9. Montreal / Present Day

NINE

MONTREAL / PRESENT DAY

Koa

R ivera manages to get a shot in my direction before being crushed against the boards. The opposing team immediately starts chanting, “Block. The. Cock. Block. The. Cock,” and our fans are cluck, cluck, clucking away. This used to grate on my nerves, but it’s gotten less and less annoying with each game, and now that sound fuels me.

But the way this game has gone, apprehension twists in my guts.

More than half of the fifteen thousand hockey fans packed into this arena half-expect me to make this shot and tie up the game with twenty seconds left to go. I should feel damn good that they believe in my ability to do just that.

It’s moments like this that remind me why I do what I do, and I take pride that I’ve proven my critics wrong. A walk-on from a D3 school, who never played before … hell, I’d tried out on a bet. Then I was offered a spot at Lincoln University’s D1 program, and then signed to the Bears. They said I’d never make it. Then, when I did, it was because the new Bears’ owner was young and dumb. That was another lifetime.

That’s not why this feels wrong. Not anymore. Tonight, it feels a hell of a lot like it did when our dream of bringing the cup to Brooklyn for the first time ever was crushed.

Same fucking team, and they’re all over me.

I pass the puck to Sterling, hoping I can see the opening to get it back to Rivera who has blood dripping from his nose under his mask but is in perfect position. I try to stop myself from looking at the clock as it ticks down, but it’s impossible. Fourteen seconds left when Sterling passes the puck and gets nailed from behind, fucking his shot up a bit. Twelve, the puck bounces between players, and through a stroke of equally good and bad luck, Rivera gains possession, but he’s railed again. I manage to get there in time to snatch it away from their defenders.

I don’t have a clear shot, but I’m in a better position than any of my teammates, so I go for it, get railed by not one but two Montreal defenders, and land face down on the ice.

When the crowd roars, I glance up at the clock and see that we’re tied.

“Fuck yeah!” Dash skates over and holds out his hand for me. “All that self-help in the shower paid off.”

I grab it, and he pulls me up.

“What?”

He makes a jerking-off motion with his hand. “Gave you a killer wrist shot.”

As we smash helmets together, I laugh. “Not sure how your shower activities increased my play, but I’ll take it.”

Then the entire team crashes into us.

“It’s not over yet. We still have four seconds left, and then overtime.” Rivera skates out of the huddle with a, “Let’s do this!”

Stone, Faulkner, and Smith take to the ice for overtime, and Coach D sends Johnson to the goal. That comes as a bit of a shock to me since he’s the one who let them get two, and Deacon’s busted his ass to make sure nothing more got through. But there’s no time to mind fuck that, and quite honestly, it’s not my job. But being a good human doesn’t come within a job description; you do that because it’s the only way to be.

I tell him what’s real, “You killed it out there.”

He nods to Johnson. “Let’s hope he does the same.”

My back stiffens as a slow clap shatters the silence in the visitor locker room. I don’t have to look back to see where it originated. Coach D may be the first and only female coach in the NHL, but that doesn’t mean she takes it easy on us; it’s quite the opposite.

“Quiet in here, boys .”

Oh yeah, she’s so pissed about the game—we’re not Bears, team , or even men ; we’ve been reduced to boys . I’m not going to lie; we deserve it. We looked like a bunch of U12 players tonight.

“The win you’ve just scraped by better not feel like a victory, because it sure as hell didn’t look like one from where I stood or from where any of your fans, people, human beings who chose to spend their time and money to come all the way to Montreal to watch last year’s Stanley Cup finalists. They gave up the most valuable thing there is—time.”

She pauses briefly enough for me to hear our first line forward. Bass breathes out in a low rumble that I know she can’t hear, which is exactly what he’s aiming for. “Keep it together, Queen.”

“That’s not winning, boys; that’s surviving. And if that’s all you’ve got in the tank, we’re dead next game! Where the hell was the grit? The urgency? Some of you were coasting, waiting for someone else to make a play or stop the damn puck. Do you think our opponents are just gonna roll over because we’re the Brooklyn Bears? No! They want to eat us alive, and tonight, we almost handed them the fork and knife!” The click of her heels indicates she’s exiting. “Bus leaves in fifteen!”

