Chapter 1

Alex

Flexing my jaw back and forth, it moves with a resounding pop but there’s no pain. That’s either because there truly is no pain or I’ve blocked it out. Regardless, I push back from the boards, even as that douche Talbot tries to push my face back into them again. The puck is between our legs and we scrabble to kick it loose.

There’s less than forty seconds left in the game to break this tie, and I want to get it done. Although I have no desire for the spotlight that will come with making the game-winning goal, it’s absolutely preferable than being stuck in overtime or a potential shootout. I’m ready for this f**king game to be over.

Giving a particularly hard push back, I’m able to free my stick from the boards and put the blade to ice. Because we’re playing on home ice here in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I know its speed and consistency like the back of my hand, it takes nothing but a short tap on the puck and it shoots back between both of our legs. I juke left and when I feel Talbot follow, I spin back right to skate around him, grabbing the puck just as it clears his blades, and take off for the goal.

One of my natural talents is to freeze-frame the entire ice in my mind, analyze my best course of action and dump the puck as quickly as possible to the guy with the best scoring chance on our team. But now with only thirty-five seconds left in the period—and yes, I saw the clock winding down in my freeze-frame—I don’t want to leave it up to one of my teammates to seal the deal. I fake a pass to the nearside, then slip a quick wrist shot toward the goal, watching as it sails cleanly into the net, just between the upper post and the goalie’s left shoulder.

Way too f**king easy!

The red light behind the net burns bright and the arena erupts, nineteen thousand fans rocketing to their feet to scream in rapture that Alexander Crossman has broken the tie and most likely won the game. Of course, there’s still thirty-one seconds left for my team to screw the pooch.

My teammates throw their hands up in the air, skating toward me to celebrate the goal. I make a half-assed attempt to look pleased with myself, which basically means I let my teammates rub the top of my helmet or tap my legs with their sticks. But that’s about as excited as I get when I score a goal.

I hate this f**king shit…the adulation, the limelight…all of it.

Skating back to the bench, I step up through the open gate and take a seat. Some of the guys shout down a congrats and a few nod at me; others ignore me point-blank. I’m not a well-liked guy by most.

Grabbing the water bottle, I squirt a bit in my mouth, swish it around and spit it back out. The crowd goes crazy again, their cheers rising in crescendo as the replay of my goal is shown on the Jumbotron. I glance up at it, my brow furrowing. It’s a pretty sweet play and I totally smoked Talbot, but as I watch it I know without a doubt my dad will be calling tonight because he’ll find something to criticize. It’s physically impossible for him to do anything but.

The announcer’s voice comes over the PA system, Carolina Cold Fury goal, scored by Number Sixty-Seven, Alexander Crossman, unassisted…

And the crowd erupts into more cheers, drowning out the stats as they are relayed. I do a quick glance around the arena, knowing that the fans are happy as shit I just scored the game winner but also very much aware they can’t stand me. I even snicker as I see a sign across the ice proclaiming, Crossman for MVP, Most Valuable Prick.

Classic! I’m the player they love to hate, and I could give a f**k.

I come out, do my duty, score my goals and get my assists, collect my paycheck and past that, just leave me the f**k alone.

If only life were that simple.

For the remainder of the game, I don’t even watch the action on the ice. I sit on the bench and lean my head back against the glass, watching the time slowly tick down so I can be free of this shit for the night.

***

“Crossman…in my office before you leave,” I hear Dan Pretore call out. He’s the head coach for the Cold Fury, and while he’s probably one of the best coaches I’ve ever played under, he’s a hard-ass as well. I know, without a doubt, that even with two goals and three assists on the night, I’m going to get my ass handed to me.

Slipping on my suit jacket, I zip up my equipment bag and make my way back to the staffing area under the arena. None of my teammates say goodbye, none of them congratulate me. They know it wouldn’t do any good, because I won’t respond. Some of the newer guys think that’s just me being reflective, but the ones who have been here awhile know it’s because I’m a mean son of a bitch after a game, regardless of whether we win or lose. In fact, the better I do, the crustier I become, which I get…that’s some whacked shit and I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with me.

I rap my knuckles softly on the coach’s door, and he immediately calls out for me to enter. I don’t close the door behind me, only because I could care less if anyone hears my ass-reaming. Taking a seat across from his desk, I casually prop an ankle over my knee and look around his office with no real interest. It’s a mess…piles of papers, binders and fast-food wrappers litter his desk. He has several framed awards, but they’re all sitting on his floor, leaning up against the wall. I’ve been with the Carolina Cold Fury for almost six years now, and his office looks the same now as it did when I had my first meeting with him those many years ago.

“Great game tonight,” he says, looking up from the iPhone that he had been texting on when I entered. “Your plus-minus went to forty-seven. I believe that means you’re leading the league right now.”