Chapter One

IF TROY Callahan had ever been in a quieter locker room, he didn’t know when.

That included the year Troy played for the New York Rangers and they lost to the Washington Capitals in the division finals. The locker room might have been quiet, but there was at least the air of sweaty, tired athletes who’d left it all out on the ice… even if the result wasn’t the one they wanted.

The Asheville Ravens’ locker room? It was like a goddamn funeral scene in a silent movie.

Troy took a moment to study the faces that stared back at him and wondered if he’d made the biggest mistake of his entire coaching career by agreeing to take this job. The Rangers offered him an assistant coaching position, and Troy turned it down to move to Asheville, North Carolina and take over a team of bullies who no one liked. Who either didn’t like him or were so conditioned to hate their coach that they hadn’t learned how to turn it off.

They would have to learn. Troy exchanged a brief look with the Ravens’ assistant coach, Brian Quinn, who stood quietly in the background. Quinn had been the assistant coach last season too, but seemed perfectly happy to have Troy here to take over his shipwreck of a team. Or maybe, in keeping with the theme, it was less a shipwreck and more a bird with a broken wing and a missing eye. That was probably dead.

“Look,” Troy started and decided on a whim to throw aside all the carefully constructed platitudes that his best friend and former teammate, Gabriel Bow—who also happened to be the Ravens’ new GM—“helped” him come up with at dinner the night before. The team didn’t need bullshit. It needed the truth. “I don’t know everything that happened in this locker room last season, but I know enough to make my stomach hurt.”

That got a few startled looks out of his stone-faced players. “And sure, a lot of those assholes who like to injure other players for fun aren’t in this locker room anymore, but let’s be clear about one thing—all that bullying, homophobic bullshit? It stops now, because I do not put up with it. You run your mouth off about any of that shit on my team, the only ice you’ll be seeing will be in a fountain soda. If you’re having problems scoring goals, letting in too many goals, or can’t defend against a strong breeze… we can work on that. That gets you drills and conditioning exercises. And believe me, those aren’t fun either. But being a homophobic asshole gets you a one-way ticket out of here. Because trust me, boys, there’s a lot of guys who want to play, even for a team everyone hates in a state where the government can’t get its head out of its ass.”

Excellent. Troy definitely had their attention. “And if you think I won’t replace you, think again. Every single goddamn one of you is replaceable, and I don’t care how many fucking goals you score or saves you make or what your goddamn plus-minus is. Got it?”

They were still quiet, but at least they nodded.

“Good. Just keep in mind that the Troy Callahan Sensitivity Training Seminar is a door hitting your ass on the way out and we’ll get along fine. Now that we got that clear, I’m gonna tell you kids a story about your former dickhead coach.” Troy crossed his arms over his chest. “I played with Denis St. Savoy”—he couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice when he said that asshole’s name—“for a few years when I was in the majors. I stopped playing a year before the Rangers won the Stanley Cup, and you want to know why? Because your former coach found out I was gay, blackmailed me about it, and told me to retire. Why? Who the fuck knows, really, but he thought the Rangers missing the playoffs the year before was my fucking fault for some goddamn stupid reason, so he wanted me gone. This was the midnineties. There was no You Can Play Project and players didn’t get suspended for using gay slurs.”

Troy tried meeting a few players’ eyes, but the only one who would even look up at him was the team captain, Xavier Matthews. And even Matthews looked away after a few seconds. “I was afraid, so I let that asshole bully me too. And that’s ancient history, but when I found out he was pulling the same shit here, it made me fucking ballistic. That’s a fancy word for mad. So yeah, I have a very personal reason for being here, and you can all bet your fucking collective asses I take this shit seriously. Got it?”

They nodded, still silent. “Do any of you know how to fucking talk?”

Matthews quietly cleared his throat. He also raised his hand tentatively, which made Troy want to bang his own head against some lockers until he blacked out. “Are you fucking kidding me, Matthews? It’s not school. Put your hand down. What is it?”

“Coach—uh. We weren’t allowed to talk in here.”

“Well, no. You shouldn’t talk when I’m talking, Matthews, but—wait. You weren’t supposed talk in here when?” Troy had a bad feeling he knew the answer.

“Umm. Ever.” Xavier winced. “Coach St. Savoy liked it to be, uh… quiet.”

“Okay, do me a favor and do not call that SOB ‘coach’ anywhere I might hear you.” Troy cast his eyes to the ceiling and prayed for patience. Then he looked at his team again. “You’re allowed to talk in the fucking locker room, Jesus Christ on a cracker. You can even speak up if you have questions or, hell, if you don’t agree with me or something is bothering you or your delicate ears can’t take my colorful language. I don’t even have a door on my office.” That hadn’t been Troy’s decision. Management had removed it, but his team didn’t need to know that. “This team isn’t about me. It’s about us. Ravens.” He paused and tried to remember what noises ravens made—something that might serve as a battle cry, something that wasn’t silence. “Caw?”

