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CHAPTER TWO

Brooks

Lacing up my skates, I enjoy the familiar tug of leather against my hands.

The locker room smells like it always does: sweat, damp gear, and the smell of ice. It’s a smell that would probably make most people gag, but for me, it’s comforting.

Hockey has been the one constant through all the years of ups and downs in my life.

The guys are loud today, louder than usual, their banter echoing off the walls.

Tyler and Nick are up to something, as usual, their laughter louder than everyone else’s, their eyes glinting back and forth at one another.

I shake my head, smirking.

Those two are a whirlwind, chaotic energy that makes me feel both protective and exhausted at the same time. I glance over at them as they wrestle over a protein bar, their identical grins practically lighting up the room.

“Focus, Porter twins,” I call out, keeping my tone light but firm. “We’ve got drills to get through today, and I’m not covering for your lazy asses.”

Tyler flips me a thumbs-up without looking, still trying to pry the snack from Nick’s hands. I roll my eyes and finish tying my skates.

As I stand, stretching out my legs, the door to the locker room opens, and the rookie attendant pokes his head in. “Hey, Brooks. Doc Perry’s here. She’s watching from the rink.”

I pause, caught off guard.

The new team medical fellow? I haven’t even met her yet.

The whistle shrills, and we’re off. The team spreads out across the ice, the sharp sound of skates cutting into the cold surface filling the arena. I track the puck as it glides from stick to stick, waiting for the moment to strike.

The play shifts suddenly, and I see my opportunity.

One of the rookies is breaking toward the goal, his shoulders hunched as he barrels forward. Nope. Not today, kid.

I lower my stance and push off, closing the distance in a few hard slices with my skates. Timing it perfectly, I slam into him, my shoulder connecting with his chest.

The impact sends him sprawling onto the ice, his stick clattering to the boards as he falls splayed out against the ice. He skids for a couple of feet, ramming against the boards with a loud thud.

Before I can celebrate, a shadow flashes in my peripheral vision, and I barely have time to turn my head before another player, fast and ruthless, plows into me.

I grunt as my back slams against the boards, the breath knocked clean out of me as I gasp hollowly.

I glance up through the glass surrounding the sides of the rink as I slither down the wall. There she is, the new team doctor, looking down at me.

Her bright blue eyes widen, her plump lips parting slightly.

For a second, I forget where I am.

My ribs ache, but the look she’s giving me feels more intense than the hit I just took.

Our eyes lock in that instant, and it’s like the world tilts on its axis.

She’s just staring at me, probably wondering if I’m about to keel over, but all I can focus on is her face.

Those beautiful flashing eyes, framed by loose strands of blonde hair, and the soft curve of her pouty lips—it’s enough to knock the air out of my lungs all over again.

I shake my head and push off the boards, forcing myself back onto my feet.

The rookie who hit me skates off with a sheepish look, and I wave him off. “Good hit, kid,” I mutter, more to myself than him.

I can’t shake her image, though. Even as I refocus on the game, the pretty new doctor keeps slipping into my mind like an uninvited guest.

What is it about her? There’s something in her gaze that unsettles me, something that stirs up trouble…

God help me. I realize I want a taste of whatever trouble I think she might cause for me.

The puck is on the move again, and I force myself to concentrate on practice.

This is hockey: my sanctuary, my home.

This is the one place I don’t let anything else distract me.

But as I take my position at center ice, I can’t stop wondering what it’d be like to get her attention for more than just some bruised ribs.

Tyler skates up, smirking like he’s been waiting for this moment. “You good, old man?” he teases, clapping me on the shoulder.

I grunt, rolling my shoulder to check for any lingering pain. “I’m fine. Took worse hits than that before you were even in diapers.”

Tyler laughs, leaning on his stick. “Better not get too banged up. If you quit hockey, where am I supposed to live? Can’t exactly take over your mansion if you’re not footing the bills.”

