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CHAPTER THREE

JACK

W ith a thud, I replace the Olympic bar on the rack.

My spotter and also goalie, Archer Moore, flicks his eyes over to a few of the guys as they make their way back to the locker room, all of them laughing and joking around.

Chalk clouds fill the space between us as he rubs his hands together, and I sit up on the bench and grab my towel, wiping the sweat from the back of my neck.

I tip my chin in the direction of Tyler and our teammates, raising a brow at Archer. “What’s the score there?”

Archer grabs his Dri-FIT shirt from behind him and tucks it into the waistband of his shorts. He passes me mine, but I’m still too hot to put it on, so I wrap it around my shoulders.

“My best guess is, they’re headed out tonight for a few drinks. Probably to Lloyd’s in town. It’s kind of a tradition.”

I stand from the bench and pick up my water bottle, popping the cap and taking a sip. “And we’re all going, I assume, or is this tradition by invitation only?”

He grins at me. “Oh, we’re all going, including you, rook.”

It would take an internet search of around zero-point-five seconds to easily conclude that Archer Moore is a playboy—and a prolific one at that. His activities and hookups dwarf even what Jon did back in his day. Goalies are known to border on the crazy side of sane—I guess they’d have to be willing to stand in the way of pucks—but Archer pushes even those boundaries.

Still, in a short space of time, I’ve concluded I like him. He has zero agenda when it comes to team dynamics—that much is clear. His only priorities are shutouts and girls, and I appreciate his straightforward approach.

“Morgan.”

I’m about to follow Archer into the locker room when I spin around at the sound of Jon’s voice.

On his way over, he watches his goalie push through the door and turns his attention to me. “First night of preseason, the guys go out. It’s something the Blades have done for years, so I suggest you go with them.”

I swipe my towel across my forehead, sweat still pouring from me. Jon wasn’t kidding when he said the next couple of weeks would be tough. “I was just talking to Archer about it. He already told me I was going.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Getting to know the resident playboy, huh? He’s a good guy. They all are in their own way. Like I told you a few weeks back, the team has been fractured by poor performances and angry fans. There’s a lot of work to be done, not just on the ice, but in the locker room too.”

I nod in understanding. “The trainer paired us up today, but, yeah, the team is cliquey, and right now, I’m talking to anyone who will look my way.”

“Hmm …” Jon looks down and scuffs the floor with his trainer. “Talked to Tyler yet?”

He knows the score between us from the days when he coached us both in college. Being honest, I don’t know how much Jon knew about the reasons why we didn’t see eye to eye, but I’m pretty sure one of them wasn’t the hots I had for Tyler’s girlfriend. I worked pretty hard to keep that part hidden. Even if Tyler could tell I thought he was dating a girl way above him, we never actually came to blows over it. Jon just knew our personalities clashed.

“He welcomed me to New York,” I reply with humor.

“You both need to bury the hatchet. This isn’t the NCAA anymore, Jack.” His tone is serious, and my smile fades when I see the look on his face, one I haven’t noticed before—or at least, it’s never been directed at me. “Go out tonight,” he continues. “Make an effort with everyone , and for the love of God, stay off the booze. I have sprints lined up for tomorrow, and I’ll be able to tell who made the right choices the night before and who didn’t.” His face softens as he claps a hand on my shoulder. “You did well today. This is all just an adjustment period, but you one hundred percent belong here. This is the beginning of an insane pro career, and your mom and I are proud of you.”

“Stay off the booze and keep doing the same things,” I repeat back at him. Bringing my hand to my forehead, I offer him a salute. “No worries, Jon.” I spin around and head for the locker room.

“Oh, and, Morgan?”

I turn back on my heel. “Yeah?”

“Outside the training center and arena, it’s Jon. But inside these four walls and on the ice, you know the drill. You might’ve been able to get away with it in college, but not here.”

I nod lightly and take another sip of water. “Sure thing, Coach.”

“So, this is Lloyd’s then,” I say, walking in with Sawyer flanking one side of me and Archer on the other.

“Sure is,” Sawyer responds, pulling off his jacket and handing it to the doorman .

The bar is the exact opposite of what I anticipated. I based my expectations for this place on Riley’s—the bar I used to hang out at with some of the Scorpions guys when I lived back in Seattle—but this place is different. Rather than a sports bar—which it kind of is with an NBA game playing on the overhead screens—it has more of a cocktail bar feel to it. The place is all dark greens and blacks with plush seating.

As we make our way to the back, heads turn in our direction.

There are twenty of us here tonight, and as we reach the ropes to the private area, Sawyer heads for the front of the group, leaving me and Archer toward the back.

“What do you drink?” Archer asks me, eyes already on the private bar in front of us.

“Soda,” I reply as we walk toward a couple of booths set out and ready for us.

He stops dead in his tracks, his face turning white, almost like I just admitted to killing his puppy. “Fuck off.”

