Tom Tucker knew they wanted his brother more than they wanted him. He knew he had a reputation in the National Hockey League. He knew that not many teams appreciated his fierce passion for his team and for the sport that led him into getting suspended for multiple games. He wasn't a dirty player—at least, he didn't try to be. A lot of the times, his passion came in the form of saying something to the officials or to the press that he probably shouldn't be saying. If Michael Tucker wasn't his older brother, Tom knew none of the hockey teams would want him, and he would be relegated into spending the rest of his promising career in the American Hockey League, playing for a farm team that masked as training time for all of the rookies until they got the official call up from their associated NHL team.

If they got the call up.

Tom shifted his eyes so they rested on Michael. He always sat with presence, without any sort of nervousness—at least that anyone could see.

"What?" Michael asked in his low, soft voice. He didn't even look at Tom, but there was a spark of amusement in his pale green eyes.

Tom pressed his lips together and shrugged one shoulder. He shook his head. He didn't even want to open his mouth to speak—not yet, anyway. He didn't want to jinx it.

"We're going to get on the team," Michael insisted, leaning forward and dropping his hands so they rested on his thighs. "You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," Tom said. He hadn't meant to snap but that's what it was coming out as. "Sorry." He shook his head. "I guess I'm tired of going from team to team."

"So stop." Michael said it was so simple, like Tom could somehow turn off his emotions. Like it was so easy. "Tom, you've got the skill. There's no denying that. You deserve a place in the league. But your temper…" He shook his head once before sliding his eyes back to the desk in front of them. He let out a slow sigh and relaxed his shoulders.

"I see my temper as an asset," Tom pointed out.

"That's good," a voice said. "We do, too."

Tom practically jumped up on his feet while Michael slid onto his—one, a graceful cat with clear intentions and the other, a spazz, just looking for his next meal. Tomcat, indeed.

"My name is Seraphina Hanson." Tom had to blink once to make sure he was seeing her correctly. She was more beautiful than he imagined her to be, than her pictures did her justice. "And you are—Thomas and Michael Harding, correct?"

"Tom," Tom put in. Michael glanced at his brother with a warning look but Tom ignored him. "Yes, we know who you are."

Seraphina shook both of their hands, her grip firm but not overdone, not as if she were trying to push herself on them, to prove her strength. She looked both of them in the eye with a smile before sitting down and gesturing for them to do the same.

"Let's see…" She flipped open a binder and turned pages until she found what she was looking for. "You've been in the NHL for two years longer than your brother, is that right, Michael?"

"Yes." One nod.

"And Thomas—sorry, Tom—you've been playing on the same team as your brother since you got drafted, is that correct?" Seraphina picked her eyes up and waited for Tom's answer. "You didn't even play on Philadelphia's farm team, which is rare unless you were a top three draft pick, but you weren't. You went twenty-second, first round, which is still incredible, but not as incredible as making the team your first year."

"Tom and I have been playing hockey together since we could walk," Michael pointed out. "We already had the chemistry other teams would kill for."

"That is true," Seraphina said. "You guys are called the Twins even though you're two years apart."

"Twenty-seven months," Tom put in. "But who's counting?" He cleared his throat, creeping up to the edge of his seat and hunching forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and let his hands hang limply between his knees. "May I ask, what did you mean when you said you see my temper as an asset? I mean, I said it and you seemed to agree, so…"

Seraphina smiled, leaning back in her cushy chair. She had this aura of confidence, so different from the scared woman they’d portrayed in the media before.

"We have a couple of enforcers on our team who I would consider an integral part of who we are and what our goal is," Seraphina said. "Jackman and Morgan are top defenders, veterans of the game, who aren't afraid to drop their gloves when they need to in order to defend our more finessed players."

"I've heard Underwood and Ryan can hold their own," Michael said.

"They all can," Seraphina said. "Even our goalie has gotten into a couple of skirmishes this year."

Tom smirked, remembering turning on the NHL Network. Talk of Brandon Thorpe's infamous goalie fight even made it to ESPN. It was something Tom found thrilling. More than that, when he heard Newport was interested in him and his brother, he found himself hoping for the trade.

Technically, a contract pick-up.

He had been put on waivers the end of Philadelphia's season. His brother's contract happened to expire and since Philly didn't want to keep Tom, Michael refused to sign with them, so he was a free agent.

"Listen, can I level with you?" Seraphina caught Tom's eyes rather than Michael's.

It was a different change of pace from managers and owners and recruiters speaking to Michael rather than Tom. Tom was along for the ride. Tom was grateful to get a spot anywhere. But now, Seraphina was talking to Tom outside of Michael, like he mattered just as much as Michael. And that caused a strong sense of pride to fill his bloodstream.

