Chapter 1
Chapter 1
JACE
I was seven minutes late to the first team meeting with our new head coach, which was not my worst first impression, but it was definitely in the top five.
In my defense, the elevator at Ball Arena had stopped on every floor, my phone had buzzed fourteen times in three minutes, I’d forgotten my notebook in my car, gone back for it, found a protein bar from last week under the passenger seat, realized I hadn’t eaten breakfast, eaten half of it, remembered the meeting, and sprinted through a service hallway with my laces untied and my heart trying to climb out of my throat.
Also, I had been awake since four.
Not on purpose. My brain just liked to open all the tabs at once before sunrise. Hockey. Vanessa’s dinner tonight. The new coach. My dad’s knee appointment. Whether Harper had paid her electricity bill or was being stubborn about letting me help. The sound the hotel AC had made during last week’s road trip. A power-play adjustment from three games ago. The fact that I needed to buy laundry detergent. The weird certainty that I’d left my stove on, even though I hadn’t cooked anything in two days.
By the time I pushed through the conference room door, the entire Denver Blizzard roster turned to look at me.
Great.
Perfect.
Exactly the amount of attention I wanted while wearing one sneaker tied and the other trying to murder me.
Roman Vega, our veteran goalie and my best friend, didn’t even turn his head. He just lifted his coffee cup and muttered, “There he is. The organization’s punctuality ambassador.”
A couple guys laughed.
I flipped him off low by my thigh and scanned for an empty chair.
That was when I saw Declan Reid.
Our new head coach stood at the front of the room beside a screen showing our logo, hands loosely clasped in front of him, quiet in a way that made the room feel smaller. He was bigger than I expected. Six-five, maybe. Broad in the shoulders, dark hair clipped short, beard heavy enough to make him look like he’d been carved out of bad decisions and discipline. Tattoos ran down both arms beneath the sleeves of a black Blizzard quarter-zip, ink disappearing under the fabric like there was more he didn’t show.
His eyes were gray.
Not soft gray. Not stormy, poetic bullshit gray.
Sharp gray. Assessing gray.
They landed on me, and every frantic tab in my brain froze for half a second.
Then they all reopened louder.
“Mr. Holloway,” he said.
Not Jace. Not Holloway. Mr. Holloway.
My mouth, because it had never once considered saving my life, said, “Coach.”
His expression didn’t change. “Take a seat.”
That was it. No lecture. No joke. No public execution. Somehow, that was worse.
I dropped into the empty chair beside Roman, my knee bouncing immediately under the table. I grabbed the pen in front of me and clicked it once. Twice. Three times.
Roman reached over without looking and took it out of my hand.
I leaned toward him. “Thief.”
“Public servant.”
