Page 1 of From Ice to Home
PROLOGUE
LUCAS
“Your slapshot is going to take us all the way to the playoffs, South!” The thick Boston accent of our defenseman, Declan Murphy, cuts through the crowd long enough to turn a few heads. He stretches his hands above his head, like he’s already holding the championship cup.
I smirk, taking a sip of my soda. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
Laughter from my closest five teammates ripple around the table. All of us came to the Rangers at different times and in different circumstances, but through all the grueling practice and impossible schedules, we became brothers. You’re thrown together in emotional and physical ups and downs, and you have to deal with it together. Whether you like it or not.
At our table, drinks are a mix of water, soda or the occasional beer. Most of us keep it clean during the season. Some teammates, like Declan and Nikolai, bend the rules occasionally, claiming a beer or two after a win won’t hurt. But as for me, I like the discipline. The control. Hard work has been a part of my life ever since I was old enough to hold a wrench in my dad’s garage, fixing engines in the sticky South Carolinaheat. I know what it took to get me here, and what it’ll take to stay.
The pub erupts in cheers when the highlights from tonight’s game against the Bruins flash on the TV mounted above the bar. The replay shows my slapshot, fast and clean, slipping past the goalie to clinch the win in overtime. It was the kind of goal every kid dreams of making—the kind that reminds me why I love this game.
“That’s my liney!” EJ Johannson calls out, raising his glass to me with a grin. “That shot belongs in the Hall of Fame, Lucky Luke.”
“Hold up, man,” Declan says, smirking. “Can’t let his head get too big.”
EJ takes a sip of his water, shaking his head.
“You’re right. How would we ever distinguish between you two?”
Declan tosses his beer cap toward EJ and he ducks just in time, giving me a glimpse of the people behind him.
A woman with blonde hair catches my attention for a split second. My chest tightens instinctively, my stomach flipping.
Could it be..?
I sit up, my pulse quickening. But when she turns around, disappointment settles deep in my gut.
It’s not her.
I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair. I don’t know why I keep looking, it’s been years since I last saw her, or spoke to her. Before I can shake the thought, the woman catches my eye, her smile widens. She obviously mistook my reaction as a sign of interest because she’s heading straight to our table. She adjusts her skirt and her top just enough to be noticable.
Wyatt Lindgren, our rookie from Minnesota, snickers while nudging Declan.
“Oh look, Murphy, you have another bite.”
Declan twists in his seat, flashing his signature smile. Buthis grin fades quickly as she passes him without a second glance. She heads right for me, resting a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder.
“Hi,” she says, her voice soft and sugary. “You’re Lucas Walker, right?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I reply evenly, shifting my chair slightly to put some distance between us.
Her smile doesn’t falter. “You had an amazing game tonight. That last shot—wow.” Her eyes gleam as she takes the four other teammates around the table. I know what she’s after. It’s not me; it’s the jersey.
EJ snickers behind his glass, while Nikolai Petrov, our goalie, mutters under his breath and stands.
“Refill time,” he says in his gruff Russian accent. “Sweetheart, we have team business to discuss. Maybe you findLucas Walkeranother time, yes?”
Her smile wavers slightly, but she recovers quickly, leaning closer.
“If you ever need company, or someone to celebrate with, let me know.” She tucks a napkin beneath my hand on the table. “Hope to hear from you.”
As she walks away, I glance at the napkin briefly. The name and number written in red lipstick. Declan swipes it from the table with a low whistle.
“I’ll take that off your hands,” he says, grinning. “You won’t be using it anyway.”
“No, I won’t,” I reply firmly. “And you shouldn’t either.”
