Page 2

Chapter 2

Puck to the Head

Dominic

I stormed into the locker room, pulling off my helmet and slamming it into my stall with enough force to make the whole row shudder. It did absolutely nothing to ease the white-hot ball of rage churning inside me. My father’s voice telling me I wasn’t good enough echoed in my head, which only made me want to break something even more.

“Fucking figure skater.” I ran a hand down my face and dropped onto the bench, attacking my skate laces like they’d been the ones to embarrass me.

The other guys let me be; a smart move considering the mood I was in. Everyone except Miles, who slid onto the bench beside me with his usual complete disregard for self-preservation. Typical Collins, always trying to talk me down when I was ready to explode.

“You should ice that ego. It’s looking pretty swollen.” His casual tone grated against my nerves more than usual when I was in a shitty mood.

I shot him a glare that would have sent smarter men running. “Not in the mood, Collins.”

“When are you ever in the mood for constructive criticism?” He pulled off his practice jersey, completely unfazed by the daggers I was staring at him. “She’s right, you know.”

“Oh, is she?” I wrestled off a skate. “Tell me more about how I should be taking skating advice from someone who couldn’t hack it in the twirl-and-sparkle league.”

Miles’s expression hardened, his usual easygoing demeanor cracking. “That’s low, even for you.”

“What? It’s true.” I yanked off my practice jersey, my movements sharp and aggressive enough to nearly tear the fabric. “She’s not even a real coach. She’s a glorified skating instructor they hired because of her last name.” I knew I was being an ass but couldn’t seem to stop myself.

“Jesus, Dom.” Miles’s voice was quieter but sharper. “Don’t be one of those fucking guys. She was the youngest female national champion and would have been the youngest to go to the Olympics. She knows more about edge work than you’ll ever know.” The disappointment in his voice should have made me feel guilty.

I forced a shrug like I didn’t care. “Doesn’t matter. Now she’s just another suit telling me how to do my job.” I focused on my gear, refusing to acknowledge the small voice in the back of my head suggesting that I was being unreasonable.

Rookie defenseman Kyle Hensley let out a low whistle from two stalls over. “Hastings really got under your skin, huh, Wilson?”

“Shut it, Hensley.” I peeled off my socks, refusing to acknowledge the accuracy of his statement.

“If you spent less time fighting her, you wouldn’t have looked like an ass out there.” Jensen smirked.

The locker room erupted in poorly concealed laughs, and I shot up from the bench, balling my fists at my sides. “Real supportive teammates I’ve got. Glad to see you’re all enjoying the roast.”

Miles grabbed my arm and yanked me back down on the bench. The muscle in my jaw ticked as I fought back the urge to throw something at Jensen’s smug face. It probably wouldn’t look good on my record to deck our starting goalie, though.

“We’re enjoying watching you get schooled by the hot coach. Guess she’s got higher standards than whatever macho bullshit you’re trying to pull.” Marty, our third-line center, leaned against his stall with a shit-eating grin that I wanted to wipe off his face.

These jackasses could laugh it up all they wanted. They weren’t the ones with their father’s legacy hanging over their heads like a guillotine. They didn’t understand what it meant to have every move scrutinized and every mistake amplified not only by commentators but by their own father.

“You think she’s hot?” Shit. The words were out before I could stop them, and judging by the way Jensen’s grin widened, I’d handed them enough material to last until playoffs.

“Everyone thinks she’s hot.” Miles shrugged, like he was stating that water was wet. “But more importantly, she knows her stuff.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge in my gut. Yes, Hastings was attractive in that stern, take-no-prisoners way. And sure, there was something magnetically infuriating about the way she stood her ground, brown eyes flashing with challenge when I pushed back.

But that wasn’t the point.

“My dad would rather take a puck to the head than see me taking direction from Brett Hastings’s daughter.”

“You mean from a woman?” Miles’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what this is about?”

“She’s never played a day of NHL hockey in her life.” The part I left unsaid was that my father still, to this day, absolutely hated Nora’s father, who had cost him his only chance at the Stanley Cup.

Miles studied me for a long moment, seeing through me in the way only someone who’s known you for a long time could. “You’re twenty-eight years old. Your father has no say in your career.”

I scowled, hating that he wasn’t wrong. It was no secret that my dad was... difficult. He was an NHL legend and king of emotional terrorism disguised as tough love. He had spent my entire life criticizing every aspect of my game. Nothing was ever good enough, especially not me.

The last time I’d purposely asked him for feedback, I was fifteen. Stuck in a defensive drill I couldn’t nail no matter how hard I tried. After the fourth mistake, he hadn’t even yelled. Just shook his head and said, “If this is your best, you’ll never be more than average.”

I remembered standing there, hot-faced and sweating, feeling like I’d had the air knocked out of me.

Now, he just gave me unsolicited feedback.

“Look.” Miles’s voice dropped into a gentle, infuriatingly reasonable tone he only used when he was about to make a point I didn’t want to hear. “Whatever this is between you and Hastings, figure it out. Because right now, you’re the only one who doesn’t see how good she is.”

I stiffened. “There’s nothing between me and Hastings.” The denial shot out of me like a reflex, loaded with the kind of defensiveness that practically screamed guilty.

Miles held up his hands in surrender, but his expression said he wasn’t buying my bullshit for a second. “All I’m saying is to try her way. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The worst that could happen was that she was right, and I’d spent my entire career doing something wrong. The worst that could happen was admitting that I wasn’t as perfect as I pretended to be.

