Novels by Andrea Flick

Jaxon’s POV"Take the pills, Jaxson. You’re gray. You look like you’re already dead."I didn't look at my trainer. I didn't even acknowledge he was in the room. I just stared at the two white tablets sitting in the palm of my scarred, calloused hand. They were small, innocent-looking things, but they were the only reason I could still stand upright. They were the only reason my spine didn't feel like it was being fed through a woodchipper every time I took a stride on the ice."I’m fine," I rasped. My voice sounded like it had been dragged through a graveyard."You're not fine. You’re a ghost," he said, shaking his head as he walked out of the training room. "You’ve been a ghost for eight years."I swallowed the pills dry. He was wrong. I wasn't a ghost. A ghost has a soul that lingers. I was just a machine that refused to stop running. Eight years. Two thousand, nine hundred, and twenty-two days since the hospital bed went cold. Since the blood-stained 'C' became the only thing I had

Lukas’s POV"Hold the blade steady, Lukas. If you nick the steel, I’m the one who loses an edge on the turn. Focus."Jaxson’s voice was like sandpaper against my raw nerves. I didn't look up from the grinding wheel. The sparks flew in a chaotic spray, stinging my forearms, but I didn’t flinch. I couldn't afford to. I was standing in a cramped, humid equipment room at the arena, the smell of sweat, machine oil, and old leather clogging my throat."I'm doing it, aren't I?" I snapped back, my voice tight. "Maybe if you didn't hover like a vulture, I could actually breathe.""I hover because you’re distracted," Jaxson shot back. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off his thigh against my hip. He reached past me, his large, scarred hand covering mine on the skate holder. His touch was firm, grounding, and it made my heart do a traitorous little skip. "Your mind is back in that office, looking at those files. Stop. That’s how people get hurt.""People are already getti

Lukas’s POVThe elevator ride up to the penthouse was the quietest sixty seconds of my life. Every time the numbers ticked up, I felt another layer of the "Golden Boy" peel away.When the doors slid open, I didn't see a home. I saw a vault.It was all glass, steel, and slate-gray marble. Cold. Minimalist. It looked like the inside of a high-end refrigerator. Jaxson stepped out first, his boots clicking sharply on the polished floor. He didn't look back to see if I was following. He knew I was. Where else would I go?"Standing in the hallway doesn't suit you, Lukas," he said, tossing his keys onto a marble console table. The metal rang out like a bell. "Get inside. Close the door."I stepped in, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind me. "Nice place. Very... welcoming. Matches your personality perfectly."Jaxson turned, his eyes tracking me as I walked into the living area. "I didn't bring you here to be a decorator. Your bags are already in your room. Through the kitchen, second door

Lukas’s POVThe click of the locker room door behind me sounded like a gunshot. Or a coffin lid closing.I stood there, still dripping with sweat, the heavy scent of ice clinged to my skin. I had thrown the game. I had betrayed my team, my fans, and the only thing I had left: my dignity."You're late, Lukas."The voice came from the shadows by my stall. I jumped, my heart nearly leaping out of my throat. Jaxson was sitting there, lounging in my chair like he owned the place. He’d ditched his helmet, and his dark hair was a mess, damp and clinging to his forehead. He looked different without the cage….more human, which somehow made him ten times more terrifying."I came as fast as I could," I snapped, my voice cracking more than I wanted it to. "Now give me the damn files, Jaxson. I did what you wanted. I’m the most hated man in New York. Are you happy?"Jaxson didn't answer immediately. He just stood up, moving with a slow, predatory grace that made me want to back out of the room. H

Lukas’s POVThe roar of twenty thousand people is a physical thing. It’s not just noise; it’s a vibration that starts in the soles of your skates and crawls up your spine until your teeth ache.I stood at center ice, feeling every bit of it. To the fans, I was Lukas Moretti—the "Golden Boy," the captain, the guy whose jersey was currently being sold for two thousand bucks a pop in the concourse. My face was on the billboards. My life was the dream. But standing there, under the blinding white lights of the Garden, I felt like a fraud. A prince in a castle made of rotting wood."Snap out of it, Moretti," I said to myself, adjusting the grip on my stick. The carbon fiber was cold, sleek, and cost more than most people’s morgage rent.I looked across the red line. And there he was.Jaxson Vane.If I was the league’s "Golden Boy," Jaxson was the "Devil" sent to drag it to hell. He was a six-foot-four wall of muscle and bad intentions, draped in a Rangers jersey that looked like it was str