Chapter 1
King
The dense urban environment suits me and I’m armed to the teeth, ready for action. The battlefield is my home.
“All right, let’s do this,” I mutter to myself, my eyes narrowing with focus.
I take off at a sprint through the city, along abandoned sidewalks and quiet alleyways. The adrenaline is pumping and as I round a corner, enemy combatants come into view. I duck behind a rusty car, but I’m spotted… bullets ping off the metal of the abandoned ’67 Chevy Impala.
The sound resonating through my headset makes my pulse skip a beat, only adding to the game’s authenticity.
“Gotcha,” I whisper, peeking out and aiming. The adaptive triggers on the controller resist slightly as I squeeze them, adding to the realism. I fire off a few rounds, taking down two enemies with quick headshots. The tactile feedback from the controller makes each shot feel shockingly real.
I glance around my living room for a split second, falling out of the fantasy as I take in the condo I moved into just a few months ago after being traded to the Pittsburgh Titans from the Houston Jam. My mom and sister spent a week here at the end of the summer helping me furnish and decorate the place. When I was in Houston, I rented an apartment and had two roommates. Now I have my own place and sometimes it’s surreal, even though I’ve been a professional hockey player for a little over three years.
As my mom reassured me, “You’re twenty-five now, Jack. It’s time you owned your own place.”
The sleek media console under the TV holds my gaming setup, my PS5 and VR headset neatly arranged. The framed photos of my family and teammates on the shelves remind me of the real world, even as I lose myself in the game.
An explosion rocks my virtual world, and the controller shakes violently. I hurry my character to cover, dodging debris. My heart races as I plan my next move.
I hear footsteps approaching from behind. Swiveling around, I spot an enemy sneaking up. I switch to my secondary weapon, a shotgun, and fire. The fool goes down with a loud blast, the sound echoing through the living room.
“Not today,” I say, grinning. I push forward, sprinting across an open courtyard, but before I can take on the next wave of enemies, my phone pings.
I pause the game and toss the controller onto the cushion beside me. Nabbing my phone from the glass coffee table, I lean back into the comfy, deep navy velvet sectional sofa that my younger sister, Jenny, said I just had to have.
It’s a text from my older brother, Mike. Dude… how are the knuckles this morning?
Grinning, I flex my right hand. During last night’s game, it connected three times in a row with the jaw of Andre Zelba, one of the first-line defensemen on the Boston Eagles. He had the temerity to take a swipe at my center, Penn Navarro, with his stick and that can’t go unpunished.
Mike’s text is within our Kingston family group chat and before I can answer, Jenny pipes in: You were an absolute hero last night.
My younger brother, Lucas, chimes in. At only eighteen and in his senior year of high school, he has the benefit of being the baby of the family and is the biggest smart-ass of us all. Hero? Ha! He slipped and fell before he could finish the guy off. Butter skates!
Snickering, I manage to get three words typed before my mom sounds off. Mary Kingston is the typical worrier. Seriously, Jack… how is the hand? Did the team doctor look at it?
My dad is fast on the draw. He’s fine. Aren’t you?
Jenny comes to my defense in a wholly unrelated matter. He likes to be called King, not Jack.
That is true. That’s been my nickname for as long as I can remember and while my mom calls me King ninety-nine percent of the time, sometimes she slips when she’s in worried-mom mode.
I finally fire off a response. All good, Mom. Just a little bruised. The other guy looks worse, I promise.
Lucas shoots off a GIF of Robert Downey Jr. rolling his eyes and then types, Can I get your autograph?
I’ll sign your forehead next time I see you, twerp, I reply. Any response is overshadowed by my phone alarm going off.
I shoot a quick text. Nice jabbering with you weirdos but I gotta get to work.
Following are sweet messages from Mom, Dad and Jenny wishing me a great day, Lucas sends a GIF of a hockey player getting in a fight, then slipping on the ice, and Mike merely says, Call me later. I might be able to come to Pittsburgh next month.
I heart all the messages, even Lucas’s, and spring from the couch. I turn off the TV and pocket my phone. My gear bag is already packed and by the door.
My lazy morning included sleeping in, a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon, playing a little PS5, and bantering with the Kingston crew. It’s a bright, crisp fall day in Pittsburgh as I head to the garage where my brand-new Porsche Macan sits waiting for me to make the short drive to the arena. I’m five weeks into the regular season with my new Titans teammates and I’m looking forward to the light practice we have today since we’re between home games. Tomorrow we play the Carolina Cold Fury, a powerhouse in the league.
