Page 1 of False Play
ONE
HENRY
CALL THE ME RINGMASTER.
I’d donea lot of stupid shit over the years.
Underage drinking in college?Check.
Ironwood University may have had one of the best collegiate hockey teams, but that was all they had going for themselves. College life was practically nonexistent in that town, so we had to make do with what we had.
Taking my pranks a little too far?Also check.
Once, I sent two puck bunnies to Coach Sloane’s room and blamed it on Wesley Hayes, left winger of the Chicago Strikers and my childhood best friend. I was fairly certain Hayes hadn’t forgiven me for that, either.
Fighting on the ice?Check. Check.Triple check.
And the reason I sat in the locker room, icing my hand, when I should have been out there playing with the boys.
The fans loved a good show, and baby, call me the ringmaster, because everyone knew I ran that circus.
It was a role I took to heart, because I wasn’t in the business of disappointing my fans. All the shit I pulled during my rookie years stuck with me, and it was the reality I lived in. If a cocky,self-centered hockey player was what people wanted, that’s exactly who they got.
I flexed my fist and hissed at the pull of raw knuckles stretching. Thankfully, I wasn’t bleeding anymore, butdamn, it hurt like a bitch. I’d forgotten how much the pain settled once the adrenaline started to wear off. Still, the rough feel of my skin splitting was a welcome reprieve. It beat having to drown in my thoughts.
Deflecting was practically my middle name.
As soon as I gotnot-so-gracefullyejected from the game, Coach Sloane told me to wait in the locker room. Uhm, well…todirectlyquote him, he said—more likeyelled—“Get your fucking ass to the locker room and see if you can come up with reasons as to why you decided to start acting like apetulantchild.”
He could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but there was no denying I deserved it.
It wasn’t a secret how I ran things on the ice. I was heavily criticized as much as I was adored for it. Sports commentators loved to argue that, as a starting center, my focus should always be on staying on the ice as much as possible.
“A waste of natural talent,” some loved to argue.
“A waste of payroll, if you ask me,” many haters commented.
But I’d gotten pretty good at shutting them up with my performance. I may have spent a lot of time in the sin bin, but I made up for it tenfold when it mattered. That had always been the deal between me and Coach. I did my damn best to keep my word, because the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint people.
Only that’sexactlywhat I’d just done.
Guilt sneaked up on me and settled in the pit of mystomach like a heavy rock. I should have been out there with my team, having fun and bagging an easy W.
The unrelenting anger tried to surface and sink its teeth into me, but I pushed back with what little mental strength I had left. I leaned forward in my seat, resting my elbows on my thighs as I threaded my fingers through my freshly washed hair, shutting my eyes tightly. Trying to center myself had been proven useless, but I was nothing if not determined, and I refused to go down without a fight.
At the sound of the door opening, I lifted my gaze. The temperature inside the stuffy locker room rose to dangerous heat levels, and my throat instantly dried up as my eyes settled on none other than Kennedy Jones.
Hell. You didn’t often see women like her. That much I was painfully aware of.
With each purposeful step she took toward me, my heartbeat stumbled between exhilaration and fear. It was dangerous territory, butman, did it get my adrenaline going.
I took a big gulp, hoping to ease the dryness in my throat. “Hi, Jonesy.”
Her eye twitched when I mentioned her nickname. She hated it, and I loved annoying her. It was a win-win.
I leaned back on my chair with a lopsided grin. Anxiety still tried to sink its claws into me, but it was time to put on my usual mask. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
She crossed her arms with an impatient look. “Came here to clean up your mess, pretty boy.”
