But when Jackand Tara are forced into close quarters, the ice starts to crack. Between late-night strategy sessions and sizzling tension neither of them can deny, lines blur and rules shatter in this forbidden romance story.
He plays for glory.
She writes for truth.
Only one ofthem can keep their cool when things getpucking tempting.
A swoony hockey romance with forced proximity, enemies to lovers, forbidden romance, grumpy/sunshine dynamics, touch-her-and-die protectiveness, and a hero who falls first and hardest.
Tropes you’ll love:
Enemies To Lovers
Forbidden Romance
Alpha-but-damaged team captain hero
“Don’t date athletes” rule (broken spectacularly)
Found-family/team dynamic
Emotional, sexy, slow-burn with heart
ReadChapter one below
Chapter One - Jack
The music is pumping,and O’Malley’s bar is packed with the usual preseason crowd—wannabe puck bunnies checking out fresh meat and old-timers buying us drinks like we’re already champions. Fuck, I love this time of year. Training camp’s about to kick our asses. But tonight? Tonight, we own this place. Being first-line center and team captain of the Boston Bruisers means I get the best spot at the bar.
“Jack, another beer?” Jimmy the bartender keeps my beers coming without my having to ask.
I’ve earned every inch of this territory, fought my way up from nothing to something. The team’s my actual family now, the only one that’s never let me down. These guys don’t know about the foster homes, the sick abuse, or the nights I spent wondering if I’d ever find somewhere safe. Somewhere I belong.
They just know I’m their captain, their Beast, and that’s exactly how I want to keep it.
You don’t get nicknamed ‘Beast’ by being gentle, and you sure as hell don’t get to be the captain of an NHL team by backing down from a challenge. I’ve spent my entire career proving I’m more than just a pretty face who can hit. I’ve got the highest-scoring record of any power forward in the league for the past three seasons.
“Captain!” A familiar voice booms over the music as Marcus “Mayhem” O’Sullivan crashes onto the stool next to me, sloshing his beer. My front-line defenseman and alternate captain, Marcus, has been watching my back on and off the ice for the past five seasons. The guy’s a demon on defense and mean as hell when he needs to be, which is why we call him Mayhem. He’s taken more penalties protecting me than I can count, but he’s also got the softest hands on the blue line. The fans love him almost as much as others hate playing against him.
“Mayhem.” I nod, grinning as he barely saves his beer from spilling. Some things never change. The guy’s got perfect balance on skates but turns into a damn klutz the minute he hits solid ground. “Try not to break anything tonight. Coach will have both our asses if either of us shows up to camp banged up.” I’m already nursing a knee that’s not at full strength. At my age, niggling injuries can cause a career retirement, and I’m sure as hell not retiring before I’ve held the Stanley Cup.
“Please,” he scoffs, straightening up and scanning the crowd with those predatory eyes that make opposing forwards think twice about crossing our blue line. “You see the talent in here tonight? Fucking insane, man. I missed this over the summer break.”
I scan the crowd, taking a slow pull from my bottle. He’s not wrong. O’Malley’s always draws the hotties, but tonight, it’s like every smoking piece of ass in Boston decided to show up.
I’ve never seen the need for relationships. I’m never gonna get married or have children. Not in this fucked-up world. So, casual sex is my middle name. I never promise more than I’m capable of giving. I’m so damaged, all I can give is one night of pleasure. Never a second. I’m not sure who I’m protecting—the ladies or me!
“Not bad,” I say, keeping it cool. As captain, I’ve got to at least pretend to be civilized. Sometimes.
“Not bad? Jesus, Beast, you going blind?” Marcus punches my shoulder, and I barely feel it. They started calling me Beast back in juniors—partly because I was already six feet at sixteen and built like a brick shithouse, but mostly because of how I play. I’m not the fastest guy on the ice, but I’m impossible to knock off the puck, and I’ve got a reputation for absolutely destroying anyone who tries. All clean hits, though. The media loves playing up the whole “Beauty and the Beast” angle too. Apparently, being good-looking and willing to draw blood makes me complicated. Whatever. It works.
“Tell you what, let’s make it interesting,” Marcus continues. “You pick one, I pick one. First to score for the night wins.”
“What are we, rookies?” But I’m already looking, because hell yeah, I’m competitive. And some fun before training sets in wouldn’t go amiss. Not that I hadn’t had plenty of fun over the summer.
Then I see her.
Dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, legs that go on for fucking days, and an ass that could start wars. She’s leaning against the bar in a Red Sox jersey that’s just tight enough to show she works out without trying too hard. Who fuckin’ wears a baseball jersey to the bar of the Boston Bruisers hockey team? That’s enough to pique my interest. The way she carries herself, confident, like she belongs here but isn’t looking for attention—makes her even hotter.
