Page 1 of Bagging the Blueliner
Prologue
Cal
I’d finally made it.After ten years of playing youth hockey, two years of juniors, four in college, and another two in the minors, the team that had drafted me at eighteen was ready for me to play. In a few short weeks, I would take the ice as an official member of the Connecticut Comets. Living and breathing hockey my entire life had paid off.
Expectations were unrealistically high for a kid growing up in western Canada. Skates were strapped on your feet as soon as you could walk, and the frozen ponds became your playground. It was a rarity to know someone whodidn’tplay hockey—it was a part of our Canadian DNA. It also meant the competition was fierce. Everyone was chasing the dream of one day signing a contract to play professional hockey.
I was about to embark on the dream of every Canadian kid, completely scared out of my mind.
The Comets took a chance on drafting me as an undersized eighteen-year-old because my offensive-minded defensive play was part of an ever-evolving game. But we all knew I wouldget my head taken off by the grown-ass men currently playing. Electing to play college hockey in the States, I used those four years to put on muscle mass to fill out my now massive frame.
A seven-inch growth spurt sure hadn’t hurt either.
Now, they were ready for me, but what if I didn’t live up to their expectations? I was signed on a two-way contract, so they could send me back down to the minors if my play wasn’t strong enough to keep up. At the end of this season, my three-year entry-level contract would expire, so if I didn’t prove myself useful, there was a very real chance the Comets would choose not to re-sign me.
The idea of free agency—or worse, a trade—would be my motivation to make sure I made the most of this chance. I, Cal Berg, stood here when so many others had tried and failed.
Training camp would begin on Monday, but the pre-season barbeque was a Comets tradition. It provided a chance for the entire organization and their families to mingle and relax before the grind of the season.
That’s where I found myself today.
An annual event, the massive outdoor venue featured food, drinks, and music. Huge white canopy tents were spread across the massive lawns of a country club for shaded seating, and children’s laughter filled the air.
Ordering a whiskey neat from one of the standing bars set up around the perimeter of the party, I stood beside a high-top table, surveying the scene before me.
Most of the team, I knew by reputation only, but there were a few guys I’d played with on the Comets’ affiliate minor team in Providence. Spotting a group of those guys, I began walking in their direction when a flurry of motion caught the corner of my eye.
Pausing, I turned to find a brunette barreling toward me from the other side of the lawn. She looked like a woman on a mission, a scowl gracing her perfect rosebud lips.
Intrigued, I watched her approach. Her shoulder-length caramel-brown hair was flying around her face due to her fast pace, blue eyes glinting with determination. Whomever she was coming for was in for a world of hurt—I could see that even from this distance. Raking my gaze down her body, I took in her view of sun-kissed shoulders, and a grey sundress that barely contained her bouncing breasts as she moved swiftly. The skirt swirled around her legs, showcasing that while trim, she was athletically toned. Maybe a couple of years younger than me—skirting the line between girl and woman—she was beautiful, even visibly agitated.
Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when her baby blues locked on mine, and she skidded to a stop two feet in front of me. Confused, I glanced from side to side to find who she was charging toward. No one was around, so I turned back to where she stood, hands now on her hips.
She couldn’t be mad at me, could she? I didn’t even know who this girl was.
“Berg, right?” Her voice dripped with venom as she used my last name.
My brows drew down, but I reached a hand out. “Yeah, but my friends call me Cal. Nice to meet you.”
Eyeing my hand as if it offended her, she wrinkled her nose. “I’m not your friend.”
Dropping my hand to my side, I had no clue what I’d done to upset this girl. “Okay . . . I’m sorry.”
She crossed her arms. “You should be.”
Who the hell was this girl?
Racking my brain, I thought back to the women I’d bedded in the past few years, trying to recall if maybe she was one of themand was pissed I hadn’t called. I got around—being a hockey player came with certain perks—but there was no way I could have forgotten this girl. If I had slept with her, I know I would have called, which was something I rarely did.
My focus was on my career, and relationships were a distraction. Most girls only got one night with me.
Her eyes narrowed while I searched them for any clues as to what I’d done to piss her off. I was the new guy and didn’t need a scene at my first team event.
Trying again, I asked, “Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there is a problem. You’re a fucking liability on the ice.”
What the hell?
