Page 1

Chapter 1

“Is that who I think—”

Finn barely got half his question out before Elliott abruptly stopped, right there, in the middle of the ice, and smacked a hand right across his mouth.

It was the annual Evergreens fundraiser, when they invited the rest of the student body and Portland U’s professors and staff out onto the ice. The staff had dropped half a dozen big silver reflecting disco balls all around the rink, the lights were flashing to an upbeat pop mix, and the ice was full of people barely managing to stay upright.

“Don’t,” Elliott warned.

Finn shook his hand off. Annoyed, despite knowing better. “I wasn’t—”

But predictably Ell didn’t let him get that out either, interrupting him first. “You don’t need to start shit. Not tonight.”

“It’s not me who dislikes him,” Finn reminded his friend sulkily.

He didn’t give a shit about Jacob Braun, despite listening to his dad bitch about him at every possible opportunity.

“I’m just saying the last thing we need is for you to go up to him and start something.” Elliott said this quite reasonably as they started to skate again, barely gliding along with the very slowly moving crowd.

Finn rolled his eyes. Out of the pair of them, it was usually Elliott pushing the buttons of everyone around him. Especially his linemate and their teammate Malcolm. Though Finn had noticed that lately their sniping at each other had taken on a whole new dimension, full of heat.

Finn knew it was only a matter of time before they fucked—if they hadn’t already, and Elliott hadn’t told him yet. And if he hadn’t told Finn, then that meant it wasn’t just fucking. For either of them.

As far as Finn was concerned, that was the real problem, not Jacob Braun skulking over by the far wall, big arms crossed over his even bigger chest, thick dark beard obscuring the expression on his face.

“I’m hardly going to go challenge him to a duel over my father’s honor,” Finn said dryly.

“What honor?” Elliott retorted, his tone even drier. “Morgan just didn’t like that he couldn’t score on Braun.”

Finn knew that. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had pissed off Morgan Reynolds.

“And now you know why I’m not tempted to go over there and kick his ass.”

Elliott nodded, his eyes twinkling suddenly with amusement. “Or you could go over there and flirt with him. He’s hot, even if he’s old.”

“He’s not that old,” Finn said, not sure why he was insisting on this point. “He had to retire early. A hip injury, I think? He’s maybe thirty-four? Thirty-five?”

“He kind of reminds me of—” This time Elliott stopped himself abruptly.

“Don’t say Mal,” Finn teased. But he could see it. The height. The breadth of Braun’s shoulders. The messy dark hair, the beard Mal could surely grow if he ever allowed it. That intense stare. Even if it was brown instead of blue. “Now I see why you wanted to go flirt with him.”

“I didn’t want to go flirt with him,” Elliott claimed. “I wanted you to go flirt with him. Imagine how pissed off that’d make your dad.”

Finn could imagine just how that’d go. The disapproval that seemed to permanently reside on his dad’s face deepening even further. Even thinking of the texts he’d get made him not even want to look at Jacob Braun.

Because Ell was right. Jacob Braun was kind of hot, in that reclusive, brooding mountain man kind of way.

“Don’t need to flirt with Jacob Braun to annoy him,” Finn said as lightly as he could.

Which . . .frankly . . .was not that light, when it came down to it.

Elliott patted him on the shoulder but Finn didn’t feel all that reassured. “I know,” he said quietly.

For half a rotation, they didn’t speak, but Finn had a feeling if he looked up, he’d see Jacob Braun’s gaze on him. He could feel it, burning into him.

He knew he lived in town, in one of the gigantic houses perched in the West Hills. Once or twice, he’d seen him around the facility, but they’d never spoken.

Maybe because Jacob didn’t give a shit that his issue had been with Finn’s dad. Maybe Finn was included in his dislike, anyway.

Nick, the other goalie on the Evergreens, said he’d asked him for a training session, but Jacob had said he didn’t do that, and that was the end of it.

Finn had half-expected Coach Blackburn to try to convince Jacob, but apparently he hadn’t. Or if he had, it hadn’t turned out the way Coach B had wanted, and so Finn had never heard about it.

Even his father had only mentioned Jacob’s presence in Portland once.

“You know,” Elliott said again, “you could go over there.”

“Ell,” Finn warned.

“Not to flirt. Or to fight.”

“And here I thought those were your only two modes,” Finn said.

Elliott made a disgruntled noise. “That’s not true.”

