Chapter 1
Kace
Drumming my fingers on my thigh, I lean my head against the cool window and look out at the busy Boston sidewalk. My teammates exit the hotel one by one and climb aboard the bus. We’re all dressed in suits, some with earbuds in blasting hype music, and others without who, like me, enjoy conversation on the way to the arena.
It’s game four of the first round of the playoffs and we hope to sweep the Boston Eagles tonight on their own ice. This is an epic feat for the Pittsburgh Titans, especially since we’re technically in a rebuilding era. A little over two years ago, the Titans’ team plane crashed, and they lost everyone on board. Under the leadership of the new owner, Brienne Norcross—who also lost her brother in the tragedy—she’s meticulously put together a powerhouse team, and we’ve been crushing it this season. The eternal hopes of a blue-collar city are riding on us to fulfill their dreams of redemption.
When we get to the arena, we’ll all peel off to undergo our own pregame rituals designed to get our bodies ready and our heads on straight. As the goalie, mental preparation is as important as physical, especially because the pressure for me to perform flawlessly is real. I took over the position of primary goalie for the Pittsburgh Titans, having stepped into the net when Drake McGinn suffered a groin injury that has kept him sidelined. I hate to see any teammate get benched, and I certainly hate that my opportunity has come because of it, but this is my shot.
I watch as Atlas comes out of the hotel, a definite bop to his step. He climbs onto the bus and his eyes immediately lock on the empty space to my left.
He slides into the seat next to me. “What’s up?”
“Why do you have that goofy look on your face?” I ask, although I suspect I know the answer.
Atlas’s smile broadens. “Just got done FaceTiming Grayce.”
As I suspected.
Atlas became a new father a few weeks ago, and not in the way you’d expect. It was tragic, really… his best friend in the world, Gray, died of cancer and asked Atlas to raise his daughter Grayce alongside Gray’s other best friend, Maddie. Atlas got thrust into fatherhood and one would think he’d falter, but he’s taken to it like he was born for the role.
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “You’re hooked. I give it another week before you’re showing us baby pictures every thirty seconds.”
He snorts, trying to act tough. “Don’t hold your breath.” But then his eyes turn a little dreamy. “It’s… different. I’ve only been a dad for two weeks and already it feels like she’s always been there. Or rather, my life would be infinitely worse if she weren’t.”
It definitely touches me in the feels to see Atlas so connected to his little girl already. “That weird you out? I mean… going from zero to instant dad overnight?”
He shrugs, looks past me out the window. “Weird? Yeah. Hard? Absolutely. But not in the way I expected. It’s not the bottles or the diapers—it’s realizing how much I already give a damn. That… blindsided me.”
I can’t help but smile. “Sounds like she’s got her hooks in you.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She does.”
“I’m sure that has everything to do with Gray. She’s the piece of him that you can keep close so you never forget him.”
“Dude,” he drawls. “That’s fucking deep.” He stops for a moment, thoughtful. “And accurate.”
“I’m wise that way,” I quip and allow an internal chuckle because my teammates have no clue just how wise I am.
The ride to the arena is short and Atlas fills me in on how things are going with parenthood and especially sharing his home with Maddie. I get the impression that they had a bit of a rocky start, but things seem to be gelling.
In the visiting locker room, I work on taping my stick, letting my mind empty out so I can hone my focus on the game. A simple thing, really. Done it a thousand times. I sit on the bench and with athletic tape looped around my thumb, I wrap the knob of my stick.
Same pattern every time.
Same tension.
Same number of orbits.
The outside observer might call that OCD, but it’s just routine.
And routine is focus. Routine is control, and those are all things I need to balance the frenzy of energy coursing through me right now.
Across from me, Rafferty has earbuds in, staring at nothing like he’s mentally ascending to another plane of existence. Lucky stretches his hamstrings with the knobbed foam roller that hurts like a motherfucker when it digs into your muscles. He swears it prevents “winter groin,” but I think he’s just making that up, so I’ll ask the trainer about it and look like an idiot. North walks in with a triple espresso in hand and a wild look in his eyes that says caffeine has claimed his soul.
My phone buzzes on the bench beside me.
I don’t look at it immediately because that would disturb my routine. I continue to wrap the tape, over and over and over again, until I reach the exact, perfect amount. I tear it off, set the roll down and lean my stick against my stall.
