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“Jason!”

He looked over at his stepmother’s call. Sheila stood behind the cash desk, where a long line of customers waited to purchase their maple syrup and other souvenirs. She gestured at the second cash register, which waited for him like a lonely sentinel. Jason spared Bellamy one last glance—he and his friend had already wandered further into the store, oblivious to the laser beams Jason shot him with his eyes—and went to help his stepmom.

“I’m not sure about this town you’ve decided to retire to, Grandma.” Bellamy looked out his grandmother’s front window with mixed horror and amusement at the three-foot-tall gnome in the garden of the house across the street. It had a pipe between its teeth and was happily giving passersby the finger.

His grandma elbowed in next to him and made a little hmm sound at the gnome before heading for the linen closet. “One of the Rocktogenarians lives there.”

“The whosits?”

“Did you decide if you’re staying the night?”

Bellamy grunted. “Sure. Might as well.” Seeing as his team had gone to Columbus without him, it wasn’t like he had much to do or anyone counting on him for the next couple of days. He didn’t need to be in Burlington for anything other than apartment hunting, and he could do that online from anywhere.

From his grandparents’ spare bedroom in small-town Maplewood, Vermont, was as good as anywhere.

“What do you think the Trailblazers’ chances are tomorrow?” he asked.

Grandma dropped a pile of bedding onto the couch for him. “They’d be better if you were playing,” she said loyally.

That did make him feel better about being left behind.

Not once in the many times he’d been traded during his career had he been told to take a day off. Usually, he landed in his new city, met with team management and his new teammates, joined practice, and was put right in the game—sometimes all within twenty-four hours of being traded.

Yesterday morning, he’d landed in Burlington, Vermont, a mere eighteen hours after being traded from Nevada. He’d been introduced to the coaches and his new team, then participated in a pretty chill afternoon practice—seriously, he’d seen U14s practice with more ferocity—after which the director of player engagement had told him to go home to rest and recharge, and they’d see him when they returned from their Midwest road trip.

Rest . And recharge .

Had he been dropped into some kind of mythical zen-loving hockey team?

Bellamy didn’t rest. He didn’t recharge. Not during the hockey season, and especially not when the Trailblazers were headed to the playoffs. He’d rest and recharge in June.

But the director of player engagement had been insistent.

“Trades are stressful, especially cross-country ones,” he’d said after a practice where Bellamy had barely broken a sweat. “Take the time while the team’s away to wind down. Get to know the city, find your new favorite coffee shop, read a book. Hell, there are probably some outstanding affairs you need to get in order in Nevada.”

“But . . . I came here to play hockey.”

“And you will. In a few days.”

So. Weird.

Roman Kinsey had captained the Trailblazers for years before retiring, leading the team to two Stanley Cups. Bellamy respected the hell out of him. If he was telling Bellamy to rest and recharge, Bellamy would rest and re-fucking-charge.

But he didn’t have to like it.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been left on the sidelines—injuries had kept him out of the game more than once—yet it never got any easier watching his team go on without him.

It reminded him too much of being left behind by his parents.

Shaking off the thought, he grabbed the bedding off the couch.

“Hey, Grandpa,” he said, pausing in the doorway of the den on the way to the guest bedroom. “What’s there to—” He broke off as his headshot appeared on the television screen.

Grandpa waved at the TV where a roundtable of sportscasters were shooting the shit. “They’re talking about you, Bel.”

“Rumor has it Bellamy Jordan won’t be playing against Columbus tomorrow,” the one in the iron-gray suit said.

“Do you think the Trailblazers are trying to get ahead of the Zervudachi-Jordan rivalry by having him sit it out?” asked a platinum-blond woman.

“Nah,” an older woman said. “Rivalries are par for the course in professional sports.”

Grandpa rotated his plush armchair toward him. “ Are you sidelined because of the rivalry?”

Bellamy leaned against the doorjamb. “The director of player engagement gave me orders to rest and recharge.”

“The director of player engagement?” Grandpa whistled low. “How many teams have one of those?”

“Just the one so far as I’m aware. I’ve never heard of a coordinator of player engagement in the NHL, never mind a director.”

“Huh,” was Grandpa’s opinion on that.

On the television, they were showing an ancient clip of a fight Bellamy had gotten into with Ryland Zervudachi. Judging by Bellamy’s uniform in the video, that was three teams and at least four years ago. Present Day Bellamy winced as Four Years Past Bellamy got sucker punched in the jaw.

He didn’t remember what had started the fight, and he didn’t remember the punch either. He’d gotten into enough brawls with Ryland over the years that they all blended together now.

Grandpa sighed as the clip transitioned to a fight from earlier this season, and it wasn’t a disappointed sigh exactly. More of an exasperated when is this kid ever going to grow up sigh that made Bellamy’s stomach curdle.

“One of these days,” Grandpa’s gravelly voice rumbled, “one of you is going to get seriously hurt.”

“It’s like watching two kids tussle in the schoolyard,” Grandma piped in, appearing at his elbow again.

“All because of a girl,” Grandpa added.

