Page 11

Chapter

Eleven

André

The sharp scent of sweat, rubber mats, and menthol filled the Snowballs’ locker room as André pulled his jersey over his head, shaking out his shoulders. The team was in good spirits, but their conversation had an edge tonight. That always happened this time of year. A buzz at the edge of their game and their celly’s at the pub. All of them were too superstitious to say anything out loud, but they were winning. And they wanted that damn Rose Cup.

The past three years, they’d come close without taking home the prize. After everything that happened with Pucks Deep over the past six months, they only wanted it harder. There wasn’t outright animosity between them like there had been—Rhonda’s smackdown at the pub had put them all in their place where that was concerned—but on the ice, they still wanted revenge.

They were playing them over the weekend.

Tyler tossed a roll of tape to Vargo, who caught it midair and started wrapping his stick. “Feeling good out there.”

“Looking good out there,” Brett winked, tugging on his shin pads.

André read between the lines. Tyler: I’m ready to kick the shit out of Pucks Deep. Brett: I’m ready to watch. He grinned, shaking his head as Sean, already half-dressed, laced up a skate and looked up. “No dumb penalties, eh? No hero plays. We keep playing our system, wear them down shift by shift. We play heavier in the neutral zone and cut off their rush chances before they get momentum.”

A series of grunts echoed around the locker room, and warmth swelled in André ’s chest. He hadn’t always seen himself here. The Snowballs weren’t the NHL, weren’t even the AHL, but this team, this league? It meant everything to him.

André had been that kid on the fast track. Growing up in Montreal, hockey was religion. And he had it—the skill, the drive, the raw, untamed hunger that separated the good from the great. At sixteen, he went top ten in the QMJHL draft. By eighteen, he was lighting it up in juniors, leading the league in points for three straight months, playing with an edge that made people talk.

But André had a reputation. The scouts liked him, but they didn’t love him. Cocky. Hot-headed. Too much attitude, too much showmanship, too much damn personality for the front offices who wanted robots on skates.

Still, his numbers spoke for themselves and at nineteen, he got the call. Signed a three-year entry-level contract with the Bruins. Not a first-round pick, not a franchise golden boy, but a kid with talent who could carve out a spot if he worked hard enough.

He spent a year grinding in the AHL, showing up, putting in the work. Then it was one bad hit. One freak collision at centre ice, a knee bending the wrong way, a ligament tearing so fast he barely had time to register the pain before he was on the ice, clutching it, knowing in his gut that something was gone.

He missed the rest of the season. Rehabbed. Fought like hell to come back, and when he did? The organization had moved on. Because in hockey, there’s always someone younger, just as fast, just as hungry, but without the injury history, rehab schedule, or risk.

Front offices didn’t bet on risks.

His contract expired, and there was no extension. No new offer. No more chances, just a door closing. He was twenty-two and already past tense. No one said it outright, but he knew what they were thinking. Another kid who almost made it.

But André wasn’t wired for that. He wasn’t wired to quit. He played wherever they’d let him. He bounced through minor pro leagues, overseas teams, random offers that barely covered rent but kept him on the ice.

And then, by some act of God, he landed a first-role contract with Les Diables Rouges de Lyon. He played there for three years, making triple what he made in the NHL and a name for himself in Europe.

And damn, did he light it up over there. Played three years, stacked points on points, took in revenue from marketing collabs and sponsorships, building the kind of financial security that most guys in his position never saw. He still had residuals coming in from ad campaigns he’d done during his time there.

André grinned thinking about Grace’s reaction to hearing the name Cade Bishop. He’d had half a mind to email her the pictures of him in Polo underwear lying in bed with model Melanie Tress. That image still sat thirty-feet tall on a billboard in Paris.

While everyone else was blowing their money on cars and bottle service, André was investing. Real estate. Startups. A couple of stupid crypto mistakes that actually paid off. When he landed in Calgary after his contract was up, he was set, especially with the exchange.

So he did what he wanted. Started Leclerc Custom Metalworks. He’d always liked working with his hands. Liked the feeling of creating something solid, something lasting. He took his dividends, found a couple of artists and fabricators who actually knew what they were doing, and set up a custom metalworking business catering to high-end clients.

It started with ornamental gates, luxury fixtures—things that rich assholes liked to flex about. But when a well-known architect in Geneva who’d been a fan during his time in Lyon commissioned a series of sculptural railings for a chateau, the business blew up.

Now he only took on the clients he wanted and trusted his team to run the contracts and shipping. Once he found the Snowballs, it was exactly the life he wanted. He got to play on a team in a league that wasn’t flashy, wasn’t rich, but the teams were fast, physical, and competitive.