When I got traded from the Houston Jam to Pittsburgh, I can’t say I was overly disappointed. The owner, Brienne Norcross, and general manager, Callum Derringer, are making an obvious bid for the championship this year, as evidenced by the quality trades they made over the summer. I was proud to be included in an elite list, headlined by the acquisition of Penn Navarro in a sweet one-hundred-million-dollar, eight-year deal.
It’s deserved too, as he’s hands down the best player in the league. The fact I was considered good enough to be on his line—his first line of defense—made the trade all that more surreal.
Now I’m a Pittsburgh resident, making great new friends within the walls of the arena and I even own my first abode. The Porsche was a ridiculous indulgence—I just couldn’t help myself. Besides, it feels like I’ve truly made it in the big leagues now and it came from a lot of hard work and perseverance.
The drive to the arena through North Shore, where a lot of the players live, takes about ten minutes at this midmorning hour. I’m a bit early in the locker room and only a handful of the guys have arrived, so I kill some time shooting the shit.
This team is an interesting mix, a collective pool of second-chance stories built after a plane crash that killed the original Titans players and staff over a year and a half ago. Today’s Titans are men called up from the minors, while others came out of retirement or are guys who were traded by their teams because room had to be made for better players.
The plane crash that devastated the Titans will always be a painful memory, but it also forged an unbreakable bond between those who remained and those who joined in the aftermath. The crash took so much, but it also gave them a new purpose. They’ve rebuilt, stronger and more determined than ever.
Somehow, it has all worked out and just a season and a half in, the Pittsburgh Titans made the playoffs last year. It was my third year with the Jam and while we had the talent to go places, we didn’t make the playoffs. I watched the games and cheered for this ragtag bunch who were starting to make a name for themselves through sheer grit and a desire to prove everyone wrong. I truly felt awful when their run came to an end and just a few months later, I found myself wearing the purple and silver jersey.
I felt like I’d been given a gift with this trade and I don’t intend to waste it.
“Your Highness,” I hear from across the locker room and see Foster walking toward me, his gear bag slung over his shoulders. He’s taken to calling me that rather than King, and I let him have his small amusements.
My eyes roam over him critically, looking for any signs of distress. The man’s been through the ringer the past few months because of his crazy ex-wife, Sandra. He returned from our away game in Toronto to find out she’d tried to kidnap their daughter, Bowie Jane, of whom she’d lost custody over the summer. Foster’s girlfriend, Mazzy, wasn’t having any of that though and although she took a punch to the face from Sandra, she managed to keep Bowie Jane safe.
Since then, he’s been sticking close to home. Other than during last night’s game against the Eagles, I haven’t been able to really talk to him past getting the basic details.
He gives me an easy smile… a promising sign.
“All good?” I ask as he drops his bag onto the bench. His locker is two down from mine.
“Yeah,” he sighs, brushing a hand through his hair. “Bowie Jane is fine, Mazzy is the most perfect woman in the world and Sandra is blowing in the wind.”
“Went back to Singapore?” I guess. She’d moved there with a boyfriend and had made a trip back to try to snag Bowie Jane.
“I’m guessing she’s afraid of the attempted kidnapping charges I want to press against her,” he says with a dry laugh.
My eyebrows rise high. “Are they going to charge her with that?”
Foster’s lips press flat as he shakes his head. “No. It would be a hard case to prove, since she really didn’t get Bowie Jane out of the house.”
“Because Mazzy stopped her,” I point out.
“True, but honestly, I’m okay with the fact she’s gone from the country and we can use this little stunt against her to get full and permanent custody.”
I grin at my buddy, who I’m happy as hell for. “You just said we.”
His frown speaks to the level of perplexity. “Huh?”
“You said we, as in you and Mazzy can get full custody.”
“Slip of the tongue,” he corrects, but then grins at me. “But yeah… she’s in this with me.”
“I’m glad, man.” I clap a hand on his shoulder. “I know things have been crazy but you got the girl and the cute little kid on top of that.”
“I’m well aware of how blessed I am,” Foster murmurs, a gentle smile on his face as his thoughts are clearly on his two girls.
“What’s up, boneheads?”
Foster and I turn to see Rafferty Abrams approaching us. He’s a defenseman, same as me, and a newcomer to the team, although he plays on the third line. Foster and I have been hanging out a lot with him, as well as Atlas Karolak and North Paquette. I suppose it’s only natural for us to band together since we’re the new guys on the team.
