Chapter 1

The echoof pucks slamming against the boards punched through the chilly arena air. I was already feeling the strain of practice as I glanced at my watch to check my sugar levels.

Lance "Ash" Ashman, my defensive partner, glided over with a youthful energy I envied. "Sugars okay?" he asked.

I nodded. Diabetes didn't define me, and it certainly didn't stop me from playing the game I loved, but fuck, it got in the way sometimes. It wasn't an impending hypo that made my legs feel like jelly. It was the fact that at thirty-five, every stride on the ice reminded me I was getting closer to the end of my career, and I wasn't a kid anymore.

"Yep," I said.

It was all Ash needed to know. The entire team had been subjected to a three-hour lecture by our team medic on the ups and downs of diabetes, and what to look out for, which meant that, for the next two practices, all of them stared at me, watching for me to appear drunk. I'd shut that down faster than a slapshot—they didn't need to stare—because I had alarms on alarms, a watch that connected to a sensor measuring my levels, and I wouldn't collapse in front of them.

Ash now had a permanent supply of candy in his cubby after taking things way too seriously. I could handle that, after all, he was my D-partner, but the fuss, I hated.

"Just not used to practices with just me and a couple of others."

"They don't do this shit in New York?"

I side-eyed him. "We're all there. I mean, we were all there, just separated off."

"You worried about facing the old team when it comes to it?" he asked, bouncing on his skates as we waited for the next attack.

"Nah," I lied.

Early next month, we'd be up against them, and despite the countless games under my belt—all sixteen years with the guys in the Big Apple—a knot of nerves settled in my stomach whenever I thought about it. It would be my first game against my old team since the trade, in the city itself, part of a larger East Coast stand that saw the LA Storm heading to Harrisburg and Boston as well, and it was a homecoming I wasn't sure I was ready for. Not only was it back there, against a team I'd grown up in, but I'd miss my girls like a limb.

Being traded hadn't been a surprise—deep down, I had seen the writing on the wall. At thirty-five, whispers of "past his prime" following my every move on the ice sparked fear. I knew hockey was a business. I understood the nature of the game, the inevitable cycle of players being traded, retiring, or being let go. But understanding it didn't make the reality any easier to stomach. New York had probably gifted me an extra year because of my situation, a widower balancing a demanding career with the needs of my daughters.

But New York had been my home, my team, my family. I'd given everything to the game, to the team, even when it meant juggling childcare for Scarlett and Daisy on my own after my wife had died. Losing Melissa to breast cancer had thrown our world into chaos, and I'd barely made it through intact, and only for my girls. The trade, though expected, stung with a bitterness that New York thought I wasn't useful anymore and had become a liability, rather than an asset.

So yeah, I was worried about fitting into the Storm's structure, and one day having to face my old team.

What if I fuck up?

My pride wanted to prove to the Storm that I still had value, that I wasn't just a player to be traded away when it was convenient as New York had done. Yet, there was also fear—the fear of not living up to my own expectations, of confirming the decision New York had made to let me go had been the right one.

The Storm had welcomed me with open arms, suggesting they wanted the experience and leadership I brought to the table. I was determined not to let them—or myself—down, and to show everyone I was more than the sum of my years. The fire of competition still burned bright.

And all I needed to do was fix the slow parts of my game, keep up with the young guys, be the brick wall they needed me to be, and not fall over because my legs gave out.

Easy.

"Ready to take on Captain Fantastic?" Ash quipped, nodding toward Charles Zhang, Storm captain and first-line center, who was already weaving through cones with a puck at a mesmerizing pace. "Practice with Cap," Coach had said. "If you can stop him, you can stop anyone," he'd added, but fuck, Zhang was fast, and deadly accurate.

Still, I couldn't help but crack a smile. "Let's not let him dazzle us too much. Remember, we're supposed to be the wall, not the welcome mat."

Ash laughed, bumping his shoulder against mine before we both turned our attention to the task at hand. Philippe, our goalie, was bracing himself in the net, and I knew his focus would be sharp as Charles prepared to bear down on us.

