Chapter One

Bex

The sharp slap of a hockey stick echoes through the stadium pulling me back to the present. Briggs Conley, our right wing, sends the puck rocketing toward the net, a streak of black against white ice, and barrels past Reeve Aisa, our goalie. He dives for it, fully committed—but it’s no use. The puck slams into the back of the net with a dull thud, followed by the shrill sound of Ezra’s whistle cutting through the cold air like a warning shot.

Aisa sprawls out on the ice, punching at it with his padded glove, his frustration clear from every angle of the rink.

He glances up, catching my eye, already bracing himself. He knows damn well that I won’t be pleased, but there’s a tight line between what I can expect out of him so soon out of rehab.

It’s been two months since Aisa was cleared to return to the ice after his injury, just in time for Thanksgiving. Although he’s allowed to practice with the team, he’s not yet approved for games. His progress has been steady—at least until this week.

Something’s been off with him the last few days–I can feel it.

This isn’t his usual energy on the ice that I’ve come to expect from him.

The rest of the team, scattered all around the rink, turn back, looking in my direction expectantly for instruction or critique.

"Oi!” I yell out toward Aisa, tossing up my hands. “What the bloody hell was that? You know this play better than anyone. How did you miss the shot?" I call out, my voice echoing through the Hawkeyes stadium.

“Sorry, Coach!” I hear Aisa yell, dressed in full goalie gear, his facemask blocking most of my ability to see any facial expression from here. “I got it now–I’m good. Let’s run it again. I won’t miss this time.”

I shoot a look at my assistant Coach, Ezra.

He’s been my assistant coach since I started six years ago. We’ve worked together long enough that we don’t have to exchange a word. He knows I’m not happy with the play and he also knows that I’ve been considering changing out Reeve for Seven this entire week. But with Seven retiring after this season, I need Reeve to get stronger and to get as much practice time as possible. Because unless I can convince Seven to stay on as the special team’s goalie coach next year, Seven plans to move him and his girlfriend Brynn down to Mexico permanently.

Ezra gives me a nod, in agreement with Aisa to run the play again.

"You heard the lad, let’s run the play again,” I say with a deep sigh, knowing well enough that I’ve got a soft spot for Aisa, especially after I spent an entire night in the OR waiting for him to get out of surgery after a hit and run took him out one rainy night in Seattle. Ezra knows I worry about favoritism—letting my concern for a player personally cloud my judgment that could cost us the playoffs. “This time, I want to see sharper passes and quicker transitions. And Aisa?” I call out, his eyes locked on mine. “You’d better guard that net with your life."

He gives a curt nod. He knows what I expect.

All of my players do.

Lake Powers, our team captain and our left wing takes the lead, calling out the play again.

As the team repositions themselves, I inexplicably glance up at the rows of stadium seats behind me, not surprised in the least to see the same woman sitting in the third row, seat seven, and directly behind where I stand in the home box. The same seat she’s always sitting in during practice.

Rowan Summers.

A reporter for The Seattle Sunrise by day, but I'm fairly certain she spends every other waking hour plotting new ways to piss me the fuck off.

I watch as her eyes skim over the rink from right to left, taking in the players on the ice, undoubtedly scrutinizing every move, probably jotting down notes for her next riveting article, that’s sure to include what Ninja Turtle Briggs' most relates with and if Kaenan ever wished for a pony on his third birthday.

I should be watching my players instead of wasting a second wondering what she writes in that notebook of hers. And why the hell doesn’t she bring a tablet or laptop like all the other reporters do? And for Christ’s sake, why the hell is she determined to catch her death of cold out dressed like it’s game day in trousers, a thin blouse and a suit jacket. I shouldn’t give a shit that she’s shivering half the time behind me or rubbing her hands together to keep her fingers from freezing solid.

It's entirely inconvenient the way her golden blonde hair catches the overhead lights, making her hair look as soft as spun silk. And how utterly distracting the way her full pink lips demand my attention whenever she speaks, even when she's spouting complete nonsense in my direction.

And her laugh. Fuck… her laugh echoes through the rink when a player says something funny during their interview that has her amused. My head whips in her direction no matter where she is in the stadium, whether I like it or not. It's as if I don't have any control over my body's reaction when it comes to her.

Any misguided interest in her can easily be stifled due to the increasing marks against her. For one, she's still a reporter that I don't trust and she's also eighteen years younger than me, which is enough reason on its own to keep my distance. Her eyes shoot from the rink down to me, locking with mine. I turn quickly, breaking the connection and try to focus back on the players out on the ice.