I shrug. “We’ve got sprints tomorrow. Apparently, I need to stay off the booze.”

He walks toward me, tapping me on the shoulder as he passes by. “Let me guess—orders from Coach Morgan?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if there was ever a case of do as I say, not as I do , then that is it.” He tips his head over his shoulder as he makes for the rest of the guys, and I follow, noting the booth he’s heading for is exactly where Tyler is sitting. “Listen, I might only be twenty-six, but I’ve been in the NHL long enough to remember when Jon was in his prime, and let me tell you, he did not abstain from the booze before preseason sprints.”

We take a seat next to each other in the round booth. I’m opposite of Tyler, who’s too busy scowling at his phone to notice me.

“So, yeah, have a drink and worry about the consequences tomorrow. The closer we get to the season, the more you need to hold off. Tonight is one of your last chances.” He pauses and turns to me as I watch Tyler angrily hit the keys on his phone. “So, what’ll it be?”

“IPA,” I answer with no hesitation.

Archer nods and gets up from the booth, leaving me, Sawyer, Tyler, and his clique all in silence, the beat of the music the only sound between us.

“How many times have you messaged her?” Connor, one of the second line forwards, asks.

Tyler shrugs, clenching his jaw. “Three. She’s read them all, but she hasn’t responded. I thought she’d want to see me after I couldn’t make it last night.”

“Maybe she’s pissed at you for something,” Connor replies with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

My molars meet, and like a flashback to college, I fight back the urge to push for more details on why Kendra is ghosting him. To be honest, I fight back the urge to ask why the fuck she’s still dating him at all.

Tyler winces, but not in a way that indicates regret—nah, his face is too smug for that. “I had to bail on our plans last night. You know, with the early start Jon landed on us at the last minute.”

I grind my teeth harder.

“Shit, man. Yeah, chicks don’t like being stood up.” Connor’s brows shoot up as he leans back and takes a beer from Archer, who is handing them around to the group.

“Yep,” Tyler replies, setting his phone down, still staring at the screen. “Especially on our fourth anniversary.”

As soon as I take my pint from Archer, I instantly bring it to my lips—anything to stop me from kicking Tyler under the table.

He’s a prick .

“But you were here last night,” Archer says, taking the seat next to me.

Don’t punch him in the face, Jack.

“You know, my dad did that kind of shit to my mum. Didn’t work out well for him in the end,” I burst out, unable to stop myself. “She’s now married to a former NHL star and rarely gives him a second thought.”

Tyler’s head darts up, his eyes narrow. Clearly, he was so engrossed in trying to contact Kendra—for fucking once—that he genuinely didn’t notice me take a seat.

I nod at his phone, which shows zero notifications. “Maybe Kendra’s had the same thought. You know, that she could do better.”

Archer clears his throat from beside me as I watch the column of Tyler’s throat work to swallow his anger.

I know all too well that I shouldn’t give a fuck about someone else’s relationship, and ordinarily, I don’t. But I’ve spent way too long watching this fucker mess things up with a girl I’d give my left nut to date. I wasn’t all that bothered with girls in college, too busy with trying to work on my game and get the grades I needed to catch up with all the other guys who had been playing since they could walk. But I watched my mum put herself second when she had more talent in her little finger than my dad possessed in his entire body, and this situation right here stinks of the same.

Tyler keeps his eyes on me as he sits back in the booth, running his tongue across his bottom lip. “Yeah, well, I’ll make it up to her tonight. She likes to be on top.”

A couple of the guys sitting around laugh but quickly fall silent, their eyes shooting over my shoulder.

“You can tell her that now, Ty.” Sawyer chuckles as he motions over his shoulder, multiple eyes following because …

Goddamn.

I’ve seen her pictured with Tyler a few times, but mainly from photos of her playing for the New York Storm. Though nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared me for the way she looks tonight.

With her blonde hair curled around her shoulders, she and another dark-haired friend, who I recognize as the goalie on her team, come to stand at the foot of our table.

I pick up my beer, trying to concentrate on the glass rather than the low-cut black dress she’s wearing or the black leather boots that stop just below her knees. Her toned thighs look incredible as she leans forward and drums her green fingernails on the table.

“Kend,” Tyler chokes out, pointing to his phone. “We were just talking about you. I’ve been messaging you all night.”

Since I’m back to staring at her like a fucking loser, I notice the way her attention briefly snags on me before she focuses back on her dickhead boyfriend.

“Yeah, I know. I just didn’t feel like replying. Thought I’d just show up, see what you’re up to in your favorite place.” She looks around the bar area.

Archer shifts uncomfortably, his body language reflecting how the rest of us feel.

She’s pissed.

Tyler might try to hide it, but the guilt across his face is unmistakable. He tips his chin at Connor. “Move over will you so my girl can sit down?”