Pucking Revenge : Chapter 2

“OH MY GOD. IS THAT—”

I turn my head and fight back a grimace. I should be used to it, the whispers and the stares, the pointed fingers, the ogling.

Yet it still sends a shiver of unease through me. Does anyone ever truly get used to being stared at like this?

Doubtful, because this attention isn’t about my status as a hockey player—a fucking great one, at that—but because these teenage girls have seen me in my damn underwear on billboards all over town.

Coach chuckles as I slide into the bench seat across from him. “Can I get your autograph?” he teases in a high-pitched voice.

I roll my eyes and scan the menu. There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll get anything but my regular order—a six-egg-white omelet with sautéed veggies, turkey bacon, and whole wheat toast—but studying the menu means avoiding the stares that inevitably follow once the people around me realize that yes, I am that Langfield brother. Because not only am I on a billboard, but my family owns half of this city. So if my body doesn’t do it for people, then odds are that my bank account will.

Despite the billboards and the notoriety my name brings, my persona as “Saint Brooks” makes me the most approachable of the Langfield brothers. It’s exactly what the man seated across from me raised me to be: a saint, as well as a great hockey player.

“Incoming,” Coach warns.

In my periphery, a boy just a smidgen taller than our table shuffles up, and his mother follows close behind.

Donning the friendly smile I perfected years ago, I keep my focus locked on the little guy and patently avoid the eyes his mother is making at me. “Hi, big guy. Whatcha got there?” I point to the kids’ menu he’s clutching. It’s been colored and is covered in some foreign substance I’m doing my best not to think about. I’m really hoping I can avoid touching it.

“Can I have your autograph?” the boy says, darting a glance back at his mother.

I survey her quickly, just to see if she’s pushing the boy to approach me. When she catches on to the attention, she offers a flirtatious smile.

No, thank you.

It’s not that I have anything against moms, but I loathe people who use their kids as props. Probably because, for years, my siblings and I were often displayed as shiny props for our parents.

With my focus back on the kid alone, I sign what I discover is a syrup-covered menu. When I’m finished––and realize my hand is nice and sticky—I say goodbye to the little boy while expertly ignoring his mother’s attempt to offer her number. Then I turn back to face the man who actually raised me.

Coach married my Aunt Zoe when I was five. My younger brother and I, the perfect props, were ring bearers in the wedding. The morning before the I dos, Seb and all his groomsmen took to the ice for a skate.

Maybe he was trying to impress my aunt, or maybe he liked us. Either way, Coach asked if Aiden and I could join in. And that’s the day I fell in love with hockey.

Coach played for the Bolts at the time. He wasn’t a star, but he was on the ice, and to the majority of us players, that’s all that matters. My family, of course, owns the team, and that’s how he met my aunt.

From the moment I stepped onto the ice, I was filled with a power I’d never experienced before. And when I looked up and discovered one of his bigger friends gliding straight for me, my life flashed before my eyes. Not in the sense that I thought I was going to die, though. In that moment, I intrinsically knew exactly what to do to stop him from getting the little black object past me.

The save was epic. For a five-year-old, that is. The guys all cheered and bragged about me for the rest of the day. A few weeks after the wedding, Coach showed up and brought me down to the rink. And then he showed up again.

My father had no time to haul me back and forth to early-morning hockey practices, but Coach made sure I got there. When I wasn’t practicing with my team, I was watching the Bolts play. I grew up in that arena. There wasn’t another place on earth I felt more comfortable. Not then, and not now.

This man across from me is the person I have to thank for it all. He saw me that day, saw my potential and nurtured it. And he’s been doing it every day since. He’s one of the best guys I know.

“You look tired,” Coach says, brows furrowed as he studies me.

“Feel fine.”

“Hope you weren’t out all night like the other guys. You know you have to set an example⁠—”

I pick up my glass of water and tune him out. This speech is one I could recite in my sleep. Yes, I’m Good-Boy Brooks. I don’t need to be reminded of that reputation and all it implies.

