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ONE

jack

I take off down the ice in pursuit of the puck, my stomach twisting as Carter Van Kleef’s eyes burn a hole into me.

I rip my gaze away from him, his icy glare making the memory of that night surface like a bruise pressed too hard.

And ignoring it is damn near impossible now that I’m faced with it every single time I lace up my skates.

What the hell are the odds that we’d both be traded to the Oakland Raptors this season?

By the time I heard the news of him accepting their offer, I’d already signed and was locked into my contract.

I thought I’d left everything about my past behind, including Van Kleef and the huge-ass mistake I made at junior hockey camp, the one that made me realize I needed to get as far away from him as possible.

Forever.

With a throbbing pulse, the blades of my skates slash the ice.

It’s the final minute of the third period, the score tied two-two.

My leg muscles burn, a thick stream of sweat icing under my jersey.

I dart past my former teammate, Jake O’Callahan, one of the opposing forwards on the New York Renegades, to gain possession of the puck in their defensive zone.

There’s no love lost between us since he was always battling me for his position.

The thing is, I never had to fight back.

That always pissed him off, so a New York win tonight would definitely be an ego boost for him.

“You got something to prove tonight, Larson?” he jeers, rushing at me.

“Since you can’t stop shitting the bed every time you’ve taken the ice tonight? Did the Cali sun torch your game?”

If he only knew.

I grit my teeth, biting down hard on the plastic mouth guard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my teammates positioned on the ice, ready for me to make the pass.

And Van Kleef is right in the middle, an unspoken challenge in his blue eyes.

My teammates’ face masks may hide their expressions, but I know that behind all that plastic, their faces are etched with doubt, disdain, and maybe even some resentment.

They don’t trust me.

And they’re right not to.

Goddammit. That dickhead O’Callahan got in my head.

Basically because he just said what everyone in the arena is thinking right now.

Do I have something to prove?

Fuck, yeah, I do.

Not that I should.

I’m now the star fucking forward for the Oakland Raptors.

They dangled an insane amount of money to lure me away from New York in the hopes of that I would be the one leading them to a Stanley Cup win.

Because what good would I be without that damn trophy?

Hockey is all I have.

I figured that out a long time ago.

So my ego made me take the deal.

And I won’t lie. Part of me wanted to come back to California to rekindle a romance with my ex, Sam Hartley, tight end for the Oakland Saints.

We’d dated while I played in the AHL with the San Mateo Condors, but things fizzled after I went to New York because neither of us was a fan of the cross-country, long distance thing.

And also because Sam didn’t like being in the limelight, and I needed it to survive.

I’d hoped we could make things work when I came back a few months ago, but I was too late.

He’d already moved on.

It stung that he chose rock star Brixton Scott over me.

But what hurt more was that I lost the closest thing I had to a family when things ended between us.

Only a few weeks after I signed, I found out that I wasn’t going to be the only new addition to the Raptors’ roster.

It’s ironic that I left California to escape and made a choice to come back and get swallowed by the past I’ve tried so hard to forget.

But what can I do except play like my life depends on it?

I have a clear shot to Masterson.

And since O’Callahan is practically on top of me, I know I should pass the puck now.

That’s what everyone expects.

That I’ll make the right move and show the world I’m not at all impacted by the inconvenient news that just broke about Sam and Brixton’s engagement.

But fuck that.

O’Callahan’s voice rattles my brain.

I do have something to prove.

So I avoid Van Kleef and don’t make the pass.

Instead, I turn my gaze toward the line of New York Renegades barreling toward me.

All I have to do is break through the line and score the winning goal .

As I try to deke past the first defender, one of the players shoulder-checks me, knocking me off-balance.

One of the New York defensemen intercepts it at the blue line and shoots the puck to their center.

Son of a bitch.

I skate toward him, but the wall of players blocks me.

New York takes the shot.

The puck sails through the air.

Tate, our goalie, makes a diving catch, blocking the puck.

But one of the New York centers is waiting to take a quick wrist shot that beats Tate glove-side.