I grab the phone and see I have a new email. I try to ignore the jolt of pure pleasure at seeing her name, an event that has been happening a lot over the last few weeks.
I navigate to my email and pull up the communication.
Laurel Kent — 5:12 p.m.
Subject: Model Revision
William,
Attached is the updated simulation. I reran the stress-response parameters using your framework, and I think I finally understand what you did.
Also, please tell me you didn’t run that last batch at 3 a.m. again. One of us needs sleep, and it’s clearly not me.
— L
A smile takes my face hostage, and I don’t even think to fight it. I reread the line about her “finally” understanding what I wrote, which is ridiculous because she’s way smarter than I am and we both know it.
“What’s got you grinning like a creep?” North asks, slinging his bag into his stall so hard the entire frame rattles. He drops onto a bench opposite mine.
“Nothing.” I try to school my face, but the corner of my mouth still betrays me.
North notices and leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs. He squints at me like he’s examining a bug under a microscope. “Is it a girl?”
“She’s not—”
His eyes drop to my phone, and I turn it away from him so he can’t see the message. He snickers, teeth flashing and eyebrows halfway to his hairline. “Aha. It’s a girl.”
“She’s just a friend,” I mutter as I push up from the bench.
North snorts and takes a long, obnoxious swig of his coffee. “Yeah, and I’m a concert pianist.”
I roll my eyes and step around him, but his gaze follows me with interest, like he’s watching a slow-motion wildlife documentary about a fuzzy animal fleeing its prey.
“Tell her I said hi,” he calls after me.
“Not happening,” I say, heading toward the exit.
“Wear protection,” he yells.
Jesus.
I flip him off over my shoulder without even slowing and North cackles like I made his entire day.
As I exit the locker room, I nearly run over Baden Oullet, the Titans’ goalie coach. He’s been the single biggest factor in my success in the primary goalie slot this year. His unwavering belief that I can do this job has been invaluable to my mental state.
“Whoa, speed racer.” He laughs, moving to the side to let me by.
“Sorry, Coach,” I reply.
“You good?” he asks, eyes raking over me in a quick appraisal.
“Yup.” I hold my phone up and give it a short shake. “Just got to handle something. Then I’ll get back in there.”
Baden lifts his chin. “Let me know if you need me to help.”
I give him a wave and move down far enough that nobody will come up to me. I switch from email to the secured chat thread I have open with Laurel.
Me: You there?
Laurel: Yes. I see you got my email.
I have to laugh at the formality of our words. Most people abbreviate texts and chat for expediency, but Laurel and I never do. Full sentences. Proper punctuation.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes for a second. I can’t pinpoint the exact time when I started to experience a physical reaction to her, but it’s been happening for some time now. I wonder if that’s because we’ve never actually met in person and her words are all I have.
Me: Glad you were finally able to understand the framework.
Laurel: More importantly, when do you ever sleep?
It’s a good question and it’s not a lot of hours, given I have two jobs.
Me: I slept. Just not at the recommended adult dosage.
Laurel: That’s not sustainable.
I imagine if she were actually saying those words to me, it would be chidingly, but with the warmth of care within.
Me: That’s what coffee’s for.
Laurel: I meant physiologically.
The tone now is mixed. Academia mixed with a tiny hint of concerned-mom vibe. I let out a quiet laugh. God, I love her brain.
Me: You sound concerned.
Laurel: I sound factual.
I grin at that—big, stupid, involuntary. She’s impossible. Brilliant. Logical. Accidentally adorable in all the ways she’d hate knowing about herself.
Laurel: About the model…
Her tone shifts into business mode. I straighten automatically, like discussing polymer mechanics is foreplay I’m helplessly conditioned to respond to.
Laurel: I think your initial stress-response guess was correct. The lattice reconfigured in a way I didn’t expect.
My brows draw inward and I leave flirting behind.
Me: You matched the variance curve?
Laurel: I sure did.
I consider the ramifications, my mind spinning on overdrive.
Me: And it held?
She gives me only one word, but I can hear the excitement within it, mostly due to the exclamation points.
Laurel: Yes!!!
My heart hammers for reasons having nothing to do with the beautiful scientist on the other end of this chat.
Me: You’re sure?
Laurel: I didn’t hallucinate the numbers.
I chuckle, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
Me: Just checking.
