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JAKE

“ L ove your enemies, for they tell you your faults.”— Benjamin Franklin

Hockey wasn’t complicated. It required mad skills on the ice, strategic thinking, and a high tolerance for pain. But the rules were simple:

Get the puck.

Protect the puck.

Drill the puck into the net.

Repeat.

Unfortunately, I had no idea where the puck was. In my defense, it was hard to see with blood dripping into my eye. At least it hadn’t run down my cheek yet, so I had that going for me. Time was ticking, though, and we needed a goal…like, now.

The familiar scrape of sticks, grunts, and juvenile taunts echoed on the ice as my guys jockeyed for dominance. It was a fierce battle to eke out a win before playoffs. Both teams were going, but we needed this W more than the Condors. They’d had a great season and by all accounts, they’d stayed healthy. We were another story.

My team was counting on me to make something happen, but damn it, my head was pounding in my skull and my ribs hurt from LaMarche’s brutal body check. His minutes in the sin bin hadn’t done us any good. We’d missed four shots on goal and had spent the majority of the power play getting outskated by Denver’s superstars, Mellon and Trinsky. Ugh.

Here’s the thing…I’d known Denny Mellon for years, and I loved him like a brother. Not only did he live up to the hype of being one of the greatest to ever play the game, but he was genuinely a good person who used his celebrity to help underprivileged kids, to fund scholarships, and to speak out about mental health issues and his journey as an LGBTQ athlete. He was impressive and completely down-to-earth.

Mason Trinsky, on the other hand, was just a fucking asshole.

No, he was worse. Trinsky was a conceited dickwad with more confidence than sense. He played dirty and mean and had the audacity to laugh off hits like a seasoned fighter while his opponents limped to safety. Trinsky was a forward who played like a D-man. He was rough and single-minded in his determination to do whatever necessary to win.

According to Smitty, my dad’s husband, who happened to be a former AHL pro, I would have liked Trinsky if we’d been on the same team.

I seriously doubted it.

“You okay, Milligan?” Sergei asked in a heavy Russian accent, bumping my shoulder as he signaled for me to cover him.

I grunted. This wasn’t a great time to admit that my chest ached and the boo-boo near my eye might require stitches. That could wait, and at least the refs hadn’t noticed yet. Puck first.

We just had to outmaneuver Denver’s defense to get to Trinsky, who was currently on a mad dash toward our blue line. Sergei and I were fast skaters, so catching up to him wasn’t the issue. Trinsky’s quick reflexes and the fact that he always seemed to suss out impending danger worked to his advantage. It was as if his radar were tuned in to my frequency.

Danger danger, Jake Milligan is closing in. Right flank, two seconds to impact.

Boom! Trinsky passed to Mellon, who deked around our big guy, Madsen, leaving him in a cloud of dust, cartoon-style. Boston converged on Mellon, squeezing him out. That was it, play killed. But no, not Denny. He created an opening out of thin air and pulled a disappearing act that would have made Houdini proud.

There was no one to stop him now. It was Denny against our goalie. And yeah, Ace was good, but Denny was better.

Unless… I stopped him. All I had to do was shake Trinsky and cut Mellon off from behind.

I bolted forward at full speed, blinking wildly as my vision blurred. Get the puck, get the puck. I was close now. Blood rushed in my head, pounding in my ears. I cocked my stick, angled my hips, and?—

Trinsky cut me off with a simple hip check. Not hard or even dirty by his standards, but it slowed me down. “Yo, not so fast, Jakey.”

“Fuck yourself.” I growled in frustration, regained my footing, and hurried after Denny.

But Trinsky was glued to my side now, yapping away. Don’t ask me what he said—it was a mix of gibberish and smack talk.

“Dude, what’s up with you? My kid brother skates faster than you. Someone pissed in your Cheerios, huh? I fuckin’ hate Cheerios. Do you like ’em?”

Denny slowed as he neared the goal, stick poised and ready. Ace was in position, but I had one last chance. I darted left, away from Trinsky, but somehow ended up flying in the opposite direction. And I do mean flying.