The nickname makes me cringe, but it’s fitting.

“Was in bed early. No clubs, no bars. Don’t worry, my virtue remains intact,” I grit out.

The sting that comes along with that last part is a little sharper than it’s ever been. Not dating never bothered me until I met Sara. Now it’s all I think about.

Am I saving myself for her? Possibly. Which just means I’ll die a virgin, because the girl doesn’t see me like that.

The waitress appears, thank God, and we give her our orders. Once she walks away, my uncle dives into talk about our plan for practice today and tomorrow’s game.

This is what gets me up and moving on mornings like this. Not because I love forcing myself out of bed early on practice days to meet up with him, but because he wants to go over game strategy with me. My opinion matters to him. I’ve spent my life striving to get here. Making him proud is truly the only way I know how to thank him for investing in me the way he has.

Once we’ve polished off our breakfast and gone over his plans, we stand, both smoothing out our suits—my uncle would never approve of wearing something as pedestrian as a pair of jeans out in public, even if it’s to the damn greasy spoon we’ve frequented for years—and head out into the crisp October air.

The beginning of the season always brings such promise. We’re the defending Stanley Cup Champions, so there is a lot riding on these first few weeks. A lot to live up to. Especially, since the team has changed in some big ways—making the line-up look almost unrecognizable from the past year. We even got new jerseys and a new plane. But our team is young and hungry. There’s no reason we can’t do it again.

“You walk like an old man,” Aiden chirps, rushing to catch up to me on the way to the locker room.

I eye him. Yeah, I’m older than he is, but I’ve also got a couple of inches on him and a shit ton more muscle. “I’m in better shape than you.”

“Impossible.” With a grin that splits his face, he pulls his shoulders back and slaps his stomach. “Washboard abs, baby. You could do push-ups on these things.”

I choke out a laugh. “Pass.”

He shrugs. “You’re missing out. Speaking of missing out, why didn’t you come out last night? We don’t even have a game today.”

Gravy wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, jostling me as he does. “Because he was hanging out with his Sar Bear, eh?”

“Shut up,” I groan, my chest going a little tight at that sentiment. My Sar Bear. If only.

War, the right-wing instigator on our team and my best friend, holds open the locker room door as we file through. “Your brother was no better. Aiden spent half the night on the phone with Jill.”

“Did not,” Aiden whines. Then he lets out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. “She just gets nervous because of how you idiots act when you’re out.”

I roll my eyes. Jill sucks. Not that I’ll ever tell Aiden that. Guy needs to figure that out himself. Hopefully soon, because if this goes on much longer, I can only see things going one way. He’ll marry her, and once the dust settles from the ridiculously lavish wedding, she’ll cheat on him. Then she’ll take him for half of what he’s worth. But it’s his life. I can’t fix everything for him. He wouldn’t listen even if I tried.

There are four of us Langfield brothers. Beckett and Gavin are several years older than me, but Aiden and I are close in age. He’s been following me around since he was old enough to skate, so we’ve always been tight. Playing for the same team and spending almost every waking minute of every day together only adds to that.

But he’s a lot. Youngest brother syndrome or something. Even if he’s not the baby. That title belongs to our only sister, Sienna.

As we’re hitting the lockers, my phone buzzes.

Aiden lets out a laugh beside me, and I frown at my phone as the texts continue to come in.

This time I snort, and Aiden grins. The kid lives to make people smile. He and Beckett are polar opposites in that respect. I love my oldest brother, and he’s always gone out of his way to take care of us, even when he was a kid, but he’s an asshole to just about everyone but his wife and kids.

Aiden sucks in a breath beside me.

Me? I’m imagining Liv’s reaction. My balls shrivel at just the thought.

Last year, my brother was forced to move into a crumbling brownstone with her and her three best friends and their seven kids in order to fix a PR nightmare.

Every one of us knew Beckett was in love with Liv—and had been for years—before they got married in Vegas. Everyone except Liv, that is. As head of PR for Langfield Corp, she has this eerie way of seeing and preparing for every situation and eventuality. Beckett’s attraction to her was her one blind spot.

