Page 3

ALDER

I pull up to Coach Thompson's suburban McMansion with the Fury banner hanging above the driveway, scratching at the scruff I've been cultivating for the past two weeks.

The beard isn't looking great yet—patchy in places, too thick in others—but Adam says it makes me look like a Viking warrior, and I'm desperate for him to see me as sexy like that.

I recheck my phone. No text from Adam saying he's on his way.

Instead, there's a message from my dad:

I'm thinking of you bringing Adam to the BBQ! Just be yourself. I love you, kiddo.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Ty Stag, hockey legend and tough guy extraordinaire has no problem with his son dating a guy. He just has a problem with his son dating this guy—the one who still hasn't arrived twenty minutes after I texted him I was here.

My phone rings, and Adam's name flashes on the screen.

"Hey, you close?" I ask instead of hello.

"I'm at the end of the street. I just wanted to check..."

After six months of dating, Adam hasn't met a single teammate of mine outside of accidental run-ins. He hasn't been to a family dinner, hasn't attended a home game, and won't even let me tag him in private social media posts.

"I’ve been waiting for you in the driveway," I say, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. "The guys want to meet you. And the new dentist is coming—Coach is making a big deal about Doc Bowman's replacement."

A sigh crackles through the speaker. "I'm not comfortable with this kind of group party, Alder. I've told you that repeatedly."

"It's important to me." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.

Another sigh, then: "Fine. I see your car. I'll park behind you."

I watch in the rearview mirror as Adam's sleek Audi slides in behind my Escalade. He emerges looking like he stepped out of a magazine—crisp chinos, blue button-down rolled precisely at the elbows, artfully tousled hair. I suddenly feel underdressed in my Fury t-shirt and cargo shorts.

I hop out of my SUV and approach him with a smile. "You made it."

"For you." His lips tight, he taps away at his phone. "But I can't stay long. I have a client crisis brewing."

"You always have a client crisis brewing." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Adam finally looks up, his expression softening slightly. "It's how I can afford this car, babe." He pockets his phone and gestures toward the house. "Let's get this over with."

I reach for his hand as we walk up the driveway, but Adam deftly sidesteps, pretending to check something in his pocket. My hand hangs awkwardly between us for a moment before I shove it into my pocket.

"It's fine," I mutter. He's just nervous. This is a big step.

Coach's backyard is packed with my teammates and their partners. The grill is working overtime, smoke billowing as Coach flips burgers with a spatula in one hand and a tongs-speared hot dog in the other.

My brothers spot me first.

"Aldy!" Tucker calls out, his grin wide and genuine. Gunnar waves from where he's helping set up lawn games. Their initial smiles fade slightly as they notice Adam trailing three steps behind me, already back on his phone.

Cappy, our team captain, approaches with his usual easy warmth. "A-Stag! About time you made it." He turns to Adam, extending a hand. "You must be Adam. Heard a lot about you."

Adam extends his hand with a perfunctory smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Nice to meet you."

An awkward silence follows until Coach Thompson saves us, appearing with a plate of charred meat in one hand and a clean spatula in the other.

"Adam, right? Good to finally meet you," Coach says, balancing the plate to offer his hand. "Alder's one of our best—great to see him bringing someone important to him."

"Thank you for the invitation," Adam says with practiced politeness.

I grin and rest a hand on Adam’s shoulder. "Adam's handling the media strategy for the Pittsburgh Athletic Media merger with East Coast Sports Network," I explain, proud to talk about his work. "It's a huge deal for him—" Adam freezes beside me, his smile vanishing.

Coach Thompson's eyebrows shoot up. "East Coast? My brother-in-law sits on their board," Coach says, interest piqued. "He didn't mention any merger."

"He wouldn't," I continue, despite Adam's increasingly rigid posture. "It's all under wraps until the press conference on Tuesday."

"Alder." Adam's voice is as tight as steel.

"A word." Before I can respond, he grips my elbow, steering me toward the side of the house.

I catch Gunnar and Tucker exchanging a look, and something twists in my stomach.

Once we're out of earshot, Adam turns on me, eyes blazing.

"What the hell are you doing? That information is completely confidential! "

I feel my cheeks heat. Pretty sure I just fucked up when I was trying to show off. "I was just making conversation?—"

"You just told the coach of a major sports franchise about a confidential corporate merger! His brother-in-law is on the board! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

The cold realization of my mistake washes over me. "I didn't think?—"

"That's the problem, isn't it? You never think.

" He yanks his phone from his pocket and glares.

"I have to deal with this now. This could tank the entire announcement strategy.

" I watch as he walks away, phone pressed to his ear, his voice shifting to damage-control mode.

I stand there, the weight of my carelessness settling like a stone in my gut.

I wander back to my brothers, who are still talking to Coach. All of them look at me, their expressions uncomfortable. Coach’s eyebrows shoot up. “Where’s your guy?”

