Chapter One

Jack

I take off down the ice in pursuit of the puck. It’s the final minute of the third period, the score tied two-two. My leg muscles burn, a thick stream of sweat icing under my jersey. I dart past Van Buren, one of the opposing forwards on the New York Renegades, to gain possession of the puck in their defensive zone.

“You got something to prove tonight, Larson?” he jeers, rushing at me. “Since you can’t stop shitting the bed every time you take the ice?”

I grit my teeth, biting down hard on the plastic mouth guard. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my teammates positioned on the ice, ready for me to make the pass. But that dickhead Van Buren got in my head. Basically because he just said what everyone in the arena is thinking right now.

Do I have something to prove?

Fuck, yeah, I do .

Not that I should. I’m the star fucking forward for the Oakland Raptors. They paid me an insane amount of money to leave New York but it wasn’t the money that tempted me.

It was my ex, Sam Hartley, tight end for the Oakland Saints. We’d dated for years and when I left for New York, things fizzled because neither of us was a fan of the long distance thing.

But I never really got over him. Sure, I got over plenty of other guys to help me deal with the loss but none of them ever filled the void. So when I got the offer, I took it, figuring being close to Sam again would fix what had been broken.

Except it didn’t. I was too late.

But that’s not even the worst part.

I have a clear shot to Masterson. And since Van Buren is practically on top of me, I know I should pass the puck now.

That’s what everyone expects.

That I’ll make the right move and redeem myself for all the other shitty games I’ve been playing since the news broke.

But fuck that.

Vam Buren’s voice rattles my brain. He said what everyone else is thinking. So I don’t make the pass.

I turn my gaze toward the line of Renegades barreling toward me. All I have to do is break through the line and score the winning goal.

As I try to deke past the first defender, one of the players shoulder checks me, knocking me off-balance. One of the New York defensemen intercepts it at the blue line and shoots the puck to their center.

Son of a bitch.

I skate toward him, but the wall of players blocks me.

New York takes the shot. The puck sails through the air. Tate, our goalie, makes a diving catch, blocking the puck. But one of the New York centers is waiting to take a quick wrist shot that beats Tate glove-side.

And New York scores with just two seconds left on the clock.

The buzzer blares out.

I drop to my knee on the ice with a deep sigh, pressing my gloved hand to the sides of my helmet. They don’t do shit to block out the roaring boos from the crowd.

“Go back to New York. Fuck up their record,” an Oakland fan yells.

“Nah, you guys keep him. Let him keep sucking ass out here!”

I get up from the ice without bothering to look at the assholes harassing me. I deserve it. Shoulders slumping, I skate toward the edge of the ice, trying in vain to block out the annoying as fuck voices swarming my ears.

My nerves stretch a little bit more when I pass the Renegades celebrating their win. And judging by the huge shit eating grin on Van Buren’s face, it wasn’t just a win against Oakland that they’re celebrating. It’s beating me . I was a fucking star on that team. I owned the ice at Madison Square Garden. The guys were rightfully pissed when I decided to leave. I’d taken them to the championships our last season together and the hope was that we’d make it to the Stanley Cup finals this season.

Then I signed with Oakland.

And if it wasn’t bad enough that I was leaving New York, going to our biggest rival was like forcing them all to eat shit pie and ask for seconds.

The worst betrayal ever.

New York fans hate me, my old teammates hate me, and I can’t seem to get my fucking head on straight. Tonight, I took a chance to claw myself out of the rut I created, but goddamn, was it a stupid one. And it cost us the game.

I can just predict the news headlines.

Except they’ll all be wrong.

Because nobody knows the real reason behind my half-assed playing.

I’ve tried for weeks to get out of my head but the past is back to haunt me.

Just like I always knew it would be.

I just had no idea how far or hard I’d fall when it came knocking.

Coach Enver turns toward me, his bright red face pinched with anger. “My office. Ten minutes.”

I nod, not even bothering to make eye contact with the guys because I don’t want to be faced with the truth.

They all resent me for signing. I have no love for Oakland and they all think I followed the money.

That’s only part true.

Masterson corners me before I can even make it into the locker room.

