CHAPTER 1 (JAMIE)

THE LEFT WINGER skates toward the net and slapshots the puck

at me. There’s a thwap of the puck in my glove, and my blood flares

with competition and satisfaction.

“Streicher shut out,” my new teammate calls as he breezes past,

and I toss the puck onto the ice with a quick nod. The fans back in

New York used to chant that during games. When I won the Vezina

Trophy last year, awarded to the best goalie in the NHL, they

referenced it in the speech about my performance.

Near the bench, the coaches watch, make notes, and discuss the

team’s performance. A puck gets past me and my gut tightens. The

head coach’s gaze flicks to me, expression indiscernible.

Two weeks ago, I signed as a free agent below my value so that I

could play for the Vancouver Storm. After the panic attack that

caused her car accident, my mom insisted she was fine, but I know

that if she kept them from me, it must be getting worse. Now that the

team has signed me for a lower price, I’m an asset. They could trade

me for more money and I wouldn’t have any say in the matter. I’m

like a house they just got a deal on, and if they decide to buy

something better, they’ll sell me.

Worry flows through me. My mom’s dealt with depression and

anxiety for years, ever since my dad passed in a self-inflicted drunk

driving incident when I was a baby, but while I wasn’t looking, it

turned into something so much worse.

Leaving Vancouver isn’t an option, and I’m not giving up the sport

I love, so this season needs to go well. I need to play my best and

maintain my top status so they don’t trade me. This year, I need to

focus.

The players run drills as practice continues, and I reference what

I know about them from previous games. I’ve played against the

Vancouver Storm in the past, and I recognize their faces, but I don’t

know these guys like my old team. I played for New York for seven

years, since I was nineteen. I don’t know these coaches, and this city

hasn’t felt like home since I left for the juniors, but Vancouver is

where I need to be right now.

Something strains in my chest. It’s only the first day of training

camp, but I’ve never felt more pressure to play my best.

The whistle blows, and I skate toward the bench with the other

players.

“Looking sharp out there, boys,” the coach says as we gather

around the bench.

At the end of last season, one of the worst in the Storm’s history,

Tate Ward made headlines after he was announced as the new head

coach. The guy’s in his late thirties, not much older than some of

Vancouver’s players, and he had a promising career as a forward in

the league until a knee injury ended it. He coached college hockey

until last year, and from what I’ve read in hockey news, the fans are

skeptical. Head coaches are normally older, with more experience

coaching at the pro level.

Ward glances at me, and under my goalie mask, my jaw tightens.

“We have a lot of work to do over the next few seasons,” he says,

surveying the group of players. “We finished last year near the

bottom of the league.”

The air feels heavy as players shift on their skates, bracing

themselves. This is the part where a lot of coaches would point out

players’ flaws and weaknesses. What the team fucked up on last

year. This is where he’ll tell us that losing is not an option.

And don’t I fucking know it.

“Nowhere to go but up,” Ward says instead, crooking a grin at us.

“Hit the showers and rest up. See you tomorrow.”

The players head off the ice, and I pull my mask off with a frown.

I’m sure this pleasant, supportive facade of Ward’s will end as soon

as the season starts in a few weeks and the pressure becomes real.

“Streicher,” Ward calls as I head down the hall to the dressing

room. He heads over to me and waits as the remaining players

shuffle down the hall, giving them nods of acknowledgment. “How

are you settling in?”

I nod. “Fine.” My apartment is filled with boxes that I don’t have

time to unpack. “Thank you, uh, for setting up the apartment. And the

movers.”

Tension gathers in my shoulder muscles and I drag a hand

through my hair. I hate accepting help from others.

Ward waves me off. “It’s our job to help players settle in. A lot of

players ask for an assistant, actually. They can help you unpack, get

you set up with meals, get your car serviced, walk your dog,

whatever.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

He chuckles. “You know what I mean. We’re here to provide you

with whatever you need so you can focus on the ice. Anything you

need, just let us know.”

I don’t need help focusing on the ice. I’ve refined my life down to

the two things that matter—hockey and my mom.

“You bet,” I say, knowing full well I’m not going to ask for

anything.

I’ve always been the guy who takes care of himself. That’s not

about to change.

Ward lowers his voice. “If your mom needs any help, we can

provide that, too.”

When I requested a trade to Vancouver, he was the one who

called me to ask why. I told him everything. He’s the only one who

knows about my mom.

Anxiety spikes in me, and this is why I shouldn’t have opened my

fucking mouth. Now people want to get involved. Every instinct in my

body revolts, and my shoulders hitch.

My schedule this year will be grueling. Eighty-two games, half at

home in Vancouver and half away, with team practices, training with

the goalie coach, and my own workouts. On top of that, I’ll have

sessions with my physio, massage therapist, sports psychologist,

and personal trainer.

Something flares in my chest, a mix of competition and

anticipation. I’ve been competing at hockey since I was five years

old, and I thrive on a challenge. Pressure fuels me. Years of training

have made me into a person who loves to push my limits and win.

This year? Between how stubborn my mom is and how intense

my schedule will be? It’s going to be a fucking challenge.

Nothing I can’t handle, though, as long as I stay focused.

“We’re good.” My words are clipped. “Thank you.”

It’s always just been me and my mom. I’ve got it handled. I

always have.

After I shower and change, I leave the arena to grab lunch and head

home for a nap before hitting the gym. I’m walking through an alley

from the arena to the street when a noise by the dumpsters stops

me.