“Not just a girl,” Bellamy argued, settling into the old argument. “She could’ve been the girl. I spent all of freshman year getting to know her, and just as I’m about to ask her out, Ryland swoops in with his charm and bedroom eyes and stupid infectious grin and sweeps her off her feet. It was like I didn’t even exist.”

His grandparents exchanged a look.

Because they knew, as well as Bellamy did, that it wasn’t about the girl. Not really.

It was about how everything Bellamy had ever fought for had come so easily to Ryland.

Ryland got the girl. Ryland played more games even though Bellamy trained twice as hard. Ryland got the captaincy in their senior year. Ryland went straight from college to the NHL, whereas Bellamy bumped around the AHL for a couple of years before they’d sent him up to the big leagues. People liked Bellamy, but they fell over themselves to make Ryland happy. With his carefree smile and easygoing vibe, he was the guy everyone wanted to be friends with. He was the guy, Bellamy had learned over four years of attending college with him, that aced anything he tried from the time he was born. Ryland had been spelling-bee champ, science-fair-ribbon winner, class president, and the favorite of anyone who’d ever taught or coached him.

And the rivalry was all his fault.

Admittedly, Bellamy hadn’t had to let Ryland provoke him—he had thicker skin than that. But then they’d played against each other for the first time after Bellamy had landed on Montreal’s roster and gone head-to-head during a face-off.

“Took you a while to get here, BJ,” Ryland had said, using the nickname that had followed Bellamy through high school and college but that had thankfully disappeared into oblivion before he’d ever played his first NHL game. Ryland’s smile had turned challenging. “Looks like I’m still one step ahead of you.”

Bellamy had tackled him.

He wasn’t proud of it. He could look back on it and admit that maybe he’d had a hand in starting their decade-long rivalry.

But did Ryland have to be such a dickhead? He’d posted a photo of his black eye on his socials later that night like he’d been proud of it, a nosy reporter had dug up their feuding past and labeled them former college teammates with a grudge , and that had been that. Rivalry formed.

So really, it was the nosy reporter’s fault.

But as the sportscasters on Grandpa’s television moved on to a different topic, Bellamy could admit—at least to himself—that he was tired . Tired of being traded. Tired of trying to fit onto a new team. Tired of being the yes-man, the no-problem-man, of reinventing himself to be whatever the team needed so they’d keep him, only to be punted onto a new team anyway.

And he was tired of the rivalry. So damn tired of letting Ryland goad him into insults and fights and traded barbs. Bellamy just wanted to play hockey. And every time Ryland went dark, Bellamy thought that was it—he was free. But then Ryland would upload a post to social media or he’d say something to a reporter, and Bellamy got sucked right back into it.

Because god damn if he would let the asshole have the last word.

Grandma lost interest in the sportscast and wandered away, muttering something about the litter box as she went.

Bellamy adjusted the pile of linens in his hands and straightened off the doorjamb. “Is there anything to do around here on a Saturday night?”

Grandpa glanced over at him. “I thought you were heading out with Liam.”

“He bailed.”

Probably a good thing. Liam Hinman had the same emotional maturity at twenty-nine as he’d had when he and Bellamy had been ten-year-olds growing up just over the border in Lebanon, New Hampshire. They’d stayed in touch off and on over the years, and when Bellamy had landed in Burlington yesterday, Liam had reached out. Maplewood was more or less halfway between Burlington and Lebanon, and since Bellamy had wanted to visit his grandparents anyway, Liam had met him here.

The Maple Syrup Festival at a nearby farm had been charming as hell. But Liam’s childhood habit of poking fun at everything had followed him into adulthood, and his attitude had soured the whole experience. Bellamy didn’t like the adult Liam had become, and he hadn’t liked who he’d been with Liam either.

But speaking of the farm . . .

“Almost forgot.” He reached into his jeans pocket and removed the maple syrup bottle-shaped ornament he’d picked up. “Got you this for your collection.”

Grandpa’s mustache twitched with his smile as he took it. He hung it on the potted Christmas tree on the windowsill, where it joined other ornaments Bellamy had gifted him over the years—one for each city he’d ever played for. “Looks good with the others. You don’t play for Maplewood though.”

“No,” Bellamy said with a laugh. “But it’s close enough.”

Just like Burlington was close enough to Maplewood to make him feel—finally—like he’d been traded somewhere worth staying. He knew shit-all about Maplewood and even less about Burlington, but with the people who’d raised him in such close proximity to his new host city...

If ever there was a time for him to buckle down and work his ass off to prove that he belonged on a team for more than a season, this was it. Grandma and Grandpa had taken him in without a second thought when his parents had been too busy fighting to take care of him. Under their roof was the one place in the world where he’d always felt like he’d belonged. The one place he’d been loved and wanted.

If he could stick it out with the Trailblazers until he retired from hockey in a few years, it would mean he’d get to see his grandparents whenever he wanted.

With or without a Cup at the end of his career, that was worth the trade from Nevada.

All he had to do was keep his head down, play good hockey, and endear himself to the fans.

