This team doesn’t get my sense of humor. My sarcasm is a crime, and my compliments are met with wariness.

  The only thing I miss about Boston is my best friend, Sarah. She thinks I’m funny and never judges me. I wish she could move here, but that’s selfish. Instead, I pick up my phone to text her and see a voicemail from fucktwat. I changed my stepfather’s name in my phone right before leaving Boston.

  It would be too much to ask to never see the man again, but if I don’t listen to his message, it’ll eat at me.

  Turning the volume down, I put my phone to my ear and cringe when I hear his voice.

  “What do you think of your performance tonight? Why did I pay for private coaching? You know what will happen if you don’t start playing better. Don’t bother offering excuses.”

  I’ve heard his threats a million times. He would never leave a message saying he’ll cut me off and throw me out, but it’s there. John King’s concern is all an act.

  A rough hand clips my shoulder, and I spin, arm cocked ready to fight. But my brain catches up; I’m in my locker room and no one here will harm me. Yet.

  Mav holds up his hands and steps back. His dirty blond hair sticks up in every direction from sweat and his helmet. “Sorry. Seeing if you want to join the celebration tonight.”

  Ace watches my reaction, and I force my muscles to relax.

  “I’m not feeling it tonight. Next time,” I lie.

  “Do you need a treatment or rubdown?” Ace asks.

  “I’ll be fine,” I grit out, unable to keep the annoyance from my voice.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine, but treatments can speed the recovery of aches and pains. We won’t tolerate refusal of proactive remedies.” Ace’s jaw tightens.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn my back on him.

  I glance back at my phone for any new notifications. My mother hasn’t returned my call. Typical. She ignores me, and John leaves a message. If only he would ignore me.

  He acts as if I want to live in his pretentious Park Avenue apartment. I refused but my mom pressured me so she could redecorate it and know I’m safe. Everything with them comes with strings attached. My mother redecorated it to suit her taste, never consulting me, and John lords it over me as if I can’t afford to live on my own. I would rather live in the slums than take their fake concern. I should but fucktwat will keep my mother from contacting me.

  After I finish my shower, the team is obnoxiously loud.

  “C’mon, King.” Brant whips his wet towel at King’s smooth dark skin. “You show me all your favorite places and I’ll show you mine.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

  I fight the urge to wrap his towel around his neck to shut him up.

  “Seriously, bro. Come out with us. O’Keefe already refused, and we need to represent the younger guys,” Mav says.

  King’s eyes warily cut to me. “I’ll meet you after I have dinner with my parents.”

  “Bring my future in-laws. It’ll be great,” Brant practically begs. He’s so desperate for attention it’s sickening.

  “Fine.” King laughs, and his face transforms, as if a weight has been lifted.

  He’s trying to avoid me, only accepting after he knew I wouldn’t be there.

  I dress quickly to get the fuck outta here.

  Most of the guys leave, but when Grayson enters the room, Ace steps in front of me. “If you change your mind, we’ll be at the Roof Top Lounge. Or you can share a cab with us.” He nods at Grayson.

  “I changed my mind. I can’t wait to celebrate.” More like I can’t wait to see King’s face when I show up. It’s my goal to force King to admit everything he did to me, which will happen sooner rather than later if I press. I deserve an apology, but I’ll settle for an admission of guilt.

  Once we’re in the cab, I have the impulse to apologize for last week when I ruined their engagement announcement. My mouth got ahead of me, trying to be funny. But I don’t say anything since they’ve probably forgotten about it already. I don’t need to beat myself up about it. Anyway, they wasted several opportunities to tell the team sooner. I’m sure everyone had guessed by then.

  “How’s New York so far?” Grayson asks.

  “Same as any big city.” I shrug. It would sound offensive to say the city smells like asphalt and exhaust. I’ll never admit I tried to use the subway and got lost. I hired a car service to schedule my rides. There’s no easy way to get to practice so I’m thinking of asking Sarah to drive my car out here. My unreliable mother would never do it.

