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Chapter four

Liam

T he first scrimmage is where pretenders get exposed and careers get made.

I center the second line against the veterans—guys who’ve been here since day one, who know every system, every tendency, every weakness to exploit. Aiden’s shadowing me like a bounty hunter, stick checking every time I touch the puck.

“Hope you brought your A-game, new guy,” he chirps.

“Because this ain’t junior league.” I don’t answer.

Just wait. The puck drops clean into my wheelhouse.

I pull it back, feather a pass to Aiden’s streaking down the left wing, then drives hard to the net.

Two strides and I’m through the defense, stick blade ready for the return feed.

But Jax hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the moment to die.

“Fuck!” I bark, slamming my stick against the boards.

“You had it!”

“Easy, hotshot,” Marcus laughs from the bench.

“Maybe work on your chemistry before you start barking orders.” Chemistry.

Right. Because that’s what I’m missing. Not skill.

Not speed. Not twenty years of bleeding for this game.

Trust. The next shift, I get the puck at center ice with room to work.

Callahan’s calling for it on the right, wide open, easy assist. But something in me snaps.

Fuck the pass. I drop my shoulder and drive toward the net like I’m trying to put someone through the glass.

Two defenders converge, but I split them with a move that comes from pure instinct—stick fake left, body right, puck between my legs and out the other side.

Breakaway. The goalie reads my eyes, drops into a butterfly, covering the bottom of the net.

So I go high. Shelf it where mama hides the cookies.

Top corner. String music. The red light goes off, and for three seconds, everything else disappears.

No pressure. No doubt. No choice to make.

Just the pure, perfect silence of doing what I was born to do.

“That’s why we traded for you!” Coach Barnes shouts. “That’s the player this team needs!”

But high doesn’t last. Because even when I’m doing what I was born to do, there’s this gnawing ache in my chest that has nothing to do with hockey.

And everything to do with her.

Pining isn’t in my goddamn vocabulary.

At least it wasn’t until three weeks ago, when some masked blonde rocked my world, then vanished like smoke. Now I can’t stop replaying every moan, every arch of her back, every whispered “please” that fell from her lips.

My fist connects with the punching bag one final time. Sweat drips down my spine as I step back, chest heaving. The workout helped, but not enough. That deep, gnawing ache still pulses beneath my ribs—an unfamiliar need that won’t quit, no matter how hard I try to crush it.

This isn’t me. I don’t chase. I don’t yearn. I don’t wake up hard, dreaming about a woman whose name I don’t even know.

I needed to get laid. That’s all this was. Frustration. Not her.

Definitely not her.

I grab my gym bag and head for the shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed and on the road to the arena. My first official day with the Cyclones. A fresh start, even if it’s in a town that already makes me claustrophobic.

My former teammates would bust a gut laughing if they saw me now—the guy who never gave a damn suddenly losing sleep over a one-night hookup. But that’s why those assholes aren’t in my life anymore. Fuck ’em.

The dashboard clock reads 9:17 as I navigate through sparse morning traffic.

Florida wasn’t my first choice—give me a big city any day, somewhere a man can disappear into the crowd.

People here remember shit. At least In the city, you could disappear between bars.

Here, your reputation spreads faster than a sex tape in a locker room.

The memory of that party burns brighter knowing it might be the last taste of real freedom I get for a while. Until I get my bearings, my right hand’s gonna have to take one for the team.

My phone rings through the car speakers. I hit accept without checking.

“Hello.”

“Are you on your way to the arena for your first day?”

I go rigid. “Yes, Coach.”

Coach Dawson. My mentor. My savior. My perpetual pain in the ass.

I was fourteen the first time Coach told me I wasn’t a lost cause. I didn’t believe him then. And if i’m being honest, I still don’t, some days.

He calls me “son” sometimes. Says it casually, like it doesn’t land like a fist to the sternum. I never call him out on it, never let on that it messes with my head. Because part of me wants to believe it—that I’m more than just a project to him.

The other part… It still remembers every man who promised to stick around and left anyway.

So no, I don’t trust easy. Not coaches. Not teammates. And sure as hell not no women

Coach Dawson saw something in me when no one else did, back when I was too pissed off at the world to even pretend I gave a shit about my future.

“Good. Being early is the same as being on time. You want to make sure you make a perfect impression on your new coach. Remember it’s not just your reputation on the line here.”

My grip tightens on the steering wheel. We’ve had this talk a dozen times since the transfer, especially after how things ended with my last team. The media story was PR fluff—reality was darker.

“Yes, sir. I’m about a minute out.”

He grunts, probably nodding wherever he is. That stern half-approval that used to feel like a win. Now it just feels like pressure.

“Good. I’ll call tomorrow to check in. Let me know what your schedule looks like.”

