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- Herausgeber: GallagherWitt Publishing LLC
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Hockey and romance – what’s not to love?
This collection includes five full-length standalone M/M hockey romance novels!
Brick Walls – They’re bitter exes. Now they’re on the same team… along with the very persistent demon that drove them apart.
Own Goal – Eight seasons after he made the biggest mistake of his career, he’s finally regaining some respect and securing his place as second line center. But his team just made a new acquisition, and suddenly he’s linemates with the man who was the unknowing catalyst for his fall from grace.
Name From a Hat Trick – When his daughter’s hero becomes his boyfriend… can they make it work?
Burner Account – The last person he expected his anonymous online friend to be was his hockey crush. Now the chemistry is sizzling and they’re as inseparable in person as they are online, and their only regret is not doing this sooner. But when the novelty eventually wears off, how much can a broke, overweight average Joe actually offer a hot, rich, younger athlete?
Injured Reserve – A marriage in crisis… and the injury that might be exactly what they need to get back on track.
Enemies to lovers. Exes to lovers. Friends to lovers. Fans to lovers.
This collection has it all!
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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5-on-5
A Hockey Romance Collection
L.A. Witt
Contents
Artificial Intelligence
5-on-5: A Hockey Romance Collection
Brick Walls
About Brick Walls
Author’s Note
1. Sol
2. Josh
3. Sol
4. Josh
5. Sol
6. Josh
7. Sol
8. Josh
9. Sol
10. Josh
11. Sol
12. Josh
13. Sol
14. Josh
15. Sol
16. Josh
17. Sol
18. Josh
19. Sol
20. Josh
21. Sol
22. Josh
23. Sol
24. Josh
25. Sol
26. Josh
27. Sol
28. Josh
29. Sol
30. Josh
31. Sol
32. Josh
33. Sol
34. Josh
35. Sol
36. Josh
37. Sol
38. Josh
39. Sol
40. Josh
41. Sol
42. Josh
43. Sol
Afterword
Burner Account
About Burner Account
1. Isaiah
2. Tanner
3. Isaiah
4. Tanner
5. Isaiah
6. Tanner
7. Isaiah
8. Tanner
9. Isaiah
10. Tanner
11. Isaiah
12. Tanner
13. Isaiah
14. Tanner
15. Isaiah
16. Tanner
17. Isaiah
18. Tanner
19. Isaiah
20. Tanner
21. Isaiah
22. Tanner
23. Isaiah
24. Tanner
25. Isaiah
26. Tanner
27. Isaiah
28. Tanner
29. Isaiah
Epilogue
Injured Reserve
About Injured Reserve
Acknowledgments
1. Antonio
2. Stefan
3. Antonio
4. Stefan
5. Antonio
6. Stefan
7. Antonio
8. Antonio
9. Stefan
10. Antonio
11. Stefan
12. Antonio
13. Stefan
14. Antonio
15. Stefan
16. Antonio
17. Stefan
18. Antonio
19. Stefan
20. Antonio
21. Stefan
22. Antonio
23. Stefan
24. Antonio
25. Stefan
26. Antonio
27. Stefan
28. Antonio
29. Stefan
Epilogue
Name From a Hat Trick
About Name From a Hat Trick
1. Jase
2. Devin
3. Jase
4. Devin
5. Jase
6. Devin
7. Jase
8. Devin
9. Jase
10. Devin
11. Jase
12. Devin
13. Jase
14. Devin
15. Jase
16. Devin
17. Jase
18. Devin
19. Jase
20. Devin
21. Jase
22. Devin
23. Jase
24. Devin
25. Jase
26. Devin
27. Jase
28. Devin
29. Jase
30. Devin
31. Jase
32. Devin
33. Jase
34. Devin
35. Jase
36. Devin
37. Jase
38. Devin
Epilogue
Own Goal
Own Goal
1. Jarek
2. Hunter
3. Jarek
4. Hunter
5. Jarek
6. Hunter
7. Jarek
8. Hunter
9. Jarek
10. Hunter
11. Jarek
12. Hunter
13. Jarek
14. Hunter
15. Jarek
16. Hunter
17. Jarek
18. Hunter
19. Jarek
20. Hunter
21. Jarek
22. Hunter
23. Jarek
24. Hunter
25. Jarek
26. Hunter
27. Jarek
28. Hunter
29. Jarek
30. Hunter
31. Jarek
32. Hunter
33. Jarek
34. Hunter
35. Jarek
36. Hunter
37. Jarek
38. Hunter
Epilogue
Don’t miss these hockey romances by L.A. Witt!
Also by L.A. Witt
Also by L.A. Witt
About the Author
Copyright Information
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
5-on-5: A Hockey Romance Collection
First edition
Copyright © 2024 L.A. Witt
Cover Art by Lori Witt
Includes: Burner Account © 2023, Brick Walls © 2023, Injured Reserve © 2023, Name From a Hat Trick © 2020, Own Goal © 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, record ing, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact L.A. Witt at [email protected]
ISBN: 978-1-64230-215-8
Created with Vellum
Artificial Intelligence
No artificial intelligence was used in the making of this book or any of my books. This includes writing, co-writing, cover artwork, translation, and audiobook narration.
I do not consent to any Artificial Intelligence (AI), generative AI, large language model, machine learning, chatbot, or other automated analysis, generative process, or replication program to reproduce, mimic, remix, summarize, train from, or otherwise replicate any part of this creative work, via any means: print, graphic, sculpture, multimedia, audio, or other medium. This applies to all existing AI technology and any that comes into existence in the future.
I support the right of humans to control their artistic works.
5-on-5: A Hockey Romance Collection
Hockey and romance – what’s not to love?
This collection includes five full-length standalone M/M hockey romance novels!
Brick Walls – They’re bitter exes. Now they’re on the same team… along with the very persistent demon that drove them apart.