I hit the boards with a thump and keeled like a rag doll.

Half a beat later, Denny scored.

The arena erupted—lights flashed, music blared, and raucous fans cheered wildly for their hometown heroes.

I sucked in a pained gulp of air and slowly rose, bracing one hand on my knee. Yeah, yeah, I was fine. Totally fine.

“You okay, Milligan?” someone asked.

The voice was warbled and sounded sort of far away. Not a good sign, but I wasn’t worried. I needed to sit for a minute and do something about my eye. Pronto.

“He’s fine.”

I glanced sideways and frowned. “What the fuck are you doing? Get away from me, asshole.”

Trinsky mirrored my pose, hunched over, hands on knees, his thick brow knit in confusion or triumph…I couldn’t tell which.

“Well…what’s the verdict? Do you like Cheerios or not?”

I growled. “You’re a fucking idiot, Trinsky.”

“Maybe. But I’m an idiot with one more point on the ol’ scoreboard and I—oh, shit.” His handsome face faded out of focus. “You’re bleedin’, dude.”

“I’m not bleeding,” I huffed under my breath, pushing away from Trinsky and the wall.

I skated to my bench, flopped into the corner, and gingerly unfastened my helmet. Blood coated my fingers and dripped onto my jersey. Shit, it was a mess.

I was a mess. I was beat up, bruised, and probably out for the rest of the game. I gritted my teeth in frustration.

Fuck, I felt old. A few scrapes and a cheap shot or ten never used to slow me down, but this was becoming a recurring theme. I hadn’t played my best today…or last night or during the previous game. To be perfectly honest, it was freaking me out. Was this the beginning of the end? It couldn’t be. I wasn’t ready to retire.

I was only thirty-two, and yeah, in hockey years, that was practically ancient, but Trinsky was older, and I refused to retire before that asshat. No way. Not happening.

I had to dig deep and fix whatever was wrong with me and—I froze, bent over my skates, my head throbbing. Shit . Had I really referred to Trinsky as “handsome” in my head?

Ew. What the actual fuck?

I shot a surreptitious glance at the ice and spotted Trinsky battling for the puck on the opposite side of the rink. He had broad shoulders, muscular thighs, and under all that gear, the guy was covered in tattoos. I was your garden-variety closeted bi guy, but Trinsky wasn’t my type. It was a personality thing…in that he had a terrible one. He was pompous, pigheaded, and he loved the sound of his voice.

God, I hated that fucker.

So if my subconscious had accidentally put him in the “handsome” column, that was just another sign that I was off my game, off my rocker, just…off.

I untied my laces and sat up in time to see Trinsky wrestle the puck free and pass it to Mellon, who sped away and charged for our goal…again. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, willing my teammates to rally and do something—anything.

Maurice, our trainer, hustled toward me with a towel and a compress. “Are you dizzy or light-headed?”

“No, it’s just a cut,” I replied absently, my gaze locked on Trinsky.

He was graceful for a big man, but no, he was not handsome. His jaw was too square, his eyes were a weird shade of green, and he couldn’t seem to commit to a beard, so he was always scruffy. And had I mentioned that the guy loved being the center of attention? Because that could not be emphasized enough. Trinsky had the funniest jokes, knew the best restaurants, and had supersized opinions about everything from jock straps to grape jelly.

Trust me, I didn’t want to know this much about someone as irritating as Trinsky, but I didn’t have a choice. We both volunteered at Elmwood’s junior camp.

And let me be clear, Elmwood was my hometown. I’d grown up in the Four Forest area and had been there when Vinnie Kiminski and his best friend, Ronnie, had launched the international hockey camp in our little area of Vermont. I’d been one of the first kids to attend and who could legitimately claim to have been coached by some of the most talented athletes in the sport.

Trinsky was just an opportunistic punk and a?—

“You need stitches.”

I jolted. I was so deep into my Trinsky spiral that I’d forgotten about my eye. “Oh. Right.”