  As if reading my mind, Ace asks, “Finding your way around alright? The trains can get confusing.” New Yorkers refer to the subway as trains like it makes the underground hellholes sound better.

  “I wouldn’t know. Got a driver.” I watch the storefronts as we zoom past.

  “We have a Liska junior here.” Grayson nudges Ace in the front seat. I’m unclear if it’s an insult or not.

  “The man loves his driver. He’s practically family,” Ace agrees.

  I snort. The concept of the help being family would scandalize my mother. They wait for me to explain my reaction, but I don’t.

  Our car arrives at our destination, and we take the elevator up a million floors to find the team. Boston doesn’t have nearly as many skyscrapers as New York, and most of them aren’t as tall. Boston’s historic and values the past.

  Ace holds the elevator door for Grayson and me to exit. I’m relieved he takes the lead since I don’t know where I’m going. The windows provide an excellent view of the river and the shoreline.

  As soon as we find the party room with our team, I catch King’s eye. I swear he pales at seeing me, and I smile with satisfaction. I’m not expecting his mom to wave me over and hug me.

  “Theo, it’s nice to finally meet you in person. Jamal has told me so much about you.” She keeps a warm hand on my arm, and I’m struck speechless imagining all the terrible things he’s said.

  “Don’t believe the lies he tells you,” I spit out. If she wanted to meet me, she could’ve ended her son’s reign of terror.

  She squeezes my arm, and I notice the absence of talons on the ends of her fingers. “Don’t be silly, he says you’re a great player and the team will do much better with you and Rhys Brant.”

  My arm twitches out of her grasp.

  “That’s nice of him.” I shoot King a glare, not believing this bullshit for a second. Behind him, the servers set up a buffet. The steam rises, giving off a salty buttery smell.

  King looks over his shoulder. “During the season we have sit-down dinners, but it’s casual in the preseason,” he explains like I give a fuck about the food, but then my stomach rumbles loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  His mom gives me a knowing smile. “You boys go fill your plates before you faint from hunger.”

  King beelines for the table, leaving me behind.

  “Go on, honey.” His mom nudges my arm in encouragement.

  She can’t be for real. All the shit she and her son have done to make my life a living hell can’t be undone with a hug and smile. She has to be after something.

  I won’t figure it out staring at her so I join my teammates in line for food. It smells so good my mouth waters.

  Brant is flirting with King again, and my brain gets fuzzy. I must be hungrier than I thought.

  I steer clear of King and his family once my plate is full of pasta, chicken, a veggie medley, and pizza. There are no open tables so I take my chances with Ace and his boyfriend. Given his position, he can’t set a bad example by turning me away.

  This idea sounded better in my head than in reality. Yes, I got a reaction out of King, but now I’m stuck here like a middle schooler trying to find friends.

  “Have a seat, man.” Ace pulls out the chair next to him.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, calculating the time it’ll take me to eat and fucking leave.

  Ace calls Brant and Mav over. Great. The new kid club. I really am back in school.

  “This is so much better than the AHL,” Mav gushes. “Eatin’ like kings.” He bobs his head as if there’s music. The scruff under his chin looks like he’s unable to grow full facial hair.

  I don’t contradict him, but where the hell is this kid from if he thinks this is eating like kings? It’s a subpar buffet.

  My phone pings, but of course it isn’t my mom, it’s Sarah. It’s obvious who gives a shit about me and who doesn’t.

  Sarah: Hey how’d it go?

  I shove food in with one hand and text back with the other.

  Me: Fine same old shit new day

  Sarah: Glad to hear you haven’t replaced me

  Me: Never

  Sarah: I saw your team won. Traitor

  Me: You hate hockey

  Sarah: So? Gotta run byeeee

  It’s not like we’d be hanging out if I was in Boston so I don’t understand my pang of loneliness.

  “Mav, you finding your way around and adjusting?” Ace asks.

  “Yeah. My parents helped me move into a place over the weekend. It’s cool.” He wipes his mouth on a napkin.