Well, except for Penn. He hasn’t bonded with anyone and that doesn’t appear to be changing anytime soon. Five weeks into the regular season and he’s still as reclusive as ever when he steps foot outside the arena.
And in the arena, he’s focused solely on hockey and doesn’t interact on a personal level with anyone. Want to talk about how to extend play in a tight checking environment, he’ll talk until he’s blue in the face. Ask him to join you for a beer after a game and he shuts down cold. No one can figure the dude out, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. He’s putting up stellar numbers and is so far ahead in the points right now, I doubt anyone will catch him, barring a season-ending injury, if he keeps up at this pace.
I tap my knuckles on the wooden bench so as not to jinx the team.
The rest of our players pour in and we all dress in our practice gear. Tomorrow’s game is an important one. The Cold Fury are two-time defending Cup champions, the last win coming just four years ago, and they still have a tight roster. While we’re putting up impressive numbers all around, it would be a boost to this newly formed team to beat the former champions.
Coach West arrives and reads from his iPad the list of drills we’ll be doing today, as well as the specifics of what he wants each line to work on. We’ll start by watching some video before we hit the ice, narrowing in on the three Cold Fury lines we’ll be battling against. We’re all listening intently when Callum walks into the dressing room. He hovers behind Coach, looking around the space until his eyes zero in on Van Turner. He’s also a third-line defenseman who joined the team late last season after coming out of retirement and is one of the best veteran players in the league.
“Turner,” he calls out, and Coach West turns in surprise to see Callum there, pointing at Van. Normally our GM doesn’t make appearances at practices. “Your wife’s trying to get in touch with you.”
All eyes turn toward Van, who pales at the proclamation. He dives for his phone in his cubby, muttering curses. “Fucking had it on vibrate.” We all watch silently as his fingers fumble with the screen and then he curses some more. He makes a call and we all listen shamelessly as it connects. “Simone? Are you okay?”
Whatever she says is loud enough he winces and slightly pulls the phone from his ear.
“Okay, baby… I’m on my way.”
Van disconnects and looks at the phone as if it’s going to explode before he lifts his head to all of us waiting. A huge grin breaks out on his face. “Simone’s in labor.”
A rousing cheer goes up as we’ve all been waiting for this. She’s still a few days out from her due date but we’ve got bets riding on when she delivers. I’m out of the running because I thought she’d go late, but Atlas fist pumps and whispers, “If she goes the average length of time for labor, I’ve got a good chance to win the pool.”
I elbow him in the ribs, snickering. Van dresses in his street clothes faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. We all gather round, offering well wishes, as he nearly sprints to the door.
“Christ, my hands are shaking,” he mutters.
Our assistant coach, Gage Heyward, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on… I’ll drive you. We can’t afford to have you get in an accident because you’re so rattled.”
We all watch with amusement as Gage leads him away and Coach West’s gaze goes back to his tablet. But before he can read out the next line of drills we’ll work on, he does a double take back toward Callum, still loitering in the dressing room.
His gaze drops to Callum’s left hand, mouth hanging slightly open, and I see what he does.
A wedding ring on his fourth finger.
“Well, that’s new.” Foster chuckles.
Coach grins at Callum. “Something you need to announce to the team?”
It’s clear he has an announcement and no intention of hiding it, so he proudly holds up his hand for us all to see the dark silver band. “As you might have noticed, I’ve got a new piece of jewelry.”
“You got married?” Coach asks incredulously and then sweeps his hand out to us players. “Without the good grace to invite us or even let us throw you a bachelor party?”
Callum waves him off with a laugh. “I’m too old for such things. Besides, Juniper and I are pretty low-key and there was no sense in waiting.”
Coach West clasps his hand and pulls him into a hug. “Congratulations.”
Another torrent of cheers and we all push forward, waiting to share our good wishes. Callum Derringer is beloved on this team. He built us from literally nothing and it was his savvy negotiations over the summer that blew up the hockey world with those earth-shattering trades.
No one is really surprised he got married on the fly. He and Juniper were high school and college sweethearts who didn’t quite work out back then but recently reconnected. I don’t know the whole story but those players who were here before me couldn’t be happier for our GM because it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
That makes me happy for him too.
I can’t help but smile as I sit down to lace my skates. It’s not even lunch yet and it’s been a good day. Woke up in my new condo, played some video games, I’m on a team with championship potential, my buddy Foster has found love with Mazzy, Van’s about to become a dad, and our GM just got married.
It fills me with optimism and hope that anything I put my mind to can be accomplished and I believe that only good things await me. I just have to be ready to take advantage of it.
