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TEN

Jethro

The coffee on the Cougars’ team jet is better than I’m used to, and the snacks they’re serving are first rate. But the perks only make me grumpier.

What good are coffee and snacks if I’m not wanted?

Somehow, every interaction I’ve had with Clay is more awkward than the last. First the insults. And then yesterday’s disastrous practice. Clay could hardly stand to look at me. Afterward, I didn’t get a single note or word of encouragement. Even Murphy—his deputy—avoided me after practice. Like I might be contagious.

That was humiliating enough. But now there’s an email in my inbox listing tonight’s starting lineup, and my name is conspicuously missing.

I’m simmering mad.

It must be obvious, because David “Stoney” Stoneman, the team clown, turns to me in the seat next to mine. “You cool?” he asks. “You seem a little stressy.”

“I don’t get stressy .”

“Sure, bud.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Must be my imagination. Wanna see my vacation pictures? The guys dared me to ride a horse. And I never back down from a dare. Check this out…”

I snort. “Do I have a choice?”

“Everything is a choice,” he says in a chipper voice. “But you don’t want to miss this.” He opens up his tablet and shows me a photo of himself on a horse, somewhere on the beach.

And it is a funny photo. He’s clutching the saddle horn for dear life. Even the horse looks a little nervous.

“I think of myself as a strong guy,” he says. “But I could hardly walk for days after this.”

“How come?” I hear myself asking.

“Riding a horse uses muscles you don’t know you have.” He shrugs. “Lots of clenching in the crotch area.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Where was this?”

He flips to the next picture and reveals a collection of hockey players wearing leis and holding coconut drinks. Stoney is kneeling in front of the group in… is that a grass skirt?

“Hawaii,” he says. “After we got knocked out of the playoffs last year.” He closes the tablet. “Bud, I’d give back my coconut bra if we could make it to the finals this time. You down for that?”

Am I? It shouldn’t be a tricky question. I’ve spent my whole career in pursuit of the Cup, and I’ve had success beyond my wildest dreams. But the last forty-eight hours have aged me about a decade. My focus is shot, and my heart feels broken. It’s not exactly the headspace of a champion.

“You know, I had a thought,” says Stoney quietly. “Wouldn’t it be sweet revenge if we made it further in the playoffs than your old team?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “Fuck those guys.”

He grins.

I lean back in my plush seat and wonder if another championship is even possible for me at this juncture.

If it is, then I have work to do.

If it’s not, then what am I even doing here?

“Hey—where’re you going?” Stoney asks as I unbuckle my seatbelt and lift my coffee mug off the tray table. “I got vacation pictures from Mexico, too.”

“Hold that thought.” I get up and scan the rows of seats for Clay. No—for Coach Powers . I don’t spot him anywhere, so I carry my mug toward the rear of the aircraft, peering into each row of seats.

“More coffee, sir?” asks a male flight attendant when I reach the galley. “I’m Harley, by the way. And you are?”

“Jethro. And yeah. I’d love some.”

“Black, right?” He takes the cup.

“If you don’t mind. And does Coach have an office back here?”

Harley gestures toward a door. “Right there.” He returns my refilled coffee cup. “Ask Coach if he wants a cup? I haven’t seen him yet today.”

“Will do.” I walk to the narrow door. I don’t hear any voices on the other side, so I tap lightly with one finger. There’s a muffled sound in response—maybe a “come in.” I can’t tell.

Regardless, I’m on a mission. I open the door and find Clay in a cramped space that’s set up like an office. He’s alone, and he’s peeling his face from the surface of the table in front of him. When he gazes sleepily up at me, it’s almost like stepping back in time. His eyes are soft and unfocused, the way he always looked first thing in the morning.

His eyes narrow when they focus on me in the doorway, and I pick up on a few interesting details. Like the imprint from the edge of his spiral notebook that’s carved into his cheek.

Of course, I laugh, because that shit is funny.

Clay gives his head a shake, and scrubs at his face. “Something you need?” he growls, his voice thick with sleep.

I swallow my laughter as best I can. “Well, yeah, I wanted a word. But hold on.” I lean out into the narrow hallway. “Harley, I think Coach could use some coffee.”