  “Let me know if you need anything. That goes for all of you. My door’s always open.” Ace looks us all in the eyes, making sure we understand it’s a real offer and not fake words.

  “I wouldn’t say your door is always open.” Grayson nudges him with a sly grin. “But he’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  I’ve never been around guys so open about their sexuality. No one’s muttering insults behind their backs or cracking inappropriate jokes. They must save it all for when they go home. Hockey players are dicks. It’s who we are, and I willingly play the part.

  “I’m loving the upgrade to this team.” Brant chews while his gaze swings around the room.

  “I’ll bet,” I say out loud instead of in my head. Rather than taking it back, I double down. “The other New York team is a dumpster fire.”

  “No shit.” He flushes, showing my comment got to him despite his nonchalance.

  “We’re happy to have you,” Grayson says to him. “With Kenney out for at least half the season we need great defenders.”

  “What do you know?” I say under my breath, but Ace hears me.

  “What did you say?” Ace’s voice is hard as nails.

  “What does the team trainer know about our defense?” I reply, unwilling to retract my statement.

  Grayson puts a hand on Ace’s arm, but he ignores it.

  “If you had done your homework on this team, you’d know Grayson was drafted and slated to play in the NHL, but he suffered a career-ending knee injury.”

  “Hmm.” I barely manage not to roll my eyes.

  “Careful, O’Keefe. He’s in charge of patching you up. At least he’s a team player.” Brant throws his napkin on the table and walks away.

  “I never get hurt,” I brag. Everyone is so fucking sensitive. Even if he played in the NHL, he doesn’t know me or shit about this defense.

  “Oh, shit.” Mav lifts the tablecloth. “Knock on wood, dude. You’re asking for a disaster.”

  I eat faster so I can leave.

  I’m so focused on my food, I don’t notice King behind me until he clears his throat.

  “What?” I ask around a mouthful.

  “My mom would like to talk to you for a minute.” He scratches his forearm, leaving white marks.

  My heart roars in my ears, beating way too fast.

  “Hell no.” I stand and rush to the exit.

  Of all the fucked-up things. Would she apologize to me? Sorry is so far past due. Or worse, would she make excuses for herself? For her son?

  I don’t need this shit in my life.

  Chapter 5

  Jamal King

  The travel is low-key my least favorite part of being a hockey player. It’s our last preseason game, and we’re in Toronto. It’s so close, but being in another country is a pain in the ass. As we board the bus to the arena, Brant saunters up.

  We’ve become unofficial travel buddies. Which helps me to not overthink who I’ll be sitting with or what we’ll talk about. It’s never been a problem, but my brain acts like I’ll be left on the side of the road.

  “Grayson wants to show me some film of how I’m overstressing my ankles.” He rolls his eyes. “Sit with Maverick.”

  I swallow hard and breathe in slowly. “It’s fine.”

  Brant’s face pinches together and he leans in. “He’s the only one who doesn’t know anyone. He could use a friend.”

  Embarrassment rushes through me, tangling with my stress and confusing me. Brant isn’t babying me; he’s looking out for Mav. I should be looking out for him too, instead I’m concerned about myself.

  “No problem.” I crane my neck, searching for him, and Brant’s shoulders sag in relief.

  My mind goes into overdrive. I mentally catalog all the facts for topics to talk about.

  Mav sits next to me, his eyes glued to his phone, looking relaxed and calm.

  If only I could achieve that. The silence is deafening as I try to think of something to say.

  “Have you seen this?” He tilts his phone, showing me slo-mo content a West Coast team put out. “Sounds like they cracked the code to get women interested in the sport.”

  “Yeah,” I say lamely. My conversation skills suck.

  As the bus rumbles along, Mav’s gaze cuts to me, a question and uncertainty written on his face.

  “I don’t bite,” I joke to ease the tension.

  He laughs and tilts so our heads are inches apart. “You’re not really related to O’Keefe, are you?”

  “By a technicality. His mom married my sperm donor, but we only met once,” I explain. The guys from last year know I don’t talk about our feeble connection but Mav’s oblivious.