“Of course.” A lie. I’ll avoid the call. Like always.

“And Liam.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t blow this. You know how the hockey world talks. You might not get another shot.”

The line goes dead. I don’t bother answering. What would I say—that I’m not the fuckup everyone thinks I am?

I pull into the arena lot, only to find it jammed with cars. I’m circling when a silver sedan abruptly backs out—straight into my front bumper.

“What the fuck!” The shout rips from my throat as metal crunches.

Rage surges, boiling hot. I throw the car into park and jump out, the humid Florida air clinging to my skin like punishment. My brand-new ride—already banged up before I even walk into the locker room.

I drop to a crouch to inspect the damage just as the other car’s door swings open.

“You better fucking have insurance,” I growl.

I saved for that car.

Researched every goddamn trim option. Color, engine, tech packages—obsessed like a man who needed something to feel like it was truly his.

It was supposed to be mine. Untouched. Uncomplicated. Like I could finally own something that didn’t come with strings or scars.

And now, some careless stranger just scuffed the only thing in my life that hadn’t been bruised before it got to me.

I grit my teeth and stare at the scratch like it’s a personal insult.

A woman steps out.

Not some flustered soccer mom. No, this one’s young, sharp, and pissed. Blonde hair in a tight braid. Full mouth set in a scowl. Gray eyes like a goddamn hurricane.

She’s stunning. And—fuck me—there’s something about her that punches the air from my lungs.

Not recognition. Just…a sensation. A current under my skin, coiling in my gut. Deja vu wrapped in sin.

“Of course I have insurance,” she snaps.

“Do you always back out without fucking looking, or are you just aiming for a payout?” I tower over her, waiting for her to shrink like they usually do.

She doesn’t. Her eyes flash.

“Maybe I should be asking you that. Who speeds in a parking lot? There could’ve been kids here.”

“It’s not even game day. Why would there be kids?”

“I don’t know!” Her volume spikes, matching mine. “Maybe I don’t need to justify myself to some overgrown caveman with road rage!”

Jesus Christ. She’s five-foot-nothing and yelling at me like she wants to throw down.

And fuck me—I’d let her.

A flicker of heat tightens in my chest. Or lower. The memory of tangled limbs and soft gasps tries to break through, but it won’t stick. Just the echo of it. I blink, forcing it down.

“Whatever. I don’t have time for this.” I spin, stalking toward my car.

“Where are you going?”

I ignore her.

Her fingers wrap around my forearm—small, firm, warm—and I go still.

Electric. That’s the only way to describe it.

Not just heat. Recognition. Like my body clocked something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

Her scent—clean, citrusy, but with this soft hint of vanilla—hits me in the chest. It clings. Familiar in a way I don’t like. Or maybe I like it too much.

I blink down at her, this stranger who looks at me like she’s daring me to explode. And for a second, I’m off balance. Like there’s something I should remember, something just out of reach.

I yank my arm back—not hard, but enough to break whatever weird current was zapping between us.

“I asked you a question.”

I glance down. Her touch zings straight to my bloodstream, crackling beneath the surface.

“To park.” I yank my arm free and open the door, forcing her to step back. She watches as I pull into a space a few spots down. Arms crossed. Eyes blazing. I kill the engine and sit there for a second, pulse still hammering like I’m mid-game.

When I turn the car off, I let out a long sigh and grip the wheel.

If this is any indication of what I’m in for over the next two years of my contract, I’m not sure I’m going to make it out in one piece.

The team nutritionist shows up while I’m reviewing playbooks. Blonde. Professional. The same woman who tried to take my bumper off yesterday.

She stops dead when she sees me. Clipboard drops an inch. “Shit.” “Yeah.” I don’t look up from the plays. “Small world.”

She recovers fast, stepping into the room like she didn’t just curse. “I’m doing intake assessments this week.”

“Course you are.”

“Basic questions. Injuries, supplements, allergies.” She’s all business now, but her jaw’s tight.

“Also, energy drinks aren’t breakfast.” I lean back, finally looking at her.

“You psychic now?”

“I can smell the Red Bull from here.” Fair point. I drained two cans before nine AM. “Anything else, Doc?”

“Not a doctor. Nutritionist.” Her pen hovers over the clipboard. “How many meals did you eat yesterday?”

“Define meal.”

“Food. On a plate. That you chewed.” I think about it. Protein bar at six. Another Red Bull around noon. Whatever was in the vending machine after practice.

“One.” She stares at me. “One actual meal.”

“Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ.” She writes something down like her pens having a conniption fit. “No wonder half this team looks like walking corpses.”

“You always this charming with new clients?” Her eyes meet mine. Sharp. Unflinching. “Only the ones who eat like they’re trying to die young.”