Own Goal – Eight seasons after he made the biggest mistake of his career, he’s finally regaining some respect and securing his place as second line center. But his team just made a new acquisition, and suddenly he’s linemates with the man who was the unknowing catalyst for his fall from grace.
Name From a Hat Trick – When his daughter’s hero becomes his boyfriend… can they make it work?
Burner Account – The last person he expected his anonymous online friend to be was his hockey crush. Now the chemistry is sizzling and they’re as inseparable in person as they are online, and their only regret is not doing this sooner. But when the novelty eventually wears off, how much can a broke, overweight average Joe actually offer a hot, rich, younger athlete?
Injured Reserve – A marriage in crisis… and the injury that might be exactly what they need to get back on track.
Enemies to lovers. Exes to lovers. Friends to lovers. Fans to lovers.
This collection has it all!
About Brick Walls
Cary “Sol” Solomon isn’t just in a slump—he’s a mess. His stats have plummeted. Fans hate him. After he caps off two awful seasons with a catastrophic playoff flop, his team is done with him. Worse, thanks to his downward spiral, the addiction that’s nearly cost him his career before is rearing its ugly head.
As luck would have it, though, the Seattle Sasquatches are desperate for goalies. When they snatch up Sol off waivers, maybe he has a chance to turn things around… if he can stay sober and get back on his game.
Except Sol isn’t the Sasquatches’ only new netminder.
Once destined for the hall of fame, Josh O’Brien is a trainwreck thanks to an injury and a messy divorce. His illustrious career is a disaster, and now he’s an unrestricted free agent who nobody wants to sign. He’s on the brink of losing the only thing he has left: hockey.
Then Seattle comes knocking with an offer he can’t refuse: a huge pay cut, but a shot at redemption. One that means being teammates with the ex whose name still raises Josh’s hackles all these years later.
Now Josh and Sol are stuck on the same team, proximity dredging up emotions they’ve both kept buried for years. Which wouldn’t be so bad if the only things coming to the surface were anger and resentment. As they remember all the sparks and feelings that once drew them together, neither can decide which is worse—being together or apart.
And that’s before Sol’s old demons start showing up.
But they’re not just coming for him this time.
CW: On-page struggle with cocaine addiction. If you would like clarification or other additional information about this content warning, please feel free to email the author at gallagherwitt at gmail dot com.
Author’s Note
This book is centered largely around cocaine addiction, which may be a difficult, sensitive subject for some readers. Representation includes on-page struggles with cravings, characters exhibiting signs of active cocaine use, conversations and internal thoughts about what drives a person to use, and the like.
If you would like clarification or have any other questions about how this subject matter appears in this book, please do not hesitate to reach out to the author at [email protected]
If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, please contact the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration at 1-800-662-HELP or by visiting their website, https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline, or reach out to available rehab and information services in your country.
Sol
Startling Hail Mary for Seattle Defense: Desperate Sasquatches Acquire Netminders Solomon, O’Brien
SEATTLE – In a surprising development to an already chaotic tale, the Seattle Sasquatches have signed two goalies no other team in the league would touch.
The end of this year’s hockey season brought with it a cascade of bad luck for the team’s goaltending. Backup goalie Liam Farson suffered a career-ending hip injury in the runup to the playoffs. Less than two weeks after Seattle’s elimination from contention, emergency backup goalie Cole Archer announced his retirement due to persistent concussion symptoms. Then came the killing blow for Seattle: star netminder David Barnaby decided to test the market as an unrestricted free agent, in which he quickly landed a lucrative five-year contract with the newly crowned Cup champions, the Montreal Royales.
With Seattle’s net suddenly and ominously empty, and with no prospects ready to make the leap, Sasquatches’ general manager Lon Caldwell reportedly searched for goalies on the free agent market. According to rumors, he tried a number of trades as well, possibly even offering up valuable players from the top offensive lines and defensive pairs.
Today, Seattle’s front office announced that, in addition to bringing up rookie Payton Sweetman from the minors, the Sasquatches have made two shocking acquisitions: Cary Solomon and Josh O’Brien.
A Phoenix Firebird for all nine of years of his professional career, Solomon, 32, was recently put on waivers after back-to-back disappointing seasons followed by a series of catastrophic errors in the playoffs that led to Phoenix’s first-round elimination. Many have feared that the struggling Solomon is on track to fall back into old habits—namely, the cocaine addiction that saw him suspended for twenty games during his second season.
Sources have speculated that these fears may have prompted the unusual move of putting a player on unconditional waivers during the off season: that the Firebirds, seeing Solomon as a serious liability, intended to buy out his contract in order to jettison him as quickly as possible. It’s unclear whether they anticipated another team claiming him, and Phoenix’s front office did not respond to requests for comment.
O’Brien’s career has been on a similarly downward trajectory following a series of injuries. Many have also speculated that distraction caused by his tumultuous divorce contributed to the errors plaguing his most recent two seasons. An unrestricted free agent, O’Brien, 30, received no offer to re-sign with the Calgary Chinooks, and no other teams in the league expressed interest in acquiring this netminder who was once destined for the Hall of Fame.
When asked how he believes his team will fare with Solomon and O’Brien, given their recent history, Seattle head coach Heath Maines stated that every player has ups and downs. His added comment that “the alternatives are either an empty net or a prospect who isn’t ready for the big leagues” has led to speculation that he’s understandably pessimistic about the acquisitions.
Representatives for Solomon and O’Brien did not return calls or emails for comment.
Both goalies are expected to attend training camp with the Sasquatches next week at the team’s training center in Northgate.
There was more to the article—something about the goalie coach, I thought—but my brain was going in too many directions to focus. It didn’t help that this was one of those sites with a wildly animated ad after every other paragraph, making it a nightmare for me to read. I closed the news app, put my phone facedown on the tray table, and pressed my head back against the first-class seat.
The instant I’d gotten the Dude, have you seen this shit? text from my buddy, I should’ve logged off the plane’s Wi-Fi and put the damn phone away. I’d known it was bad. Known it. But I’d had to look, because who wouldn’t have? I’d have fixated on it whether I’d read it or not, so I’d looked.