Maurice motioned for me to follow him. This was usually where I’d argue that a Band-Aid would work, but I needed space or whatever it took to get Trinsky off my brain.

What was wrong with me?

The press debated the same thing.

I fiddled with the button on my suit coat and pasted a smile on my face for the barrage of reporters waiting for me after the game, microphones primed and ready.

“How are you feeling, Jake?”

“There’s speculation that you might have sustained another concussion. Is that true?”

“Is your eye okay? Looks like you have a few stitches.”

Cameras clicked and flashed. It was claustrophobic in the corridor, but as much as I would have loved to elbow my way to the exit, this was part of my job.

“I’m fine, no concussion.” I chuckled when someone yelled, “Hallelujah!” and added, “My eye is fine. It was just a small cut.”

Total lie. The gash over my left brow had required ten stitches and was already turning blue and yellow.

“Your team has taken a few hits recently. Do you think Boston is playoff ready?”

“Of course.” I was lying again. “We have three games till the end of the regular season, and I know there won’t be much of a chance to rest, but we’re aware of the stakes and we’ll work hard.”

“Denver is looking like the team to beat in the postseason. Mellon is leading the league in scoring, and Trinsky isn’t far behind him. Do you think Boston can handle them?”

I scoffed derisively at the mere idea…even though Denver had literally just kicked our asses. “Yeah, absolutely.”

I flashed a cocky grin that tugged at my new stitches and made my head ache, then hiked my bag on my shoulder and strode for the exit. Security manned the doors, where fans hovered waiting for autographs. I scribbled my name and posed for a few selfies, high-fiving and fist-bumping anyone interested.

Side note: no matter how shaky and beat up I felt, I made time for the fans. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe I got paid an obscene amount of money to play hockey and that I actually had fans who wanted to meet me. I loved the game as much as they did, and I didn’t take a single second of this ride for granted.

But every once in a while, you ran into an asshole or two.

“Yo, Milligan, Trinsky kicked your butt out there,” someone called from the shadows.

“Trinsky’s a beast!”

The urge to flip them off was strong, but I was stronger. I smiled, waved, and let all the bullshit slide like water off a duck’s back.

Denver fans were generally pretty cool to me, which I figured had to do with my connection to Mellon, but I was still a member of the visiting team.

And okay…fine. I’d never exactly hidden my disdain for Trinsky. No, I hadn’t shouted “He’s a fucker” from the rooftops—I just hadn’t denied or downplayed my deep and powerful aversion to the guy.

Somewhere along the line, the media had noticed and some smartass looking for a headline had dubbed us archrivals. It was a conniving ploy to sell tickets, if you asked me.

I wouldn’t give Trinsky a title or label of any kind. To do so would indicate that I gave him a second thought off the ice, and that was a thousand percent false.

Like tonight. The moment I got to my hotel, Mason Trinsky would cease to exist…until the next game.

Or until my little brother brought his name up.

Nathan’s nose scrunched on the screen, so close I could see the light smattering of freckles on his cheeks. “Your face is purple. Dad said Trinsky did it.”

“I’m gonna yell at him for smashing your eye in next time I see him,” Charlotte added primly, her sweet face popping up as she pushed Nathan aside.

“I don’t think it was Trinsky this time. It was La Marche.”

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

I propped my laptop on a pillow and leaned against the cushioned headboard, amused by their earnest expressions. “A little. Thanks for looking out for me, guys.”

“ Mwah! I have to go. Daddy’s calling me.” Charlotte blew me a kiss, her dark hair flowing around her as she spun away.

Nathan sniffed, brushing his forearm across his nose. I could hear our dad telling him to use a tissue and Charlotte negotiating bath time with Smitty while Ella chattered in the background. My heart squeezed with a rogue wave of homesickness that made my chest hurt. That was odd.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my family, but I saw them regularly. Dad and Smitty brought the kids to my games, and whenever I had a few free days during the season, I made the trip from Boston to Elmwood to visit. It gave me a chance to see friends, play with my siblings, and just…chill.