As soon as the locker room doors close behind her, Andy Johnson mutters under his breath, “It’s not that easy. Fucking exhausted.”

“You tired? We’re all tired! We don’t play this game because it’s easy. We play to win, we play to dominate, and tonight, you barely showed up. This isn’t a participation league. We don’t make the money we make for trying; we make it for getting results!” Deacon Moretti, the oldest and only Bear to have survived the buyout, slams his locker door for emphasis, the sound ricocheting off the walls. “You wanna be champions? Start acting like it! Because if you can’t find another gear, if you’re satisfied with that pathetic excuse for a performance, you won’t last the season. We play LA at home in two days; we have less than that to get hungry again!”

Johnson sneers, and Deacon snaps, “You think you’re hot shit, but you’re not, kid . You let them all slide by.” He holds up two fingers and points one an inch from Johnson’s face. “You shouldn’t even be?—”

“Old man, they only kept you because no one else would take you.” He bats his finger away. “You think you deserve to be on this team, old man. You?—”

“I’m sick of your mouth.” Deacon powers into him, the crack of their bodies colliding echoing off the listing locker doors.

Johnson’s fist connects with Deacon’s jaw, sending a spray of blood onto the lockers. With a guttural roar, he gives it right back.

Rivera and I finally get a decent hold of Deacon while Stone and Smith pull Johnson back.

Bass Giulietti stands in the middle, a hand on both their chests. “If the rest of the team weren’t in here right now, I’d tear you both up?—”

“Good luck,” Johnson sneers after spitting a mouthful of blood on the cement floor.

“Shut the fuck up, Andy ,” Stone sneers at him then shoves him away.

“Bullshit,” he sputters as he grabs his bag. “Bunch of frat boys, geriatrics, and hormonal bitche?—”

“Overpriced pile of shit!” Giulietti pounces on him, and the two are on the ground.

I glance at Rivera, unmoving. “Johnson deserves whatever he gets.”

“Coach D doesn’t need this shit,” he says, stepping toward them, Smith and Stone doing the same.

I agree with him, but the three of them got this. His ego doesn’t get fed a fourth.

I head back over, throw on my suit jacket, and nod toward the exit. “Let’s roll.”

Deacon’s nostrils flare as he grabs his bag.

I wave my hand in front of me. “After you.”

He doesn’t say a word; he doesn’t have to. Johnson’s a tool with more ego than the entire team. We’ve all heard rumors that he’s been shit-talking the team, blaming everyone for the fact we lost the cup last year, said he hoped for a trade.

Deacon’s thirty-five, which is considered past his prime in the NHL. But straight up, the time he gets on the ice, his experience, refined technique, mental game, and ability to read the ice, age be damned.

“Fuck him,” I say as we step onto the bus that will take us to the airport.

“Fuck him,” Deacon agrees.

“This is nice,” I sigh as we walk through the security doors and into the terminal to head out to a waiting car—or at least I hope it’s waiting.

“Walking through the airport at close to two a.m. has zero perks,” Dash grumbles.

“We’re not getting bombarded with autograph requests,” I remind him.

“Or hungry bunnies wanting to be fed,” he huffs, hiking the strap of his bag up his shoulder.

I chuckle silently as I glance at Deacon, who’s still on edge, not that I can blame the man. Fifteen years in a league, he’s arguably one of the best goalies that the NHL has ever seen, but he’s never won a cup. That win’s a team effort, and when the team is not … teaming, he’s not given a real opportunity. We were close to it last season, but it only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and online dating profiles.

I grab the phone from Dash’s hand to save him from hook-up disaster.

“What the hell?” he gasps.

“You’re welcome,” I say, logging him out of the app and returning his phone.

“Fuck, KOK, you know I don’t remember my passwords.”

“Pretty sure that’s the point.” Deacon chuckles. “Nice save, KOK.” He nods in the opposite direction we’re heading, where a familiar-looking woman is waiting. “See you all at practice.”

“How come he gets to hook up, and you’ve K-O-K blocked me?” Dash whines.