The flight attendant hustles to press another mug into my hand, and I look down into the cup. The coffee has a heavy splash of cream in it—the way Clay always drank it. He was a bit of a hedonist. Cream in his coffee. Expensive cheese. Red wine, the glass propped onto his naked chest…

Okay, whoops . The fireproof vault creaked open for a second there.

Mentally shoving those memories back into the dark where they belong, I set the mug in front of Clay before easing the door shut. Then I slide onto the booth-like seat across the table from him.

And, whoa, it’s a small room, so we’re super close together now. I’m getting a first-row view of his cool blue eyes, the same ones that used to squeeze shut with pleasure whenever I put my tongue…

Shit .

Across the table from me, Clay’s expression is stony as he takes a sip of coffee. “Well?” he says grumpily. “This is your meeting. What’s the issue?”

“You should play me in St. Louis,” I say, because there’s no point in making small talk. After all these years, my skills haven’t improved. “If you leave me on the bench, it looks like you’re not sure about the trade.”

Clay takes a slow sip and then grimaces. “Problem is, Hale, I don’t give a fuck what other people think.”

Maybe I should have stayed in my seat next to Stoney.

“And seriously,” he continues, “is the starting lineup negotiable in Detroit? Because in Colorado it isn’t. There’s no suggestion box for how I start my players.”

Hell . I catalog his features over the rim of my mug, and I see all the familiar signs of tension. The crease between his eyebrows. The tick in his movie-star jaw. The cool blue eyes. And an ache bleeds through my chest. How many times did we sit across a table from one another? Hundreds. And sometimes Clay was aggravated. But never at me. I was his port in the storm, and he was mine.

Those days are long gone. I can accept that, but the memories are really unhelpful.

And he’s waiting for me to say something.

“Look,” I say quietly. “I know you’re in charge. I’m not here to ruin your day or question your authority. And I know you hate my guts for some reason.”

His eyes widen in a flicker of surprise. But then he shuts it down and picks up his mug again. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t hate any player on the team.”

“Please. Neither one of us wanted this trade. You made that clear already.”

He scowls. “That was a mistake, and I apologized.”

“But you’re still punishing us both,” I argue. “If you bench me, you’ll look indecisive or out of step with your GM. I’ll look like used goods. And we’ll both look like losers.”

He sets down the mug with a thump. “Make no mistake—the only way to look like a loser is to lose games,” he says crisply. “Volkov is in the net tonight. You’ll get your shot the minute it makes sense for the team.”

“It was one bad practice,” I point out. “And you avoided me like a bad disease.”

“I’m not avoiding you! I’m showing you some grace, so you can take a minute to get your head around this trade, move your family to Colorado, and adjust to the goddamn altitude before you have to face another team.”

“But I shut out St. Louis?—”

“—last season,” he grits out. “I can read a stat sheet, too. But I already said that this was not a negotiation. Because if I throw you in front of the net before you’re ready, and it goes shitty, then how smart are we both gonna look?”

I blink back at him, and for a second, I only see the fire in his familiar blue eyes. But then his words sink all the way in.

He expects me to fail. He believes it.

I close my hand around my coffee mug and slide out of the booth. “Good talk.”

“Jetty…”

I glance quickly at him, and his face tells me that he’s just as surprised as I am that he used my old nickname.

“Sorry for the intrusion, Coach ,” I say heavily. “You can go back to your nap.”

I spend the game on the bench, and it’s a real gong show. St. Louis plays like a pack of stray dogs. Sharp elbows, sharp tongues, and very little discipline.

“Christ,” the player beside me mutters. “They’re like a classroom full of kids who can’t hold it together the last hour before Christmas vacation.”

“Keep your heads, boys,” Coach says, pacing behind the bench. “We’re not solving this problem with penalty points. Play a smart game, win shiny prizes.”

From my seat on the end of the bench, I have to admit it’s good advice. Also, I have to admit that watching Clay be Coach Powers is fascinating. He’s a natural leader and always has been.

Except I wonder if he still lies awake at night, his neck muscles tight, wondering how to solve every little glitch in his team dynamics.

Yeah, I’d bet money on it.

Out on the ice, St. Louis is still up to their tricks. I watch their center take Stoney down in a blatantly illegal hit. The penalty is called, but only for two minutes, when it should have been a game disqualification.

The Colorado bench is pissed , especially a D-man named DiCosta. He’s a big guy with Mediterranean features and a scowl. His hands are curled into fists.