“Listen, hotshot,” Masterson hisses, backing me against the cinderblock wall. “We don’t give a fuck that you were a god back in New York. Out here, we don’t hang our teammates out to dry because we wanna take the spotlight. That’s not how we work as a team. And if you don’t like that, fuck off. Because from what I can see, you’re all hype, man. Nothing special about you, except maybe your ex. But even he doesn’t wanna be bothered with you now.”

Tate shows up and pulls Masterson away from me. “Come on, enough.”

But he doesn’t look at me.

I fucked him tonight. I fucked them all.

I pull off my helmet and scrape a hand down the front of my face. Masterson stalks through the doors and Tate just shakes his head at me.

How the hell am I supposed to go in there and face them all right now?

Using the sleeve of my jersey, I mop my sweaty forehead, pushing back the hair hanging around my face.

I’ve got ten minutes before Coach is gonna lash my ass with some of his famous flaming rhetoric. With a look at the double doors leading into the locker room, I head down the dimly lit tunnel, my blade guards thumping against the cement floor.

It’ll be at least forty-five minutes before the guys get in their warm-downs and showers. By that time, Coach will hopefully have finished chewing me out and I can get on with the rest of my shitty night.

Alone.

I slink down the darkened corridor, gripping the back of my neck. It doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the tension lodged at the base of my skull. I slam my hockey stick against the wall with a loud grunt and immediately regret it.

“Jack,” a female voice calls out.

Fuuuuck.

High heels clack on the floor behind me. “Jack, do you have anything to say about the news about Sam Hartley and Brixton Scott?” she asks breathlessly, stopping right in front of me.

More footsteps follow. Camera shutters snap, flashes pop.

My jaw tenses. And now I’m surrounded.

“No comment,” I hiss.

“I think the people of Oakland want a little more than that,” a male voice says with a smirk curling his lips. “Since you’ve done a great job of destroying their record this season.”

My eyes spit fire at the cocksucker in front of me. “It’s a team sport,” I growl. “There are six of us out there at any one time. The team’s record is the team’s record.”

“Sure seemed like there was an ‘I’ in team tonight,” he continues, fanning the fire he just lit. “Are you going to blame tonight’s loss on the team when it was your decision that cost the Raptors the game?”

Blood rushes between my ears, my fingers wrapping tighter around my stick.

“Excuse me, everyone.”

My head jerks to my left and for a split second, I forget the real reason why there’s a noose wrapped so tight around my neck, why my career is now about eight minutes away from total implosion.

A tall, dark haired guy, about thirty-five, pushes past the press vultures and stops next to me. A powerful whiff of Chanel Bleu fills my lungs and a barrage of X-rated fantasies blow up the sarcastic response I had on deck for the reporter.

I don’t know who the hell this guy is but fuck me, I want to grab hold of his thick hair and fist it while I devour his perfect lips.

“I think we’re done with questions for tonight. You’ll have your chance to talk to the coaches at the press conference later,” he says in a voice so smooth, I can almost feel it drizzle over my skin like an erotic balm.

He flashes a smile that temporarily blinds me, it’s so bright. Then he takes me by the arm and guides me away from the crowd. A long minute passes before I can find my voice.

I shake off his hand and turn to glare at him even though I really want to fall onto my knees right here in front of him. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me.”

“Because you were doing such a great job of it yourself,” he says, the deep timbre humming against my ear .

“Why don’t you go be a knight in shining armor for someone who gives a fuck?” I shoot back. “And don’t fucking touch me like that again. I don’t need a babysitter.”

His lips press together, his deep-set green eyes sparking the kind of hunger that I’ve closed myself off to since Sam and I ended things. A strand of dark hair falls over one of his eyes and he sweeps it back from his face before taking a step toward me.

His scent clouds the air, choking me with a twisted mixture of desire and disdain.

But the way my skin prickles under his heated stare makes it damn clear which one is winning out.

He slaps one of his hands against the wall, blocking any escape I may have. My heart thrashes, the electricity crackling in the air between us strong enough to make both of us spontaneously combust.

And then…

“If circumstances were different, trust that you’d be begging me to touch you again.” His lips curl into a knowing smile that makes my bones melt. “And as for who I am, just call me God. Because I’m the only one with the power to save you right now, Larson.”