The attempt at a battle cry got him nothing but a few awkwardly muttered “caws” in refrain, which sounded like a bunch of sick birds on their deathbeds. So fairly apt.

“We’ll work on that.” Troy waved his hand. “Now get your skates on, get out there, and impress me and Coach Quinn.”

They all stood up to make their way to the ice, and Troy sat down and laced up his own skates while he cast a rueful look at the Ravens’ assistant coach. “Sorry, Quinn. I should have asked if you had anything to add.”

Brian Quinn gave him an easy smile. “Nah. I think you about covered it.” He hadn’t played professionally as far as Troy knew, and he was maybe five or six years younger than Troy himself. Or it was possible he was older and had a baby face. He was affable enough, and if he was bothered by coaching with a gay guy, he never said anything about it. So far he hadn’t said much of anything, though Troy’s personality was a bit overbearing. Especially when he first met someone. And then generally every moment after that.

Troy couldn’t imagine Quinn had much input into Savoy’s coaching methods anyway. When they’d fired St. Savoy, Quinn was up front about the closed-door meetings Savoy held with players—which were one reason there was no longer a door to Troy’s office—but he’d been horrified to learn about the blackmail and the threats against them. Gabe didn’t seem to think Quinn was in on any of St. Savoy’s schemes, but his contract was only through the end of the current season. If Troy hated the guy, they could get rid of him and hire someone else.

Troy wasn’t sure he liked Quinn, exactly, but so far Quinn was inoffensive, if a little mealymouthed. But Troy needed to make an effort to include Quinn in the day-to-day operations of coaching the team, since it was clear St. Savoy never had. That meant not hogging all the attention and letting Quinn address the team. “How about you say something at the end of practice?” Troy asked. “I know I have a strong personality. You can call me on it, you know. I won’t make you do a bag skate.”

Quinn ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. “I haven’t done a skating drill since college. Don’t worry about it, Coach. I’m happy you’re here, believe me. You’re already about a thousand times easier to work with than St. Savoy, strong personality and all.” Quinn’s smile faltered a little. “I still can’t believe I didn’t know any of that was going on last season. It probably doesn’t give you much faith in my coaching abilities.”

It didn’t, but Troy let that go. “New season, remember?” He stood up. On skates he was a lot taller than Quinn. Troy put his hand out. “All that matters is where we go from here. Okay?”

“Gotcha.” Quinn gave him a firm handshake. “Hey, that reminds me, aren’t we missing a winger?”

They were indeed down one winger. “I guess he’s not here yet.” Troy was convinced their newest Raven, Shane North, was a terrible addition to a team that already personified grim. That the guy wasn’t even there on time did nothing to change his mind.

“He did have to drive all the way from San Diego,” said Quinn amicably as they headed toward the ice. “That’s a hell of a trip.”

“He knew when practice started,” Troy groused. He almost said something to Quinn about what a stupid idea it was to sign Shane North in the first place, but he kept his mouth shut. It had been Gabe’s idea, and Gabe was Troy’s best friend. Troy was nothing if not loyal, even if that didn’t always work out in his favor.

HE WAS late. Shit.

Shane shouldered his bag and pushed his way into the arena, aware that being late was the tackiest thing ever to do on your first day with a new team. It was a long-ass drive to get here from San Diego, and sure, maybe he should have left a day earlier, but what the fuck? It was a thirty-three-hour drive, and it took him a few days to get through it all in his “not built for cross-country road trips” Volkswagen Rabbit.

There was also his unscheduled interlude in Dallas that cost him a few hours, but it was totally worth it—the guy was super hot, and the sex was exactly what Shane needed to shake off all that time in the car. Maybe he’d do things differently when he was finished playing, but in the meantime, one-night stands suited him just fine. Relationships—and everything that went with them—were not in the cards for the immediate future. Especially not when he didn’t plan to stay in Asheville after his season with the Ravens.

Shane was in Asheville because of the Ravens’ GM, Gabriel Bow. Bow was his coach when Shane played for the Anaheim Ducks, and he contacted Shane about an open roster spot when Shane’s AHL team, the Gulls, put him on waivers. No other AHL team seemed interested in picking up a thirty-six-year-old player, so if Shane wanted to end his career on his own terms—which he did—he’d have to do it in Asheville.

“You’re going to hear a lot about the Ravens in the news,” Gabe told him in his smooth voice, which was perfectly suited to press conferences and whatever else you did as a general manager. “Just don’t believe everything you hear, all right?”

As if anyone needed to tell Shane that. “Sure,” he’d said and shrugged. He was surprised when he found out that the coach would be Troy Callahan, a former AHL head coach who was technically stepping down a league by taking the job with the Ravens. You were supposed to move up in professional hockey, not down.

Shane “Who Had So Much Potential That Never Materialized” North was the expert on having a professional sports career that went the direction it wasn’t supposed to. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that or he’d be in a bad mood and late, and Callahan wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to piss off. Callahan’s team in the AHL was in the opposite conference—and all the way across the country—from Shane’s, but he still knew who Callahan was. He had a reputation, and it wasn’t the “forgiving new guys who were a little late” kind.

