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PROLOGUE

GRADY

I wasn’t trying to be a hero.

“ And lastly, an update tonight . . .” the voice carried from the TV across the room. “ From a story we shared earlier this week. A local hero, a hockey superstar, risking his own life, getting a message from the man he saved from a near certain death, and a thank you that will likely never be enough . . . ” The overly polished, fake-tanned newscaster’s awkward intonations ground like salt in a wound.

“Turn that TV off,” Coach Blaise barked, banging into the team’s exam room with a grizzly scowl. “Fucking news won’t shut up.”

My head was killing me almost as bad as my shoulder, and I hadn’t slept in days, but somehow his annoyance was a comfort because it matched my own. In the grand scheme of things, I knew saving the guy’s life had been the right call, but the price I was paying for playing the good Samaritan felt like some seriously unfair karma.

“How’s the swelling?” Coach asked Marco, the team trainer.

“Not going down.”

“Fuck.”

“I told you, Harvey, this isn’t the kind of injury you can just let go. He’s going to need surgery.”

I closed my eyes, shaking my head the same way my coach was. We had a handful of games left in the season, but our record this year wasn’t where it should have been. We needed to win every one in order to make the playoffs, and me being on the bench was a death knell for our chances.

“How long?” Coach asked through gritted teeth, his eyes on Marco. He said he wasn’t pissed at me, but he wasn’t looking at me either.

“Six weeks. Minimum. Rotator cuffs are hard to heal. But if we don’t get him in soon, the tendon will have even more trouble reattaching to the bone.”

When Coach finally looked at me, his expression dimmed to one of pity, and I’d rather he’d just stayed mad. “You did the right thing, kid. Pulling that guy out of the water was the only thing to do. But now,” he paused, looking down at the clipboard in his hand as if the thing could change the facts in front of us. “Get under the knife. Do the work. And we’ll see you back on the ice next season.”

This couldn’t be happening. It was like I heard a gavel drop and my whole career had just been sentenced to death row. Put on hold until I could fix this. Everyone in this room knew what taking that much time off could mean. Losing my spot on the roster. Losing my speed and agility. And worst of all, losing my chance to be named captain.

Since I was four years old and my dad put my first pair of hockey skates on me, we’d dreamt of the day I’d be the captain of the Boston Brawlers. It was what we’d worked for, planned for. And I’d done everything right. Coach had already hinted that I was going to get it. But now, he was looking at me like I would be lucky to get back on the starting line-up. My skin felt too hot as I fought back my anger. I wanted to break something.

But that wasn’t captain behavior. And I’d already fucked things up enough.

So, instead I let out a long breath through my nose, bit back all the arguments, and simply said, “I’ll be ready.”

He gave me a nod that was equal parts reassuring and cautious. But I knew something with certainty that he never could: how bad I wanted it.

Nothing was going to stop me from getting back on the ice—stronger, faster, and hungrier than ever. I’d saved that guy from drowning, and now I was going to do whatever it took to get my life back.