And…ugh.
Seriously? Fucking seriously?
It wasn’t the part where they brought up my addiction like literally every reporter did no matter what the article was about. It wasn’t the part where the coach was just barely holding back that he hated the decision and probably wanted to go ahead and call up those prospects. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, the guy was right to be skeptical. I was lucky he was this desperate and that his farm team goalies weren’t ready to play.
No, the part of the article that had me reeling was the other newly acquired goalie.
No one had told me that Josh fucking O’Brien was signing with Seattle, too.
I couldn’t say that would’ve changed my mind. With my history and having been put on waivers, I was a beggar who had no business being a chooser. I either played for Seattle or I didn’t play hockey. Period. I doubted even the minors or one of the European leagues wanted anything to do with me at this point. It was a legitimate miracle that Seattle was willing to give me the time of day, never mind a contract.
But goddamn, it sure would’ve been nice to get a heads up that they were also signing my dickhead of an ex-boyfriend.
Maybe they hadn’t known. In fact, I doubted they did—few people knew about our history. And anyway, no one would’ve given a shit about that. Everyone my agent and I had spoken to in Seattle had seemed too hard up to consider anything other than, “You’re an experienced goalie with a pulse and 206 currently unbroken bones? Cool. Sign here.” In fact, she and I both suspected there’d been some kind of behind-closed-doors gentlemen’s agreement between Phoenix and Seattle where I’d be put on unconditional waivers so Seattle could snatch me up. Not something that typically happened during the off season, but it would allow Phoenix to wash their hands of me completely without having to buy me out, and it would allow Seattle to sign a much-needed warm body to put in their net.
It was nice to feel so wanted.
Seattle must’ve been in a serious panic, too, if they were signing me. It was like they were legitimately worried they were going to start off the season with no goalies who’d played above the college level. They had some prospects, but they all needed time in the minors before they were thrust onto this stage. At the very least, the team needed a couple of veterans to hold down the fort while the younger guys cut their teeth.
Enter me.
And, apparently, my ex.
Fuck my life.
Fidgeting in my seat, I wiped a hand over my face, then stared out the window at the mountains poking up through the clouds. There was nothing I could do about any of this. I was going to Seattle, and so was Josh, and if I wanted to hold on to my career, I had to make this work.
I supposed it could’ve been worse. If we’d been forwards or something, we might’ve ended up on the same line. Had to work together, night in and night out, even while we wanted to high stick each other for breathing. Or, well, I’d want to high stick him. God knew how he felt about me anymore. If he felt anything at all. It had been seven years since everything had fallen apart between us. He’d married and divorced since then, so he must have moved on to some extent.
I’d done the same, if I was being honest. I’d had boyfriends since Josh. Even got a little serious with a guy before I found out the reason he loved that one restaurant in Phoenix was because he liked how the sous chef’s dick tasted. Thinking about that jerk could still make me gnash my teeth.
Josh, though? He was ancient history.
Right?
I closed my eyes and exhaled, rubbing my heel against the underside of my seat just to expend some nervous energy. No, I didn’t lie awake at night thinking about him anymore. No, I hadn’t cried myself to sleep over him in a long, long time. No, I didn’t choke up when I stumbled across something that reminded me of him. I really had moved on.
Which absolutely explained why, whenever our teams had faced off, seeing him across the ice made my blood boil. And why it was just as well our roles kept us on opposite sides of the sheet whenever we played. If we’d been forwards or D-men, we probably would’ve gotten into a fistfight or twelve by now. Every time I saw a video of a rare goalie fight, I imagined him and me meeting at the red line and dropping gloves. Would be a hell of a fight, that was for sure.
Assuming he even knew or cared that I was alive anymore. He had to be somewhat aware of me—came with the territory in the small world that was professional hockey—but he’d moved on with his life. I didn’t matter to him anymore.
Did I ever matter to him?
I winced at that thought and swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. This wasn’t like me at all. In fact, it probably had nothing to do with Josh. My entire world had just been turned on its ass. First, I’d been put on waivers. I’d assumed I was on my way to the minors at best, but then I’d been snatched up by Seattle. By a team who clearly didn’t want me but absolutely needed me because they were out of options. Everything had happened so fast, and I hadn’t even had time to sleep or catch my breath. Hell, I’d had to have a friend in Phoenix wrangle movers, Realtors, and all that crap for me, because I’d had to get my ass to Seattle on a moment’s notice.
So no, this wasn’t because of Josh. Josh signing with the same team was just another layer of are you fucking serious? on the shit sundae that my life had become, and I was so worn down that I was ready to crack at the slightest provocation. Even the frenetic pace of the hockey season could wear some of my coping methods thin. All this? Oh God. I’d barely been able to handle my flight being delayed earlier, and I was as used to things like that as anyone could be.
I took and released a few deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. I was just stressed out, that was all. It was change. A lot of it. A lot of big changes happening all at once. It would calm down soon. For now, I just needed to get to Seattle. Get some sleep. Start working with the new team. Concentrate on redeeming myself for the nightmare my career had become in the last couple of years. Stay sober.
That last one was always a challenge, but I’d do it. I wasn’t falling apart now. Not again. And sure as shit not because of Josh. Or with him there as a witness.
The thought of seeing his judgmental sneer while I was relapsing made me shudder, and the awful coffee I’d drunk to calm myself down almost made a reappearance. I swallowed it back, though, and debated asking the flight attendant for another. Anything to pull me back down to earth—figuratively, anyway, since we weren’t landing for a bit—so I could get through all this.
With any luck, I’d feel better once I’d made it to my hotel room and slept for a few hours. After spending some time on the ice with my new team, even better.
I could do this. I’d been through worse. It was all probably a whole lot bigger in my head than it was in reality. Most things were.
And, I reminded myself again, Josh was probably long since over me. He didn’t fixate on things like I did. It had been years—the man did not give a shit about me.