It was good to remind myself that I had a life outside of hockey and people who didn’t care about my stats. Like my goofy little buddy swiveling on a barstool at the kitchen island. Geez, I could practically smell Dad’s homemade marinara and the musty scent of a houseful of dogs and kids. I missed it.

“Let’s see the damage.” Smitty popped into the screen, narrowing his gaze thoughtfully. “How many stitches?”

“Ten.”

“His eye is purple…and blue,” my little brother reported, jumping off his stool, gesturing wildly with his arms. “Want to see my new improved karate kick, Jake? Take that!”

Nathan was a nine-year-old ball of perpetual motion with dark hair, olive skin, and boundless energy who’d recently decided he wanted to be a black belt…like tomorrow. Apparently, that involved a lot of freestyle lunges and hand motions.

“That’s awesome.”

“I could teach you. This will work on La Marche. Hi-yah!”

I chuckled as my stepdad slipped into parental mode.

“Settle down, buddy. We’re not doing karate on anyone. You’re up for a bath next, so?—”

“I don’t need a bath,” Nathan groaned as only a truly put-upon fourth-grader could.

Smitty sniffed the air around his son and widened his eyes comically. “Yeah, you do. No sass. Get to it. Papa’s in charge.”

Nathan looked as if he were about to argue, but Smitty’s stern dad energy must have been on point. “Fine. I’ll go, but I don’t want to.”

“Understood. Say good-bye to Jake.”

“Bye, Jake. Love you!”

I swallowed hard and waved. “I love you, buddy.”

“That kid cracks me up.” Smitty grinned like a besotted idiot, stifling a yawn as he focused on me. “Sorry. I was up all night with Ella.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong with Ells?”

“She’s doing better today, but she’s had the flu. Fever, chills, the whole nine yards. I was trying to give your dad a break ’cause he’s been getting up with her and…fuck, I’m tired. He said to tell you he’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

By the way, my dad married Elmwood High’s hockey coach and former AHL defensive star, Smitty Paluchek, soon after I’d signed on with Boston, and they’d since adopted three children, Nathan, Charlotte, and Ella. My siblings were nine, seven, and four years old. Kind of strange but super cool.

I’d grown up an only child who’d been shuffled between my divorced parents’ houses every week, so even though I was in my thirties now, this whole “big happy family with oodles of kids” situation was the greatest thing ever.

My mom and dad had been amazing, supportive parents who’d thankfully stayed friends and had gone out of their way to put me first. I had no complaints, but I had to admit, it had been lonely sometimes. I’d always wanted a brother or a sister. Now I had three, and I loved it.

I was the human jungle gym and the adult in the room who always said yes. I brought home treats from the road. Little things like T-shirts, stuffed animals, and coloring books that somehow made me look like a hero. Dad assured me that I was the main draw and that there was no need to ply them with gifts. Maybe so, but I didn’t have anyone else to do things for and…I liked spoiling them rotten.

“Okay, that’s cool. Give Ells a kiss for me and tell her I said I hope she feels better. I’m gonna watch sports highlights and—” I squinted at my screen. “What’s up? You just made a weird face.”

Smitty scrubbed his hand over his mouth and shrugged. “I take it you didn’t see Trinsky’s postgame interview yet.”

“ Grr . What did he say?” I reached for the remote and scrolled to ESPN. I muted the commercial and refocused on Smitty.

“Don’t get worked up,” he cautioned. “It’s a little of that rivalry soundbite the press loves and the fans eat up like chicken dinos dipped in ketchup.”

I snorted in spite of the edgy gnawing sensation in my gut. “Chicken dinos?”

“Don’t knock ’em. Those things are tasty.”

“I remember loving them when I was…five. Aren’t you kind of old to be snacking on kid food?”

Smitty snickered. “Nope. I’m a dad. It’s my ticket to reacquaint myself with all the classics in the frozen section. Corn dogs, ice cream sandwiches, Lucky Charms…”

I scoffed. “No way does my dad allow Lucky Charms in the house. Way too much sugar and a—oh, hang on. Trinsky’s mug just popped up.”