The drill was simple—he was trying to get past us to score.

So simple.

Ash and I had to work seamlessly to stop him.

Yep. Simple.

Charles darted towards us, the puck glued to his stick. Ash and I moved in sync, a dance we'd been perfecting since I'd joined the team. Our aim was clear—keep Charles from finding even a sliver of space to break through or get a shot off. As our cap approached, I could see the determination in his eyes.

"Not today, Cowboy," he taunted, a grin spreading across his face as he attempted a feint to the left.

I didn't bite, staying square to him, my gaze locked on the puck. "In your dreams, Cap," I retorted, the familiar banter easing some of my tension.

He shifted direction, a quick movement meant to throw us off. But Ash was on him, forcing Charles to the outside. I closed the gap, ensuring there was no lane for a pass or shot, our sticks creating a barrier he couldn't penetrate.

"Nice try!" Ash shouted, a mix of challenge and respect in his voice as we steered Cap away from the net, the puck skittering harmlessly to the corner.

Philippe tapped his stick against the post, a sign of appreciation for the defensive effort. "Ha ha!" he shouted and patted his pipes, snickering as Cap skated around the back of the net. His grin widened when Cap collected the loose puck and attempted a baseball-type hit to get past our goalie. The two of them collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, both laughing, and I took the moment to catch my breath.

"Water!" Ash announced, and as we skated back to the bench for a quick water break, he nudged me. "Hey, you've been pretty quiet about this New York game. You know we're gonna smash ‘em, right?"

I hesitated. The weight ofreturning to a city that had been my home for so long was heavy on my shoulders. "It's not about winning; I know we're gonna win," I lied, because New York was a strong team. "It's just… y'know…" I didn't know how to explain.

As usual, Ash went all thoughtful and summarized everything in a sentence. The same skill at judging people on ice slid into real life all too easily. "You gave a lot to that team, to that city. And now, going back, not as one of them—it's a lot to process. But hell, it's gonna be a big party, you up on the video screen, crowds cheering." He raised his stick in a fake celebration and made a noise like a roaring crowd. "They're gonna love having you back, man. You're a legend there."

I felt hot, my heart twisting. I missed New York—moving across the country with the girls, being so far away from my best friend, Jamie, missing the guys on my old team—sometimes it was all too much like hard work.

Maybe I should just give up?

Why am I doing this?

What? Where had that hit of melancholy come from?

As if I'd already answered that question, my alarm sounded, and I glanced at my readings, popping a couple of Skittles from the supply I kept on the bench. The sugar was exquisite on my tongue, and I skated away from Ash, grinning at him as Cap circled us with a puck.

"Again?" I said, and even though I caught Cap and Ash exchanging thoughtful looks, neither one of them asked me if I was okay. "Let's go again."

"We're done, big guy," Cap murmured, elbowing me in the side.

"I'm good," I said, but Ash was already leaving the ice, which left me with the captain.

"The Nighthawks lost a good one," he said as we circled the rink, cooling down in lazy circles.

"You think?" Great, that sounded as if I was fishing for compliments.

"Oh yeah, don't you?"

We reached the door from the practice ice. "Yep." I didn't talk much, but these one-word answers were even getting on my nerves.

"You're Storm now. We have you, and we're not letting you go."

I iced to a stop, waving Cap through first. His confidence was infectious, and I nodded along, the ongoing nerves slowly being replaced by a burgeoning sense of determination.

"Until I fuck up," I muttered to myself, because in the end, it wasn't about proving them wrong; it was about proving to myself that I still belonged in this game, age be damned.

* * *

As I revvedthe engine of my Ducati, pulling away from the practice arena, a sense of freedom washed over me. This bike was the only non-essential item I'd insisted on transferring to LA, and while my sensible SUV sat parked at home ready for the dad bits of my life, the Ducati was my one nod to being something other than a hockey player, widower, and father. An efficient way of navigating New York, it was just as handy in LA, and every time I rode her, I felt free of everything. Grief, cancer, losing Melissa, worrying about my kids, being a widower, starting over, they became somehow manageable as soon as I opened the throttle.

