Chapter Two

TROY LEANED back against the boards and watched Shane skate the length of the rink. Not only had Shane shown up early, he was already on the ice when Troy got there. It made up for Shane’s missing practice, and Troy could admit he’d been a little hard on him. Still, he didn’t want North getting any ideas about half-assing his way through the season. From the way he responded to the drills Troy ran him through, though, that didn’t seem like it was going to be a problem.

Shane was a strong skater and clearly in good shape, despite the months he’d spent off the ice. Apparently he liked to go surfing when he wasn’t playing hockey, which was not a mental image Troy needed to think about. Shane was a few inches shorter than Troy and muscular in a way Troy’s runner’s physique would never be. Thinking about Shane with his shirt off, skin wet from the ocean…. Yeah, no.

Troy knew who Shane North was, of course, but Shane spent his AHL career entirely in the Western conference, so Troy only saw him play a couple of times a year. Troy knew North was a former top-round draft pick back in the early 2000s, but he had never quite lived up to his potential and spent most of his career pinballing between the NHL and the AHL. At some point he’d become a fixture in the AHL, and Troy didn’t think he’d been called up for a big-league game in quite some time. He’d been suspended more than his fair share for some questionable—though, to Shane’s credit—not late—hits, and that reputation made Troy nearly throw a fit. Okay, fine, he probably did throw a fit—when Gabe told him that he’d signed Shane.

“You signed an aging goon to a team full of bullies?” Troy asked, dumbfounded. “Are you secretly working for the forces of fucking evil, or what?”

Gabe smiled serenely and shook his head. Gabe was in his midfifties, and his hair was more gray than black, but he still had the same unshakeable calm he’d shown in goal, back when they were teammates on the Rangers.

“He’s not a goon just because he throws hard checks, Cally. He’s going to be a good influence in the locker room,” Gabe insisted. Which… yeah, maybe. But if Shane wanted Troy’s opinion of him to improve, he needed to show the fuck up on time.

Troy would normally be willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt if Gabe vouched for them, but the situation with his team was dire. Those guys played hockey like they were scavengers starving for some roadkill. He’d seen prison documentaries with a cheerier cast than his team, and he didn’t see how North would help. Shane had a chip the size of both Carolinas on his shoulder because he wasn’t as good a player as he’d always been told he’d be.

Speaking of North, Troy watched him come to a stop at the boards, breathing hard. He reached for his water bottle, and his eyes flickered toward Troy. “Again, Coach?”

There was something about Shane North’s voice that made Troy want to tell him to stop being a punk and shut up. The reaction was instantaneous from the moment Troy looked up and saw Shane standing in his doorway—and it had more to do with why Troy didn’t want to think about Shane wet, half-dressed, and holding a surfboard than it did with hockey. “Nah. Go take a break until the others get here.” It wouldn’t do to have Shane winded and unable to keep up on his first day on the ice with his teammates.

“Sure thing, Coach.”

Shane’s voice was totally respectful—he was too much of a professional to let it sound any other way, even the day before, when Troy had admittedly been an ass to him. Shane was a solid player, and if he kept his attitude in check, he would make a good addition to the third line.

He was also 1,000 percent Troy’s type, but even if he was in an acceptable age range, he was still Troy’s player. How frustrating that the most attractive person he’d found so far in this stupid state was the one guy he didn’t want around.

When Troy got back to the locker room, the rest of the team filed in and, predictably, gave Shane some side-eyed looks as they went to their lockers.

Quinn went right up to Shane and introduced himself. “Glad to see you made it in safe and sound.” He was clearly defaulting to “good cop,” which wasn’t at all a surprise. “I’m the assistant coach, Brian Quinn.”

“Shane North. I’m really sorry about yesterday. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Quinn laughed and clapped him on the back. “I saw Coach had you out there early today.”

“Yeah, but it felt good to skate off that drive,” said Shane amicably enough. With that, Quinn introduced him to his new teammates.

When they got to Xavier Matthews, Quinn pointed out that he was the captain, and Shane held his hand out. “Hey, I’m really looking forward to playing with you guys this year.”

“You—are?” Xavier faltered, clearly unable to hide his surprise as he returned the handshake. “Like… as a coach?”