Shane knew he was a lot more than just a little late—shit, had he driven through another time zone and not realized it?—when he noticed there wasn’t a soul in the locker room. The pungent smell of sweat and shower soap told him there’d been people in there, and recently.

“Coach Callahan?”

Shane dropped his gear on the bench and made his way toward what looked like it should be an office, despite the lack of a door hanging on the hinges. He’d heard ECHL facilities weren’t quite as snazzy as the AHL, which were themselves a long way away from the luxury of the National Hockey League. But missing doors? That was a new one.

The man behind the desk looked up and fixed Shane with a sharp, pale-blue-eyed stare. Shane had no idea how old Coach Callahan was, but he played hockey for the Rangers back in the early nineties, so he had to be on the other side of forty-five. His dark hair was touched with gray at the temples and near the top of his hairline, which was a pointed widow’s peak.

“Mr. North.”

“Yeah. Sorry I’m late.” Shane stood awkwardly in the doorway. He tried a polite smile because Callahan looked pretty pissed. From what Shane remembered, he always looked that way. Though he had to admit that, up close and in person, Callahan was a lot more attractive than Shane realized. He was dressed in practice clothes, which meant he was one of those coaches who shouted at you from the ice during drills, not the bench. Great. “Long trip from San Diego.”

“Guess you should have left earlier.”

That set Shane’s teeth on edge, but he let it go.

Callahan’s icy eyes fixed on him. They were arresting, and Shane had to force himself not to glance away. “The end of your career is going to come a lot sooner if you can’t make it to practice on time, North.”

Jesus, the guy was a real asshole. But he was right, and Shane knew it. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Callahan waved that away. “Have a seat.”

Shane sat.

“If you’re wondering about the lack of a door, this team had a metric fuckton of problems last season, which I’m sure Bowie told you about. Gabe. Ah, I mean, Mr. Bow,” Callahan added finally, as though he couldn’t quite remember what name he was supposed to use to refer to the GM. Shane had heard they were friends. “Leaving the door off is the not-exactly-subtle way of saying there are no secrets.”

What the actual hell was Shane supposed to say to that? He knew there’d been issues, but hadn’t yet heard the specifics. “Uh. Okay?”

“Listen. I know this is your last season, and I admit I can’t figure out why the fuck you’re here at all. But you are, and so this is how this is gonna go. I know all about your reputation, and the last thing this team needs is someone bringing a bad attitude into the locker room. Or questionable hits on the ice. So get here on time, play your game and play it clean, and that’s all we have to say about it.”

Goddammit, Shane was not a goon. He played a hard game, and he got penalized because of it, but they weren’t cheap shots or late hits. Shane opened his mouth to say something about half his penalties being a result of his name and reputation, but Callahan talked right over him.

“If you’re about to tell me I’ve got you pegged all wrong, save it. If I did, you would have shown up on time and you would’ve been out there with your team instead of walking in here like you’re too good to practice.”

What the hell? “That’s not—”

“I said save it,” Callahan barked. His voice had the faintest hint of a New York accent, but more upstate than Brooklyn. “Show up on time tomorrow or take your sweetass time driving somewhere else and play for some other team.” He looked back down at his desk, and Shane stared hard at the top of Callahan’s head and wondered if maybe he should just forget the whole thing, give up hockey, go back to San Diego, and get on with his life. Whatever that would entail.

“Anything else, North?” Callahan didn’t even look up.

“No, Coach.” Shane lifted his chin. He wasn’t going to give up that easily. Whoever said spite wasn’t a powerful motivator?

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. In fact, why don’t you show up an hour early and we’ll go through some drills so I make sure you’re caught up.”

Fucking sadist. “Yes, Coach.”

Callahan did look up at that. “Just because it’s the ECHL doesn’t mean this isn’t a team you need to take seriously, so don’t take that goddamn tone with me.”

How about I just punch you in the face. No. That would prove that all those stupid people who thought he was nothing more than an aging, glorified goon were right—especially since it seemed like Callahan was one of those people. Goddammit. Shane stood up and nodded tersely. Honestly he should have been there on time, and he knew it. But something about Callahan made Shane feel argumentative, which was going to end badly. “I’m sorry I was late. I’ll be here an hour early tomorrow.”

“And you’ll apologize to the team for your absence today.”

God, where was he, juniors? He hadn’t been talked to like that since—well, since his first season in the pros. When they thought he mattered enough to pay attention to. That caused some of his ire to recede slightly, but the bitterness was right there to take its place. “Yes, Coach.” If that asshole thought Shane was going to call him sir, he could think again. This wasn’t fucking juniors, and Shane didn’t matter at all. Not anymore.

Callahan seemed to stare into his soul for a few seconds longer. “Good. See you tomorrow. Oh, go ahead and put your stuff in your locker before you head out.”

Shane debated thanking him, decided it would just sound like he was full of shit, and went to leave. He never wanted to have a door to slam so badly in his life.

He made up for it by slamming his locker and was both relieved and kind of mad that it didn’t break.