This wasn’t just a beer league full of washed-up guys trying to relive their glory days. The Snowballs played to win. And this year? They were the best damn team in the league.

Sean finished taping his stick. “Everyone’s in for the tourney, yeah?”

Curtis raised a hand. “I’m good. Sorry I couldn’t commit ‘til yesterday.”

Sean waved him off. The rest of the guys nodded, and it was then that André noticed Country quietly packing his gear. His wide grin and stupid-ass jokes were glaringly absent.

André dropped his gear and walked over, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “You good, bud?”

Country looked up, looking like a startled rabbit. “Yeah. Sorry, just in my own world over here.”

“Focused. That’s hot.”

Country blew out a breath, not looking up as he packed his gear. “Super hot.”

André ’s grin dropped. The other guys went about their business, packing up, so André leaned in. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not especially.”

André nodded. “Got it. Well, if you need?—”

“Hope’s birth mom filed a petition.” Country kept his voice low. “Wants to revoke the adoption.”

André stilled, his blood curdling. What the hell? “When?”

“This week. Grace came over. Before the meeting you went to with Heads Up.”

André replayed that morning in his head. How Grace had looked when he’d found her in the car. How she’d nearly been in tears. “Holy f?—”

“Share with the class, boys?” Mike reached out and mussed both their hair.

André was about to turn and shove him against the locker, but Country grabbed his arm. “All good.” Country dragged in an unsteady breath. “Probably good they all know because I’m going to be a mess for a bit.”

The locker room quieted as Country turned to face them. He announced the petition, then explained that Grace was working on it and they didn’t know what to expect.

There was silence for a long moment.

Ryan was the first to speak. “Shit, man.”

Country just nodded once. “Yeah.”

“How’s Jenna holding up?” Sean asked.

“Better than me, honestly.” Country ran a hand through his hair, then reached for his bag. “I don’t think she can afford to be worried.” He flexed his fingers. “It’d crush her.”

André watched him for a long moment. Then his thoughts shifted to Grace. “Was it a problem with the paperwork or something?” It was a roundabout way of asking if they thought she was responsible.

The look on her face when he’d shown up at her window snapped back into his memory. Her red-rimmed eyes, the way she’d tried to hide that she was emotionally compromised. It wasn’t only about the button.

Country exhaled. “It was a problem with the social worker. They didn’t document a conversation that needed to happen with the birth mother.”

André’s hands clenched. Grace had looked over that paperwork, hadn’t she? Even if it wasn’t her mistake, he could guess she’d been beating herself up for days. Plus, she didn’t have the same foundation here. She didn’t have family around or a social network outside of the people she knew on the Snowballs.

André stepped back and picked up his bag while the other guys moved in to offer gruff hugs and back slaps.

Sean’s voice was quiet. “You guys aren’t alone in this. Whatever you need, we’ve got you.”

Brett nodded. “Yeah. Anything, man. We’re in.”

Country’s jaw was tight. Keeping his emotions in check looked painful. When he was alone again, André picked up his bag and walked over. “I had no idea you were shouldering this on your own.”

Country shook his head. “I’ve had Jenna and our families. Polk’s been jumping in and helping so I have more time to be with Hope. Oh, and Grace. She’s working behind the scenes as our own Benny Cooperman. Searching through emails and texts. She’s slammed with work and her renovations, so I honestly feel the worst for her.” He slung his bag over his shoulder. “It’s not like I have any skills to offer, though.”

André nodded, his brow pinching. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“That I have no skills?”

“Oh, definitely.” He flashed a grin. “But also the whole Grace thing.” He schooled his face into a neutral, nonchalant expression before asking, “Do you have her address, by the way?”

Country’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“She has something of mine. With everything going on, I thought I’d stop by and grab it instead of adding another thing to her list.”

Country’s eyes narrowed. “What does she have of yours?”

André held up his hands. “My coat. From the other night when she walked to her car after the game.”

“Your coat. That’s it.”

“Correct. But what happened? You were on board with helping me set this whole thing up.”

“Yeah. Before I saw how pissed she and Jenna were.”

André dropped a hand on Country’s shoulder. “I’m not going to make this worse for you.”

“You didn’t promise.”

André squeezed. “Sometimes I make it worse without knowing it, so it’s better to underpromise and overdeliver.”

Country wasn’t close to being convinced. “Why don’t you text her?”

André blew out a breath. “Hey, if you want to explain why she has to spend time texting about a missing coat and make her feel bad about taking it?—”

“Fine. But I will pull a Sean and punch you out on the ice if you do anything asinine.” Country pulled out his phone and swiped up.