God help me, but her confidence and precision are attractive, the way she snaps at me through chat that I’d dare question that beautiful brain of hers.
Everything about Dr. Laurel Kent hits me where I shouldn’t feel anything.
Then it’s not about business anymore when she turns it personal.
Laurel: So… do you have any big weekend plans?
It’s not the first time she’s asked me that over the many weeks we’ve been corresponding by email or in the encrypted chatroom provided by the University of Pittsburgh’s applied sciences department.
It started as polite talk but over time, we’ve gotten to know a lot about each other via the digital universe.
I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders back against the wall. This is where I’ll have to skirt the absolute truth just a little, because I have no clue where I’ll be. My goal is to get a shutout tonight and sweep Boston in four games, meaning my weekend will be free. But God forbid we lose the next two games—then I might be right back here in Beantown.
Me: I might be headed out of town on Friday. Not sure.
Laurel: Lab work?
I rub the back of my neck, digging my fingers into the tense muscles. I hate walking this line with her… trying to be truthful but trying not to reveal too much.
Me: No. Might go to Boston with some friends.
My fingers tighten around the phone, hoping she doesn’t press for more information. I don’t want to lie, but telling the full truth would ignite a series of explanations I’m not ready for her to hear right now.
Laurel doesn’t need to know that the “friends” I mention are six-foot-tall professional hockey players who chirp at me relentlessly and will absolutely smell blood in the water if they find out I’m talking to a woman in the hallway. She only needs to stick with her belief that William K. Elliott is her part-time research assistant and not the starting goalie for the Pittsburgh Titans.
Laurel: Boston is nice this time of year.
Me: Yeah? Have you been?
Laurel: Once… for a conference. You know I don’t like to travel all that much, but when academia calls, I respond.
I think about that for a moment. Our relationship is supposed to be professional, held together by equations, models and emails. Yet, I know that Laurel isn’t a social butterfly, and traveling by plane makes her anxious.
I’ve come to learn a lot about her, and I relish the personal moments we share outside the experiments I help her with.
Me: Did you like Boston?
Laurel: It was… crowded.
I’ve seen her photo on the University of Pittsburgh’s faculty website. Sunny blond hair pulled back in a tight bun, oversized black-frame glasses that do nothing to hide the classic beauty only outshone by her intelligent eyes.
I can imagine her in Boston right now. Her eyes would be distant, mentally detaching to survive the chaos of being around people. I bet she views crowds the same way she views unstructured datasets: completely calamitous and stress-inducing.
Me: Do you have any exciting plans this weekend?
Laurel: Don’t ask.
Now that piques my interest.
Me: Well, now I have to. What are you doing?
Three dots blink… disappear… blink again. It’s the equivalent of a digital sigh.
Laurel: So… I sort of promised a friend I’d go to this thing with her. Some ridiculous speed-dating event.
Every muscle stills and my hand tightens around the phone.
Speed dating?
Laurel is going to attempt speed dating?
The woman who would rather curl up with a book on computational modeling algorithms? It makes absolutely no sense. She’s told me before she has no time for dating—which is one of many reasons I’ve not asked her out—and that her research is far more important than a relationship. Those were her exact words when I was subtly poking into the subject. I was curious whether she was married or if she had a solid relationship with someone.
Me: Speed dating? That doesn’t seem to be your cup of tea.
I try not to imagine a line of guys in strong cologne and gel-shellacked hair sitting across from her, working to convince her to go out with them. While Laurel is introverted and admittedly anxiety driven—her words, not mine—she can hold her own with anyone. She’s an assistant professor in applied physics at the University of Pittsburgh and knows how to handle herself around people. She’s also incredibly beautiful, and men will be drawn to her.
I can almost hear a nervous laugh, although I have no clue what her voice sounds like. We’ve only ever communicated via email or digital chat.
Laurel: It’s idiotic. I think you know me well enough to know this isn’t typically my thing.
Me: Then why are you going?
Laurel: Because I lost a bet.
My jaw flexes. I drag a hand through my hair, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
There’s only one thing to do.
Me: So, when is this event?
Laurel: Saturday night. Over at Vivace, that new bar in the warehouse district.
I don’t like the thought of her doing this. I don’t like the idea of her possibly finding someone she would want to date. Not when I can’t quite take my shot with her.
Me: You know if you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to go through with it.