I’d be fine.
Josh O’Brien walked into the Seattle Sasquatches’ locker room, and I immediately knew three things.
First, that time had been criminally kind to him. Christ, he was even hotter than he’d been all those years ago, and that said something. As fit as ever in that snug T-shirt and shorts, lightly tanned like he’d spent the off season someplace warm, with his sun-kissed dark hair perfectly styled to give him that men’s fashion model aesthetic. The baby face was long gone. His cheekbones stood out more prominently, and his dark eyes and long lashes were…whoa. I’d forgotten how beautiful they were.
The second thing I knew was that when I’d assumed Josh didn’t give a shit about me after all this time, I had been very, very wrong.
Because the third thing? Oh, so that was what people meant when they said, “if looks could kill.” Holy shit.
He was in the middle of a conversation with someone who I assumed was a member of the team’s staff. Josh had been smiling. Pleasant. As charming as he ever was. Then his gaze had locked on mine, and it had been like the Arizona sun being instantly blotted out by Seattle storm clouds.
And…fuck. Maybe I wasn’t over him, either, because all it took was a split second of eye contact to kick off a barrage of emotions.
You jerk. You son of a bitch.
Did you treat your husband like you did me?
I hope he took your overpaid ass to the cleaners.
There was a sliver of pain in there, too. A sharp, cold sliver that hit all those sensitive places in my chest, filling my brain with flashes of long-forgotten good times before things had gone to shit. How bleak and desolate my world had felt before he’d walked away, and how much worse it had become after he left.
You abandoned me when I needed you the most.
I quickly broke eye contact to resume getting into my gear. At least there was that—goalies wore a ton of crap, and it took time to put it all on. The perfect distraction from that beautiful motherfucker. Something to do besides waiting to see who wound up crying, because it would either be my emotions getting the best of me, or my fist relieving him of a few teeth.
Okay, I wasn’t a violent guy. Aside from my one and only fight on the ice and some pushing and shoving now and then—not to mention that ever-present and amusing fantasy of a goalie fight with him—violence wasn’t my style. But sometimes thinking about it made me feel better, and right now, I’d take whatever I could get if it meant not losing my shit in front of my old boyfriend or my new team. Not that there was anyone else here at the moment besides us and a handful of staff.
I couldn’t fuck this up. Seattle was my last chance to hold on to my hockey career. I sure as shit wasn’t losing everything I’d worked for—everything I’d already nearly lost more than once before—because of him.
What I was going to do, I vowed right then and there, was play my absolute ass off. Training camp, practice, preseason, regular season—didn’t matter. I was going to protect that goal like it was overtime and we were in the damn playoffs.
Because when I’d met Coach Maines the other day, he’d told me he and the goalie coach would decide during training camp if Josh or I would be the starter.
And no way in hell was I playing backup to that asshole.
Josh
I wasn’t sure when or how, but I’d pissed off some deity or another. That was the only explanation for why the last three years of my life had been an absolute shitshow that wasn’t showing any sign of improving.
Case in point: I was suddenly in the same locker room as Cary Solomon. On the same team as him. Heading out onto the same ice to try to prove I was worthy of a place on this team’s roster…just like he was.
Seriously, what the hell had I done? Had I assassinated a pope in a past life? Had I been the asshole who started putting pineapple on pizza? Because it must’ve been something awful to sign me up for all this bullshit as retribution.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it, because it was either play for the Seattle Sasquatches or kiss my hockey career goodbye. When you’re eight years and a Cup deep into your career and you can’t even get minor league teams to return your agent’s calls, things are…bleak.
I’d just gotten extraordinarily lucky that the Sasquatches—oh my God, what a stupid name—had found themselves in an even more desperate situation than mine. They hadn’t had the cap space to sign any of the halfway decent goalies on the market, and I hadn’t been in a position to demand more than they offered me, which was a pretty significant pay cut.
At least it was a paycheck. One from a hockey team.
With my awful luck the last couple of years, I should’ve known the salary drop and the “wow, the Sasquatches are scraping the bottom of the barrel” headlines wouldn’t be the end of it. And I’d found out around the time I’d signed my contract this week that it wasn’t. It just hadn’t really sunk in that Sol would be here until I walked in today and saw him.
Fuck my life.
I wasn’t going to let him ruin anything else in my world, though, including this last chance at a hockey career. So, I gritted my teeth and started getting into my gear.
This is the end of my slump, I promised myself as I laced up my skates. No way am I playing backup to that piece of shit.
Hell, maybe coming to this team was a blessing in disguise. I’d been fighting like mad to get back to the level I’d always been, but I didn’t imagine there was much that could motivate me to play harder than refusing to let Cary goddamned Solomon snag the starter spot over me.
Once I had on my gear, I grabbed my stick and mask and headed out to the ice. There weren’t a lot of people here today; there was prospect camp for the new guys—the actual rookies—later this morning, but the head coach and goalie coach wanted to see the two of us skate a little on our own. We’d join the team for training camp tomorrow.
Sol was skating around the rink without his mask, trapper, or paddle, same as he always did to loosen up before a practice. Like me, he was wearing a blank practice jersey. His was white, mine was blue, with no numbers or names. Presumably we’d have those by the time we started working with our teammates.
At center ice was Coach Maines, who I’d met briefly this morning, in skates and gloves with a stick in hand and some pucks scattered at his feet. Beside him was, I assumed, Kayla Rooney, the goalie coach. She’d been a phenomenal goalie for Team Canada at three Olympic games, and she’d made headlines a couple of years ago for being one of the only women in coaching roles in the league. Her presence was definitely a silver lining to this whole fiasco—I could stomach a lot if it meant getting to learn from someone of her caliber.
I left my mask and stick on the bench and skated around to loosen up, staying aware of Sol so we didn’t end up on the same end of the ice. I could sense his presence as much as I could sense the scrutiny of my new coaches, and I just tried to focus on skating so I didn’t wipe out and look like an ass.