"There aren't many teams who want you," she said. He cleared his throat, surprised by her blunt delivery. "They worry about your anger. They worry about your patience. They worry about you being selfish and individualistic rather than being about the team. I think you have the ability to prove them wrong."

Tom raised a brow. "Okay," he said, unsure what that meant and how he was supposed to work with that. "I'm not sure—"

"Your pride is more important to you than anything else," Seraphina said. "You care. A lot. And that's important. But I need you to care more about your team and what's best for them. Because I don't see you as the Twins. I see Michael as Michael and Tom as Tom, two cogs on my wheel that, when working together, get the job done."

"I can be a cog." He looked back at Michael, playfully smacking his brother's shoulder. "You can be a cog, can't you? I can be whatever you need me to be."

Seraphina's lips curled up and Tom leaned back in his chair to grin. This was going much better than he expected.

"Our agent can talk to you about technicalities," Michael said. His voice was stiff, his face stoic. Tom couldn't help but look back at his brother and wonder what the hell his problem was. Seraphina and the Seagulls wanted him—wanted Tom—on their team. They weren't just taking Tom so they could have Michael, they actually wanted Tom. "Is there a reason you called this meeting, just the two of us?"

"I know it seems unorthodox," Seraphina admitted. "I like meeting prospective players one-on-one, or in this case, two-on-one, in order to get a feel for who they are. I know certain players like to wear masks, like to adapt to certain types of personalities during negotiations and contract settlements, and I get that. But I find I learn everything I need to know by calling players in and having a little chat. I don't just want to make sure you're a good fit for us, I want to make sure we're a good fit for you."

Michael nodded his head like he understood her logic, but Tom could tell from the way his fingers released their hold on the arms of his chair that Michael was impressed. Tom pressed his lips together to hold back a delighted smile. If Michael was on board, that meant they were nearly Gulls.

"And what is it you have to offer us that other teams don't?" Michael continued.

Tom opened his mouth, ready to reprimand his brother for the rude question but Seraphina answered without seeming perturbed in the slightest.

"Besides the fact that we have phenomenal weather and our rink overlooks the Pacific Ocean," she said, "we just won the Stanley Cup championship. This means an increase in ticket sales, which means nice pay for both of you should you choose to come. Southern California fans are notoriously fickle, and while a lot of people across the country and in Canada look at it as a bad thing, I have a different perspective. Southern California is an incredibly expensive place to live. Fans are not going to spend their money on a shitty product. My grandfather knew that, which was why he spent years in the red developing a team that would one day turn it around, and he did. We did. You will have loyal fans willing to pay money to watch you play, not because of some obligation, but because you're good. On top of that, Brandon Thorpe is an excellent goalie. He's thirty now, and still the best goalie in the league. You'll play with future hall of famers such as Underwood, Ryan, Dimitri Petrov. You will become a better player by the time the season is through and, possibly, get a Cup out of it. I know how skilled both of you are. Michael, I know you've won plenty of hockey awards, but the Cup has always been out of reach for you, isn't that right?"

Tom nodded his head. Michael clenched his jaw so it popped. Tom knew there was nothing malicious about his brother but it had been a sore spot for Michael as long as he could remember. Michael was thirty-five, would be thirty-six in a couple of months. There was a good chance he might be forced to retire without a Cup, and, in hockey, it was always wise to retire before you were pressured out.

"On top of that, you're going to be able to live your life without worrying about scandals or being followed like you would in Canada, or even Philly," Seraphina continued. "We're small market here. It may not seem like it right now because everyone is suddenly noticing that SoCal can play hockey as well as Canada, Detroit, and New York. But trust me, when the new season starts in October, things will die down and everybody will write us off. Hollywood has a bigger market than we do, but only because they've been around since the sixties. If you're on the team, you can be a superstar, get paid well, but still live relatively normal lives."

"That sounds wonderful," Tom said. He couldn't stop smiling. Every bone in his body was telling him this was the right choice. Newport was where he needed to be.

"Look," Seraphina said, standing up and smoothing down the wrinkles on her skirt. "The trade deadline is in two weeks. I know you aren't technically trades but I'd like to finalize my roster by then—before training camp and exhibition games begin. So why don't you hang out for a couple of weeks, work out with some of the guys—some are away for the summer. But make yourself at home. Permanently, I hope."

She winked and ushered the two men out of her office.

Tom continued to grin, rubbing his hands together. This felt good. This felt right.

Now, he just had to get Michael on board.