Ezra moves closer to me, his eyes still on the team running the play. There's a whistle between his fingers, ready to end the practice run if needed, and a clipboard in his hand. His breath forms small clouds in the cold air. "I know you didn’t want to make that call but you’re not going easy on Aisa by keeping him in."

I don't take my eyes off the players either. "We need the team ready for the upcoming away game. Making the call to keep him in could cost us the playoffs."

Ezra nods. "He’s come a long way. I honestly thought his career was over after the accident but he’s been performing above what any of us thought he’d be able to. This week is an off week… so what? It’ll get better."

I frown, my gaze zeroing in on Aisa as he skates back and forth between the front of the net, waiting. He’s right, Aisa’s been through a lot. My memory flashes back to four months ago when I burst out of Oakley’s Bar the second I heard commotion inside the bar that Reeve had gotten hit by a car.

I remember sprinting full force toward Reeve lying lifeless on the asphalt with Keely kneeling over him screaming for someone to call 911. I remember the feeling of his weight on the gurney as I helped the EMTs hoist him into the back of the ambulance. I thought I might never speak to him again. And then I spent the entire night in the OR with Keely and Sam Roberts, the Hawkeyes GM, while he was in surgery.

Ezra’s right. It’s a miracle that Reeve’s back out on the ice at all, let alone practicing at the capacity that he is. But Aisa is a force to be reckoned with. Ever since he joined the team, he’s been the first to show up and the last to leave. He puts in more time on the ice than any other player, and bribes players with pizza and beer to come out and huck some pucks at him on their days off.

He still has a heart for this game, and he reminds me a lot of myself in my earlier years when I was playing professionally, but he should be improving this week, not missing a shot from our own team on a play he already knows.

Powers shoots to Conley, and then Conley shoots it to Slade Matthews, our center, who shoots the puck back to Powers.

Aisa dives down, stopping the puck with his pads but the puck gets away from him and Matthews recovers it, shooting it back at Aisa and making it past him and into the net.

Score for Matthews.

Ezra blows the whistle again at the end of the play.

"Aisa!" I call out, waving him over. He looks up from the net, his eyes meeting mine through the cage of his helmet.

He skates over while Ezra motions for Seven Wrenley, another goalie for the team, to jump out onto the ice and take Aisa’s spot in the huddle with Powers and the rest of the team. Aisa comes to a stop at the boards in front of me. "Coach… I…I" he stammers, a flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Uncertainty? Disappointment?

He's never distracted. That's one of his best qualities. Just like me, he uses the ice to escape.

I lean in closer, lowering my voice. "What’s going on out there? Is your knee acting up? Do you need Keely to look at it–"

Reeve hesitates, glancing around at his teammates. "No, no, It’s not my knee. It’s sore but it’s fine–stronger every day.”

“Okay, then what’s going on up here?” I say, knocking lightly on his helmet.

“It's nothing, coach… really. Just some personal stuff with Keely. But I'll get it together, I promise."

"Keely? What's wrong with Keely? Is she okay?" I ask, unable to keep the sound of concern out of my voice.

Ever since the night of Reeve’s accident, and spending the evening in the OR with her, I feel especially protective over Keely, the Hawkeyes’ in-house PT.

Yesterday morning, I had an appointment with her for my shoulder. Her stretching techniques have been helping a lot with the pain from the bucket of pucks I shoot every morning between the time slot when Penelope, the Hawkeyes Assistant GM, comes in for morning warm-up and the team comes in for practice.

Keely seemed off, but it's not as if she and I are in the habit of sharing war stories over afternoon tea and biscuits.

"Yeah, she will be. Or at least I think so. Rowan got involved..." he looks up at me and something flashes in his eyes—like he shouldn't have said anything.

"Rowan got involved? Does this have anything to do with the conversation you two were having right before Thanksgiving when she left my office?" I glance back at Rowan’s usual spot to find she’s not sitting there anymore.

I’d told Rowan to lay off the team. During our first run-in right before Thanksgiving in my office, I warned her off my players. She left, stomping out of my office and leaving the door wide open. I saw her stop in front of Reeve. I couldn't hear what she was telling him, but whatever it was, Reeve didn't look happy.

I can see Reeve bite down on the inside of his lip. He wants to tell me something, but he thinks he shouldn't.

"Aisa, if Rowan has something on you or Keely—"

"Never mind," he blurts out. "It's not important."

