Page 34 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Wren

“Come on, Wren, you know he’s going to do whatever you tell him to do,” Luca says, glancing over at me as we deboard the plane. Despite my protests, he’s carrying his duffel in one hand and my stickered pink suitcase in the other.

For the first time, I wonder if it might be worth it for me to get a different suitcase. Something a little classier.

I’ve had the pink one for years, and now when I look at it, I’m reminded of my dad. Of the life I’m going to leave in the past for once and all. Though he’s still calling me every day, it’s slowed down, and that gives me hope that if I just keep strong, ignore him the best I can, he’ll give up.

After Easter at Luca’s parents’ house—which was just as charming and welcoming as it was at Christmas—something has shifted even further between us.

The golden egg was a spa retreat for two at a place in Europe.

When I’d quietly given it to Sloane, telling her to use it after the baby, Luca had looked at me like I hung the moon.

Maybe he knew that, unlike him, I can’t just afford to go and do it myself if I want. That I was probably the only person in that house who couldn’t have just made the golden egg happen for myself anyway.

But it felt weird to accept a spa retreat when I’m not stressed.

When this point in my life is the closest I’ve come to being content, being relaxed.

After a childhood of running from the police and looking over my shoulder, then a year with the FBI, this year with the Frost has practically felt like a wellness retreat.

The airport is busy, and we move through a private area to get from the team plane to a chartered bus. Luca is quiet, and when my thoughts wander back to the team, I can’t stop myself from filling the silence.

“The Panthers struggle with puck movement. They’ve been lousy with turnovers lately. What we need is pressure, and since Hawkins is at full health and particularly mobile, we’ll have more of that attack in the corner,” I say, to which Luca nods like he’s heard it before, because he has.

It’s the first play-off game, and I’m uncharacteristically anxious. Something feels off. I can’t put a finger on it, but something in the air feels strange, my instincts pricking at me to expect something bad.

“We’re going to come out strong and get ahead,” I go on, running through the same ideas we’ve been considering and reconsidering for weeks.

“You’ll put pressure on the puck carrier, with Callum on the strong-side wall.

And we have the play strategy for the second and third lines, but honestly, if you guys can, we should keep you in for longer.

The Panthers are worried about playing against you and Cal, that weird silent communication thing you guys do—”

“Wren.” Luca turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “We’ve gone over the strategy. It should be fairly straightforward. We have nothing to be worried about.”

I chew on my lip, unable to shake the feeling that we definitely do have something to be worried about.

***

Of course, my instinct turns out to be right.

From the moment the game starts, I can tell something is wrong.

The Frost almost never runs a 2-1-2, so the Panthers shouldn’t have seen it coming, but they respond perfectly to it.

The Panthers win the opening face-off too, the energy mismatch I predicted goes in the opposite way from what I thought.

Rather than the Frost coming out strong, the Panthers are muscling their way into a lead.

I’d thought Russell—the Panthers’ best D-man—was going to jockey with the first man in.

Get caught up in fighting with Luca and completely forget about trying to get the puck to the weak side, which is the only good strategy against a 2-1-2.

When I watched all the game film, looked into his play and his psyche, I assumed he’d slip up.

But his positioning is excellent, and the forecheck isn’t working.

Our strategy is falling apart. I seem to know it before the guys on the ice do, and it sends that simmering, low sense of anxiety just under my throat into a full boil. Something is wrong. I just have no idea what, specifically, it is. And that’s not a feeling I like.

Not one bit.

The Frost are starting to fall apart. Grayson has pulled into himself.

Maverick, apparently emboldened by my original plea to smack talk the other players, has riled the Panthers up, and not in a good way.

They’re all playing physical, and with every passing minute, my worry over someone getting seriously injured continues to rise.

By the time we hit the start of the third period, I’m on my feet, pacing back and forth. Normally, I don’t talk to Uncle Vic until the end of the game, but I go down to the bench hoping to have a word with him.

It hits me, for the first time, that winning isn’t just about the money.

Obviously, the bonus for winning the Stanley Cup would be nice. Help me make sure my grandmother is taken care of. Take care of some of those lingering legal fees. But I want this for more than just a paycheck.

I want this for Luca, who has wanted this since he was a kid. I want this so he can make the name for himself that he wants to make. I want this as a fan of the Frost, after watching how hard Luca and the rest of them have been working.

Early mornings, late nights. Conditioning and practice and talking about hockey at parties and showers and Christmas and Easter. This is a life’s work. A family empire, just like that article said. But in a way that exists without the snark.

They’re building something here. Making something from nothing. It’s about more than Luca—it’s about the city, about the fans, about Reggie in the nursing home asking for Luca McKenzie’s autograph.

I want to be a part of that. Be a part of them winning the Stanley cup.

Prove that I can be useful in something other than lying and conning. That I can live a successful, fulfilled life without my father at the helm of it. Show my grandmother that she never has to worry about me leaving her the way my father did.

“Coach,” I say when I reach the bench, but I’m too late—it took me too long to push through the crowds and make it down to the team.

Uncle Vic doesn’t hear me, but Luca—just about to jump over the boards and head back out onto the ice—does.

He catches my gaze, and just like that, we’re the only two people in the arena.

In the split second that passes, Luca says without speaking, Don’t worry. I’ve got this.

And I don’t have time to send my own message before he’s barreling out onto the ice, skates cutting hard, determination set in his stance.

My mind is blank for strategy, for an adjustment to make, so I just have to trust that Luca can make this happen.

He does.

Cal and Luca turn something on, flipping a certain switch that morphs them into an unstoppable pair as they fly up and down the ice, focusing only on the puck.

It’s a demonstration of pure talent, and that talent is what pulls them through, putting the Frost ahead by one at the end of the game. The teams line up, shaking hands, and my heart is pounding in my chest.

There will be more games against the Panthers, then we’ll move on to another team. Somehow, I got everything on strategy wrong this time. I have to figure this shit out before we get to the point where raw talent will no longer be enough.

I can’t let the team down.

Turning around, I start up the stairs to head back to my seat, but I come to a stop when I see a figure at the top—a strikingly familiar grin spread out over his face.

Dad.

I blink, and he’s gone. Numbly, I walk back to my seat, hands shaking, heart pounding, mouth gone dry.

It was just a trick of my mind. An imagination. A hallucination caused by the stress.

It has to be.

Because I don’t even want to think about the alternative.