Page 1 of Reckless On Ice

Prologue

Ryder

“Kingsy, my man, I have news for you. It’s good and bad, so I’ll rip the Band-Aid off. Boston traded you to Atlanta. You’re going to that new team those billionaires bought.”

My head swims at the worst news my agent could have given me. I grip the phone tightly and pace across my living room, passing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Boston Harbor. How the fuck could this happen? They named me one of the league's best goalies, and we just finished a seven-game playoff run for the Stanley Cup. I was supposed to be signed for another four years in Boston. I spent this season showing the team why they needed to keep me. I’ve given tenyears of my life to Boston. How could they do me dirty like this after everything?

“Tell me this is a fucking joke, Mark,” I growl, my mind still spinning down a dark tunnel to my personal hell.

“I’m shooting straight with you like I always do. They’re negotiating with Upton to keep him instead. They couldn’t have two number-one goalies forever, and unfortunately, you had the bigger target on your back with this series run and that devastating loss,” Mark says.

His words burn like acid and remind me of failures that are never far from my mind. We were so close to the cup, in the conference finals, game seven against Dallas, and the deciding factor if we would advance to the Stanley Cup finals. We lost, three-to-two, and those three goals were my fault. I let them past my glove, and we lost our shot, again. The enormous weight hanging on my shoulders, and one of the biggest black marks against me in contract negotiations last year, was not being trustworthy during playoffs. I let the team down again by not performing when it counted, and look where it got me, traded to a brand-new team in fucking Atlanta.

“I’m going to the hellhole of the South? Hot-fucking-lanta? This is a fucking nightmare.”

“It’s a thirty-three-million-dollar, three-year nightmare. That’s the upside. We got you far more than Boston would’ve given you if they’d kept you. You’re now the highest-paid goalie in the NHL. That should help make up for the trade at least a bit, and you get to help shape a brand-new team withan unlimited budget. These billionaires aren’t sparing a single penny and are pulling in the best talent in the league for this team. I’ve heard rumors of their moves, and it’ll be good. They even got Lyle Kennedy to coach. That man’s a fucking legend. You’ll be skating for someone with more cup runs and wins than any current coaching team can boast. This isn't what you had in mind, but it’s not the worst that could have happened.”

No shit. The worst is I could be done with hockey forever, injured and unable to play, or so shitty no team wanted to pick me up. I see what Mark’s doing, and I’m rational enough to understand this is a good fucking deal. But fuck, I don’t want to be rational. I want to wallow and stick with my routine and the things I wanted for a change.

Hockey isn’t a sport you get your say in all that often. I’ve been damn lucky to stick with the same team that drafted me right out of college. Ten years is a lifetime to spend with one team, and I guess I was pushing my luck, hoping they’d keep me longer. Knowing that doesn't make this loss easier to swallow.

“So, what now?” There’s a note of despair in my tone I hate to hear. I need to know what’s expected of me to establish my routine immediately. It’s stupid to some people, but I need everything to be the same and to know what to expect. Knowing the rules and how to play by them—when to show up and where to be, what to eat, what my training plan is, all that fucking bullshit that’s said makes hockey players superstitious sheep—is my touchstone. And I know whatthey say about goalies being the worst. I just don’t fucking care.

“You enjoy as much of your summer as possible, settle up in Boston, and get your ass to Atlanta for training camp in September. And hey, I’ll finally have my two best clients in the same city where I can watch both you and Knox play.”

That’s not the silver lining Mark’s trying to make it out to be. I hate Knox Contraire. We have a complicated history that began as best friends and devolved into hating each other's guts. He was so clingy and obsessed with me when we got into high school, and my teammates made fun of me, so I did whatever I could to keep the attention away. But the school called itbullying, and the administration put me on a correction plan because, apparently, there was a zero-tolerance policy. Even a city as big as Atlanta is still too small a space to share with him now. The only saving grace is playing in completely different sports. The NHL and the NFL don’t cross all that often, so as long as we’re not intentionally thrown together, I might be able to avoid him.

“But Kingsy, you’re going to have to keep your shit together. This big of a contract puts a target on your back that will have the owners, GM, and coaches watching to see if you’re worth that much of the team’s salary cap. One step out of line and they’ll trade your ass so fast. You’ll be on thin ice, so keep your nose clean and don’t be reckless. Make them pat themselves on the back for this deal.”