“When it comes to Malcolm, yeah,” Finn said, turning the subject onto his friend because that was easier and way more comfortable than thinking about what he might say to Jacob Braun.

Sorry my dad’s such an asshole? Don’t worry, he’s like that with me too?

It wasn’t exactly a state secret, but Finn still couldn’t imagine walking up to Braun and admitting that.

“I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work,” Elliott said primly.

“So you’re not gonna tell me, then.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” But Elliott was a shitty liar, and from the waver in his voice and the sudden blissful expression on his face, Finn knew there was a hell of a lot to tell.

He hoped that Mal wouldn’t inadvertently break Elliott’s heart—or that they wouldn’t somehow break each other in this mess.

If he needed another reason to not go over to where Braun was leaning against the wall, that was it.

It was too complicated. Messy.

Besides, he was right here. If Jacob wanted to do more than just stare, he could come over and talk to Finn.

It had been a mistake to come tonight. Jacob knew that now. He pushed open the door to the outside and took a deep gulp of fresh air.

Not because of the Reynolds boy, though that hadn’t helped, either.

Seeing Finn, looking like a young shadow of his father, had brought back a lot of memories, good and bad.

But the rink itself had done more than enough. Even the scent of it had brought it all back. What felt like every moment, flashing in technicolor across his memory, good and bad and fantastic and awful.

Moira had told him that it would be good for him to come tonight, but he was pretty sure that when she asked him how it had gone during their next session, he was going to tell her it had been a complete fucking disaster.

He’d dutifully paid his money—all going to support the hockey team, of course, and he’d laced his skates up. Carefully stretched his hip. Gotten on the ice.

It hadn’t been his first time skating since his retirement, not by a long shot, and he’d thought maybe the rink, with its festive atmosphere, would feel different. Better .

It hadn’t.

The moment his blades had touched it, Jacob had wanted to fall to his knees and beat his fists against the ice, in turns thankful and furious.

Relieved and regretful.

Even with six months of therapy and his admittedly great support system, Jacob couldn’t say he was managing any of his feelings about hockey all that well.

He couldn’t imagine what it would be like without Moira and without his brother and his family. Without his agent, Mark. Without Sophie, who handled his PR.

No wonder a lot of ex-players turned to drugs and booze to cope.

He’d made it nearly to the sidewalk when he noticed someone sitting on one of the concrete benches lining the walk up to Hossa Rink. A streetlight was partially shining on him, the caramel-colored mop of hair on the guy’s head unmistakable.

That head was bent down, over a dimmed screen, and as Jacob passed, he saw an unmistakable flash of unbearable frustration cross over his face before it was wiped clean.

Shit .

He should leave it alone. He should keep walking and not invite more pain. He should pretend he hadn’t seen him, and just keep going—

“Hey.”

He found himself in front of Finn, opening his mouth before he could snatch the greeting back.

Finn glanced up.

In this light, he didn’t look much like his father at all. Except for the hair, which he wore longer, letting it curl around his forehead, his ears. Morgan had always kept it cropped short, like the melting pot of browns and blonds and hints of red, all tangled up in swirls and loops, made him too soft.

The curls didn’t make Finn look soft, they made him look—

Jacob cut that thought off hard and fast. This was Morgan’s son.

“Decided you hadn’t done enough by just staring at me, huh?” Finn asked.

Jacob couldn’t help the wince. Considered denying Finn’s accusation. But he didn’t. “No. Sorry. I’ll—”

He went to turn, but Finn caught his arm.

Jacob looked down at the hand curled around his plaid jacket. He could feel the warmth and power of it even through the fabric. Up close, Finn didn’t look as young as Jacob had imagined he might. He’d grown up even in the six months or so since they’d last seen each other. He was a man now, despite the haunting insecurities hiding in the corners of his gaze.

He should really go.

But Finn’s grayish-green eyes were clear in the streetlight, looking directly at him. “No, I’m sorry,” he said.

Jacob wasn’t sure either of them were really all that sorry, but maybe it was better to preserve the fiction.

“Well, uh, I thought—” He started and then stopped. Started again. Papered over his own awkwardness with the reminder words had never been his strong suit. “Thought I should say hi, at least.”

“Hi,” Finn said wryly.

