soon as the press cleared the arena, I grabbed Lacey and stepped out onto the Strip. Pulling her behind me, I couldn't get away from that arena fast enough.

Stumbling to keep up in her heels, she whined, "Braxton! Slow down!"

At eighteen, we couldn't enjoy the drinking or gambling that Sin City had to offer, but there were plenty of attractions within walking distance for us to enjoy. Not that this trip was for pleasure. Oh no, the business of the rest of my life was the sole purpose of our trek to the desert, and for a split second, I wished I'd never set foot on the ice.

Chest heaving, I stumbled to a stop before the famous dancing fountains, leaning on my elbows over the concrete railing. Closing my eyes, I prayed that when I opened them, I would find this all to have been a bad dream.

Any team would've been better than the Comets. Hell, not getting drafted would have been preferable.

Jaxon had already been in the league for almost a decade, but knowing him, he'd find a way to stretch out his career. I'd never have a chance to branch out on my own, make a name for myself.

"Braxton, we need to talk." Lacey's voice filtered over the music accompanying the fountains.

Groaning, I forced my eyes open and turned to face her.

We had been together for a couple of years now. Since I first took a spot on the National Junior Team in Detroit—yet another spot granted to me by virtue of being Jaxon's little brother, the anticipated yet predictably disappointing sequel. She was a local girl, and we'd met at the rink after one of my games.

Dad made sure to lecture me every time he came to visit or when he made his weekly calls that having a girlfriend was a distraction. Telling me it took time and focus away from what I'd come to Detroit to do—play hockey. Not to mention the warnings about what would happen if I managed to knock her up.

Michael Slate was deadly serious when he said it had better be worth it because I'd be marrying whatever girl I got in trouble—prior relationship or one-night stand, it wouldn't matter. That threat didn't bother me because Lacey was the girl for me. When the team went on long bus rides for away games, we spent hours on the phone talking about our future. She planned to follow me wherever I got drafted—back when that hadn't been in doubt—and if she could support me during the early days of my career, I would take care of her when it took off.

It seemed so simple. But what did we know? We were a couple of stupid kids.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I sighed. "What is it, Lace? If you haven't noticed, I'm not having the best day."

Her brown eyes assessed me for a beat before she said, "I can't do this anymore."

I was not in the mood for her habit of talking in riddles. Not today.

"Can't do what?"

Gesturing between us with her hand, she clarified, "Us."

Staring at her, I wasn't quite sure what I was hearing. "Us. As in . . ."

"It's over."

I barked out a laugh of disbelief, repeating her words. "It's over. Are you fucking kidding me right now? After that shitshow back there, you're dumping me?!"

My voice rose loud enough that fellow tourists enjoying the fountain show turned to gawk at the ridiculous soap opera of my life unfolding. What did it matter now? My career—or the potential lack of one—would be plastered all over the sports media outlets before I returned to the hotel. Why not let people witness a public breakup while I was at it?

Lacey popped her hip. "It's because of that shitshow. Mr. Irrelevant? You had so much potential, but you're going nowhere fast, Braxton, and I'm not going to let you take me down with you."

I scoffed as a memory of the day I met her came to the front of my mind. Lacey hanging around the rink after most of the spectators had gone home. She wasn't picky; she'd have taken on any player. She was just a run-of-the-mill puck bunny, looking to get in on the ground floor before a guy hit it big. And I was the idiot who couldn't see past a pretty face and promises of forever to uncover the scheming gold-digger underneath.

She'd been using me all along.

Even though I was more pissed at myself that I hadn't seen it coming, it didn't stop me from trying to hurt her like she'd hurt me. "Fine. Guess you wouldn't have been able to hack it as a hockey wife anyway. Not every season is a championship year or even a playoff year. It's better I know what kind of fair-weather fan—or girlfriend—you turned out to be before it was too late."

She flinched at my harsh words.

Knowing she had a key to her own hotel room and a return ticket to Michigan on her phone, I turned on my heel and walked away.

Walking the Strip, I berated myself for being a gullible, lovesick fool for the first girl who'd shown interest in me. I should have known better. But a small part of me had been hopeful that someone had finally seen past my last name and who my brother was—that they saw me.

Was that really so much to ask? I guess I had my answer.

I would never be more than an off-brand Jaxon Slate to those in the hockey community.

This sport was ruining my life from the inside out.