Shane smiled but it didn’t look amused. “A player. I signed a contract just for this season. I was going to apologize for missing practice yesterday since I got in late, but I guess you weren’t expecting me.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know you were gonna be on the team… but, hey. Good to have you here.”

“Thanks.” Shane glanced over at Troy, clearly annoyed.

Troy stared back and didn’t say anything. If Shane had bothered to show up on time, it wouldn’t be an issue, would it?

“Listen up,” Troy said, and the locker room went from a dull mumble to funereal silence again. “In case you missed what just happened, this is Shane North. North played the last six years for the San Diego Gulls in the AHL, and he’s signed for his last season with the Ravens.”

There were some mumbled, “Glad to meet you’s,” and then everyone turned toward their own lockers and fell back into uncomfortable silence.

If anyone was curious as to why Shane was in his gear and obviously had been working out, they didn’t ask. Troy went ahead and told them anyway.

“North got here an hour early to make up for missing practice yesterday,” Troy continued. “In case any of you were wondering and were too afraid to fucking ask me. But for future reference, that’s what happens if you miss practice and I’m in a good mood.” Before he dismissed them to the ice, he remembered to turn to Quinn. “Coach Quinn? Anything to add?”

“Nope,” said Quinn cheerfully.

Well, that was helpful. Troy made a note to ask Quinn if maybe he wanted to actually try coaching, as that was the point of having an assistant, but there was no way to say that without coming across as a huge dick.

Chill out. You know St. Savoy beat the spirit out of him, just like he did the rest of the team. That fucking cheerfulness is all for show.

Practice went well. There was talent there, no doubt about that. The Ravens lacked speed, and he identified some early offensive issues, but they had a potentially strong defense and guys who were used to playing a heavy game. North was a good fit in that sense. It was a mystery to Troy why St. Savoy didn’t just cultivate the talent he had on the ice and leave the melodrama for Netflix. There was no need for the Ravens to resort to cheap shots, bullying, and sabotage. Then again just about everything having to do with St. Savoy involved cheap shots, bullying, and sabotage, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

That reminded Troy of his assistant coach, who stood behind the boards with a marker and a dry-erase board. There wasn’t a mark on it. Troy squelched his irritation and said, “I’m thinking North’d fit in well on the third line.”

“Definitely,” agreed Quinn. He poised the marker above the dry-erase board as though he were going to write something, changed his mind, and capped it again. “If you think so.”

You can’t punch him. Deep breath. “He’s got a bit of a reputation for playing a hard game, which isn’t in itself a bad thing, but you know how the league is cracking down on late and questionable hits. Been suspended more than his fair share, so we have to keep an eye on that, cultivate his strengths without him spending most of his time in the box. We’re trying to stay defensive minded without being thugs on the ice. We’re not the goddamn Flyers, here.” He paused. “Are you a Flyers fan?”

Quinn shook his head. “Nah. Flames. I’m from Calgary.”

“Poor bastard,” said Troy, hoping the hockey banter might get Quinn to open up, banter back, do something that amounted to engagement.

It didn’t, so Troy went back to talking about their team. “You on board with that assessment? You were here last year. Am I missing anything?”

Quinn’s smile faltered a bit. “Look, Coach, I know what you’re doing. You’ve probably guessed that St. Savoy didn’t like me to have opinions or do much of anything, and you’re right. So I appreciate it, but you’re the one with all the experience.”

Was there something bitter in there? Maybe. But why shouldn’t he be bitter? Assistant coaching was a way to learn, and it was obvious the only thing Quinn learned under St. Savoy was how to be background filler and hold a dry-erase board.

It was only the second practice, Troy reminded himself. Those things took time.

Troy had Quinn draw out some plays, and that at least kept him involved. The time went quickly as they cycled through drills and Troy saw the bare bones of his team take shape. Every other team in the ECHL might hate the Ravens this season, but it wouldn’t be because they were a bunch of assholes on the ice. He knew that the press was convinced he was hired because he was openly gay and the team’s owner, Stuart Hargett, was trying to make up for the team’s unfortunate homophobic past. Hell, they were probably convinced Hargett had hired Gabriel in part because he was black—and they were wrong. Not that Troy wasn’t gay and Gabriel wasn’t black, but they were both good at their jobs and the Ravens were lucky to have them so intent to turn the team around.