And New York scores with just two seconds left on the clock.

The red goal light flashes and the buzzer blares out.

I drop to my knee on the ice with a deep sigh, pressing my gloved hands to the sides of my helmet.

They don’t do shit to block out the roaring boos from the crowd.

“Go back to New York. Fuck up their record,” an Oakland fan yells.

“Nah, you guys keep him. Let him keep sucking ass out here!”

I get up from the ice without bothering to look at the assholes harassing me.

I deserve it. It was a total dickhead move.

Shoulders slumping, I skate toward the edge of the ice, trying in vain to block out the annoying-as-fuck voices swarming my ears.

My nerves stretch a little bit more when I pass the New York team celebrating their win.

And judging by the huge, shit-eating grin on O’Callahan’s face, it wasn’t just a win against Oakland that they’re celebrating.

It’s beating me .

I was a fucking star on that team.

I owned the ice at Madison Square Garden.

The guys were rightfully pissed when I decided to leave.

I’d taken them to the championships our last season together, and the hope was that we’d make it to the Stanley Cup finals again this season.

Then I signed with Oakland.

And if it wasn’t bad enough that I was leaving New York, going to our biggest rival was like forcing them all to eat shit pie and ask for seconds.

The worst betrayal ever.

New York fans hate me, my old teammates hate me, Van Kleef definitely hates me, and I can’t seem to get my fucking head on straight.

Tonight, I took a chance to claw myself out of the rut I created, but goddamn, was it a stupid one.

And it cost us the game.

I can just predict the news headlines.

Except they’ll all be wrong.

Because nobody knows the real reason behind my half-assed playing.

I’ve tried for weeks to get out of my head, but the past is back to haunt me.

Just like I always knew it would be.

I just had no idea how far or hard I’d fall when it came knocking.

Coach Enver turns toward me, his bright red face pinched with anger.

“My office. Ten minutes.”

I nod, not even bothering to make eye contact with the guys because I don’t want to be faced with the truth.

They all resent me for signing.

I have no love for Oakland, and they all think I followed the money.

That’s only part true.

Barnes corners me before I can even make it into the locker room.

“Listen, hotshot,” Kevin Barnes, one of the wingers, hisses, backing me against the cinderblock wall.

“We don’t give a fuck that you were a god back in New York. Out here, we don’t hang our teammates out to dry because we wanna steal their thunder. That’s not how we work as a team. And if you don’t like that, fuck off. Because from what I can see, you’re all hype, man. Nothing special about you, except maybe your ex. But even he doesn’t wanna be bothered with you now.”

“Get the fuck away from me, Barnes,” I say, the vein in my neck throbbing hard.

“I didn’t see you take any shots tonight. You didn’t do shit to get us on the board.”

My blood burns, fists itching to take a punch and crack his jaw.

But I swallow down the rage building in my chest.

Barnes glares at me, his nostrils flaring.

Masterson shows up and pulls Barnes away from me.

“Come on, enough.”

But he doesn’t look at me.

I fucked him tonight.

I fucked them all.

I pull off my helmet and scrape a hand down the front of my face.

Barnes stalks through the doors and Masterson just shakes his head at me.

How the hell am I supposed to go in there and face them all right now?

Using the sleeve of my jersey, I mop my sweaty forehead, pushing back the hair hanging around my face.

I’ve got ten minutes before Coach is gonna lash my ass with some of his famous heated rhetoric.

With a look at the double doors leading into the locker room, I head down the dimly lit tunnel, my blade guards thumping against the cement floor.

It’ll be at least forty-five minutes before the guys get in their warm-downs and showers.

By that time, Coach will hopefully have finished chewing me out and I can get on with the rest of my shitty night.

Alone.

My fucking fate, it seems .

I slink down the darkened corridor, gripping the back of my neck.

It doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the tension lodged at the base of my skull.

I slam my hockey stick against the wall with a loud grunt and immediately regret it.

“Jack,” a female voice calls out.

