Prologue
Declan
“We’re not running a fucking circus here! You’re supposed to be playing HOCKEY!”
GM Colin Holden’s voice bounces off the glass walls of his corner office, but I couldn't care less. I’m too busy watching the Pacific Ocean sparkle under the morning sun. It's a deep, endless blue today that stretches gorgeously into the horizon.
I watch enviously as a surfer in a black wetsuit catches the perfect wave, carving a smooth line toward shore. He snatches his board, gives himself a small fist pump for the killer ride, and follows behind a golden retriever that's chasing a tennis ball across the sand, tail wagging all the way up the beach.
My eyes catch on the nearby Beachside Pier, with its candy-striped rooftop and ancient carousel, sitting in the distance, waiting for the morning rush of tourists and locals to flock the boardwalk.
This place is fucking paradise. Pure heaven.
And here I am, stuck listening to this buffoon.
“Morrison!" Colin barks, the vein in his forehead about to burst. "Are you even listening to me?! This isserious!”
I drag my gaze from the window and sigh.
Colin’s face is the color of a bad sunburn, sweat beading along his thinning hairline. My brothers are sprawled in the leather chairs opposite his desk. Beck’s leaning so far back he’s practically horizontal, sunglasses perched on his head like he's ready to hit the beach the second we get out of this meeting. And Mason is sitting straight, the picture of respectful attention, but I see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Coach Jack Pearson is a silent mountain in the chair beside me, his thick arms crossed over his chest as he watches.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice flat. “You were saying we’re not a circus.”
Colin makes a sound like a deflating tire. “For six weeks! Six weeks of this… thissideshow! You know the media is calling you the ‘Beach Bums’, right?"
From the corner of my eye, I see Beck’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.
“At least it’s catchy,” he offers, his voice dripping with that trademark Morrison mischief. “Has a nice ring to it. Better than ‘The Moron Brothers,’ which is what our junior league coach used to call us.”
“This isn’t a joke, Morrison!”
“We’re six games into the season,” I say, my voice calm and flat. “It’s a new team. New system. These things take time.”
“It’s a newdisaster,” Colin counters, leaning forward. “And you’re the captain, Declan. This starts and ends with you."
I drag my attention away from paradise and back to the sweating man glaring at me in the expensive suit.
"Do you know what this is doing to ticket sales? To any future sponsorship conversations we have planned?”
I lean back, shaking my head. “We won last night. Just lead with that.”
“You barely won! After blowing a two-goal lead because your brother—” He jabs a finger at Beck, who grins, “—decided to turn a professional hockey game into his own personal dating show!”
Ah, yes.That.
I shrug one shoulder, fighting off the smile. “It was a good goal.”
Colin slams a hand on his polished desk, making a silver pen holder jump. “I don’t care if it was a goddamn miracle from heaven! The celebration is what people are talking about! Not the win! Not the team! YOUR BROTHER'S TONGUE DOWN THAT WOMAN'S THROAT!”
From the corner of my eye, I see Mason press his lips together, fighting a smile.
Colin spins his laptop around with violent force. “Tell me, Beck. What on earth were you thinking when you didthis?”
He stabs the spacebar, and the clip on the screen plays in crisp HD.
The Bear Cave, our home ice, is almost empty and absolutelynotroaring. The deserted stands blur past as the video shows Beck flying down the left wing, a blur of blue and gold dekeing around a defenseman. The move is so slick it’s almost rude, then he makes it even better with a wrist shot that snaps in top shelf.