The latter had never been a priority for him, but now that he was somewhere he wanted to stay, he figured getting into the good graces of local Trailblazers fans couldn’t hurt. A couple of years ago, one of his former teammates had received a sponsorship from a local medium-sized business, and his popularity had gone through the roof. Considering he was still on that team, Bellamy assumed the strategy had merit. He was aiming to do the same thing, and his agent was already looking into local Vermont businesses that might be willing to sponsor him.

“So? Anything to do on Saturday nights?” Bellamy pressed.

Grandpa grunted. “Most kids sneak out to smoke weed by the creek.”

“ Grandpa .”

“I don’t recommend it. Smells rank,” Grandpa added, poker-faced, as though Bellamy had never caught him smoking a joint. “But I do recommend The Striped Maple. It’s a pub in town. Great hangout for kids your age. Plus, I think they have live music on Saturday nights.”

Kids your age ... Bellamy couldn’t help but laugh. He supposed to someone in their mid-seventies, twenty-nine was still in the kid category.

“Want to come?” Bellamy asked. “Buy you a beer.”

“At nine o’clock at night?” Grandpa raised one bushy eyebrow. “Son, I’m thirty minutes away from falling asleep in my brandy.”

“Please. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

Laughing, Grandpa waved him away. “Get out of here. Go have fun.”

Bellamy made up the bed in the guest room first; that way he could plop into it later without worrying about it not having sheets. He found a spare toothbrush in the bathroom with which to brush his teeth to freshen up, then looked at himself in the mirror. Considering he hadn’t planned on staying the night and had nothing with him except the clothes on his back, his ancient jeans and faded gray Under Armor hoodie would have to do.

Did pubs have dress codes in this town?

No, as it turned out, but it certainly felt like half the population of this 5,000-person town was packed into The Striped Maple. There was no live music—the poster on the window advertised a live band on Friday nights—but the music piping through the speakers fit the pub’s lively atmosphere. The place had a homey vibe, warm-toned with dark wood paneling and dim lighting. Clusters of friends sat together at scarred wooden tables, on the sofas by the fireplace, or at the bar, while still others stood in groups in the standing-room-only place.

Bellamy faltered. The warmth of the pub was inviting, a stark contrast to the cold outside that had chilled him to the bone, but...

What was he doing here? What was his plan, exactly? To grab a beer and sit in a corner— stand in a corner, more like, given the lack of available seating—like a friendless sad sack and people-watch until his eyes blurred?

Of course, he was a friendless sad sack aside from Liam, and Bellamy wasn’t sure he wanted to revive that friendship after today. And it wasn’t like he was looking to make friends in Maplewood. What would be the point when he’d be living nearly an hour away in Burlington? He’d have been better off getting to know his new teammates.

Except they’d left the state without him, so...

Feeling decidedly sorry for himself, he turned to leave, bracing himself for the frigid temperature, when loud laughter drew his attention.

In the back corner, beyond the bar, a group of guys around his age was playing darts. There was a slim but muscular guy with brown hair parted on the side, another with close-cropped hair, and a third who was collecting the darts from the dartboard.

But it was the fourth guy with styled hair the color of rich mahogany and a trimmed beard to match that drew Bellamy’s gaze. He appeared to be roughly Bellamy’s height of six feet with tanned skin that must’ve been natural—or else he’d recently returned from a beach vacation. He wore black jeans that hugged his thighs and a black T-shirt that showed off his defined biceps, revealing a tattoo on his upper arm Bellamy was too far away to see.

It was his smile, however, that had Bellamy taking a step forward. It was wide and sunny and inviting. He wouldn’t fall into clichés and claim it lit up the room, but something about it tugged at Bellamy’s heart, at his long-buried desire to belong somewhere. It was a trustworthy smile, the kind that said come tell me all your secrets. I promise to keep them safe.

Bellamy, for reasons he couldn’t name, wanted to tell this man all of his secrets.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he’d ordered a Guinness, then took himself and his beverage to the back corner. The focus of his attention was laughing at something as one of his friends threw an arrow at the dartboard, and fuck . That goddamn smile.

Nerves he couldn’t shake bounced around in Bellamy’s stomach, sudden and forceful and highly unusual—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous about anything.

His palms sweaty, Bellamy stepped up to him. “Um... hi.”

The smile turned on him, but it slipped off the man’s face, sending Bellamy’s stomach plummeting. It turned confused, which Bellamy didn’t know what to make of.

“Hi?” the man said, and Bellamy wasn’t sure what to make of the question mark at the end of that one word either. Up close, the man’s eyes were a hazel so bright they were almost gold. His thick eyebrows should’ve made him look imposing, but combined with a strong nose, an oval face, and thin pink lips, he just looked hot as fuck.

And Bellamy still wanted to tell him all of his secrets.

Clearing his throat, he gestured at the dart board. “Do you need another player?”

“We’re not technically playing,” one of the other guys said. “Mostly because none of us knows the rules. So we’re making shit up as we go. Want to go next?”

“Uh...” Bellamy stared at the dart he was handed for a second before turning his stare on his guy, who was still looking at him as though he were the only one wearing neon green in a sea of black, then took the dart. “Sure.”