Smitty sobered into serious-stepdad-slash-coach mode. “Hey, Jake, let it go. No stewing in negative energy.”

“Yeah, I won’t,” I agreed, averting my gaze to the irritating fucker on the hotel television screen. “Later, Smitty. Tell Dad to call me when he can.”

I disconnected the FaceTime call and adjusted the volume on the TV just as the reporter tipped her mic toward the grinning tattooed asshole rocking a postgame designer suit and slicked-back hair.

“Congratulations on your win tonight. It was a tight game in the second period, but you managed to keep Boston’s scorers contained.”

Trinsky nodded. “We did. I’m proud of our guys. It was a tough game.”

The reporter inclined her chin, her expression dead serious as she continued. “Boston struggled to get through your defense, Jake Milligan in particular. You two had a few terse moments on the ice. Can you tell us about it?”

“Meh, nothing out of the ordinary. He got in my lane, and I removed him.”

“It looked as if Milligan was injured or?—”

“Or maybe he’s slowing down. He had a tough time keeping up tonight, eh?” Trinsky flashed a cocky smile and oh, my God—did he really just tell the whole damn country I was slow?

That absolute, total piece of shit.

The reporter’s eyes gleamed. She’d gotten what she’d been looking for without having to dig too deep to get it. “I know you’re rivals with an interesting history, but what do you think about?—”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think about Milligan at all. The Condors are going to the playoffs, and we’re gonna do our best to keep winning for our fans. The greatest fans in the whole bleep league!”

The reporter chuckled and sent the broadcast to the three sports analysts behind the desk in a studio somewhere in Atlanta.

And this was where I should have turned off the TV. I was no fucking rookie. I was well aware of the press’s habit of making heroes and villains on a whim.

In my early twenties, I was their darling. I could do no wrong. I was tough, I was quick, I was agile. The year I turned thirty, they began looking for cracks in my armor. And no, that wasn’t paranoia speaking. It was reality. You could be referred to as a seasoned pro one year, then inexplicably fall into the category of “nearing retirement” the next.

Riley Thoreau, an Elmwood coach who’d retired from the NHL a dozen or so years ago, had cautioned me to block out the noise.

“They’ll announce your final season after every boggled play, whether or not it was your fault. Roll with it, man. Show, don’t tell. They’ll make up their own stories to sell viewing time either way. Doesn’t matter if it’s true. The only thing that’s real is your game.”

Riley was right. But the days my game faltered sucked. I hated losing and having nothing but sore ribs and ten new stitches for my troubles.

What I hated even more was being compared to the one human on the planet I despised. And I guaranteed it was coming in three, two, one…

“Trinsky had a phenomenal game with multiple assists and a goal. He was a powerhouse on the ice and as he mentioned, Jake Milligan was slow,” the smarmy announcer commented in an almost bored tone.

His cohost nodded in agreement. “Milligan’s frustration was palpable. You could tell Trinsky and La Marche had broken through his legendary cool veneer, and that’s not something we’re used to seeing in Boston’s veteran. I know he’s only thirty-two, but is this the beginning of the end?”

My heart sank to my stomach. Turn it off, Jake. Turn it the fuck off.

“Let’s not get hasty,” a third host chided, slapping a hand on the circular desk they shared. “Milligan’s got a few years in him for sure.”

“Maybe, but look at Trinsky. They’re roughly the same age, but he’s playing better. We’ll have to see. The real question is…which team looks good enough to go all the way? My vote is Denver.”

“Denver all the way.”

“Denver, for sure. They’ve got Mellon and Trinsky and without a totally focused and healthy Milligan, Boston has problems.”

I changed the station and muted the sound, staring blankly at the wall behind the flat-screen. My body hurt, my head hurt, and all I could think was… Fuck.

Just…fuck.

Fuck the reporters, fuck the fucking Condors, and most of all, fuck Mason Trinsky.