I did steal a few looks at him. He was still unreasonably attractive, which didn’t seem fair. His blond hair was a little darker now, reminding me of how it looked when it was damp with sweat. When the edges darkened and the ends curled, and his fair skin would be flushed with exertion and gleaming with sweat. How his crystal-blue eyes tracked a puck or a shooter, or how they locked right on me as he drove me closer to—
Nope. Didn’t need to think about that anymore. Ever. I hated how much I’d enjoyed watching Sol play when we’d been on the same team, but at least that was a more pleasant train of thought than remembering the other situations in which I’d seen him sweat. In which I’d made him sweat.
Fortunately, my thoughts were disrupted completely by a whistle. Time to get to work.
I grabbed my equipment off the bench, then skated toward center ice. At the edge of my peripheral vision, so did Sol.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Peering at us from beneath a weathered blue Sasquatches ballcap, Coach Maines gave us both a curt nod, which we returned. He introduced us to Coach Rooney, who insisted on being called Kayla. “Kayla’s going to put the two of you through your paces so we can get a feel for you.” He sounded thrilled. “Then tomorrow, you’ll practice with the team. Between training camp and the preseason, we’ll determine which of you will start and who will be backup.”
I thought I felt Sol glancing at me, but I kept my gaze fixed on the coaches. I didn’t want to look at him. I never did, but especially not now when he was both my teammate and my competition. I was keeping my eye on the prize: that starter position.
“We’re counting on both of you,” Maines went on. “We’ve brought up Sweetman as a third, but he is not ready to start. He’s also still rehabbing from a hip injury. He can handle a few games if we need him, but not the workload of the starter or backup.”
I nodded as he spoke. Yeah, no pressure. Jesus. The hockey gods had not been kind to this team’s netminding department if all the front office could scrounge up were two disasters and a limping kid who wasn’t ready for the majors.
I glanced at Sol, and some of my resolve returned. Sweetman’s recovery and skill level were going to be moot because I was going to stay healthy myself and get that starter spot if it fucking killed me. I’d let Sol and Sweetman duke it out for the backup and emergency third positions, and if only for the sake of Sweetman, I hoped Sol had his shit together enough to play. The fact that he was still an active player in the league didn’t mean much; for all the league insisted they were cracking down on illicit substances, there just wasn’t much testing for cocaine use. Otherwise at least two guys on my last team would be in rehab or out of a job by now. And maybe McEnroe would’ve gotten help before his addiction had spiraled so far out of control.
I didn’t let the thoughts linger. I needed to focus on impressing Maines and Kayla, not on how much it stung that I hadn’t been able to get re-signed after an injury while my team’s top defensive pair had snorted their way to contract extensions. Or how much it had hurt watching someone else I cared about get snowed under by his addiction.
Unaware of my momentary mental short circuit, Maines tapped his stick on the ice. “All right, boys. I’ll turn it over to Kayla, and then let’s see what the two of you can do.”
Kayla probably went easy on us, but it sure didn’t feel like it. Not when I was this jetlagged and exhausted. I might’ve done okay if I’d eased up on myself a little bit. Maybe put in eighty-five percent or so. Coach and Kayla both told us more than once that they didn’t expect us to be up to snuff quite yet—this was just to get a look at how we moved, even if it wasn’t at full speed or full strength, and how we dealt with the puck.
Sol had always been stronger with his stick than his trapper. My shuffle was a little faster to my left than to my right thanks to an old injury. All things being equal, I was more likely to freeze a puck than play it. Sol preferred to keep it in play. We didn’t have to be moving at a hundred percent for some of those patterns to come out, and seeing us in action gave Kayla a baseline so she knew what she had to work with.
But I wasn’t about to ease off while Sol was here. I was determined to have that starter spot, and the fight for it started now. Anything to give me an edge. Anything to keep him from outshining me.
From the way Sol was moving and twitching, he had the same idea. When he was listening to one of the coaches, he fidgeted and moved constantly. His thick glove didn’t hide the way his fingers danced on the handle of his stick. When I was in the net, he was anything but still—skating small circles, practicing some shuffling and butterflying—which distracted me more than it should have. Part of playing this position meant being able to focus while there was movement and activity all around, and I was damn good at shutting it all out and zeroing in on the puck. I was just annoyed by the ever-present reminder that he was here.
At least his perpetual motion and twitchiness meant he probably hadn’t gone back to his old ways. Or if nothing else, he wasn’t using right this minute. If he suddenly settled down and stilled during a game, then I’d get concerned.
“Looking good,” Kayla told me as I stopped another puck. “Solomon, let’s see how you do.”
I put my mask up and skated away from the net so Sol could take over. I made a few circles to loosen up my tired muscles—I’d been training all summer, but my recent stress and lack of sleep had taken a toll.
When I stopped to stretch, I watched Sol. His form was still good. That wasn’t surprising. And when he was waiting for Maines or Kayla to fire another puck at him, he was still visibly twitchy. Like he absolutely could not stay still. Whenever a puck flew past him into the net, the frustration was visible even through his mask. It was like his intensity dialed up a notch until it was a miracle he wasn’t vibrating all over.
No drugs, then, at least not right now, which was a relief.
Thing was, for most people, cocaine was a major stimulant. It made them agitated and even aggressive. Made them talk fast. Either scattered their thoughts or zeroed them in on something to the point that couldn’t think about anything else. They were so wired they damn near vibrated, fidgeting nervously and working their jaws in that conspicuous side-to-side way that made my teeth ache just from watching it.
That wasn’t the case for Sol. He stilled. His speech slowed down to something closer to normal. He focused more intently than he did sober, but he could shift that focus if he needed to, like if someone changed the subject or another person entered the room. That was why it had taken so long to get anyone to take me seriously when I’d tried to get him help—no one heard that someone was chill and focused and believed they were using cocaine.
