Page 2 of Puck, Marry, Kill

“I know,” he agrees, smiling warmly. We both know it was a team effort that required every Hawk doing their part, but I appreciate him letting me save face a little bit because this feels like I’m being dismissed as the weak link, the one they don’t need. “It won’t be the same here without you, Lee. The Blizzard is damn lucky to get you.”

He stands and holds his hand out. I rise, taking his hand in mine and shaking it firmly. “It’s been an honor, Coach.”

“The honor’s all mine. Now go kick some sense into Kipson and I’ll see if I can getcha back next season.”

It’s nothing more than a polite pleasantry, but it does keep a tiny light of hope lit in my soul. Maybe I can get back home—to my team, to my family, to my life—soon.

Chapter 1

Dominic

Sitting in my truck in the parking lot, I stare at the pair of double doors like they’ve offended my entire family line, and snarl at the garish neon-green sign above them proclaiming “O’Neal’s” as though the double apostrophes are bullets straight to my brain. To be fair, neither the sign nor the doors have done anything to me. It’s what they represent.

They’re the portal to this new phase of suckage that is my life. My life, which was going stellar until a few weeks ago, when I suddenly had to sublet my place, pack up my truck with most of my shit, and move to a short-term rental in a city where I don’t know anyone or anything.

And yeah, the generic cc on a “welcome back” email from a team I don’t even know is pretty much the cherry on top of this shit sundae. No assistance on moving, no star treatment, nothing. Since it’s not a mid-season trade and I’m not a hot young draft pick, I’m ignored to the point that I don’t even want to get to know these assholes.

Fuck this. I’m only going to be here for a season, and then I’m going home.

But I am a man who enjoys a mission, so I studied up and did my homework like a good little soldier. Mission: Yank Mike Kipson’s head out of his ass, slap him stupid, and get myself traded back to the Hawks as soon as possible.

With that in mind, I stride across the parking lot, sling open the door, and enter O’Neal’s, switching out my grim-set mouth for the fakest of fake smiles. “Let’s do this shit,” I grumble to myself.

The bar is surprisingly welcoming, with dark wood floors, green-globed chandeliers, and a dozen small round tables surrounded by guys. I don’t head there. Instead, I go straight for the bar along the wall. I need a drink for this.

“Whiskey, beer back. Whatever you have is fine,” I tell the bartender. She sets a shot glass in front of me and I swallow it in one go, welcoming the burn. Taking a sip from the beer so it won’t spill, I approach my doom, otherwise known as the Blizzard players.

Amazingly, I’m greeted well, considering the beatings I put on a lot of these guys during the playoffs. “Dom!”

“Hey, man! Heard you were joining us!”

“Welcome to the best team in the league.”

The guys seem friendly enough, a bit rowdy even if I’m being honest, but that last one I can’t let slide. “You mean the second-best team. Hawks won the Cup last season,” I boast, proud of the accomplishment.

Anderson, the Blizzard goalie, grins like he was poking at me intentionally. “A toast to it being us this year! Welcome to the shit show.” He throws an arm around my shoulders like we’re best buds and holds up his beer.

“Welcome to the shit show!” the chorus echoes.

“Thanks,” I tell them. Then I tilt my head and tease, “I think.”

Initial awkwardness handled, I work my way around the room, mingling and meeting a bunch of players and various team staff, including my new coach. I hold my hand out in greeting as I say, “Coach Boothe, nice to meet you.”

The Blizzard coach is in his late fifties, could probably bench press as much as some of the team guys, and has a suntan line around his eyes that tells me he spends a lot of time outdoors wearing sunglasses, probably golfing. But he’s no armchair analyst, I know his playing stats and he’s earned his reputation.

“Good to have you here, Lee. You were impressive last season. Hope to make good use of those skills this year too.” He flashes a smile, but it’s gone too quickly to be friendly. He’s a businessman at heart, and his business is hockey.

“Same,” I reply because agreeing seems to be the safest answer. I mean, I do want to play. Otherwise, I would’ve told both teams to fuck off. But hockey is my life. There’s nothing like flying across the ice, slipping through holes that no one else sees, and keeping our goalie from having to be target practice.

Coach Boothe lowers his voice, his chin dropping too. “I trust Leverson told you the deal?” I nod subtly, and Coach looks pointedly toward a man sitting alone at one of the tables. “Hope you’ve got some magic. Otherwise, this team is fucked and so are you.”

“No pressure, though, right?” I joke.

“Oh, make no mistake, there’s pressure.” With that, Coach drifts away, finding a group of what appears to be interns to talk to.

I sigh, my anger at the situation reigniting in my gut. But I might as well get this shit started.

It’s not the type of situation where I can walk right up to Kipson and lay my cards out with an “I hear your life sucks ass and I’m here to save you from yourself, so nice to meet you” type deal. I have to play it smarter than that. Instead, I work the room, getting closer and closer to my target. I’m not overly friendly with anyone, which isn’t that hard to do since I’m not happy to be here and a lot of these guys know it after my situation last season. But eventually, I’m in front of Kipson.