Not that there was a lot of fast riding on open roads—I was way too sensible to court danger at speed. Scarlett and Daisy had already lost their mom, and there was no way they were losing me if I could help it.

I'd promised Melissa.

With a couple of hours of free time before I needed to switch back into dad mode and pick up the girls from school, I headed to a place that had quietly become a significant part of my life here in LA, despite me having been in the city for only six weeks. Tucked away in the heart of Highland Park, a neighborhood far removed from the glitzy facade of Hollywood, stood the Haven of Hope Clinic. This place, a lifeline for the community, thrived on charitable donations, providing medical care and support to those in need.

The area around the clinic was a big contrast to the more affluent parts of LA I'd come to know. Still, Highland Park, with its aging buildings and signs of crime, had an authenticity and vibrancy that resonated with me. Despite its rough edges, there was life here, a community spirit the polished streets of Hollywood could never replicate.

I parked my Ducati in a small lot next to the clinic, the familiar sounds of the neighborhood enveloping me as I dismounted. The laughter of children as they played on the sidewalks, the distant buzz of traffic, and the occasional shouts from windows were more real to me than the place I'd grown up in the affluent Dallas suburbs where money was king. I could do some good here.

As I walked into the clinic, I immediately felt at home. There was a warmth and bustle to the place, volunteers chatting, trying to make a difference, kids crying, parents in groups. I waved to Lazlo at reception. He'd changed the color of his hair again—now blue from green—and he grinned at me.

"Yo, Cowboy," he called.

I headed that way. "Hey, Lazlo, is Joe in?"

Lazlo frowned, leaned closer, and lowered his voice. "He's gone all do-not-disturb, not seeing patients, and he's losing his shit with everyone who knocks on his door."

That didn't sound good. Joe was former military, a medic, and the guy who ran this place on nothing but fluff and buttons. He was ruthless at recruiting volunteers doctors and nurses, and an expert at guilting big pharma to donate. He might be rough and ready, but he was dragging this entire community to good health one case at a time. But he was also a gentle giant, loved people as much as they loved him, and losing his shit didn't sound like him at all. Maybe it was a money thing? I could help with that. I saved money every year for my girls, a trust fund that would see them happy and settled with a good start, but after that and my sole luxury—the Ducati—everything else I gave away.

Not that anyone knew, and they never would.

"Had a couple of referrals for you," Lazlo said, slapping some files down. "Why don't you take a coffee and see if you can cheer Joe up before you read them?"

Referrals were about moms with breast cancer—the same cruel disease that had taken Melissa—or those newly diagnosed with diabetes. In fact, any families who struggled where Lazlo thought I could help. I picked up the files, headed through the door to the consultation rooms, passing walls adorned with handmade posters and kids' art, and finally, through the last door, marked staff only, with my key card.

I knocked on the door, juggling paperwork and the coffee, using my elbow on the handle, and tumbling inside with a grin on my face, all ready to cheer Mr. Grumpy up.

Only to find him at the wrong end of a gun, bleeding from a head wound and barely able to move.

The man with the gun—skinny and scarred—pointed the weapon at me, gestured for me to come in, the door closing behind me, then waved the gun at the other chair in the room. My gaze flew to the small, but bright yellow, smiley face on the back of the hand holding the pistol.

I tried to put my hands up, but I had the coffee and files. "Hey, whatever this is?—"

"You! Shut the fuck up," the man snapped, then waved the gun wildly before turning it on Joe, who paled. "Get the fucking codes!" the man snarled, then left the room, leaving behind the smell of smoke and body odor.

I immediately went to Joe as he slid sideways out of the chair, catching him before he fell, blood smearing the desk and down my shirt. He was unconscious, and I couldn't think what to do.

The coffee had spilled, the files landed in a heap on the floor, and I yanked out my cell and called 911.

What the hell?