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CHASE

The locker room reeked of sweat-soaked gear, fresh tape, and the cold bite of sharpened blades. Most of the Vancouver Titans had already peeled out after morning skate—laughing, slapping asses, scattering to hotels for whatever flavor of chaos they’d lined up: threesomes, one-night stands, or the rare genuine hookup. Me? I was still planted on the bench in front of my stall, elbows on knees, staring at the scuffed floor between my skates while the team doctor finished his lecture.

Panic attack. Two words I never thought would apply to me.

This summer was make-or-break. One last stretch of brutal, focused training before the real evaluations. Scouts had my name circled in red ink. I couldn’t afford to crack.

The doctor finally packed up and left. I exhaled, slow and controlled.

Coach Reynolds appeared in the doorway like he’d been waiting. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper buzz cut, eternal tracksuit that had seen more ice than most players. Tablet under one arm, coffee in the other. He studied me the way he studied game tape—looking for weak spots.

“What’s eating you, Hartley?” he asked.

“Pressure,” I said. “Scouts. The whole ‘future of the franchise’ bullshit they keep feeding me.”

He nodded once. “You’re playing tight. Overthinking every shift. Every decision.”

“I know.”

“You know the fix.” He set the coffee down on the bench beside me. “No distractions. None. Especially the kind that walk around in skirts and leave lipstick on your collar.”

I met his eyes. “I don’t party like the other guys.”

“Yet here you are, looking like a ghost in your own jersey.” He tapped the tablet against his thigh. “I need my top-line forward back. The one who moves like he owns the ice. Not this version who’s second-guessing every stride.”

“I’ll get him back,” I said, standing. I slung my duffel over my shoulder. “Summer games start soon. I’m going home to train. Hard.”

Coach stepped closer, voice dropping. “No fucking around, Chase. That dick can wait. The NHL won’t.”

I gave him a tight nod and walked out.

The drive home in the Bentley felt longer than it should. Windows down, music low, trying to shake the tightness in my chest. By the time I pulled into the long driveway of the Eastlake estate, the sun was high and the smell of charcoal and grilled fish hit me before I even killed the engine.

Mom was at the outdoor grill, flipping salmon like it was therapy. She looked… radiant. Not the usual polished, magazine-cover glow she always carried—something softer, brighter. Dangerous.

“Smells insane,” I called, dropping my bag by the patio steps. “You psychic or just lucky I showed up today?”

She turned, hazel eyes—the same ones I’d stolen—sparkling. “Welcome home, baby.”

I studied her. “What’s with the face? You get laid?”

“Chase.”

“Come on. Spill. Where’s the guy?”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t fade. “I didn’t get laid. I got engaged.”

I froze mid-step. “To who?”

“Richard. Richard Winters.”

I blinked. “The sports guy? The one who looks like he stepped out of a cologne ad?”

She laughed. “He’s sweet. Stable. Kind.”

“Mom. You’ve been through, what, a dozen guys in the last year? I can’t even remember their names. Alvin the bed-wetter. Richard the rich one. Wasn’t there a yoga instructor named—”

“Six months,” she cut in. “We’ve been serious for six months. I ended things with the others.”

“You were dating multiple guys at once?”

“I was… exploring options.” She shrugged like it was nothing. “Richard won.”

I rubbed my jaw. “And the wedding?”

“End of summer.”

Jesus.

I turned toward the house. “I’m hitting the gym. Fish better be ready when I come down.”

“Wait.” She caught my arm. “You won’t be eating alone.”

I stopped. “Richard’s coming for dinner?”

“And his daughter. Sloane.”

The name landed like a body check. “They’re coming here? Today?”

“They’re staying the summer. To bond. As a family.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Bond. Right. Because nothing says ‘family bonding’ like moving a stranger and his kid into my house the summer scouts are deciding my entire career.”

“Chase—”

“I need zero distractions, Mom. Zero. I’m not here to play stepbrother or entertain some teenage girl who probably hates hockey players on principle.”

“She’s eighteen. Smart. Writes. Richard says she’s… spirited.”

“Spirited.” I snorted. “Great. A difficult eighteen-year-old in my space while I’m trying to lock in an NHL contract. Perfect.”

Mom’s voice softened. “I want this, Chase. For me. For us. Please.”

I looked at her—really looked. The glow wasn’t just post-sex or new-skincare. It was hope. The kind she hadn’t worn since Dad left years ago.

I exhaled hard through my nose. “Fine. Bring them. Bring the whole whirlwind romance and the ‘spirited’ daughter. Ruin my summer. I’ll survive.”

I grabbed my bag and headed inside.

Behind me, she called, “Chase—”

I didn’t turn around.

Upstairs, I dropped the duffel, stripped off my hoodie, and stared at my reflection in the gym mirror. Broad shoulders, carved abs, the body that had carried me this far. The body that was supposed to carry me into the NHL.

I flexed once, hard, watching the muscle jump.

Then I muttered to the empty room, “Who the hell is Sloane Winters, anyway?”

And somewhere deep in my gut, a voice answered:

Trouble.

The kind you don’t see coming until it’s already under your skin.