Maybe Troy’s investment was due in part to a personal vendetta, but Gabriel seemed dead and determined to make the Ravens respectable out of purely altruistic reasons. He loved his job and enjoyed a challenge. Not that Troy didn’t feel the same way, but yeah, sticking it to Denis St. Savoy—metaphorically, God help him—was a draw he couldn’t deny.

“All right, that’s enough,” Troy called when he blew the whistle. “Hit the showers.”

The team skated by him, and Troy heard a few grumbles. It wasn’t much, but it was a start at the very least. Teams were supposed to hate their coach during practice. It was a rule.

“Good job today,” Quinn piped up, and Troy decided to count practice as a win.

He had a feeling they weren’t going to get very many of those.

“I STILL think this is a terrible idea.” Troy scowled as he took a drink of his bourbon. “In case you were wondering.”

“You like bourbon, Cally.”

“No. Not the drink, Bowie. I meant North, and you know it.” The bourbon was excellent, and Gabe knew that too.

“Oh, he’s going to be fine, Troy. Relax.” Gabe waved a hand. “He’ll be a good influence in the locker room.”

“If you say that one more time, I’m going to hit you. Monica won’t mind.”

“Probably not, but it’s the truth.” Gabe was as serene as ever as he sipped his own bourbon with obvious pleasure. “This is Weller’s. It’s the same recipe as Pappy’s, you know.”

Gabe had picked up a fondness for Kentucky bourbon, courtesy of a stint as an assistant coach for the Lexington Thoroughblades. Troy liked liquor that got him drunk and didn’t taste like shit, so drinking at Gabe’s was always a good idea. They had a guest room and a guest bath in case he didn’t want to drive home sloshed, and Monica might pretend she thought he was a pain in the ass, but really she liked him.

“Pappy Van Winkle,” Gabe added. “Which is a rare and delicious bourbon you have to be on a waiting list to get.”

“We were talking about your terrible ideas for our team,” Troy reminded him, but the Weller’s was indeed delicious. He took another drink and enjoyed the smooth, sharp taste and the pleasant warmth that rushed down into his stomach. “And he’s not an influence in the locker room. No one talks to him.”

“I thought you said no one talks to anyone in the locker room.”

Troy scowled. “They don’t, but that’s not the point. Although maybe it is. Look, Bowie, I said it was a terrible idea, and so it is. I don’t need to back up anything I say with facts.”

“Maybe not when you’re talking to your players, but I’m your boss,” Gabe reminded him. “Who is giving you good bourbon.”

“If it wasn’t good, I’d just mix it with some Coke.”

Gabe put a hand over his heart and pretended to wince, but then grew serious. “Give him a chance. He’s not in bad shape, is he?”

“No,” Troy mumbled into his drink. “He’s not.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Troy lowered the glass and stared at the whiskey stones intently. Troy had no idea where you even got such a thing. He was lucky he had ice in his freezer.

Gabe cleared his throat.

“What?” Troy shot him a glare. “He’s in good shape. Yes. I’m agreeing with you.”

“I know, that’s why I’m speechless.” Gabe grinned at him, and the lines crinkled around his eyes. “You think he’s hot, don’t you.”

“He’s a hockey player in great shape who is over the age of thirty, and he surfs for fun,” Troy reminded him. “I’m not dead. But he’s also got a bad attitude—”

“So do you.”

Troy scowled harder. “And he’s got a reputation for being a bully, which, Bowie, you’ll note is backed up by the several lengthy suspensions he’s earned. So it’s not like I’m making that up. That’s the last thing this team needs.”

“Then don’t let him be one,” Gabe said, as though that were sensible and obvious. “And I don’t really think he’s a bully. I think he plays hard, and he’s angry about not being the player everyone always made him out to be. He was supposed to have this great career, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a chip on his shoulder about it.”

Even though Troy had thought nearly the exact same thing earlier, he still wanted to argue about it. “Why is that a good reason to sign him, again?”

“Because the kid wants to quit hockey on his own terms, Cally. I would think you, of all people, would appreciate that. Besides you’ve got a whole team to manage. What’s one more guy?” Gabe’s smile turned into a leer. “You’re totally into that. Don’t lie.”

“Shut up. God. I am never letting you use my laptop unattended again,” Troy muttered as he slunk down a bit and tried to pretend the flush was from the alcohol and not because his best friend and now boss knew he watched gang-bang porn.

