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So no, I don’t trust easy. Not coaches. Not teammates. And sure as hell not no women

Coach Dawson saw something in me when no one else did, back when I was too pissed off at the world to even pretend I gave a shit about my future.

“Good. Being early is the same as being on time. You want to make sure you make a perfect impression on your new coach. Remember it’s not just your reputation on the line here.”

My grip tightens on the steering wheel. We’ve had this talk a dozen times since the transfer, especially after how things ended with my last team. The media story was PR fluff—reality was darker.

“Yes, sir. I’m about a minute out.”

He grunts, probably nodding wherever he is. That stern half-approval that used to feel like a win. Now it just feels like pressure.

“Good. I’ll call tomorrow to check in. Let me know what your schedule looks like.”

“Of course.” A lie. I’ll avoid the call. Like always.

“And Liam.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t blow this. You know how the hockey world talks. You might not get another shot.”

The line goes dead. I don’t bother answering. What would I say—that I’m not the fuckup everyone thinks I am?

I pull into the arena lot, only to find it jammed with cars. I’m circling when a silver sedan abruptly backs out—straight into my front bumper.

“What the fuck!” The shout rips from my throat as metal crunches.

Rage surges, boiling hot. I throw the car into park and jump out, the humid Florida air clinging to my skin like punishment. My brand-new ride—already banged up before I even walk into the locker room.

I drop to a crouch to inspect the damage just as the other car’s door swings open.

“You better fucking have insurance,” I growl.

I saved for that car.

Researched every goddamn trim option. Color, engine, tech packages—obsessed like a man who neededsomethingto feel like it was truly his.

It was supposed to be mine. Untouched. Uncomplicated. Like I could finally own something that didn’t come with strings or scars.

And now, some careless stranger just scuffed the only thing in my life that hadn’t been bruised before it got to me.

I grit my teeth and stare at the scratch like it’s a personal insult.

A woman steps out.

Not some flustered soccer mom. No, this one’s young, sharp, and pissed. Blonde hair in a tight braid. Full mouth set in a scowl. Gray eyes like a goddamn hurricane.

She’s stunning. And—fuck me—there’s something about her that punches the air from my lungs.

Not recognition. Just…a sensation. A current under my skin, coiling in my gut. Deja vu wrapped in sin.

“Of course I have insurance,” she snaps.

“Do you always back out without fucking looking, or are you just aiming for a payout?” I tower over her, waiting for her to shrink like they usually do.

She doesn’t. Her eyes flash.

“Maybe I should be asking you that. Who speeds in a parking lot? There could’ve been kids here.”