The way Sol was right now? Constantly moving, gnawing his lip, shifting from skate to skate—that would flag most people that he was on some kind of upper. But no, this was default Sol. A line of blow that would send most people into the rafters made him seem like he’d just done some really good weed.
So he wasn’t high right this minute. Good. But that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t using at all. I wouldn’t be able to tell for sure if he was still a cokehead until the season kicked off and every goal counted. For our team’s sake, I hoped he was still clean. As far as I knew, he had been—or at least he hadn’t been caught—since he’d come back from that stint in rehab seven years ago. He’d only been caught in the first place because…
Well. Because of me. Because I’d wanted to get him help. I’d wondered for a long time if he still hated me for that. Judging by the way he’d looked at me when I’d walked into the locker room this morning, I was pretty sure I had my answer.
“O’Brien, you’re up,” Kayla barked, jarring me back into the present. She pointed at the net with her stick. Sol got out of the way and I took his place again.
It felt good, being in the crease and tracking pucks. Every time I stopped one or batted it away, I got a little bit of a rush. Probably because I’d been convinced there for a while that I wasn’t going to be doing this anymore. Not at this level, anyway. Certainly not with a coach of Kayla’s caliber. My agent had even told me to start making peace with the idea of, at best, going down to the minors.
“At this point,” she’d grimly told me, “even having a Cup under your belt isn’t going to keep you from getting bumped down.”
Ouch, Tami.
Miraculously, though, I had another chance, and every puck I stopped this morning made this more real. I had a shot. I could redeem myself.
And my God, as if I wasn’t motivated enough already, there was that always-moving visage out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t even pretend he was someone else because I could pick Sol out of a crowd just by the way he skated. The way he held his stick. How he’d sometimes make lazy circles on one blade with the other just slightly upraised. Not to mention his height—I was six-three, about average for a goalie, and Sol had a full two inches on me. He was lean and narrow, same as me and also typical of a goalie, but with his gear on? He was huge. Impossible to miss in a crowd. Impossible to fucking ignore.
I channeled my irritation into stopping every puck Kayla sent my way as if I were keeping Sol himself out of this net. Out of my net.
I didn’t stop all of them. Didn’t expect to. But I held my own, and both she and Maines seemed pleased. They seemed pleased with Sol, too. Fine. I could shine brighter in training camp and the preseason games. I would get the starter position, damn it.
By the time I went into the locker room, my head was, unsurprisingly, throbbing. That was probably from fatigue, but also the noise and lights in the practice rink. At least this facility had LED lights over the sheet, which weren’t quite as brutal as fluorescents or mercury vapors. Ever since that last concussion, those lights had given me the worst headaches. The LEDs were better—still bright enough to bother me, but a type of light that was bearable. It would be better when I was wearing my contacts; I couldn’t use a visor like the skaters did, so I couldn’t wear a tinted one. Instead, I had a waiver that allowed me to wear special lenses to filter out the light that triggered headaches and migraines. My eyes had just been too dry and irritated this morning from flying, so I’d gone without. Tomorrow, I’d have the lenses in, and my head would feel better. I’d get some more sleep, too.
I could do this. I could still be a goalie. I could be a damn better one than my fucking ex. And hey, at least we wouldn’t have to play together. Practice and train, yes, but only one of us would be on the ice at a time. I’d seen forwards and defensemen who hated each other, and that could make things…difficult. Any game I played, Sol would spend in a chair by the bench, waiting to tag in if I had to come out. We’d both skate during warm-ups, but we wouldn’t have to interact.
For two ex-boyfriends who couldn’t stand each other and ended up on the same team, this was the absolute best-case scenario.
Well, no. The absolute best-case scenario was the one where I started and he sat his ass in a chair more games than not. I was still working on that part.
The equipment manager, Jason, came in as we were taking off our gear. He double-checked some information about our skates and pads, and apparently he had a question about Sol’s stick. I didn’t really listen. Then Jason gestured at his tablet and said to both of us, “I need to know what you two want to do about numbers.”
I peered up at him. “Numbers?” But a split second later, I put the pieces together—Sol and I both wore thirty-five. He had since I’d known him. I had since I’d signed with my first team after we split.
“I can only have one thirty-five on the team,” Jason said with a shrug. “So, you boys tell me.”
Sol and I locked gazes across the room. I kind of wanted to say, “Eh, whatever, you’ve had it longer,” because it really didn’t matter that much to me. The way he glared at me, though? Fuck it. I could be a stubborn son of a bitch, too. In unison, we said, “I’ll keep it.”
I met my ex’s challenging look. Had there been less bad blood between us, I’d have suggested a one-on-one scrimmage or something. A coin toss. Paper-rock-scissors. Whatever. Some good-natured way of duking it out. And I usually wasn’t this petty or stubborn, but when it came to Sol, what could I say? I was still more hurt and angry over him than I’d realized before today, and I wasn’t letting a damn thing go.
Jason pursed his lips, glancing back and forth between us, looking for all the world like a kindergarten teacher waiting for a couple of kids to figure out who got to use the crayons first.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Sol beat me to it.
Voice full of resignation, he said, “He can keep it.” As he leaned down to continue unlacing his skates, he added, “I’ll take twenty-nine.”
That…
Oh, you fucker. Going to take the high road so I look like an asshole?
Okay, I kind of deserved it. Because I was being an asshole. As heat rushed into my face and Jason jotted something on his tablet, I was pissed at Sol but furious with myself. We were exes. It was over. It was in the past. Why was I letting him get under my skin like this? Especially since he didn’t even seem to want under my skin?
“Give me thirty-two,” I said.
Both Jason and Sol eyed me.
I shrugged, hoping my face was still flushed from skating so they couldn’t see me blush. “Thirty-two was my number before I was a pro.” I forced a laugh. “Maybe going back to that will bring me some good luck for a change.”
Sol didn’t look convinced at all.
Jason clearly didn’t care. He tapped something into his tablet, then left us to continue undressing.
There was no one but us in here now. Other staff members were milling around elsewhere in the facility, but no one was in the locker room. There probably wasn’t anyone even within earshot.