They may have gone into the marriage to fix Beckett’s image, but the moment she became his wife, he made it clear that his feelings were real. Then he proceeded to purchase every house on the block where she lived with her friends. Now they all live side by side in individual brownstones, though they’re still raising their kids as one large, nontraditional family unit. It’s strange, but it works for them.

Liv is one of the coolest women I’ve ever met. She’s down-to-earth, and she doesn’t let Beckett get away with anything. Not to mention she has all of our backs. Not because she’s the head of PR, but because she’s our sister. I love her to death. But when she’s pissed off… Shit, Beckett is lucky he got a dog, because he’ll be living in the doghouse for a while.

I screenshot the entire text chain and send it to Sara.

Those three dots that signal she’s responding dance on the screen, then disappear. When they don’t reappear and no message comes through, I slide the phone into my locker. I don’t have time to wait for Sara to make a decision. I have to get to practice.

As we make our way out to the ice, my heart trips over itself. Because there, standing beside Coach, is Sara. Her smile is wide and her eyes are bright. The girl is a breath of fucking fresh air in a space that often smells like gym socks and moldy food.

Or maybe that’s just McGreevey beside me. He blames American food. I blame the Canadian’s obsession with ketchup.

He nudges my side, and I finally remember to breathe.

It’s always like this.

Chest aching, lungs seizing, lightheaded, and feet floating an inch off the ground.

Will it ever not be like this?

Her blond hair is up in a ponytail, highlighting her high cheekbones and sleek jaw line. She is stunning. Blue eyes, creamy skin, button nose, and that goddamn smile.

As soon as she spots me, her eyes light up. “Looking good, Brookie!”

I roll my eyes and shake my head, mouthing, “Cut it.”

As we approach, I nod a hello to Coach, but my focus remains on Sara. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see my favorite guys practice for a bit before I head up to the office.” Her eyes dance. “Although after what you told me about Beckett, I may hide out here for a bit. Hope he doesn’t tell her while they’re at work.”

“Can’t believe you’re walking so easily after Brooks had you awake all night,” Daniel Hall chimes in. Kids a menace. He’s obviously earned the Playboy nickname.

I’m glaring at him as Coach blows his whistle. “Enough fucking around. On the ice.”

With a wink at Sara, I push off the door to head to my spot in the crease.

Coach’s voice stops me halfway there. “You know the rules. No fucking the staff.”

My stomach sinks, and I quickly turn to Sara.

She looks as shocked as I do. Her mouth in an O and her eyes as big as saucers.

She doesn’t deserve any of the shit spewing from my teammates’ mouths or from Coach’s.

Dammit.

Heart lodged in my throat, I lick my lips, determined to clear this all up. “We didn’t⁠—”

“Drop and give me fifty.” Coach skates up close, his jaw clenched tight. This hard expression is one I’ve seen plenty over the years, but never directed at me. “Go near her again, and you’ll be riding the bench for the rest of the season.”

What the hell?

He skates away, and all I can do is gape. Does he really think I’d break any of his damn rules?

Regardless, I’ll do exactly what he says. As it is, the guys think Aiden and I get special treatment because of our last name. The last thing I need is for my teammates to be up in arms, claiming that I think I don’t have to listen to Coach.

In reality, he goes harder on us than everyone else, clearly overcorrecting for perceived nepotism.

It’s bullshit. Aiden is the highest scorer on the team, and it’s rare for anyone to get a goal by me. We’re both fucking good at our jobs. That’s why we’re here. The Langfields are as competitive as they come. If Gavin, who took over the hockey side of Langfield Corp from our dad, didn’t believe we could perform, he’d have us on the damn bench himself.

“Is there something wrong with your hearing?” Coach hisses. “Should we have the doctor come take a look at you?”

Without hesitation, I drop my stick to the ice, then I follow. And I count. Loudly. “One. Two…”