chapter one
“Yo, Zanetti!”
Sandro Zanetti paused in the entranceway of his best friend and former teammate’s house, where the birthday party for a second close friend and former teammate was well and truly underway. Music came from somewhere, laughing children chased a cat up the stairs, and the buzz of multiple conversations overlapped one another.
“Helloooooo. Zanetti. Over here.”
And there, in the living room to the left of the entranceway, were a handful of his younger teammates sitting around a card table, each with six shot glasses filled with what was probably beer, but could’ve been whiskey.
Sandro met the gaze of each man. “Do I even want to know what you’re doing?”
“Shots competition.” Deeley patted the chair on his right, the skin of his normally fair-colored cheeks flushed with either drink or excitement—or both. “Join us. We tried to bribe Cotton into participating, but he just laughed in our faces. You can take his place.”
Sandro sat and sniffed one of the glasses. Ugh. Cheap beer. With their NHL salaries, these guys could afford better, even on Deeley’s entry-level contract.
Sandro pushed all six of his shot glasses to the center of the table. “Someone get me new ones with water or pop.” That got him some good-natured protests, but he waved them away. “Yeah, yeah. Grumble about it all you want, but someone needs to be sober enough to drive you knuckleheads home later.”
“Yes, Dad,” someone muttered sarcastically before six new shot glasses were placed in front of him, these containing a fizzy clear liquid. Sprite or 7Up, no doubt.
“What does the winner get?” Sandro asked.
“Well,” Deeley said, drawing out the word. “We thought the winner could skip tomorrow morning’s practice.”
“And why are you all looking at me like I can make that happen?”
“You’re the oldest guy on the team.” Deeley patted his shoulder. “You have clout with Coach Madolora.”
Sandro scoffed. “Not that kind of clout.” At thirty-eight years old, Sandro was an old-timer. He was aging out of hockey, and everything hurt—pretty much all the time—but until his body failed him, he’d milk his career for all it was worth.
Besides, what would he do with himself without the game? Without the training and the practices and the locker room shit-talking and the days-long road trips?
Who was he outside of hockey?
Thankfully, that wasn’t something he needed to start thinking about yet.
“Winner gets whatever cash I’ve got in my wallet,” he said, omitting the fact that all he had were a few dollar bills. “Assuming I don’t win.”
“What do you want if you do win?” Matty Coates, their goalie, asked. At six foot three and with shoulders as wide as a bus, he took up half the space at the table.
Sandro winked at him. “The pleasure of knowing that this oldest guy on the team can still kick all your asses even fresh off a twelve-hour drive.”
“Right.” Matty Coates—who, for whatever reason, always went by his first and last names—crossed his arms over his chest, his dark arm hair contrasting with his ivory skin tone. “How was your trip home for your grandma’s birthday?”
“Niece’s birthday,” Sandro corrected. “Grandma’s birthday was last month.”
Matty Coates waved a hand. “Whatever, man. I can’t keep track. You’re always there for something.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a secret lover?” Deeley made a kissy face. “I think the secret lover is the real reason you go home so often.”
“Nah.” Matty Coates shook his head. “Zanetti doesn’t do relationships.”
Sandro’s entire body went cold.
“Why is that, anyway?” Matty Coates asked—rich, coming from him, considering he’d been in an on-again, off-again relationship for going on three or four years now.
“Did someone break your heart?” DeShawn James, a soft-spoken nineteen-year-old rookie from Tennessee with skin the color of rich umber, looked at Sandro sagely from where he perched on the arm of the couch. “I get it, man. Tough to put yourself out there after that.”
“Jesus Christ.” Sandro rolled his eyes and forced a laugh—DeShawn was more right than he knew. “Do you guys want to grill me about my love life, or do you want to lose at this shots competition?”
