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CHAPTER ONE

JACK

Violence is never the answer, but it sure as shit would feel good.

That’s my very first thought as I pull my truck into the training center car park, or parking lot. I’ve spent over six years living stateside, and at this point, my brain is half British, half American.

But what nationality I am these days has zero impact on the main challenge facing my first day of training camp—trying not to punch Tyler Bennett in the face.

It’s been a year since I graduated alongside him in college. After that, he entered the NHL to play for the New York Blades, and I joined their AHL team in Connecticut.

It was the best season of my career so far and, incidentally, the worst of his.

I haven’t spoken to him since the graduation party that ended with him being carried to the bathroom by our teammates, and being honest, that surprises me. He belonged in the AHL with the way he was playing. There wasn’t anything I was surer of. He’s a dick, plain and simple, and the only drawback to finally living out my dream of playing pro.

Growing up in the UK brought few opportunities in ice hockey, but if there was one thing my biological dad did for me, it was moving our family across the pond, which consequently gave me a shot at playing in the NCAA.

Even though it’s been a year, I have zero doubts that Tyler has changed. In college, you could cut the tension between us with a knife, and the animosity wasn’t solely limited to the ice. He knew what I thought about his antagonistic game, and he was painfully aware of my thoughts of him as a man too. Especially when it came to the way he treated his girl. A girl I shouldn’t have cared about as much as I did based on the amount of attention she paid me in college. But Kendra Hart was—and still is—way out of his league.

Focus, Jack.

I slam the door on the truck and swing my bag onto my back, ready to make for the training center. But not before I catch a glimpse of the initials stamped across the dark blue hoodie I’m wearing.

JM.

It still feels surreal, even now. Twelve months ago, I was Jack Thompson—son of my mum’s former husband, Elliott Thompson. The kind of guy Tyler Bennett could sit down and have a few drinks with. Now I’m Jack Morgan, NHL player and, for all intents and purposes, stepson of Mum’s new husband and ex–pro hockey star, Jon Morgan. The same guy I idolized as a kid and watched play for the Seattle Scorpions when I first moved to the US. The same guy who is now coaching the NHL team I just signed with and is likely standing on the other side of these double doors.

So, yeah, there are plenty of reasons why I can’t punch Tyler in the face. Most notably the fact that he’s once again my teammate, but also the center my stepdad is pinning his hopes on this season.

When I push through into the meeting room, some of the team is already waiting, scattered around various tables. There’sa substantial spread of breakfast items lining the back wall, and when I turn around, a large projector is set up, the screen reading,The season of the Kings.

At heart, I’m a social guy. I’ve never had a problem making friends, but this atmosphere feels … different. I estimate there to be at least ten guys in this room, all faces I know well, but none friendly enough to approach. And that’s before my ex–college teammate makes an appearance.

I make my way to the back and grab a Gatorade from the stand, leaning against the wall and scanning tables for an option. I wasn’t especially nervous driving here today, more excited. But equally, I wasn’t expecting this kind of muted response to rookies. In only one season as head coach, Jon has at least lifted them off the bottom of the league, but given some of the beatings they took last season were cringeworthy, I figured a few new faces, especially new wingers, would be appreciated.

Obviously not.

I’m headed for an empty spot to the right when an arm in the air catches my attention.

Sawyer Bryce.

Undoubtedly the team’s best defenseman and also our captain.

He flips his hands toward him, motioning for me to join him and two other guys. But despite entering a parallel universe, surrounded by players I hung on my bedroom wall as a kid, I’m actually taken aback by the smile on Sawyer’s face as I take a seat next to him and dump my bag down on a spare chair. He might be the captain and acknowledged as one of the best defensemen in the league, but he’s also known for telling reporters to fuck off in interviews.

“You’ll have to forgive my guys for their less than warm welcome this morning.” Sawyer maintains his smile as he thumbs at the rest of the room, his southern accent noticeable. “Seven a.m. start after a long offseason will do that to them.”

He leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “Jon’s kid, right?”

I bristle and flip the cap on my drink, taking a pull before setting it down on the table. As much as I respect my stepdad and feel lucky we have him in our lives, especially Mum’s, there’s one thing I hate about it—living in his shadow. I took his name because he’s my hero and I didn’t want to play under my dad’s, but with it comes pitfalls.

“Officially, Stepson,” I say on a long-drawn-out breath.

Sliding a couple of documents toward me, Sawyer rests his forearms on the table, his dark hair curled around the sides of his Blades cap. “Seen and heard good things about you. I was kind of shocked you stayed in the AHL for an entire season. Could’ve used you earlier. But … being totally honest with you”—Sawyer puffs out his cheeks—“there are a few guys on the team who think you landed a pro contract because of daddy.” He chuckles low. “There aren’t many British guys in the league, and, well, you started playing really late. You getting your shot in the pros just doesn’t track for some.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he’s clearly not finished.

“That said, you’re a killer in front of the goal, andI’msold on you joining us. You might just need to win a few of the other guys over.”