Nick slides in from the other side, his grin matching his twin’s. “He’s right. Maybe try keeping your head on a swivel, Brooks. You’re not exactly a spry rookie anymore.”

I glare at both of them, but there’s no heat behind it. “Thanks for the advice, boys. I’ll be sure to consult you two next time I’m on the ice.”

Nick shrugs, unbothered, and Tyler grins wider. “Hey, we’re just looking out for you. You go down, and we’re out a free ride.”

I snort, shaking my head. “You two are lucky I don’t kick you out on principle.”

“We’re lucky, but also charming,” Tyler says, skating backward with an exaggerated wink. Nick just laughs, and the two of them take off down the ice together.

I glance back toward the glass where the new doctor stood earlier. She’s gone now, and I feel an odd pang of disappointment.

Shaking it off, I refocus. Potential interesting girl trouble or not, I’ve got practice to finish.

I glare back at the twins as they skate off, their laughter still echoing in my ears. Lucky and charming my ass. I take a moment to lean on my stick, catching my breath, but before I realize it, my gaze drifts back toward the side of the rink.

There’s no reason for this. She’s just another staff member, hell, I haven’t even met her yet.

Yet her absence suddenly left me unsteady, like missing a step on a staircase.

I exhale sharply, the cold air biting at my throat as I straighten up.

I roll my neck, testing it for soreness from that last hit.

“Brooks!” Coach Walker’s voice booms across the rink, cutting through the chaos. “You good?”

“All good, Coach!” I shout back, raising a gloved hand.

Around me, the other players echo similar reassurances, their voices blending with the scrape of pucks against boards and the dull thuds of collisions.

Coach Walker narrows his eyes, scanning the group like he’s trying to sniff out a lie. After a moment, he nods sharply, waving us back into formation.

I grip my stick tighter, letting the familiar texture of the tape under my gloves center me. Today, though, my focus feels like it’s on thin ice, cracking under the weight of thoughts I can’t seem to shake.

Throwing myself back into practice, I tell myself to focus.

The twins aren’t wrong. I’m not getting any younger. I have to prove that I still have what it takes to play on this team.

Pass, skate, check, pass, it’s a routine I’ve mastered, but today I feel disconnected from my actions, like I’m going through the motions without the usual precision.

The puck glides toward me, and I stretch my stick out to intercept it.

My blade misses by a hair, and the puck slides past me to an opposing player.

He doesn’t hesitate, streaking down the ice and taking a clean shot at the net.

The sharp smack of the goalie’s blocker deflecting the puck echoes through the rink, followed by a groan from my teammates.

My stomach twists as I skate back into position, heat rushing to my face.

“Brooks!” Walker’s voice cuts through the disappointment. “Keep your head in the game!”

I nod quickly, muttering, “Got it, Coach,” but my frustration grows.

The twins skate past me, and I catch Tyler’s smirk. “Careful, old man,” he quips. “Don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I snap back, more curtly than I intended.

Tyler just laughs, skating away, and I grit my teeth.

At thirty-five, I know I’m skating on borrowed time. Every practice, every game is a chance to prove I still belong here, but the years don’t get lighter.

My muscles ache a little longer after each practice session, and the hits feel harder than they used to.

There’s no room for error, not now, not ever.

The puck lands on my stick again, and this time, I focus. I weave past a defender, my skates slicing into the ice with sharp precision.

My lungs burn as I drive toward the net, the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

The goalie squares up, his stick poised, but I see an opening. I pull back and snap the puck toward the net. It whistles through the air and hits the back of the goal with a satisfying thud.

Cheers erupt from the sideline, the staffers clapping and shouting. My teammates skate over, slapping my back as I circle around, catching my breath. “Nice shot, Brooks!” one of them calls out, and I give a brief nod, my chest swelling with pride.

This is where I belong, on the ice, proving I can still keep up with the best.

But even as the puck drops again, I catch myself glancing toward the glass, searching for a face I know isn’t there.