Clay clamps a hand over DiCosta’s shoulder pad. “Not your problem,” he says calmly. “Let Dougherty take the fight.”

I can tell that DiCosta wants to argue. And he wants to pound the offender into the ground.

“Not your problem,” Coach repeats, his voice a warning.

And DiCosta actually listens. He meets Clay’s eyes and gives him a quick nod. The players trust Clay, so he must be doing something right. More proof—Colorado pulls off a victory against St. Louis.

“Road points!” Clay shouts, slapping backs afterwards. “That’s how we get ’er done!”

I almost catch myself smiling.

We all troop back to the dressing room, where I change back into my suit after playing zero minutes of hockey. On the bus to the airport, I take a seat alone. But then Tate, the team publicist, sits down beside me. He’s a sleek guy with an impeccable suit and the slick manner of publicists everywhere.

My exact opposite, basically.

“Mr. Hale, I need to catch up with you for a minute. Welcome to the team.” His smile is blinding.

“Thanks,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. Which is not much.

“First of all, I need to give you the one-minute stump speech—if anything should happen in your life that a loudmouth on social media would make a fuss about, I need to be your first call.”

“After I dial 911, right?”

He laughs. “I like a dry sense of humor. But you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I’m easy, though,” I promise. “Been doing this job a while without the wrong kind of media attention.”

“Then you’re already my favorite,” he says, opening up a leather folio containing a legal pad. He clicks a gold pen against his thumb. “Can I ask a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have a partner? It helps me to know who’s in your sphere.”

Seriously? “Like you didn’t google that shit already? No partner.”

Tate laughs uncomfortably. “Well, I tried. But you keep a low profile. No social media at all?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t suit my surly personality.”

He laughs again, as if I were kidding.

“And thank God, right? The shit they must be saying about me right now.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t want to know.” Getting traded late in my career is deeply humiliating, and I sure don’t want to read the comments.

He taps his pen against the pad. “It’s not that bad,” he says. “Just a few armchair morons who think they know hockey better than the pros.”

“Uh-huh.” I don’t even have to look to know what they’re saying. Has-been. Should have retired already . Ugh. I haven’t even played a game for my new team yet.

“The thing is, you never show your side of things,” he says. “You could have posted a triumphant pic in your new jersey. Or posted a sunset shot of the Rocky Mountains. The Motor City isn’t the only place on Earth, you know? You could take charge of your own narrative.”

My own narrative . “Yeah, because I’m so good at friendly chatter.”

“What if I start the account for you?” Tate asks. “I’ll put the posts in draft, and you can post the ones you like.”

I probably won’t like any of them, but I find myself nodding anyway. “Yeah, sure.”

“Sweet!” he says with too much enthusiasm. “And I’ll handle the comments section and shut down the trolls. Okay. Now back to my questions. No partner… so no family?”

“Oh, I’ve got one of those. My sister made herself unavailable to raise her kid, so my dad and I are doing that.”

“Hell,” he says, his smile fading. “I’m so sorry. And your family is moving out to Colorado with you?”

“Yeah, Liana found us a three-bedroom. My dad’s name is Jeffrey Hale. And my kid is Toby Hale. Although it’s best for everyone if those names never appear anywhere. They deserve their privacy.”

“Understood.” He scribbles them down anyway. Then he looks up at me. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss. In a few days, we’ve got an upcoming announcement, and the team is sure to make some headlines.”

“Oh yeah?” That doesn’t sound good. “What kind of announcement?”

He drops his voice. “One of our players is sitting for an interview that goes live on Christmas Day. So what I’m about to tell you is strictly embargoed until then.”

“Uh, okay?” Sounds like a lot of drama for a player interview.

“One of your new teammates came out as bisexual to the organization last year. Now he’s engaged to a man, and they’re going public with their relationship.”

I give a slow blink. That isn’t something you hear every day in hockey. “Which, uh, teammate?” I ask.

Tate frowns, as if I’ve disappointed him. “Hudson Newgate. The organization has known about this for months. Your teammates are all cool with it.”

The subtext is very clear. I better be really damn cool with it, too.

“Sure. Of course.” I give him a quick nod. But big whoop, PR guy. Who on this bus isn’t bisexual? Did you know I’ve seen your coach naked?

It’d be almost worth it to see the look on Tate’s face.

Almost.