1. BROOKLYN

CHAPTER 1

brOOKLYN

I leave my heart on the ice because I don't need it anywhere else. That's why it's extra shitty when my teammates don't even half-ass it. At this point they're just quarter-assing it.

"Tatum!"

I shift my eyes toward Bloom right in time to intercept a pass mid air as like I'm playing baseball instead of hockey. A Bulldog tries to barrel through me to steal the puck. Tries—and fails, because I'm not the biggest defenseman the St. Cloud Thunder Bolts have ever had for no reason. Dude tries to shoulder check me and hits my chest pads light as a feather. I just let him think he's won and right when he's sure he has the puck, I check him against the boards all proper. Enough to get a nice little oof out of him.

I carry the puck away from our zone and once again, I'm reminded that the only ones who seem to give a shit about this game are my defensive partner, Bloom, and I.

Yeah, I get it. We're down by five goals in a qualifier game. There's only a minute and a half left in the clock. But you'd think the seniors would be less eager to end their college hockey career so soon .

Worse, you'd think the juniors wouldn't want an embarrassing showdown like this one to weigh on them next year. But they're honestly the worst crop this team has ever seen in its history. I'm seriously dreading them taking over leadership next year. Does this mean I'll have to wait another stinking year after they graduate for my college hockey career to finally bloom?

Hah, my partner would've appreciated that pun. Especially because he's just as frustrated with the guys two years older than us.

"Do something, Blondie!" he shouts as I zoom by.

From the bench, I can hear Coach Green screaming his throat raw. "Pass! Pass the damn puck, Tatum!"

Nope, no sire. I don't trust any of these lazy suckers to do anything but burn the rest of the time off.

Fortunately—I think?—we've been so easy to jerk around that the Bulldogs don't try very hard to steal the puck from me. Or maybe they're running out of steam after spending the whole game skating circles around the Bolts. I take advantage of whatever the hell this lull is, my legs pumping all the power I have left into my muscles to eat the ice. One of our seniors literally gets out of my way. Two Bulldogs close in on me and I lean as low as I can to bowl through them. I'm not even close enough to the Bulldog's crease when I fire the puck like a cannon. My stick splinters in my hands but I ignore it.

Instead, I raise my fist in the air.

The puck sails through the air. The Bulldog goalie makes a swipe for it. It doesn't matter, that slapshot made my heart come back to life. Nothing in this world can stop it.

The alarm blares with the goal right as the net comes loose and slides back.

"Well, shit." My teammates are so far from me, it's actually one of the Bulldogs who speaks. "I'm glad the rest of your team isn't like you. "

Wow, that's some classy heckling. Hurt them with the truth instead of yo momma jokes, huh?

That's legit the highlight of my last game as a sophomore, though. We lose five to one and even though it's not a shutout, it's an especially rankling loss when the only Bolts goal was scored by a defenseman. You'd think the Bulldogs just won the Frozen Four with how they're celebrating after the final buzzer, but that's probably to rub it on our faces. After all, they won on our home ice.

Inhaling deep from my lungs, I take one final look at the arena during the last official game of the season. The Bulldog heckler gives me a smirk as I skate away and I make a vow to myself.

I don't give a rat's ass about the to-be-seniors. They won't drag me down for another season.

"Good effort," Assistant Coach Thomas says as I walk into the locker and I bob my head in acknowledgment. We both know it wasn't good enough to merit a good game instead, but I'm not the kind of guy to shun a compliment.

Coach Green steps in last. His face is redder than a stop sign, which is also a sign in and of itself. I discreetly seek Dane Bloom's eyes. He and I make the team's top defensive pair, and after two wretched years of being under the yoke of self-entitled seniors and juniors, he can read my mind. Mine says we are so damn screwed , and his mind totally projects back saying, and we deserve it . I shift my weight and pin him with a surely not us gaze. He shrugs.

We both turn our attention back to the head coach as he stands in the middle of the locker room. I don't think I hallucinate the way he grows even redder when he catches sight of the seniors.

Especially because one of them is unaware as he says, "Hey, so what are we gonna do about all the booze and snacks we got at the Bolt House? "

"We'll put them to good use," the dipshit beside him responds. "Let's have a literal pity party. Get pity laid."

"You're a genius, bro."

I almost want to throw my skates at them if it'll get them to shut the hell up, before Coach picks them up like ragdolls and throws them at everyone else who also lives at the Bolt House. Like me.

But something worse happens. Coach Green takes a deep breath—which helps his complexion, he looks less like an overfried shrimp now—shakes his head, and walks back out.

Like he's given up on this crop, just like they gave up on him and the team.

A trickle of ice crawls up my spine and I shiver to try to shake it off, but it still rises up to claw at my neck. Thanks to the therapist that the court mandated after my parents' divorce, I recognize what's happening. And I latch into whatever is around me to not acknowledge my good ol' rejection sensitivity.