Neither of us said a word. The sounds of gear creaking and shifting emphasized the silence between us. It reminded me a little of that hush after someone got seriously hurt during a game. When even the crowd went completely quiet. When everyone was just…waiting. Holding their breath. Hearts pounding. Waiting for someone to say how bad he was hurt. Waiting for him to get up or give some sign of life so we could all exhale at once. Then he’d finally start to stand, or he’d raise a hand to wave at the crowd, and the whole place would erupt in relieved applause and stick-tapping.
There was no crowd in here. There’d be no sticks tapping. I just couldn’t predict how the standoff would finally end.
It was anticlimactic when it finally happened: Sol got up and walked out, heading for the showers.
Alone at last, I released that breath, the room spinning around my thumping head. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and pressing my fingers into my throbbing temples. At this rate, with the fatigue and the stress and the way I was working myself up, I was going to trigger a damn migraine, which I did not need. I mean, I never needed them—they’d always sucked, and they’d only gotten worse since that last concussion—and I was already miserable right now. Didn’t need to add that fuckery to the heap.
Sighing, I sat up and rocked my head from side to side to loosen the building tension in my neck. I was being stupid. Sol and I had to coexist. We didn’t have to like each other. We didn’t have to be friends. We just had to function as teammates working toward a common goal. It wouldn’t be so bad, having my name next to his on the Cup, because at least that would mean I’d won the damn Cup again. It had been far too long.
And I doubted Sol was even the problem right now. He was just a whole bundle of straws dropping onto the back of this overladen camel, and I wanted to lash out at him because he was there. Because he was an easy target. Because, yes, admittedly I did still have feelings from that shitshow between us almost a decade ago.
But I was exhausted. I was humiliated by what my career had become. After almost two years, I was still struggling to get back to the person and player I’d been before that concussion. And that was to say nothing of what my divorce had done to my ability to function; I was nowhere near over the man who’d left me in the middle of trying to get my health and career back on track.
I did well under pressure—kind of came with the territory in this sport—but I wasn’t used to this kind of pressure. The kind where so much was riding on my ability to play through pain, heartache, the never-ending aftermath of a head injury, and the proximity of the only ex who’d ever hurt me more than the one who’d divorced me.
Seattle was my last chance. I had to make it here, or I was done.
I was going to make it.
I was going to be the best goalie I’d ever been.
Because fuck the skeptics. Fuck the haters. Fuck everyone who thought I was a washed-up has-been.
And maybe it made me petty and vindictive…
But fuck Cary Solomon.
Sol
It was weird, seeing my name in white across a green jersey. Even weirder, seeing it above the number twenty-nine again after all these years. I’d worn it all through my youth hockey and minor league days, only switching after I’d been called up to a team that already had a twenty-nine.
Apart from half a season in the minors, I’d been a Firebird for all nine years of my professional career. Number thirty-five, that whole time. Maybe I should’ve grabbed thirty-five back after Josh had taken thirty-two. It would be one less change to make my mind jump the tracks like it did at the slightest provocation. On the other hand, if I did go back to thirty-five, then would Josh be a dick about it? I mean, probably—he was a dick about everything—but…
Ugh. Fuck. It’s just a number. Why can’t I let it go?
Probably because I’d long since hit “change” critical mass during this whole transition. To the point that doing something like changing a skate lace or opening a new pack of stick tape would make my brain completely shut down.
Get a grip, Sol. Come on.
I could do this. I was on a new team and my old number was in a new color, and it was weird, but I could do it.
I glanced across the semi-crowded locker room, immediately zeroing in on the man wearing number thirty-two.
On a new team with my old number and my old boyfriend. Yeah, this was fucking weird.
Hopefully it didn’t mean my past was going to repeat itself. I’d put a lot of distance between me and who I was back then. Addiction didn’t magically go away, and it was still a daily struggle to stay clean, but I was determined to keep winning that struggle just like I had for the past seven years. Okay, most of the past seven years. No matter how much the old me tried to gain ground, I refused to be him again, especially while I was in full view of the asshole who’d deserted me at the worst possible time. No way in hell was I going to let him see me like that again, because no way in hell could I handle seeing that disgust and resentment all over his fucking face again. As if everything I’d done had been a slight on him instead of me trying valiantly to self-destruct.
Now that I thought about it, maybe having him on the same team was a good thing. I had a lot of reasons to stay sober even now when I felt like my life was off the rails, and I’d have been lying if I said don’t give Josh O’Brien the satisfaction of watching me fail wasn’t way up on that list.
I’m not going to relapse, because fuck that asshole.
Hey, when your sobriety’s hanging by a thread, there’s no such thing as a bad reason to stay on the wagon.
And part of staying on that wagon meant strengthening my tenuous grasp on my career. Step one, knock my performance out of the park during training camp so I could snag that coveted starter spot. With that in mind, I grabbed my paddle, trapper, and mask, and headed out to the ice to warm up.
Josh came out not long after, and of course, we made eye contact, which made the cold air around us even colder. We hadn’t said a word to each other since I’d first walked into the locker room yesterday, and we didn’t say a word to each other now, but the tension was unmistakable. Every time Josh looked at me, my hackles went up. So did his. He probably thought he was being slick about it, but he never was. I doubted I was either.
Whatever. He was here. I was here. Couldn’t do anything about that. Instead, I did my best to ignore him and focus on my job. At least today would be less fraught than yesterday because the rest of the team would be here, not to mention a couple dozen prospects from the farm teams.
First things first, some goalie training with Kayla. Usually we’d start training camp at the same time as the rest of the team, but she’d told Coach she wanted to spend an hour with us ahead of each session until we’d found our groove. She hadn’t come out and said it was because we’d both been disasters last season and she wanted to make sure we had our bearings—at least, she hadn’t said it within earshot of me—but the implication was there. I couldn’t even be offended by it. We did need the extra practice. We needed to get used to her and we needed to spend some time in the net without having to focus on what the rest of the team was doing.
