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ONE

COURTNEY

“You can’t bail now. You’re there. This is your thing.”

A sigh vibrates past my pressed lips like a raspberry as I step out of the Uber and drag my carry-on behind me to the front of The Los Angeles Comets training facility.

This is my dad’s first home while their arena is his second. This is why Mom divorced him when I was nine, and why we’re blood related acquaintances.

“Dude…” Delilah presses—my best friend is as bossy as they come, and if it wasn’t for her helping me pack my bag and driving me to the airport, I might never have made it here for the temporary team photographer summer job my dad called me up with last week.

Their official photographer went into early labor and her interim person isn’t starting until the beginning of the season.

So here I am… a damn mess.

“Court, this is your summer. Besides, do you really want to come back so soon after your argument with Martin?”

Ugh, my stepdad is an asshole.

“I know, I just—God, Dee, I feel like I’m about to hurl.”

“Totally normal,” she replies through the phone, voice breezy. “You’re walking into a dream job in the city of dreams. Cue imposter syndrome, sweaty pits, and temporary amnesia.”

“I seriously considered going back to the airport.”

“I’d hunt you down, sedate you, and wheel you back there with a tripod strapped to your hip.”

I exhale with a chuckle. “Not dramatic at all. ”

“I’m just saying—you’re in L.A., babe. If the panic gets worse, find yourself a dispensary and a gummy shaped like a peach. Chill that shit right out.”

Jesus Christ . “Delilah.”

“I’m being practical.”

“Pretty sure The Comets don’t want their team photographer tripping balls mid-practice.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I’d happily trip all over those balls.” Oh my God. “Seriously, though… microdose and channel your inner Ansel Adams.”

I swear, I don’t know what to do with her sometimes, but mostly, I don’t know what I’d do without her and her stupid humor.

The tension wrapped around my bones eases just enough to let me breathe as I meander to the revolving doors and pause.

In spite of all the feelings, this is a dream moment for me.

It’s my first professional photography job.

I think it might be the best graduation present Dad could have ever given me.

Let’s be real, how many graduates get an opportunity to work for a NHL team right out of the bat?

Sucking in a deep breath, I allow my eyes to scale the sleek steel and glass building, bold lettering catching sunlight over the entrance.

Los Angeles Comets.

Suddenly, the nerves are back. All of them.

“Fuck, Dee. This is big. My dad’s world. What if?—”

“What if it’s amazing?” Delilah cuts in. “What if it’s not about your dad at all, and it’s about you finally doing what you love, for real?”

Even though I nod, my feet hesitate when I force myself to step into the revolving door.

“He’s proud of you, Court. Let him be. You don’t owe him anything, but you don’t have to run, either. You’re allowed to be scared and still show the fuck up.”

A breath.

Then another.

I nod again, mostly to myself. “Okay. I’m going in.”

“Atta girl. And hey—remember: see Number Sixteen? That’s Matheo Hillier. He looks like he commits war crimes in the bedroom. If you don’t send me photographic proof, I will file a formal complaint.”

“You are so broken.” A snort bursts from me at the same time as I step inside the expansive lobby.

It’s all concrete and white walls with the purple, navy, and gold team colors accenting the modern space.

It smells nice weirdly, like when a supermarket pumps the bakery smell straight to the front of the store.

Except it’s more of a masculine leather and lavender scent.

“Okay, Dee, I’m inside. I’m doing this.”

“Yeah, you fucking are!”

“I am.”

“I am your biggest fan. Now go kick some ass, Nilsson.”

With one last exhale, I hang up and just as I put my phone away?—

“Court!”

I leap out of my skin at my Dad’s booming call.

Coach Bobby Nilsson is standing behind the reception desk, all Comets gear and proud smile. He’s barely changed—still tall and commanding, even with a little more gray at the temples.

Seeing him has my chest doing all kinds of weird shit.

It doesn’t know whether to squeeze or relax.

A myriad of excitement, anxiety and relief confusing my synapses.

Because in spite of everything, Dad always makes me feel safe.

Doesn’t matter how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other or spoken. He’s always my daddy .

Hoisting my backpack over my shoulder, I grip my suitcase tighter as I meander to the reception desk where he has an ID dancing from his finger on a Comets’ lanyard. “Hi, Coach.”

“You made it.” He sweeps me into a brief hug. It’s awkward, a little stiff—but so darn welcome, I allow myself to relax into him. “Everything go okay?”

“Flight was fine. Uber was… Uber. ”

“Well, you’re here now and you can breathe easy.”

With one last top to toe glance when I release him and pull back, he gestures for me to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

We move through the facility in silence, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floors. Even though Dad’s being purposefully cautious with what he says and does, he’s practically beaming.

I don’t know if it makes me happy or whether his pride is making my nerves worse. Both, I think.