  “How is that possible? Holidays, birthdays, summer vacation, none of it?” He’s truly confused.

  “Some dudes shouldn’t be dads after they donate sperm. He talks to the media like we have a relationship, but I haven’t spoken to the man since I was seven. The sperm donor only talks about me to make himself look good. He’s an asshole.” That’s just the tip of the iceberg, but Mav didn’t ask for messy family drama.

  “If O’Keefe grew up with him, that could explain his attitude.” Mav flips his phone over to check a notification.

  “Hmm,” I say skeptically.

  It’s a quick ride so we get off the bus and walk single file into the locker room while our social media coordinator films our arrival. She swears everyone online loves the content.

  Toronto Titan hockey fans are rabid, which makes playing here interesting.

  I lose myself in my pregame routine and join in the team dance when Benz drags me over. Most of the guys are stiff when they dance, but I’ve seen them warm up; they know how to move their bodies. It’s funny.

  A Burna Boy song comes on and everyone knows it was my pick. I throw in The Weeknd or Kendrick Lamar without them noticing. I put extra sway in my hips as the team looks on.

  O’Keefe sneers as he watches us. It’s too bad his generically pretty face got paired with such a rotten personality. My moms thinks his bad attitude covers his insecurities. She tries to see the good in everyone, like Mav and Benz. It’s how she got mixed up with my sperm donor.

  We’re booed during pre-skate, but that only fuels our fire.

  Ace says a few words about teamwork, Coach drills into us to pay attention to basics and in a blink, I’m on the bench watching Drake win the face-off.

  “Do you think I’ll be that good?” Mav leans on his stick.

  “Comparisons hold you back.” I lost so much sleep comparing myself to O’Keefe. What he had that my father wanted instead of me. “I’ll never be Ace, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be great on first line. We bring different things to the position.”

  We flinch as Brant flies into the boards in front of us. After winning the puck, he gives us a wink and takes off.

  “Crazy redhead.” Mav pulls his helmet on, ready to vault over the boards on Coach’s command.

  Our first shift isn’t memorable. We don’t score, but neither does Toronto.

  Shit goes down on our second shift.

  Mav loses the face-off but gets his stick on the puck to interrupt Toronto’s pass. As he gains control, O’Keefe swoops in and takes the puck. Mav’s furious but he doesn’t say anything.

  Finally, O’Keefe passes to Griff, who gets it back to Mav, who passes to me, and I score the first goal of the night.

  “Great assist. Thanks.” I smack Mav’s helmet, and he headbutts me.

  “Hell ya! Let’s gooooo,” Mav shouts. He’s silent when O’Keefe joins the celebration.

  During the next shift, I get tangled up on the boards but push the puck toward a waiting Mav.

  Mav dodges around a defender and is one-on-one with the goalie. He’s great in this situation, but I skate up the side to give him an outlet if he needs it.

  O’Keefe flies up center ice and strips the puck from Mav.

  “You’re on the same fucking team, asshole,” Brant yells.

  O’Keefe shoots, and the goalie stops it, but the puck ricochets off his leg and Mav taps it in.

  Mav purposefully gives O’Keefe his back to hug Griff and me. “We need to figure out a celly for our line.”

  Coach screams at O’Keefe to get off the ice, and Mav’s face breaks out in a grin.

  “Worth it.” Mav fist-bumps me.

  By the end of the first period, we’re up by two and head into the tunnel on a high note. One of the defensive coaches drags O’Keefe into an empty room.

  O’Keefe vibrates with anger as he returns to the locker room and doesn’t seem to listen to the coaches. I need to stop worrying about O’Keefe and concentrate on my game.

  Toronto scores a goal one minute into the next period, but Drake and Lucky combine for another goal two minutes after that.

  My line isn’t on the ice with O’Keefe for three shifts, and it’s a relief. Not for Brant, who’s paired with him. Coach pulls Brant off the ice after he gets knocked into the boards by O’Keefe. Grayson does a vision test on a flaming, angry red Brant.