Once we were done with some drills, the rest of the team started to skate out onto the ice for their warm-ups. They were split into three units for training—wearing white, green, or blue jerseys—and right now, green and white jerseys were on the ice.
Josh and I had met everyone earlier, though it would take a while to learn names. Now we were out here with them, and I was…overwhelmed. It wasn’t unusual for players to be thrown in with a new team shortly after introductions were made. Happened all the time, especially with mid-season trades. Hell, we’d had a forward come to Phoenix last season right at the trade deadline, and he’d flown in on a red-eye, slept a few hours, joined us for the morning skate, and played that night. I had no idea how he did it without losing his mind, because I was kind of losing mine right now.
This was all happening so fast. Maybe it was because I’d been on the same team for so long, I hadn’t had to deal with being yeeted onto another roster on a moment’s notice the way other players did, so I didn’t know how to handle it. Or maybe I just wasn’t wired for it. No idea. What I did know was that meeting the whole new team and the parade of prospects at the same time I was starting to practice with them turned out to be a lot more chaotic and nerve-racking than I anticipated. So many people. So many new faces. Thank God everyone had their names on their jerseys for training camp, or I’d have been completely lost.
I knew a few faces. Darby had played with Phoenix for…three seasons? Four? Meyer had been in the minors with me for a little while. And of course I’d met various players over time. Become familiar with them. Hockey was a fairly small sport, and most of us knew each other to some extent. We’d at least played against each other.
I just didn’t…know them. Not like I had some of my teammates back in Arizona. I didn’t have the rapport to shoot the shit during stoppages or chirp in between drills. I couldn’t see myself striking up a conversation with any of them in the locker room or on the plane. Despite being familiar names and faces, and even former teammates, they were still strangers.
It was while we were setting up for the scrimmage that the most unnerving truth slowly dawned on me. I’d been so caught up in the panic of potentially losing my career that I’d overlooked the fact that the Firebirds had been my support network. Several players knew about my ongoing struggle to remain sober. When I’d had the occasional crisis and desperately wanted to find a dealer, there’d been guys I could go to who would, without question or judgment, help talk me down. They didn’t even have to do that much—my old therapist had taught me a number of ways to ride out a craving, and sometimes all I needed was someone to be there with me. They didn’t have to do or say anything—just be there so I wasn’t alone. That helped a lot more than any of them probably realized, and aside from two brief relapses, I’d stayed clean for most of my career since the first time I’d left rehab.
Here in Seattle…
On the ice with the Sasquatches and all the prospects…
I was alone.
Completely untethered. Completely without that safety net I’d carefully created over the years.
And that was, even more than the possibility of losing my career altogether, terrifying.
Suddenly, as I took my place in the net and the scrimmage kicked off, everything was too much. Too bright. Too loud. Pucks banging like gunfire off the glass and dashers. Colors and signs I didn’t recognize. Banners that weren’t what I was used to and were all in the wrong places. The lights were different. The building was different. Everything was different, and it gnawed at me and needled at me and made it exponentially harder to concentrate on the thing I absolutely had to get right: tending the goal well enough to secure my place on this team.
I blinked a few times and took a few breaths, then focused hard on the players in green who were currently making a drive for the other net. I could do this. I would do this. I had to do this. Failure truly wasn’t an option; I didn’t let myself think about what life would look like if I lost my career because it was too terrifying and depressing to imagine. I needed everything that was tied to this contract and this new, unfamiliar jersey that suddenly seemed too tight and too itchy despite being nowhere near my skin. It was all in my head and I knew it—the gear between the jersey and my body was familiar and perfectly fitted, and I’d long ago learned that when it all suddenly became uncomfortable, it was just my brain going haywire. When the pressure was too much, my neck guard felt like it was getting tighter and tighter, cutting off blood and air alike until I couldn’t concentrate on anything except—
A shout jerked my attention back to the ice, and thank God my mind snapped into focus. There was a two-on-one rush coming my way, and that beast of a forward was leaving both our guy and his own teammate in the dust as he barreled toward my net. Heart pounding, I watched both him and the puck, glove and paddle ready as I tried to anticipate his next move.
He faked left. Then right. Then he passed without looking back to his teammate, who was ready and waiting to fire a one-timer at me.
It was sheer dumb luck that I was just far enough off-center for the puck to hit my chest instead of going in, and when it landed on the ice, I slammed my trapper down on top of it. A few sticks and bodies crashed into me—carried mostly by momentum but probably also the need to be absolutely sure the puck wasn’t loose—before the ref blew the play dead. Everyone cleared out of the crease, and I indulged in a relieved sigh as my heart pounded behind the place the puck had smacked into my pads. Those lucky shots happened during games sometimes, but they could also be lucky for the skater and go right past my shoulder or under my arm.
I had to focus. Had to. This was just a scrimmage, but I was under heavy scrutiny, and I could not afford to blow it.
Volkov, one of the forwards I recognized, came by and tapped my pads with his stick. “Nice save.”
I nodded to acknowledge him. I appreciated skaters who appreciated what we did; he just didn’t need to know it was physics and the shooter’s aim that had stopped that shot from being a point.
Get it together, Sol. Come on.
As the skaters set up for a faceoff, I glanced across the ice. I couldn’t see Josh’s face from here, but I knew it was him.
Christ. Don’t you dare let him see you fall apart.
That sent a surge of determination through me, followed by a jittery rush of panic. I didn’t want to fall apart. It just sometimes happened despite my best efforts. I wondered sometimes if it happened because of my best efforts. I was a mess. Always had been.
I rolled my shoulders under my pads and slowly pushed out a breath through my nose.
It was in moments like this that sobriety felt less important. One line. Even just a small bump. Then everything in my head would quiet enough for me to make sense of it all. The world would slow down enough for me to keep up. I’d be able to concentrate on the important things—the puck, the way other players were moving—instead of being mentally yanked in too many directions.