Gabe laughed. “You want more bourbon?”

“Nah.” He did, but he also knew he shouldn’t have any if he wanted to drive home. The guest room was nice and all, but he kind of wanted to head home to his laptop. “When’s Monica getting back?”

“Tomorrow. She’s flying into Charlotte tonight, but decided to get a hotel and drive back in the morning.”

“Where was she, again? Seattle or something?”

Gabe rolled his eyes. He’d already told Troy that information three or more times. “Washington. She and some of her writer friends were at a retreat, working on novels.” The pride in his voice was evident. “She said she’s already got a few thousand words on a new project and is really excited about it.”

Gabe’s pride in his wife’s literary talents was evident, and it made Troy smile. Monica used to work in PR, but she recently started publishing romance novels and had built a successful career out of it. “You didn’t tell her about the gang-bang porn, did you?” he asked, suddenly horrified.

“She writes romance novels. Sometimes she watches porn for research.” Gabe’s smile turned sly. “You should check out her laptop.”

“I think we might like different kinds of porn,” Troy said dryly.

“You’d be surprised.” Gabe tossed back the rest of his drink. “Anyway, just give North a fair shot. If he’s a problem, then do what you’ve got to do. I just think he gets a bad rap, and yeah, I know he’s been suspended. But Cally, you were suspended for playing basically the same way.”

“Yeah, but not that many times.”

“Only because you didn’t play as long.” Gabe sighed when he caught sight of Troy’s unguarded wince. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Why are you sorry?” Troy stood up. “It’s not your fault I was a coward.”

“You weren’t a coward,” Gabe said in the tone of voice that said, “We’ve had this conversation a million times and will probably have it a million more.”

“You were young and scared, and it was a different world. A lot has changed since we played. Most of it for the better. You know half those hits North was suspended for would have been legal back in our day.”

“Don’t pull that ‘back in our day’ shit on me.” Troy groaned as he carried his glass into the kitchen. “We’re not that old.”

“Yes, we are.” Gabe followed him and folded his arms across his chest. “And you’ve been fined as a coach a few times, you know. Weren’t you ejected from a game just last season for arguing over a call?”

“Yes, because it was bullshit.” Troy was still mad about that. “That whole game was one missed call after another, and I—stop laughing, okay? Goddammit.” He rinsed the glass and placed it in the dish-drying rack. “Fine. I’m a hothead coach. He’s a hothead player. But this isn’t a goddamn sitcom, Bowie. It’s our fucking job.”

“And I have every faith you’ll be able to do it and do it well.” Gabe clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s just for the season, Cally. And if the kid can’t play, then bench him. But try and go a little easier on him, all right?”

Troy didn’t go easy on anyone, and Gabe of all people should damn well know it. “One last thing. The assistant coach has all the personality of a piece of dryer lint.”

“I thought having two strong personalities in charge would be a bad idea.”

That was probably true, but still. “Couldn’t you have found someone with any kind of personality?”

“He probably had one before St. Savoy siphoned it out of him,” said Gabe. “Stuart assured me that they investigated Quinn and even asked the players at length if he was involved in any of St. Savoy’s schemes.” Gabe opened a cabinet and pulled out a clean glass. Then he went to the pitcher of water on the counter. “Seems like he was a nonentity, for the most part, which makes sense, given what we know of St. Savoy. But if Quinn doesn’t work out, we’ll revisit at the end of the season.”

Troy sighed, raked a hand through his hair, and accepted the glass of water Gabe handed him without question. He hated how reasonable Gabe was being, because that meant he couldn’t argue with him. “Yeah. I guess. It’s just that I’ve had more technical hockey conversations with NHL ’94 than this guy.”

“Give him a chance,” Gabe soothed. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Troy let the matter drop, but he couldn’t help but wonder how much Quinn knew about what went on last year. Being uninvolved didn’t mean Quinn wasn’t aware. It just meant he was silent. There were plenty of good reasons for staying quiet, and Quinn had talked at length about the uncomfortable locker room morale and St. Savoy’s draconian coaching style. He just never noticed the money that changed hands or the blackmail or anything else.

Or so he said.

Troy put it out of his mind and got another glass of water. He’d promised to give Quinn a chance, and if it didn’t work out, they’d get a new assistant coach. No harm, no foul.

But if life had taught him anything, it was that things were never that easy.