A fluffy brown dog’s butt is sticking out of a box. As I walk past,

the dog lifts its head out of the box and looks at me. There’s

macaroni and cheese all over its snout.

The dog wags its tail at me, and I stare back. Her eyes are a

deep brown, bright with excitement. Her breed is hard to tell. She’s

forty or fifty pounds, maybe a mix between a Lab and a spaniel. One

of her ears is shorter than the other.

The dog takes a step forward, and I take a step back.

“No way,” I tell it.

The dog flops to the ground, rolls over to expose her belly, and

waits, tail sweeping back and forth over the pavement as she asks

for belly rubs.

Where’s her owner? I glance up and down the alley, but we’re

alone. My nose wrinkles as I study her. No collar, and among the

macaroni, her snout is dirty and greasy. Her fur is too long, falling

into her eyes, and even though she needs a haircut, I can see how

skinny she is.

There’s a twisting feeling in my chest that I don’t like.

“Don’t eat that,” I tell her, frowning as I nod at the garbage. “You’ll

get sick.”

Her pink tongue flops out the side of her mouth.

“Go home.”

My words come out stern, but she’s still waiting for belly rubs.

My heart strains, but I shove the feelings away. No. This isn’t my

problem. I don’t do distractions. I don’t even date, for fuck’s sake,

because I know from experience that people want more than I can

give them.

I can’t leave her here, though. She could get hit by a car or

injured by a coyote. She could eat something that could make her

sick.

The SPCA will take her. I pull my phone out and, after some

Googling, call the nearest location.

“There’s a dog behind the arena downtown,” I tell the woman

when she answers. There’s only one arena in downtown Vancouver,

so she’ll know where I mean. There are dogs barking in the

background on her end. “Can someone come pick her up?”

The woman laughs. “Honey, we are so understaffed. You’ll have

to drop her off at one of our locations.”

She lists the locations that are accepting dogs before hanging up.

The ones nearby are all full, so I’ll have to drive a couple hours

outside the city to drop her off. I stare at the phone, brow furrowed,

before I look down at the dog.

She jumps to her feet, still staring at me, wagging her tail. It’s like

she thinks I’m going to give her a treat or something. There’s an

annoying pull in my chest.

“What?” I ask the dog, and her tail wags harder. Something in my

chest warms, and I swallow past a thick throat.

I can’t just leave her here.

In the back of my brain, the rigorous, disciplined part of me

scoffs. What about my insane schedule? I can’t handle a fucking

dog. I can’t even handle having a girlfriend without fucking

everything up. I sure as shit can’t take care of a dog. I’m traveling

half the season.

But I can’t just leave her here.

Her tail is wagging again, and she’s looking up at me with those

brown eyes. I’ll take her to a shelter, but I’m not going to keep her.

That evening, I’m sitting in my car outside the shelter, surveying the

small but well-maintained building. I can hear barking from inside.

There’s a fenced-in field beside the building with dog toys and some

plastic equipment, like at a playground.

In the passenger seat, the dog stares out the window, curious. I

roll down the window and let her sniff.

After scouring lost dog ads online, I found a highly rated farm that

takes in strays and places them with new owners. They vet their

owners carefully, and the dogs are well taken care of.

This is the best shelter I could find. I drove three hours to get

here.

My gaze sweeps over the place, and I swallow past the knot in

my throat. I picture leaving her here, and a weight forms in my gut.

The dog looks at me and pants, her tongue hanging out.

“I can’t keep you,” I tell her.

She stands up and tries to climb into my lap, and I sigh. She kept

trying to do this while I was driving. She crawls into my lap and rests

her head on the armrest.

Fuck. If I knew how hard this would be, I wouldn’t have taken her

to begin with.

That’s a lie. No way was I leaving her in some dirty alley.

I run through the reasons I can’t keep her. I’ve never even had a

dog. I have no idea how to take care of one. My mom is dealing with

some serious mental health struggles and needs me, whether she

can admit it or not. I need to focus on hockey. After my ex, Erin, and

I broke up when we were nineteen, I don’t do commitments. This dog

is a major commitment, and I would need to work my demanding

schedule around her.

And yet, hesitation rises in me. I study the building, looking for

flaws. There are a few weeds in the garden. The outside trim needs

new paint. In the field, there are a couple holes that dogs have

probably dug. I can’t handle a dog, but I can’t leave her here.

This place isn’t good enough for her.

I rub the bridge of my nose, knowing my mind is already made

up. Fuck.

“Hey.”

Her head pops up and she looks up at me, bright-eyed. My heart

tugs.

“You want to live with me?” I ask her, and she continues to stare

at me with that cute look. “Oh. You want a treat.”

She wiggles up and jumps off my lap into the passenger seat,

waiting. I reach over to the back seat and open the bag of treats I

bought for her, giving her a few, watching as she crunches them up.

My mind is made up, and I ignore the little voice in my head

telling me this isn’t a good idea. I watch as the dog curls into a ball in

the passenger seat and goes to sleep. I have the money to bring an

assistant on this year, and the dog will be well cared for.

On my phone, I scroll through my contacts until I find who I’m

looking for.

“Streicher,” Ward answers.

“Hi.” I rub my jaw as that bad feeling snakes through my gut

again. “I changed my mind. I’m going to need an assistant.”

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