Or worse, that my father had been right all along. You’ll never be more than average, his voice sneered in my head, sharp and cold as blades cutting into ice.

“We’ve got twenty minutes until scrimmage.” I stood, grabbing my phone and a protein bar from my locker, desperate to escape this conversation before Miles could make any more sense.

“Think about it. For the team’s sake, if not your own.”

“I’ll think about it.” I paused at the door, looking back over my shoulder. “But I’m not making any promises.”

* * *

The last thing I wanted to do after dragging my aching muscles through a full day of training camp was play dress-up for some charity dinner my brother, Garrett, had roped me into. On a yacht, no less. Who the hell hosts a fundraiser for underprivileged kids on a floating palace? The irony was thick enough to skate on.

I had plenty of money, but my wallet still ached from the ten grand it had cost to be here. That was the minimum contribution for the St. James Foundation. Garrett had promised the connections would be worth it, but my brother had always been better at the schmoozing.

As I took a calculated sip of my one and only glass of champagne—since tomorrow afternoon was our first preseason game—I listened in as some hedge fund manager’s trophy wife discussed kids in need, dramatically dabbing at non-existent tears with a monogrammed handkerchief.

Right. Like she’d ever set foot in the community center this fundraiser was supporting once it was finished being built.

“Wilson! My favorite hockey player.” Carter’s enthusiasm hit me like a wall of pure charisma as he bounded over, camera hanging around his neck like some kind of fashion accessory rather than the professional equipment it clearly was.

I’d crossed paths with Carter a few times over the years. My brother, Garrett, was best friends with Luca, whose younger brother, Leo, was friends with Carter. By default, Carter had been hovering around the edges of my world for years.

Carter was one of those guys who had looks, money, and charm. Yet somehow, you couldn’t even hate him for it. He made it impossible with his golden retriever energy for literally everything. The guy could probably charm a nun into breaking her vows if he really put his mind to it.

I eyed the professional-grade camera. “What’s with the camera? Do you moonlight for the paparazzi?”

He snapped a casual photo of me before I could object. “It’s what I went to school for, and when Leo decided to run the foundation and asked me if I knew any photographers and social media managers, I jumped at the chance to help. Plus, someone has to document all these beautiful people pretending to care about charity.”

I snorted into my champagne. At least someone else saw through this circus we were part of. “You’re one to talk. Isn’t your family’s foundation hosting three different galas this year?”

“Four, actually.” He adjusted his lens, scanning the crowd like a hunter looking for prey. “Speaking of beautiful people...”

I followed his gaze and nearly choked on my drink. Because there, looking completely different from the stern coach who’d been riding my ass all week, was Nora. She wore a deep blue dress that hugged curves that I definitely hadn’t noticed under her team jacket and definitely shouldn’t be noticing now. Her usually pulled-back brown hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and she was smiling.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. What the hell is she doing here?” I muttered, more to myself than to Carter, fighting the urge to loosen my bow tie.

“What?” Carter followed my gaze, then broke into a slow grin that made me want to punch him. “Nora? You know her?”

“She just started as the team’s skills coach.” I threw back the rest of my champagne, wishing it was something stronger. “We don’t see eye to eye. Wait. How do you know her?”

“She’s best friends with Paige.” Carter was still watching her with an interest that made my jaw tick.

“My brother never mentioned that his girlfriend was best friends with my coach.” It seemed like a pretty important detail to tell your little brother. The kind of detail that might have prepared me for seeing her here, looking like... that.

I watched as Nora laughed at something someone said, her whole face lighting up in a way I’d never seen at practice. It was... disconcerting because now she looked like she belonged on the arm of a billionaire, not barking at me about my edges.

“Well...” Carter straightened his bowtie with a determined expression I’d seen too many times before. “I think it’s time I make my move.”

My head snapped toward him so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “What?”

“Come on, look at her. Smart, gorgeous, and from what I’ve heard, she takes absolutely no shit. That’s basically my kryptonite.”

“What? No.”

Carter’s eyebrows rose. “No? Any particular reason?”

“Because you’re...” I gestured vaguely at all of him, from his perfectly tailored tux to his carefully tousled hair. “You.”

“Devastatingly handsome? Charming? Wealthy beyond reason?”

“A manwhore,” I finished flatly, feeling like a complete fucking hypocrite.

“That’s rich coming from you.” Carter’s grin was insufferable, mostly because he wasn’t wrong.

“She’s my coach, Campbell.”

“And? I’m not on your team.” He was already stepping away, completely ignoring my objections. “Besides, you clearly can’t stand her, so what do you care?”

I did not care. At all. It was professional concern. Carter had a reputation with women that rivaled my own. He collected phone numbers like hockey cards and discarded them just as easily. The thought of him adding Nora to his collection made me furious.

“She’s not your type.” The words came out sharper than intended.

“My type is stunning and standing within arm’s reach, and she qualifies.” He clapped me on the shoulder a little too hard, and I wanted to punch him. “Don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you with your coach.”

I watched him stride confidently across the room, and something dark and uncomfortable churned in my gut as Nora turned toward him, a smile still lighting up her face.

“Fuck this,” I muttered, heading for the bar. I needed something stronger than champagne if I was going to watch Carter work his magic on my... on Hastings.

Not that I cared. She could date or fuck whoever she wanted, even if it was a trust fund playboy who collected women like some people collected art.

I didn’t care. I had better things to worry about, like not punching Carter in his smug, pretty face.

The lie tasted worse than the champagne.