It's one thing if Rowan is asking my players trivial questions like, "Did you leave a cookie for Father Christmas as a kid, and if so, were they chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin?" but if she’s collecting dirt on my players, I need to know about it.

The thought makes my blood boil.

“Take a break, go see Keely about your knee,” I tell him.

He nods, practice is almost over anyway and whatever is going on, he needs to work it out so that he comes back to practice ready to play at his best. He skates over towards the player tunnel and heads for the locker room.

The rest of practice passes in a blur of drills and strategy discussions. By the end, I'm more frustrated than ever with my own inability to focus.

"Alright, team," I call out. "Let's wrap it up for today. Good work out there but remember—we're a team. We rise together, we fall together. I want to see that unity on the ice tomorrow."

As the players file off the ice and down the player's tunnel, I make my way to my office, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

I leave my office door open. A policy I started when I first started coaching here years ago to allow players, coaches, and any other Hawkeyes employee access to me whenever they need.

I settle into my chair, leaning back and glance around the bland beige walls of my office, Rowan's voice echoing in my head about the lackluster state of my office.

She wasn't wrong in suggesting that my office lacks a personal touch. Besides the large whiteboard that takes up most of the wall to the right of my desk, covered in blue and red marker from working out a play this morning with Powers, everything else was here when I took over for the coach who retired. Coach Lennox and the man who coached me for the years I played for the Hawkeyes until my injury.

He took with him all of his lifetime achievements he'd accrued over his long career in the NHL. His awards, plaques and signed memorabilia from all the players he coached through the years.

He boxed up the pictures of his wife and kids in Saint Barts for Christmas and the ones of them wearing Mickey Mouse ears in Disney World. The kind of photos I've never had since I chose hockey over a family life. There's no wife and kids waiting at home for me at the end of a long day—a tough game—or a championship loss like last year. Which means, no framed pictures of a family I don't have.

And now at forty-six years old, I've stopped looking for 'the one'. The one woman who could knock hockey into second place, giving her the top spot. If anyone had a shot at it, it was my ex-wife, Lily. Lily was my college girlfriend and the only woman I thought would have me racing home after practice and away games. But it didn't happen.

I'd stay late to practice to get in more time on the ice. I used my days off to watch replays, pouring over where I could be faster or more accurate. She got tired of being alone and homesick for London. She blindsided me with divorce papers, though if I hadn't been consumed with my rookie year maybe I would have seen the signs.

I barely felt a thing as I signed the divorce papers all while wondering if I could still make it back that night to the stadium to get in more skate time before the janitor locked the doors. When I looked up after signing in the last spot where her lawyer had put bright yellow tabs for me, I saw the tears in her eyes. I knew at that moment that I was the man responsible for breaking her spirit.

I didn't contest the alimony that her lawyer fought for, though she refused it stating that she didn’t want a penny from the career that ended us.

I did, however, deposit a large sum into her bank account to help her start a new life, paying to get her into a nice flat on the good side of London. She didn’t fight me on that. It was the least I could do after I stole two years of her life… and I guess more if you count the years we were together at university.

I made a pact with myself that day, after she closed the door with the divorce papers in hand, and the movers driving away with the boxes of her things they would ship off to her. I made a pact that I would never break another woman like I broke her. That I'd never settle down with someone again unless I found someone worth giving hockey up for.

Since then, I've dated my fair share of women, but it's only worked to reaffirm that 'the one' doesn't exist. Not for me anyway.

Coach Lennox clapped me on the back on his last day, and my first.

"Now this old girl is ready for new memories," he said, referring to the office space that only held an empty desk, a leather chair, a couch and a coffee table in it. "If the walls could talk about the conversations held here," he reminisced.

I knew a few of them since I used to play for him before I got injured and had to give up playing. Then, when Coach Lennox decided to retire, Phil Carlton called me up, offering me the position.

It took me all of five minutes to decide.

I wasn't done with hockey. Or maybe hockey wasn't done with me.

I didn't have a wife and kids to consider, just two brothers and our mum anxiously waiting for me to move back home and take my spot within the family business. An art magazine printing business that I don't know the first thing about.

My lack of personal mementos in the head coach office mirrors the same lack of personality and family that my penthouse in The Commons has.

The penthouse came fully furnished, and so did this office—both were given to me by the Hawkeyes. I didn't see a reason to change anything. After all, nothing is permanent. Not my first wife, not the team who signed me my rookie year and played me for three more years before trading me, and not the two other teams who would play me long enough to boost their rankings and then trade me, their best player, for two to three mediocre ones.