I hate his ominous words and the threat in them, but he’s right. Now I just have to show another team I’m worth keeping.

Great.

One

Ryder

This town blows. It’s hot, the humidity is stifling, and it’s not fucking Boston, which has been my home for the last decade. The billionaire brothers' desire to build a giant arena and fill it with nonexistent hockey fans in a state known for football and baseball forced me here. They paid me an ungodly amount of money for the trade, and now I have a three-year contract that made me the highest-paid goalie in the league, forcing me to be here. Otherwise, the only thing Atlanta has going for it so far is a wonderful array of sports bars.

It’s a rare Sunday afternoon that my brand-new hockey team, the Atlanta Hydras, has off from training camp. Insteadof spending it resting or doing something on our own, we’re in some coach-mandated team icebreaker activity and forced to hang out in the name ofbonding. I’m grumpier than usual from not sleeping well last night, thanks to the hot brunette I went home with. I spent the night learning my way around her body, and she returned the favor several times. It seemed like a great idea in the moment, but I’m regretting it now that I have to be functional. What was her name? Kayley? Kinsey? Something like that. Doesn’t matter now. I left her place in the early hours of the morning after too little sleep and showered off the skank juice—too-sweet cotton candy perfume and unironic body glitter that wanted to stick around—before nursing my hangover with biscuits and gravy delivered directly to my door and a nap before heading here.

I follow a few teammates into a busy bar called the Dirty Bird in Midtown and hope like hell the name means I'll at least get hot wings. Luck seems to be with me when a few guys from the D-line wave us to a large booth covered in piping hot trays of wings and fries with buckets of icy beers already waiting for us. There is a God.

A couple of wingers and Magnus, my goalie counterpart, follow closely behind us. We wait a few minutes for the centers and our captain, Sebastian, to show up. With the main roster all here, we dig into the spread paid for by Coach Kennedy’s dime, and soon the beer has the bonding happening naturally, if good-natured chirping and bagging on each other is the main objective.

“Soupy, Rookie, do you plan on fighting more with each other than the teams we’re playing this season, or are you ever going to get along?” Nico asks, referring to Campbell and Rook by their nicknames. It’s a fact of hockey life that pretty much everyone ends up with a nickname that’s a shortened form of your name or some play on words. Like my own last name of Kingston, which is shortened to Kingsy most of the time.

It’s true, Rook and Campbell have been at each other’s throats since we started practicing together and it’s really fucking bad they're on the same line and end up leaving me in the goal defenseless, having to take the shots from the rest of the team when they’re bickering with each other for whatever assumed issue they see. Their playing styles complement one another well, but neither will let their bad blood go long enough to realize it. Which is why we’re here,bonding.

Coach Kennedy is tired of screaming at us during practice to get our heads out of our asses and start acting like a team, so now he’s trying beer and wings instead. Coach Callahan, the goalie coach, sent Magnus and me along for the ride, even though we’re not the ones struggling to work together.Bonding is for the entire team, according to Cal.

I snag a beer bottle by the neck and tip it back. This might help the forced nature of the outing. Several beers and way too many wings later, the TVs hanging around the bar have caught my attention. Atlanta's football team, the Condors, are playing Buffalo. The commentators have said it’s the firstSunday game of the season no less than ten times already. The talking heads report Atlanta played well in the preseason and is favored to win. Not that I’ve paid any attention before this. Football isn’t my sport, so I’m not likely to follow it much. But I do know one of the players on the offense.

Knox Contraire and I grew up together. I called him my best friend until freshman year of high school. Then things got weird, and we went our separate ways. Good riddance, honestly. The bar groans together as Knox fumbles a pass and Buffalo gets a turnover.

“You’d think he’d be better at keeping his eye on the ball than that. He’s always liked handling them, a little too much,” I say offhandedly. I smile and sip my beer when a few of my teammates’ heads turn my way. The comment slipped out like second nature, given how often I used to say shit like this in high school. I know I have no business commenting on another professional sport, but damn, Knox is a prime target after a fumble like that and I couldn’t let it slide.

“You know Contraire?” Chad asks, looking intrigued.

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