Bucky grins. “I’ll message them back and find out.”

Coach strides into the locker room to deliver his pregame pep talk, which typically consists of a sentence or two, tops, before he turns it over to the captain or assistant captains to pump everybody up. This evening’s “pep talk” offers the usual sentiments—kick their ass, don’t embarrass me, don’t bring shame onto your house, et cetera et cetera. Then I give a little speech and we all file out onto the ice.

The crowd is deafening, and I don’t even care that only a third of the seats consist of Briar fans. The screams and cheers and even the boos fuel my blood. I fucking love this sport. I love the ice, the speed, the aggression. I love the physicality of it, the way every bone in my body jars and my teeth rattle when I’m slammed into the boards. Those are messed up things to love, but that’s hockey.

I remember the game Fitz and I watched in our living room last night. Edmonton versus Vancouver. Jake Connelly scored one of the most beautiful goals I’d ever seen. And I remember the longing I felt, an ache that actually tightened my throat, because while college hockey is great, it’s nowhere near as fast and competitive as professional hockey.

And if the pros were simply about being out there on the ice, I’d sign up in a heartbeat. But that life comes with strings I’m not interested in. It comes with women and glamour and press conferences and constant travel. Constant temptation. And Davenport men don’t fare well in the face of temptation.

So I’ll just have to content myself with this, right now, skating out on the ice with my friends, kicking ass. Because this is what it’s all about.

The bus drops us off on campus around eleven, and from there I hop into my Rover and drive myself and a few teammates back to Hastings. I deliver them to Matt and Con’s house, then head home to park my car. I’m planning on walking back to Matt’s. That way I can drink more than a couple of beers.

At home, I change out of my dress clothes—we’re required to wear jackets, ties, and trousers for all away games. It’s almost a shame to strip out of my suit, because I rock it like nobody’s business. I can thank my father for that. He pulls off the CEO look better than anyone. Probably why he’s so popular with the ladies.

A little too popular.

“Hunter, you heading out?” Brenna pokes her head into my bedroom. As usual, there was no knocking involved.

“Yeah, I’m going to Matty’s. Want to come?”

“I might pop over later. I’m Skyping with Jake first.”

“Tell him I said hey. Oh, and tell him I’m jealous of that goal he scored yesterday. It was a beauty.”

“Right? I’ve never been more turned on in my life.”

“I honestly think Edmonton has a shot of winning the Cup this year.”

“Same. They’re unstoppable.”

I zip up my hoodie. “When I was in Boston last month, Garrett was saying he hopes they don’t have to face each other in a playoffs series.” Christ, I don’t even know who I’d be rooting for in that scenario. Garrett, I guess. No. Jake. Or maybe Garrett. Fuck, it’s an impossible choice. Like picking between the gym and your girlfriend.

Brenna wanders off, and I go downstairs to put on my coat and boots. I’m about to slide my phone in my pocket when it beeps in my hand. I check it and find a text from Tara, a girl I hooked up with last year.

TARA: Hey, sorry for texting out of the blue like this—random, right? Nice win tonight. Just wanted to give you a heads up, tho. Some guy was asking about you.

ME: I might need more details than that LOL

HER: After the game, some guys came over and one of them was grilling me and my girls about where you were. I said probably on the team bus.

ME: Wait, this happened in the city?

HER: Yeah, outside the BC arena.

ME: OK, that’s weird. Thanks for the heads up.

HER: No prob, hon.

She punctuates that with three hearts. Red hearts. Every guy on the planet is aware that red hearts mean business. An invitation to start something up if I want to. But I don’t.

I walk out the front door, and I’m nearing the sidewalk when my phone beeps again. This time I find a message from Grady, the little brother of one of my teammates.

GRADY: Hey. Hunter. Got your # from Dan. He told me to text about this—some dude was looking for you at BC.

ME: Yeah, I just heard. Any idea who it was?

HIM: Never seen any of them before. The main guy kinda looked like a young Johnny Depp?

ME: Doesn’t ring a bell.

HIM: Anyway, I heard someone mention to them that you might be at Matt Anderson’s house tonight. Wanted to let you know in case he tracks you down.

ME: Thanks. I appreciate it, man.

Okay. I don’t like this at all. Two different warnings that a bunch of strangers were asking about me? Strangers who raised enough alarms that Tara and Grady both felt the need to reach out to me.

And fuck, I’m glad they did, because when I reach Matt and Con’s street, I immediately notice the group twenty feet ahead, loitering by the curb. If I hadn’t been forewarned, I might’ve waltzed right up to them thinking they were partygoers.

Instead, I slow my gait, giving myself time to scope out the guys. There are five of them. They’re not particularly huge in terms of height, but they’re all pretty beefy. One is bald and stocky and appears vaguely familiar. The tallest one has his back to me, but he turns around when he hears my footsteps.

“Nico,” I say guardedly. “Hey.”

I haven’t seen or spoken to Demi’s ex since the night she went all Carrie Underwood on his stuff. And on closer examination, he kind of does resemble a young Johnny Depp, but with a darker complexion.

“What’s going on?” I ask when he doesn’t return the greeting.

“You tell me.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Really? Because rumor has it you were out with Demi on Monday night.” Barely concealed rage reddens his face. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Nico’s friends creep forward. Not close enough to pose a physical threat, but enough that my shoulders snap into a rigid line.

“Yeah, we went to Malone’s for a drink.” I omit the part where Demi was going there to meet another guy. Nico is already on edge.

“I heard it was more than a drink.” His voice trembles with anger. “Heard you got thrown in lockup together.”

Fuck’s sake.

I open my mouth to respond, but Nico hisses like a venomous snake. “Heard you got pulled over with your dick in her mouth.”

“That’s not what happened.” My tone is calm, even.

“You feel like a big man, Davenport, disrespecting my girl like that?”

“I’m not disrespecting anyone—”