“Don’t think of it as a block; think of it as an assist. Coach D gave strict orders—no bunnies, get home, get sleep, and show up tomorrow with?—”

“She’s the OG bunny,” he argues. “He’s?—”

“Earned it.” I nod toward the exit. “Let’s roll.”

“Shit,” I hear from my left and see a woman bending down, cradling a baby to pick up her phone.

“Allow me.” I bend down, grab the device, and hold it out for her.

She pushes her hair from her face, and my heart fucking stutters.

Her eyes widen as she looks up at me. “Koa.”

“Car’s waiting, man,” Dash mutters from beside me. “Let’s roll.”

“I, um, she’s—” Her phone ringing in my hand has her looking down, and I see his name—fucking Joey.

I manage to speak the truth as I look at the little beauty, even though the words slice like shards of glass as they leave my mouth. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is.” She smiles. Fucking smiles in a way I haven’t seen since our year in Hayward or the beginning of the summer on the island. It’s natural; it shines in her eyes. It’s not the smile I pretended to see the last time we were together. It’s beautiful. She’s fucking beautiful, always has been. What she never has been is mine.

She declines his call.

“I’m sorry. I have to …” She pauses as the phone rings again and shakes her head as she answers this time. “Everything’s good. We’re good and waiting right by the exit for?—”

“Koa, Coach’s orders—let’s roll,” Dash talks over her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Koa.” Dash now places a hand on my back and gives me a shove. “We’re not doing this shit again.”

He’s right. He’s absolutely right.

I lift a chin to my past and get to stepping.

The sick shit about stepping is I fucking love that it’s me walking away this time.

Outside, I follow Dash to the waiting vehicle.

Once we settle in, he clears his throat and forces out a laugh. “I’m thinking you need a late night bunny tumble even more than I do.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Invite the girls to the new pad? Break it in?” he asks hopefully.

The new place is the house I bought, knowing it’s time to step out of the suck hole I’ve been stuck in for fucking four years and some change. The place I was preparing to head to after I washed off all the stains of the past so as not to taint it.

“Nothing changed; it’s still a no-hookup zone.”

“Your place, your call.” He sighs as he leans back into the leather seat. “But I’m telling you, no chick you decide to make long term is gonna walk into that waterfront palace on Millionaire Row and wanna leave because you’ve had chicks there before her.”

The place is insane. It’s nine thousand square feet of modern elegance. Radiant marble floors and vaulted ceilings throughout the whole place. It has a gourmet kitchen, seven bedrooms, nine baths, a wine cellar, a home gym, a formal great room and dining room, and two family rooms, both with fireplaces. The master suite is like nothing I’ve ever seen, but the best part of the house is the backyard. Granted, the yard is huge, but the entertainment area is killer—mosaic-tiled heated pool and hot tub, a cabana with an outdoor kitchen that includes a wood-burning pizza oven that leads to the dock where the two jet skis will be tied up when summer rolls around again. And when I find the boat I want, it will join them. It’s not the island, but it isn’t bad.

“Sticking with the Puck Pad?”

“Yes.” I roll my neck as I close my eyes and lean back against the seat.

Unreal , I think, having seen her and their child. The image of them burns in my damn brain, and I wonder how fucking long it’s going to take before those fade. I know the answer because I went down a rabbit hole trying to make that shit stop years ago.

Located in the back of our brains is the primary visual cortex. It’s the part of the brain that processes visual information and lets us see the world. But the ying to that yang is that it also houses all those movie reel-like memories, aka internal visualization. Unfortunately, you can’t unplug that sadistic bitch without fucking up everything else.

“What are you going to do if Faulker and Killer have bunnies over?”

“Not much I can do; they live there, too, now.” I turn and look at him. “I’m good, Dash.”

He narrows his eyes, and I shake my head.

“She’s got a kid with him. I don’t knowingly dabble in someone else’s shit.”

He exhales a long breath. “How fucked up was that, though?”

“Ever read a history book and closed it up feeling good?”

“Not once that I can recall.” He chuckles.

“Exactly.” I hold out a fist. “I have one focus.”

He taps my fist. “Scoring goals and winning cups.”

“You’re damn right.”