"Seriously?" I whirl around. "We just had the most embarrassing game in Thunder Bolts history, and you want to party?"

"What's it matter with you, pretty boy?"

Sighing, I turn around to face the departing captain. Liam Roberts. He's wearing the same smirk that has ruined my life in more ways than one.

"Like, chill. You're already drafted. You'll bust your ass here for two more years before they send you to some farm team. No need to act like tonight was the end of your career."

It's like this dude never got the memo that nothing in life is guaranteed. Unfortunately, I got it via first class mail, by email, by text, from a messenger bird, and even damn fax just in case I forgot.

Liam Roberts and I are the same in some ways, but the opposite in most. He's also the son of a former NHL player. The genes and the clout have definitely favored him his entire life on and off the ice. He's used to winning in life, and maybe that's why this team doesn't matter to him. He thinks he's got it made. But I doubt that him dragging his feet around the ice is going to look good to the franchise that drafted him two years ago. His prophecy that a farm team comes next is coming true for himself from what I've heard.

Me? I'm also the son of a former NHL player. In addition, I'm also the son of a former Victoria's Secret model. My genes are the literal only thing I've won at in life. Everything else has been a pathetic Greek tragedy, and maybe that's why I'm hungry for a big W.

"Every game is the end all be all," I say in a low voice. Slowly, I force a smile onto my face. "But sure, let's have a party tonight to celebrate your mediocrity."

"What the hell did you just say?"

Dane breaks into an exaggerated holler. "Party at the Bolt House!"

"Yeah!" One of the juniors hollers back, not realizing that Dane was being sarcastic as shit.

Liam glares at me and I turn away from him to pull my jersey over my head. If I can have it my way, this will be the last time I exchange any words with this asswipe in my life. His coasting and douchebaggery will take him straight to an abyss, but I'll keep climbing out of my own.

"You okay?" Dane asks beside me.

Even though he doesn't know all my deepest, darkest secrets, Dane's the only person in this team who can read me like an open book. Liv used to say I should only play poker and with her after making millions of dollars in the pros, just so she could win every cent off me.

Thinking about her makes me even more sour, though.

"No," I admit .

He flops on the bench beside me and bends down to unlace his skates. "We'll be better next year."

Will we? But I don't voice my doubts aloud. He knows Liam corrupted the juniors too, and then there's the fact that Coach Green seems to have given up on us.

I shake my head hard to push that thought away from my head. There's only so much catastrophe my pea brain can take in one night.

So, after showering and changing into an Armani suit, I climb onto my Jeep Gladiator—both courtesy of my father's plastic—and head back to the Bolts House.

A few years ago, after the first generation of Thunder Bolts started putting the team on the North Eastern map, some St. Cloud alumni banded up to become our first boosters. Since our facilities were already top of the line, they instead bought this massive Victorian mansion near Main Street. It's more or less the team's frat house even though only ten people can live in it.

Once I reach my room on the ground floor, I toss my duffel bag under my desk and lock the door. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes against the prospect of an entire night dwelling on the loss and what that means for the program.

Should I just transfer to another college with a better team? Maybe this time I should pick one on the west coast. That way I could pretend the distance between me and the people I wish gave a shit about me is the reason why they don't.

"Sorry, guys." I mutter to the signed posters from Max Cassiano and Aran Rodriguez, both in their pro team jerseys. "I really wanted to follow in your footsteps, but it looks like I'm gonna have to veer off."

For now, I'm going to ditch this place for the night. I remove the suit jacket and toss it on my bed, followed by the tie. Before taking off my pants, I pull out the cellphone from the pocket and catch sight of a million notifications, none of which are missed calls or texts from my parents.

Whatever.

After changing into jeans and an Aelfric Eden graphic T-shirt, I pick my phone up again and fire up a text to Dane so he also ditches this joint. And because he's not quick enough to answer, I switch to check some of my notifications starting by Instagram.

The first post that pops up is from Liv and my entire attention zeroes in on it. It's just a picture of her hand, thumb down. All the rings she used to wear are missing and her nails are clear of polish. I recognize the sleeve of her sweatshirt as a St. Cloud branded one, which would've been too preppy for her until she started dating McDude.

The caption reads, The last thing I want to do is go to a party at the Bolt House and yet ? —

A text message from Dane pops up on the screen and I click on it by accident. When I return to Instagram, Liv's post is gone. I look up her profile, only to confirm she must've deleted it.

My ears are roaring. Liv said and yet , which means she's coming to this party—the same one I was just about to ditch.

My former best friend who hates my guts is coming to willingly share the same air I breathe.

I can feel my face stretching into a shit-eating grin and text Dane to announce a change of plans.