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My heart stutters from the adrenaline.

I blink, trying to shake it off, trying not to notice the perfect storm of rage and heat simmering beneath that jawline.

Great. First day, and I’ve already front-ended the human embodiment of a hockey penalty.

Chapter four

Liam

Thefirstscrimmageiswhere pretenders get exposed and careers get made.

I center the second line against the veterans—guys who’ve been here since day one, who know every system, every tendency, every weakness to exploit. Aiden’s shadowing me like a bounty hunter, stick checking every time I touch the puck.

“Hope you brought your A-game, new guy,” he chirps. “Because this ain’t junior league.” I don’t answer. Just wait. The puck drops clean into my wheelhouse. I pull it back, feather a pass to Aiden’s streaking down the left wing, then drives hard to the net. Two strides and I’m through the defense, stick blade ready for the return feed. But Jax hesitates. Just for a second. Just longenough for the moment to die. “Fuck!” I bark, slamming my stick against the boards.

“You had it!”

“Easy, hotshot,” Marcus laughs from the bench. “Maybe work on your chemistry before you start barking orders.” Chemistry. Right. Because that’s what I’m missing. Not skill. Not speed. Not twenty years of bleeding for this game. Trust. The next shift, I get the puck at center ice with room to work. Callahan’s calling for it on the right, wide open, easy assist. But something in me snaps. Fuck the pass. I drop my shoulder and drive toward the net like I’m trying to put someone through the glass. Two defenders converge, but I split them with a move that comes from pure instinct—stick fake left, body right, puck between my legs and out the other side. Breakaway. The goalie reads my eyes, drops into a butterfly, covering the bottom of the net. So I go high. Shelf it where mama hides the cookies. Top corner. String music. The red light goes off, and for three seconds, everything else disappears. No pressure. No doubt. No choice to make. Just the pure, perfect silence of doing what I was born to do. “That’s why we traded for you!” Coach Barnes shouts. “That’s the player this team needs!”

But high doesn’t last. Because even when I’m doing what I was born to do, there’s this gnawing ache in my chest that has nothing to do with hockey.

And everything to do with her.

Pining isn’t in my goddamn vocabulary.

At least it wasn’t until three weeks ago, when some masked blonde rocked my world, then vanished like smoke. Now I can’t stop replaying every moan, every arch of her back, every whispered “please” that fell from her lips.

My fist connects with the punching bag one final time. Sweat drips down my spine as I step back, chest heaving. The workout helped, but not enough. That deep, gnawing ache still pulses beneath my ribs—an unfamiliar need that won’t quit, no matter how hard I try to crush it.

This isn’t me. I don’t chase. I don’t yearn. I don’t wake up hard, dreaming about a woman whose name I don’t even know.

I needed to get laid. That’s all this was. Frustration. Not her.

Definitely not her.

I grab my gym bag and head for the shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed and on the road to the arena. My first official day with the Cyclones. A fresh start, even if it’s in a town that already makes me claustrophobic.

My former teammates would bust a gut laughing if they saw me now—the guy who never gave a damn suddenly losing sleep over a one-night hookup. But that’s why those assholes aren’t in my life anymore. Fuck ’em.

The dashboard clock reads 9:17 as I navigate through sparse morning traffic. Florida wasn’t my first choice—give me a bigcity any day, somewhere a man can disappear into the crowd. People here remember shit. At least In the city, you could disappear between bars. Here, your reputation spreads faster than a sex tape in a locker room.

The memory of that party burns brighter knowing it might be the last taste of real freedom I get for a while. Until I get my bearings, my right hand’s gonna have to take one for the team.

My phone rings through the car speakers. I hit accept without checking.

“Hello.”

“Are you on your way to the arena for your first day?”

I go rigid. “Yes, Coach.”

Coach Dawson. My mentor. My savior. My perpetual pain in the ass.

I was fourteen the first time Coach told me I wasn’t a lost cause. I didn’t believe him then. And if i’m being honest, I still don’t, some days.

He calls me “son” sometimes. Says it casually, like it doesn’t land like a fist to the sternum. I never call him out on it, never let on that it messes with my head. Because part of me wants to believe it—that I’m more than just a project to him.

The other part… It still remembers every man who promised to stick around and left anyway.