Fuuuuck.

Could this night get any worse?

High heels clack on the floor behind me.

“Jack, do you have anything to say about Sam Hartley and Brixton Scott’s engagement?” she asks breathlessly, stopping right in front of me.

More footsteps follow.

Camera shutters snap, flashes pop.

My jaw tenses. And now I’m surrounded.

“No comment,” I hiss.

“I think the people of Oakland want a little more than that,” a male voice says with a smirk curling his lips.

“They had a solid team before you showed up on the ice. And tonight, the first game of the season, you showed them what really matters most to you is… well, you. Maybe that’s what Sam realized, too.”

My eyes spit fire at the cocksucker in front of me.

“It’s a team sport,” I growl, purposely ignoring his comment about Sam.

“There are six of us out there at any one time. The team’s record is the team’s record. The loss isn’t on me alone.”

“Sure seemed like there was an ‘I’ in team tonight,” the guy continues, fanning the fire he just lit.

“Are you going to blame tonight’s loss on the team when it was your decision that cost the Raptors the game?”

Blood rushes between my ears, my fingers wrapping tighter around my stick.

“You’ll have your chance to talk to the coaches at the press conference later,” I say through clenched teeth, pushing through the crowd of reporters .

They keep pelting me with questions, undaunted by my lack of answers.

Jesus Christ, what a bunch of vultures.

I sweep a hand through my hair, round a corner, and collapse against a cement wall.

A shadow approaches from the darkened corridor and the hairs on the back of my neck spring to attention.

One more question about the fucking game or my ex’s engagement and someone is getting this stick up their ass.

I whip around, my heart clogging my throat when Van Kleef stops in front of me.

Memories of that night suddenly pierce my mind like the sharpest knives.

With a thrumming pulse, I stare at him, his clear blue eyes exposing everything I’ve been running from for all of these years.

My darkest secret, the one that can destroy everything.

The pain, the hurt, the humiliation.

And the fucking kiss that never should have happened.

“What the hell do you want?” I say, my voice tight.

Even after the years have passed, I can still feel his lips on mine, the charge of electricity that lit up my insides, and the anger that followed when I realized what a fucking colossal error in judgment I made.

I was vulnerable. Stupid.

Spiraling because of what I’d been forced to do without a choice.

I didn’t think. I just acted.

By the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late.

Carter was my friend, probably the closest one I’d ever had.

I’d never let anyone in before.

Nobody saw behind my mask, except for him.

And for the first time in my life, I wanted to open up, to share the piece of myself I’d hidden away for so long.

So I took a risk by kissing him, and he fucking crushed me.

People were narrow minded in my backassed hometown of Bakersfield, California, so I always kept my sexuality quiet.

Hockey camp brought guys from all around the state, but none of them were out, either.

So I stayed deep in the closet until I made it to the AHL, when I felt like I was less under a microscope.

But that night, I let Carter see the real me because I needed him to, and he shut me down.

Stung like a bitch. I was pissed as hell for taking such a big risk in opening myself up to him, so I lashed out, like a total asshole.

Said things I can never take back, things that were unforgivable.

I left junior hockey camp that night, left everything behind, including our friendship.

We haven’t spoken since.

Van Kleef’s lips press together, his gaze sparking the kind of hunger that I’ve closed myself off to since Sam and I ended things.

A strand of dark hair falls over one of his eyes and he sweeps it back from his face before taking a step toward me, the smell of his sweat choking me with a twisted mixture of desire and disdain.

But the way my skin prickles under his heated stare makes it damn clear which one is winning out.

Because even after years have passed, my feelings for him never fizzled.

He slaps one of his hands against the wall, blocking any escape I may have.

My heart thrashes, sparks crackling in the air strong enough to make both of us spontaneously combust.

And then…

“You always were a fucking asshole,” he hisses.

“An arrogant, self-centered prick. But you can’t just cut and run again.” Van Kleef leans in close, jaw twitching tight.

“There’s no escape for you this time.”