I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Work call. He’s around somewhere…”

I wince, but Coach sighs. "Well, boys, the water’s cold, and the meat's hot." He turns to me. "Gatorade and seltzers in the coolers. No booze until after we win the Cup."

I catch Gunnar and Tucker exchanging a look, and something twists in my stomach. I hate that my brothers see precisely what they expected. Coach claps my shoulder. "Go grab a drink, son. More food's coming up soon."

I head toward the drink station, trying to shake off the embarrassment.

There's a woman standing by the coolers, struggling with the cap of a probiotic seltzer.

She's wearing a jean skirt that hugs the ample curve of her gorgeous backside and a flowing top that catches the breeze.

Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she's biting her thick lip in concentration .

"Need some muscle?" I offer, approaching with what I hope is a friendly smile.

She looks up, surprise crossing her face. "Oh! Thanks, this thing is determined to resist me." She hands me the bottle.

I twist it open easily and hand it back. "Sadists design those caps."

"Or dentists looking for business when people chip their teeth trying to open them with their mouth," she laughs.

"You must be Dr. Sinclair." I extend my hand. "Alder Stag. I play defense."

"Lena," she says, shaking my hand with a firm grip. "And yes, I've been studying the roster. You're the one with the twin, right?"

"That's me. We come as a package deal." I gesture toward Tucker, who's now operating the grill while Coach takes a break. "He's the better-looking one, but I've got the better slapshot."

She laughs a genuine sound that puts me at ease somehow. Up close, I can see she's wearing minimal makeup, just enough to make her eyelashes seem longer and her cheeks slightly flushed. I shouldn’t be looking at her like that, though.

I reach into the cooler and grab a lemonade. "What's your professional position on this sugar-laden lemonade versus the probiotic stuff?"

She considers the question with mock seriousness. "It depends how many of those teeth are your own and how many are crowns."

"Knock on wood. All the Stag brothers still have all our originals," I say, rapping my knuckles against the wooden table. "Hockey miracle, I guess."

"Well then, I'd say life's too short to drink probiotic seltzer. Though I would recommend a good rinse afterward." Her smile is easy and confident. "Congratulations on making the playoffs. "

We chat for a few minutes about the upcoming series against Montreal.

She knows hockey surprisingly well, asking smart questions about defensive strategies and our opponents' scoring patterns.

It's refreshing to talk to someone who gets it without being in the business — although I guess she’s in the business now.

I find myself relaxing for the first time since arriving. "So…what’s your deal? Are you a local? Family close by?”

A shadow passes across her face. "My boyfriend Brad is here somewhere." She glances around, then adds with obvious discomfort, "He needed to step away to 'center himself.' The sports talk was somewhat overwhelming for him."

I watch her shrink slightly as she says this, her shoulders curving inward, her voice growing softer. It's like watching someone dim their light.

"I get that," I say, nodding toward where Adam disappeared. "My boyfriend had to take a 'work call' two minutes after we arrived."

Her expression shifts to one of surprise, then recognition, then something like relief. “Boyfriend, huh? I do remember reading that there were a few guys on the Fury who are LGBTQ.”

I nod. “I’m the B in that alphabet soup.”

She grins. “So is Brad. Bisexual, I mean. He’s finishing his dissertation in philosophy, so he's... particular about social settings."

"Adam works in sports PR, ironically enough. Just not comfortable with the spotlight himself." I try to sound understanding rather than disappointed.

She nods, offering a rueful smile. "Sometimes I think Brad agreed to come just so he could tell people he was at a 'professional athlete gathering' later."

We share a laugh that feels almost conspiratorial. There's a comfort in this shared experience, even if it's not a positive one.

"I should probably find him," Lena says, looking toward the house. "Make sure he hasn't started debating existentialism with your teammates."

"I'll help you look," I offer. "I should check on Adam anyway."

We wander toward the sliding glass doors leading to the kitchen. Through the window, I spot two figures by Coach's fancy bar cart in the corner of the dining room. Adam and another man—could it be Brad?—are examining a bottle of brandy, their heads bent close in conversation.

Adam gestures animatedly, a genuine smile on his face that I haven't seen in weeks. The other man—wearing a blazer despite the heat—is nodding enthusiastically, seemingly hanging on every word.

"Found them," I say unnecessarily.

Lena follows my gaze, her expression unreadable. "Of course. The one place with alcohol."

We watch for a moment as our boyfriends continue their intense conversation, utterly oblivious to our presence or the party around them. Adam says something that makes Brad throw his head back in laughter, his hand landing casually on Adam's shoulder.

"He seems to be enjoying himself now," I comment, trying to sound positive. Yet something cold and uncomfortable settles in my stomach.

Lena looks at me, and our eyes meet in silent understanding. I feel as though we are both thinking the same thing—that our partners seem more animated with each other than they've been with us all day.