We turn into a busy hallway. People are running around, prepping for the first day of summer camp. Rookies are being shown around, drafts being given the lay of the land. Yet, the instant my father’s presence is felt everything quietens, ready for instruction.

Before we get too close for anyone to hear, I blurt, “I don’t want anyone to know.”

He slows, turning to me with a pulled brow. “What? ”

“I don’t want the team knowing I’m your daughter. I’m just the temp photographer. That’s it.”

His brows lift, the corners of his mouth tug down. Still, he nods after a beat. “All right. You got it.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” he adds with narrowed eyes, “you eat lunch with me. In my office. Every day.”

I open my mouth to argue because that’s a bad idea. Worse than people knowing Coach Nilsson is my dad… they’re going to think something worse… gross .

“And,” he continues, “if you don’t want to stay with me, fine. But dinner—once a week.”

Trying to fix the awkwardness I’ve just caused with my request, I give him a faint smile. “We don’t have to force plans, Dad. Let’s just take it day by day. Okay?”

He exhales through his nose, chest deflating. “Fair enough.”

“I want to spend time with you,” I say, surprising myself with my candidness. “I just… need space. To do it right.”

He nods. “Okay, Tiggy, whatever you need.”

“Coach...”

“Shit. Sorry, hon—Court. Glad to see you still don’t make anything easy,” he chuckles with a shake of his head, putting my ID in my hand with the lightest squeeze before he takes a step back.

Just like that, some of the weight falls from my shoulders.

Swear to god, I always forget how cold hockey arenas are. My hands are shaking—I don’t know if it’s from the cold or the nerves that I’m still working through—and my knee is throbbing as the ice water seeps through my leggings.

I should’ve opted for the thermal ones that I packed to Delilah’s dismay. The furry ones on the inside that aren’t made to make my ass look bootylicious but keep me warm. Instead they’re in my case in the PR and marketing offices.

Maneuvering myself to the corner of the rink, I crouch so I can give my knees a break from the cold while I watch Dad order the vet players around.

Number Sixteen skates to my side, giving my camera a wink. Delilah is right, he’s a charmer. Dark, sunbleached curls and sapphire blue eyes. Yeah, Matheo Hillier is a dreamboat, he’s also the team’s biggest player. It’s a fact that’s as well known as his attitude on the ice.

The camera clicks.

Hillier grins.

Another click.

His tongue sticks out as he shakes a rock and roll hand in my direction.

Another click.

He drops a puck and slaps it across the ice before chasing it to the other end of the rink.

I edge closer to the empty goal, getting a shot of the rookies and the drafts working with Dad’s assistant coach.

The Comets are mid-drill, tearing up the ice. Whistles are blowing in different areas of the rink. Voices are booming with instruction. These guys are a feral machine.

The atmosphere is so alive. So contagious. My blood has never pumped so hard in my veins than as I crouch right next to the empty goal. Players zooming past me in every direction.

“Jesus,” I stutter, balancing myself when seventy-four races behind me. The speed of him is insane as he calls over his shoulder, “Wake up, new girl!”

Jayden Morrow.

Now, he is gorgeous. Tan skin, hazel eyes…

so goddamn tall that I crick my neck even looking up at him from a distance, snapping a photo of him as he drives the puck between the drill cones with a precision that has my heart in my throat when he reaches the end of the drill line, spins more gracefully than any man should be able to and passes the puck to Sylkes.

Number twenty-one follows the same drill. Where his line-mate was ridiculously fast, he’s clean and precise. There isn’t a single waver as he comes to a snowy stop at my side when dad blows his whistle to end the drill session.

The players converge in groups. Talking and giving each other analysis on their conditioning.

This is what I love the most about hockey. It’s what I remember from my childhood. Before my parents divorced.

Family.

I remember these people being my family.

The arenas being my homes. I was always so desperate to come to work with Dad.

Those days are my favorite memories of us.

This is why I accepted the summer position here.

To revisit those memories, maybe make some more.

Remind myself that even though we are on different coasts, Coach Nilsson is still my dad.

Moving from the goal where the goalie coach is gathering the goaltenders, I make my way to the boards.

The players are circling the ice, preparing to take their last shot for today’s informal training session.

I situate myself right up against the boards to the side of the goal. It’s the best way to get the action shots the marketing team asked for.

Number thirty-nine moves past me like a goddamn avalanche.

Auguste Broussard.

Big. Brutal. Beautiful… in that grim, dangerous way some men just are.

Bringing my camera up, I track him on the ice as he skates backwards, flipping the puck up with a sharp, fluid flick of his stick.

Once. Twice…

His arms bulge bigger beneath his compression shirt. His jaw cuts sharper with his razor focus on the goal and the backup goalie poised in front of it.

My god, his eyes are cut to slits. Mean. Fierce.

He fires and?—

Crack!

I don’t know what happens. My camera falls to the ice before I can catch it. My heart thunders in my head…

The world goes sideways.