Prologue 1

Pro Development Hockey Camp, Ten Years Ago

CAL

I notice him because the rink goes quiet around him.

I don't mean literally, of course. The air is still full of skates cutting sharp edges and coaches shouting and pucks cracking against boards… but something in me focuses when he steps onto the ice, like my body has decided that this matters before my brain knows why.

He’s not the tallest guy here, and not the broadest, either. What he is is contained. Shoulders squared, posture easy, slate-grey eyes tracking everything without looking like he’s trying. He moves like the ice belongs to him already.

He fucking pisses me off, right from the jump, and I don’t even know who the hell he is.

I’m used to being the biggest presence in a space, in any and every space. I’m eighteen, six-foot-six, creeping up on two-hundred-fifty pounds thanks to daily workouts in the weight room; I’m all power and hunger and rage that hasn’t found a clean outlet yet. I’ve learned how to hit, and how to endure being hit back, and I sure as hell know how to take up space until people fucking move. I know how men older than me react when I crowd them, the way they brace and flinch.

This asshole does none of that.

We line up for drills, and somehow he ends up beside me. Close enough that our elbows nearly brush, close enough that I’m suddenly aware of the shape of him. He’s shorter than me, narrower, but solid in a way that reads as a coiled-up strength instead of weakness.

His proximity is… distracting.

I tell myself that it’s irritation, which is what this has to be. But there’s heat in it too, an unwanted awareness that registers details that I don’t need to notice: the way his chiselled jaw tightens when he focuses on the ice in front of him, the flex of his firm thighs as he settles into position, the ease with which he holds himself like he’s already decided that he belongs here, that he’s better than the rest of us.

The whistle blows, and I surge forward harder than necessary, legs driving, shoulder dipping. I don’t aim at him, exactly, but I move to my left toward him, brutally invading his space just to see if he reacts.

He doesn’t. He gives exactly zero ground to me.

Instead, he keeps pace effortlessly, skating parallel, close enough that the air between us feels charged, those cool eyes always tracking ahead of the play instead of chasing it. His nearness does something strange to my concentration; I’m suddenly too aware of how big I am, how easily I could just knock him off balance, flat on his ass… and how he doesn’t seem even remotely concerned about that possibility.

That pisses me off me more than anything.

When he shoots a quick sideways glance at me, it’s utterly dismissive, his lush mouth curling in faint disdain, like I’m predictable, like I’m invisible. Like I’ve been assessed and weighed and measured, and found wanting. Heat and shock spike low in my gut, sharp and unwelcome.

He says something under his breath – his tone mild, almost bored – and I don’t even register the words properly because my attention has snagged on the sound of his voice instead, on its tone. Calm and controlled, it cuts through all the surrounding, echoing noise in a way that makes my skin prickle.

In response and in fury, I push ahead and overcorrect, crashing into the guy on my right just to burn off the surge of something that feels dangerously close to anticipation. Behind me, I hear a soft laugh. It’s not loud, it’s not cruel. It’s fucking amused.

My eyes narrow. Even as the coach bellows at me for excessive force, I twist back and around, looking for him, pulse kicking hard enough that it has nothing to do with exertion anymore. He’s already skating away, attention back on the ice like I’ve stopped existing, like I never existed for him.

None of this bullshit should bother me in the slightest. Somehow it absolutely does.

The next drill puts us opposite each other, and relief rushes through me  – sharp, almost violent – at the thought of colliding head-on, at being able to bodycheck that smug look right off his fucking face. At the whistle, I skate straight into him, deliver a punishing shoulder check that I twist into a brutal chest smash, expecting him to go crashing to the ice. This is, after all, what always happens when I decide to launch myself at a man. Any man.

To my astonishment, what I get with this prick is impact without chaos, collision with barely a reaction. He absorbs the hit cleanly, skates steady beneath him, body solid where it meets mine, and for a loaded second we’re pressed close and tight – my chest against his, my right arm against his muscled shoulder – and the contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with aggression.

No, nothing to do with ferocity at all, though it’s oddly feral. It’s heat, it’s awareness. It’s something that coils tight and restless in my lower body, completely unexpected and immediately infuriating. I shove myself off him, breath coming harder and faster than it should.

He looks up at me then, those grey eyes cool and clear, that mouth tilted in a faint, infuriating curve.

“Is that all you got?” he asks me quietly.

The taunt lands smack in my chest, kicking the air right out of it. Nobody stays standing after I decide they won’t be, nobody mocks me after I decide to shut them up. This fucker has done both – right after I ploughed my whole body straight into his, full tilt and full strength. What I feel about all of this is confused, infuriated, stunned.

I want to flatten him. I want him against me again. I want to stop feeling like this.

The whistle shrieks before I can do anything about any of it, the coach’s voice cutting through the moment and tearing us apart. I skate away with my jaw clenched so tight it aches, my body buzzing with an odd sense of humiliation.

As we reset, I feel his gaze on me again; it’s not angry, not even vaguely heated. It’s just observant, like he’s filing me away as something mildly interesting. That’s somehow worse than being ignored outright.

When training finally ends, leaving me sweat-soaked and raw, I catch sight of him at the boards, taking off his gloves and helmet with unhurried precision, his blond hair curled over his forehead. The sight does something unpleasant to my focus, my gaze tracking the flex of his hands as they brush back his damp hair before I can stop myself. Someone nearby says his name – Locke – and it lodges in my head without permission. That’s when he looks at me.

Our eyes meet across the crowded rink, and for a split second the air feels thick, charged with something that I don’t have the words for. Then he smirks – quick, sharp, irritating – and turns away like I’ve already served my purpose, like I’m old news.

My huge hands curl into fists at my sides.

I don’t know how he got under my skin so fast. I don’t know why irritation keeps bleeding into heat. And worst of all, I don’t know why the thought of him not paying me any attention feels worse than his arrogant taunting.

What I do know is that I fucking hate him.