Chapter 2
Theo O'Keefe
Hockey is the only thing I’m good at. No, I’m fuckinggreatat it. They’re lucky to have me. My only fear is that my dear stepbrother poisoned the team against me. He uses the press to act innocent, but behind closed doors, he’s said vile things about me. Things I wouldn’t want said about my worst enemy. Which is him.
There’s a slight chance I came on too strong about their playoff loss last year. But the reactions were tame. If I’d said that in Boston, the captain would’ve lost his shit.
Ace took it in stride, but I don’t trust it. He’s been around long enough to fake welcoming me to the team.
Benz can’t be for real. He won’t shut the fuck up. No way a grown man believes in universal energy or crystals. But he’s a goalie, so who knows.
The overhead lights hum. Being in the rink quiets the fear that coming to the Enforcers was a disastrous mistake. The Zamboni finishes its last pass, so the ice is pristine, smooth, and fast.
“Nice of you to join us,” I joke as King enters the ice. “How about some two-on-two?”
“Let me warm up,” King says as if I’m forcing him to play.
“Sure.” I’ll kill him with kindness. For my entire life, I’ve heard that he’s better than me, but it doesn’t make it true. Shame we won’t compete head-to-head again now that we’re on the same team.
King’s intricate braids extend a few inches past his helmet. His hair mesmerized me when we were seven. I’d never met anyone like him, with rich medium-brown skin and light aqua eyes. Stupidly, I thought we’d be brothers and friends.
He hated me on sight, and the only contact we’ve had is on the ice. But I’m not the naive kid I was. Just because his father married my mother doesn’t make us family.
With the move from Boston to New York, I accidentally made life better for my fucktwat of a stepfather. Now he can watch us together, falling over his son with praise and ripping into all my mistakes. At least I won’t have to hear about how his son’s team has a better record.
“There he is”—Rhys Brant slides out onto the ice—“my internet boyfriend. Sorry I’m late.” He skates right up to King, and irrational anger flashes over me.
“Hey, man.” King clasps his hand and gives him a one-arm hug. “Welcome to the Enforcers.”
“That’s my line,” Ace says, and also gives Brant a bro hug.
I clock the warm welcome he receives compared to mine. Brant asked for his trade from the other New York team, the Nationals. If the internet is to be believed, Brant witnessed a fight where Ace was present and his boyfriend got sued. The details were sketchy since the accusing little prick pointed his finger at Ace but then changed his story.
Not my business, but King and Brant have a social media thing going on.
It fucked me up seeing King out himself on Pride Night last season. But I’m over that. He had the audacity to accusemeof being homophobic after everythinghe’ssaid about me. Pansy-ass snowflake. I figure he’s pretending to be an ally and not really a member of the LGBTQ community.
Against my better judgment, part of me held out a fraction of hope that we’d make amends. Even after he threw me against the wall with his forearm to my throat after their playoff loss to Boston. Hope is for suckers, but I can’t help wondering what I ever did to him.
“There goes two-on-two.” I give Brant a nod, ready to play.
“Even better, two-on-two with a goalie. Brant, you and me against King and O’Keefe.”
“Let’s get after it.” Brant takes a fast lap and does minimal stretching.
“Who’s going to referee?” I ask.
“It’s a friendly game between teammates. Why would we need a ref?” Benz asks as he taps the pipes on his goal.
Brant is a redhead and a known hothead, so I’m not saying another word. I’m here for a life redo and to escape my family. Hockey has been my refuge, and I won’t ruin it.
Benz shoots the puck down the ice, and Ace and I chase it down. Ace gets to it a fraction of a second before me and dishes it off to Brant. Brant fakes right, but it doesn’t fool King, and he pokes the puck out. They scramble, laughing and pushing each other out of the way.
“Puck drop,” Benz calls, and they both stop.
“Nice stick work,” Brant says, and taps King on the butt.
King’s blinding white teeth flash with his smile. It’s so different from the sneer he gives me.