I was the golden ticket—the wild card in a game of billionaire hockey owners. I was hockey currency, but my contract was expensive, and once they thought their ranking would hold with the players they had, they'd unload me, thinking their team could sustain it, but they never did. Within a year or two, the team would suck again. Eventually, the Hawkeyes made a trade for me and those eight years I played for Phil Carlton were the golden days of the Hawkeyes, before Sam Roberts retired as our team captain and I tore a tendon in my shoulder and it was never the same.

I knew eventually I'd vacate both that penthouse and the office that I've used for the last several years.

A flash of blonde hair streaks across my open office door, causing me to straighten up.

Rowan.

Before I can process what I'm doing, I'm on my feet, moving towards the door. I shouldn't care if she's here. I shouldn't be curious about her whereabouts. Yet, here I am, following the path where I thought I saw that familiar blonde hair move in the corner of my eye.

As I step into the hallway, a faint scent wafts through the air—vanilla and citrus. I inwardly curse myself for recognizing her scent. When the hell did that happen?

I round the corner and stop short. There, at the end of the corridor, stands Reeve and Rowan. Deja vu from Thanksgiving. Their body language is tense, Reeve's face a mask of frustration while Rowan seems to be trying to calm him down. My eyes narrow as I watch their interaction.

What the fuck is going on here? If she's screwing with my players, Phil and Sam will have to see it my way. They'll have to demand a cease to the story with The Seattle Sunrise , or at least demand that they have another journalist take over for her.

I take a step closer, straining to hear their conversation, but they're speaking in hushed tones. Reeve crosses his arms over his chest, a gesture to show he doesn't like the conversation they're having.

Before I can get close enough to hear anything, Reeve's phone rings. He glances at the screen, then back at Rowan, saying something I can't catch before answering the call and walking away, leaving Rowan standing alone in the hallway.

This is my chance. I stride towards her, my jaw clenched.

"Summers," I call out, my voice harsh and demanding.

She turns, surprise flashing across her face before it's replaced by a guarded expression. "Coach Bex," she says, her tone neutral, but the frown on her face says she isn't eager for another run-in with me.

Good.

I stop a few feet away from her. Now I'm the one crossing my arms over my chest. "Care to explain what that was all about?"

She raises an eyebrow. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Don't play dumb, Summers. You and Reeve. He played piss-poor out there today. He's one of my most solid players, right up until today. What were you two discussing?"

Her eyes narrow. "That's between Reeve and me. It's not my place to share personal conversations."

"You're affecting my player's performance on the ice," I growl. "So whatever you're doing, whatever angle you're working, back off Summers."

Rowan's eyes flare with anger. "It's not what you think."

"Then enlighten me," I challenge.

She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Maybe if you were more approachable, Reeve would have already told you himself."

Her words hit me like a slap to the face. Before I can respond, she turns on her heels and storms off, leaving me fuming in the middle of the hallway.

If I didn't like her before, I really don't like her now. The nerve of that woman implying that I'm unapproachable to my own players. And what the hell is she up to with Reeve? Is she digging up dirt? Trying to stir up drama for her next article?

Frustration is coursing through me. This is exactly why I didn't want her around my team. She's causing problems, distracting my players, and now she's got secrets about them or with them—I'm not sure which.

I turn and stalk back to my office, slamming the door behind me —a rare occurrence with my open-door policy, but I'm doing a favor to anyone who unknowingly ventures into my office after the heated conversation I just had with Rowan.

I drop to my chair and rest the back of my neck against the headrest, staring up at the ceiling.

My phone dings with an incoming text from my oldest brother Leo who still lives in the same city we grew up in–Liverpool.

Leo: Camille keeps asking if Uncle Bexley is coming to her sixth birthday party this summer.

I haven't been home in two years and it would be good to go back but I don't want to promise anything unless I can make good on it.

Bex: I'll get back to you on that. Tell my favorite girl that I miss her.

Leo: Come home and tell her yourself.

Camille Townsend

Five years old, missing her two front teeth and the only female that holds my heart. Though I’d never tell my mum that.

I flop my phone onto my desk with a loud clunk. I know what will happen if I go home. My brothers Leo and Archie will spend every day hassling me to retire at the end of my contract terms next season and move back home.

Our mum is getting older and with our dad passing away a few years ago, I need to make family a priority.

I need to go home but can I walk away from hockey for good?

The one thing I am sure of, I need to talk to Sam about the issue with Rowan. I've worked too hard as the head coach of this team to let a reporter walk in and ruin our chances at a Stanley Cup victory this season. Sam will surely see my side.