Laurel: I know, but lately I’ve been thinking I really should give dating a try. I’m at a point in my career where I can take the time to do it. I seem to remember being pretty good at it during undergrad.
What the fuck? She’s ready to date? I lean against the wall again, pulse jumping under my skin.
Adaptable.
Laurel Kent is trying to be adaptable.
Fuck.
My brain is already three steps ahead, mapping logistics and timing. What can I pull off? And should I even intervene?
She’s going to try speed dating, and she stands a chance of landing a date.
Over my dead body.
However, I’ve got a major conundrum. She has no clue that William Elliott, her research assistant, is also Kace Elliott, a professional hockey player. She doesn’t know this because as I’ve gotten to know her over the last several weeks, I know that she unequivocally would not go out with Kace. She doesn’t like muscles but cherishes brains. If there’s any attraction, it’s to a man she thinks spends all his time reading datasets, but the truth is… that’s just a sliver of my life. It’s my way of keeping my fingers in science, a field I intend to return to one day after I retire from hockey.
Me: Speed dating sounds fun.
Laurel: William, nothing about thirty men in a bar asking me my favorite color is fun.
A laugh bubbles out of me, then dies just as quickly as I remember… even if it doesn’t sound fun, she’s going to do it anyway.
Laurel: I should let you get back to whatever it is you’re doing.
Playoffs. Locker room. Twenty thousand fans. I glance at the digital clock above the hallway exit.
I should get off the chat and go hydrate, stretch, and continue my mental preparation so I can stop all the pucks traveling toward my face at ninety-plus miles per hour.
Me: Laurel?
Laurel: Yes.
Me: Don’t… go falling for anyone at that event.
Did that sound as flirty as I think? Proprietary? That wasn’t my intention, but yeah… I’ll stick with it.
Silence. No dots blinking.
Me: I’m just saying, usually the guys who show up to those events only want one thing.
Laurel: *laughing emoji* Well, I’m not the hookup type of girl. So, they have another thing coming.
Here’s a truth about me. I was blessed with a near-genius IQ and I’m a whiz at applied physics myself. I was halfway through my master’s at MIT when I got drafted, a little-known fact that no one on my team is aware of because I’ve been in the league a few years and no one really talks about the “before.”
In the professional hockey world, there’s only the now and what might be.
I’m searching every bit of that brainpan to find a good reason to discourage Laurel from going. I don’t want her to go because I don’t want her to meet anyone else.
Because I want her. I just haven’t found a way to make that happen, but maybe now this will force my hand.
Me: Let me know how it goes.
Laurel: I will. Talk later.
But she won’t need to.
Because I’ll be there.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
I pocket my phone and head back toward the locker room. The second I step inside, North looks like he’s been waiting for me to cross the threshold.
“Well, well… look who finally emerged from his secret hallway love call,” he drawls loud enough for half the team to hear.
Lucky snorts as he bends to tie his skate. “Please tell me it wasn’t your mom. Or worse—your high school crush.”
Atlas shoots me a grin from his stall, one brow lifted in amused accusation. “You okay there, Elliott? You look… flustered.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, dropping onto the bench and reaching for my pads.
“Sure,” North says, amused. “Then why did you walk back in here like you forgot how your legs worked?”
Lucky waggles his brows. “He’s in deep, boys. He can barely string a coherent sentence together.”
Atlas laughs. “Good thing he only has to stop pucks for a living. If we relied on him for words, we’d be screwed.”
The three of them crack up, and I shake my head, playing along, even though my pulse is still hammering about Laurel’s plan to date.
They think I’m clueless.
Or at least delightfully simple. They hold my age against me, thinking I don’t have anything deep to offer.
And honestly? I let them.
Hell, it’s easier than explaining that my IQ is high enough to qualify me for a Mensa membership. No one expects my level of intelligence in a professional sport. But for me, it was a no-brainer that I’d leave MIT and take my shot in the draft. Degrees will always be there to be earned, but hockey is a young man’s game.
I’ve chosen to keep the team in the dark, especially since I take on the occasional applied physics research projects provided by my former MIT academic advisor. I don’t want them to think my loyalties are divided because if push came to shove, and I could only do one, hockey would be my choice for now.
But today, I’m leading two lives.
There are two versions of me.
And the gap between them is as big as the Grand Canyon is vast.