“Right.” He could tell Finn to tell his old man hi for him, too, but the last time they’d seen each other, Jacob had still been playing, in his last All Star Game, and Morgan had been newly retired, and the one time they’d actually come face-to-face, Morgan had told him to go fuck himself.

Jacob, blood hot, might have shoved a hard elbow into his gut and told him he wasn’t taking names right now, and even if he was, he wouldn’t want his balls to freeze off.

Not his best moment. Not Morgan’s, either, but then Morgan had always seemed to enjoy their feud more than Jacob had.

“Uh, how’s . . .uh . . .” Jacob rubbed his neck and shot Finn a sheepish look. “I guess your dad’s doing just fine.”

If Morgan Reynolds had struggled with retirement, it had never been public—or even private—knowledge.

He’d gone straight from success to even more success. Investing in companies, buying into an AHL team, gracing ESPN with all his very important insights.

Jacob hadn’t wanted to keep resenting the asshole, but it had been hard when he’d been so tangled up and Morgan was seemingly just fucking fine.

As always.

“Of course he is.” Finn sounded like he resented this fine-ness too. Something he and the boy had in common.

He’s not a boy. Not from this angle.

Not from any angle.

Jacob dragged his mind—and his uncooperative dick—back from the certain insanity of thinking just how well Finn Reynolds had grown up.

“He would be,” Jacob commiserated, shooting Finn a reassuring smile. “Has he ever not been just fine?”

“No.” Finn chuckled. “No. I wish I knew how he does it.”

“Hey, me too, kid,” Jacob said, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. And then winced, again. God , he’d just called him a kid. Finn was frowning now, and probably not because he’d touched him.

“I’m twenty-one,” Finn said. “Not a kid.”

Jacob, despite the mess he always made of shit when he said anything out loud, at least knew that it would be a fucking disaster to say that he’d called him a kid out of self-preservation—it was easier, simpler, and way less full of dangerous land mines than thinking of how he’d grown up. How gorgeous he was.

Because he was. Breathtaking, actually, in this light, and it was taking everything in Jacob to ignore that burn of attraction.

If things were terrible now , imagine how bad they could be if he said that shit out loud ?

“No, not a kid,” Jacob finally agreed, because that was the only way to give himself an easy out.

“Don’t even say you remember when I was born. I know you don’t. You and my dad didn’t start playing against each other until I was . . .what . . .six? Seven?”

Jacob grimaced. He did not want to go down this road.

There was no way this particular path wasn’t emblazoned, in flashing neon letters, Jacob Braun is a dirty old man.

“Something like that.” Jacob shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Well, there you go.” Finn flashed him a grin.

Except it did not make Jacob feel any better.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Finn continued, like he couldn’t tell Jacob was shutting down. Or maybe he just didn’t give a shit. Morgan had been like that. He was the king of pushing and pushing and pushing until he pushed someone right off the cliff of good sense.

And because Morgan was Morgan, he’d laugh at you all the way down. Like it was all some great joke.

Not for the first time, Jacob thought that if it had been hard to play against someone like that, how hard would it have been to grow up with him as your father?

“Ah, well, not much going on these days.” It was the opposite of how busy Morgan seemed to be, in retirement, and Jacob wanted to snatch the words back and pretend that he too had his fingers in many important and lucrative opportunities.

But Finn didn’t look judgmental, only sympathetic. “Must’ve sucked, when your hip gave out.”

“Wasn’t fun,” Jacob admitted.

He’d thought he’d had a few decent years left—maybe he’d have spent some time as a backup, but it would have been time on the ice.

“My dad said you were one of the best to play the position,” Finn said.

Jacob smiled, aware of what Finn was doing. “I bet he said that with a whole lot more four-letter words.”

Finn laughed, the sound seemingly startled out of him. Like he hadn’t expected Jacob to call him on his polite bullshit. Well, Jacob hadn’t expected to do it either—hadn’t expected any of this. Certainly not the unsettling awareness of Finn residing in his gut.

“Yep,” Finn agreed. “But it’s still true. The more he hated you? The better you were, in his eyes.”

“Sounds about right,” Jacob said. It was how he’d always managed to deal with the feud. Even when he hadn’t liked it, he’d at least been able to acknowledge it was ultimately Morgan’s greatest compliment.

The one time Morgan had come up with his therapist, Moira, Jacob had muttered offhandedly about if anyone needed to talk to anyone, it was probably Morgan. “Everyone needs therapy, Jacob,” Moira had said gently. “Well, he needs it more than everyone else,” Jacob had insisted.

