CHAPTER ONE
cole
“I look massive in this photo.”Logan frowns. “And not in a sexy lumberjack way. Seriously, out of all our team shots, they had to choose this one?”
I roll my eyes to the heavens. The blown-up team photo isn’t the most flattering, but then again, no one looks good after playing three grueling periods in a championship game. In it, I’ve got blood streaking down my chin—thanks to an elbow to the face—Cameron practically sparkles with sweat, Jake’s beard is giving full caveman energy, and yes, Logan, buried in his pads and gear, could easily pass for Bigfoot’s long-lost cousin.
But it’s hockey. What does he expect?
Jake, our best right-winger and one of my closest friends, eyes Logan, then assesses the photo again, as if he’s giving the comment real thought.
I silently beg him to keep his mouth shut. The last thing anyone needs is Logan’s vanity acting up any more than it usually does. While the rest of our team travels with a duffel or a small carry-on, he rolls up with a full-size suitcase filled with skincare products and essential oils. He takes bubble baths after post-game ice baths.
“You look fine,” I reassure him. “Same as always.”
He squints at me. “So you think I always look large and in charge?”
I bite back a scoff.Lord, give me strength.
“Pads and protective gear make every hockey player look bulky.” Jake’s tone is placating, though he turns away and rolls his eyes. “You don’t have an ounce of fat on you, dude. Relax.”
“How do you know that?” Logan asks, chin lifted and jaw clenched. “Have you been checking me out in the locker room?”
“Don’t be a perv,” Cameron fires back.
Before Logan can fire off a comeback, Jake clasps his shoulder. “Why don’t we go make our rounds, gentleman? Booze and schmooze?”
Cameron scans the crowd, his forest-green eyes narrowed, like he’s bracing for a natural disaster—ever the antisocial grump—while Logan hops in place like a squirrel who’s just discovered espresso.
I place a hand on each of their backs and give a firm shove. “Let’s go.”
We make our way through the room, weaving between clusters of Boston’s elite, our sponsors, and a sprinkling of friends and family. Here and there, I greet familiar faces, my professional persona flicking to life on its own as I talk about the upcoming season, my words practically scripted.Our defense is looking sharp. Strategy’s solid. The new offensive line should give us more flexibility in transition.
We’ve been schmoozing for less than an hour when someone brings him up.
“Your brother would be proud of you.”
I force a tight smile at the sponsor I’m chatting with. His expression is kind, but there’s a softness behind it, a look akin to pity that makes my chest tighten. “Mm-hmm.”
“It’s wild that your parents raised two hockey legends,” he continues, as if he has any right to speak about my twin. “Nate was one of the best left-wingers the sport’s ever seen.”
“Yup.” I grip my glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
I’m glad that my brother’s memory lives on, truly. And yes, the sport lost a legend, but I lost my brother and best friend. The two aren’t comparable. They never will be.
Jake, likely sensing the subtle shift in my body language, jumps in, steering the conversation toward the Chicago Patriots’ new defenseman.
When the sponsor’s attention drifts his way, I mutter an excuse and step away. If I don’t, there’s a chance I’ll say something I’ll regret.
As much as I love the start of the season, it feels wrong not shit-texting my brother about whose team is going to beat whose ass. Before Nate passed away three years ago, the Berrett brothers dominated the sport with a combined three Stanley Cup wins. Nate repped the Miami Trailblazers, and I wore the Boston Bobcats’ blue, but he was my biggest fan and I was his. Our dream was to one day suit up together for our hometown team, the San Diego Devils. We made the pact when we were six, lacing up our skates side by side. Now that it’s just me, I have to work twice as hard to leave a legacy for us.
Needing a breather and a chance to shake off that conversation, I head to the bar. As the bartender pours me another drink, I turn, scanning the room, the toe of my velvet dress shoe tapping against the black marble floor. The DJ is set up on one side of the room, and a good chunk of guests dance on a black-and-white checkered floor. Others are huddled at high tops, mingling and sipping on craft cocktails. I continue my perusal until I catch sight of a hidden alcove off to the side.Bingo. Hiding out with my drink isn’t the most mature move, but I need a moment of peace to collect myself.
As I step into the hidden nook, I find it already occupied. Curled up on the navy velvet couch nestled in the corner is a brunette with a cocktail in one hand and… an e-reader in the other.
She’s literally reading. At a party.
I’m not sure whether I should be offended. Sure, this isn’t the Grammys, but it’s an invite-only party, not a quiet Sunday afternoon at home.