And if that was true, what did that say about Finn ?

He is not your business or your problem. He is definitely not a solution either, or a very convenient and attractive distraction from all the shit you’re carrying around.

If it happened—and it wasn’t going to—Morgan would take it as just another insult in a very long list. He’d fly to Portland to beat Jacob’s face in and probably drag his adult son, who knew how to make his own choices, back to New York by his ear.

“You guys are . . .uh . . .good this year,” Jacob said. “You’re playing good.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Haven’t caught you at a game, yet.”

He wasn’t about to tell Morgan’s son that he was still struggling to return to an ice rink. Not that Finn was necessarily his father’s biggest fan either, but it wouldn’t be too surprising if that knowledge slipped out. Even inadvertently, Jacob didn’t need Morgan to know just how much he was struggling.

“I . . .uh . . .I’ve been following on TV. And online.” That wasn’t a lie. Sometimes when the silence of his house felt like it was going to eat him alive, he switched on a game.

“Then you know I’m not playing good,” Finn said flatly.

“That’s . . . no ,” Jacob stammered, guilt washing over him. Had he paid attention to Finn’s play? Well, yes, because he’d been a goalie too, and also because he was Finn. He’d been interested.

He hadn’t thought Finn was really taking advantage of his good instincts, but he hadn’t believed he was bad either.

And suddenly it occurred to Jacob why Finn might feel that way.

“Morgan’s not—”

“Don’t give me that he wouldn’t bullshit. You know exactly how my father is. More than anyone else,” Finn said bitterly. “All the way across the country. Going to college instead of going into juniors, like him. Different position. Doesn’t matter. I can’t escape him.”

This is not your problem.

“I never could either,” Jacob said gently.

“You didn’t try to,” Finn snapped.

But he had. He’d tried to make nice with Morgan so many times, and a few times he’d thought they’d actually gotten to a decent place, sharing late-night drinks after a game or even once having dinner a few years back. And then they’d play again, and once they were back on the ice, everything always changed.

The difference between him and Finn was that he could escape Morgan Reynolds. He never had to think about him or probably ever talk to him again, if he didn’t want to.

Finn didn’t have that luxury.

“Well, from one ex-goalie to another, I don’t think you’re playing bad,” Jacob said. Maybe it wouldn’t make any difference what he said. Maybe Finn wasn’t his problem. But he couldn’t turn away from all that obvious pain without saying a goddamn thing.

“Sure,” Finn scoffed. He stood, and for a split second, Jacob was sure he was going to stalk away, and that would be the end of this weird conversation.

But then Finn turned back. “You really don’t think I’m playing shitty? I know we’re winning, but—”

Jacob’s heart ached.

He didn’t want it to, but he felt the painful echo anyway.

“You’re not. But listen to your instincts more, okay?”

“What instincts?” That bitterness was back in spades.

And now Jacob wanted to fly to New York and beat the shit out of Morgan for making his son feel this way.

“You got ’em,” Jacob said.

“Then help me,” Finn said.

It was the last thing Jacob expected him to say.

It seemed it was also the last thing Finn had expected to say, too, because the shock on his face mirrored exactly how Jacob felt.

“What?”

“You heard me.” But Finn was recovering faster from the surprise, because he seemed strangely sure now. “Help me. Make me a better goalie. You were one of the best to play the game, and I know I could be better, but I . . .” Finn trailed off.

He’s not your problem, he’s not your problem, he’s definitely not your problem. You’ve got enough of those on your own . . .

“No,” Jacob said. He’d wanted to reject the suggestion more gently, but in the end all that came out was that terrible bark.

Finn didn’t look fazed though. “You could help me,” he said.

He could . But helping Finn would mean a whole lot of other things. Like getting back on the ice, regularly. Like seeing him regularly. And while Jacob had no idea if this recent and very messy attraction was reciprocated and he’d always believed in his own ironclad self-control, he was not going to risk it.

There were so many other, better, people out there who could help Finn.

“I can’t,” Jacob said firmly.

“But—”

“No.”

Jacob had wanted this awkward conversation to end but he was still disappointed—in Finn but more in himself—when Finn took in his last rejection, shot him a venomous glare, and then stalked off.

“Fuck,” Jacob muttered out loud.

Now the father and the son hated him.