Ice Hot

  Ice Hot is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Tracy Goodwin

  Excerpt from Ice Hard by Tracy Goodwin copyright © 2019 by Tracy Goodwin

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Ice Hard by Tracy Goodwin. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984800121

  Cover design: Makeready Designs

  Cover photograph: vishstudio/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Christian

  Chapter 2: Christian

  Chapter 3: Serena

  Chapter 4: Serena

  Chapter 5: Christian

  Chapter 6: Christian

  Chapter 7: Christian

  Chapter 8: Serena

  Chapter 9: Christian

  Chapter 10: Christian

  Chapter 11: Serena

  Chapter 12: Christian

  Chapter 13: Christian

  Chapter 14: Serena

  Chapter 15: Christian

  Chapter 16: Serena

  Chapter 17: Christian

  Chapter 18: Serena

  Chapter 19: Christian

  Chapter 20: Christian

  Chapter 21: Serena

  Epilogue: Christian

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Tracy Goodwin

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Ice Hard

  Chapter 1

  Christian

  “Mother fucker!” I slam my gym bag against the pavement, glaring at the shit show that used to be my baby. My Fuji white Rover Sport SVR with a 5.0-liter, supercharged V8, 550-horsepower engine, and a sound system so loud it could rip a woman’s clothes off, is once again a rolling billboard with my mug plastered across the entire driver’s side.

  The guys have been hounding me about a magazine cover announcing my move to the new expansion team, the New York Nighthawks, in the form of several banners featuring that enlarged picture set in a basic lined pattern. Side by side, hanging from bumper to bumper, it’s all me. Shirtless, I glare at the camera wearing nothing but a scowl and my biceps. Some well-known photographer specifically used shadow and light to darken my hazel eyes until they appeared to be a deep brown and told me to sell it.

  That shoot was the most painful moment in my pro hockey career. Until I focused on taking out our competition. I replayed winning the cup not once but twice with my previous team, the Indianapolis Infernos. Then I envisioned repeating that victory this season with the Nighthawks. I’m no model, but with my new mindset the photographer finally got the shots she wanted.

  Who knew fierce determination would sell, let alone be considered sexy? Not me. But management was pleased with the response from fans. My teammates…well, they’re enjoying holding the damn cover over me way too much.

  A car honks three times from the street behind me. Of course, the guys would place it on the side that faces the street. They accomplished my maximum humiliation in record time.

  “Here he is. Sexy Chrissy.” Mighty Mike Gallagher, our right defenseman, has a shit-eating grin from ear to ear. Right now, it’s pissing me off. Don’t get me wrong. I understand why they make fun of this magazine cover. It’s fodder for pranks and locker-room jabs. But to deface my dream car and put me through this crap yet again has gotten old real fast.

  My teammates have no idea what it’s taken for me to reach this point in my career…the blood, the sweat, the stitches. Overcoming the low odds that I’d ever amount to anything to get to where I am now. Making the move to New York was a feat within itself. Not that I’d change a single thing. Not even posing shirtless for some magazine cover.

  It all led me here, to this new team. And if an embarrassing photo shoot is what it takes to get the Nighthawks off the ground, I’m all in. But I don’t have time for the schoolyard bullshit currently taking place.

  Searching the faces of my teammates in the parking lot, I immediately spot the asshole: Ryan McGee. Rookie. Hunched over and laughing so hard that he’s panting from his little charade.

  “Take it down, Lucky. Now!” My tone is lethal. No one messes with my car. Again. And again. They say the third time is the charm. I’ll make sure it’s the last.

  Lucky is clueless when it comes to my mood and the frustration rising to the surface. The jackass can’t stop laughing and I’m ready to kill him. He got his nickname from a cereal box and will be one unlucky leprechaun if he doesn’t get that fucking banner off my car. “You’ve got five seconds to remove it without a scratch. Five…Four…”

  Lucky runs to my car, his fingers fumbling with the rope around my fender. His freckled cheeks are flushed. He’s flustered. Good. I need to shut this shit down and turn this into a lesson-building moment, a team-building moment, a don’t fuck with your team captain moment.

  I’ve been unofficially tasked to mentor my teammates, bond with them, go to workouts, condition and skate with them and our coaches. I’ve been asked to get their heads in the game, and help them focus on it and our team. We are to live, eat, and breathe hockey. Nighthawks hockey. Team focused, we’re stronger together. It’s a must if we’re going to enter training camp with an experienced team that’s ready to roll. I was willing to take this on. The Nighthawks were paying me well for it.

  There were a few teams that wanted me, but the New York Nighthawks saw a future with me leading their new expansion team and offered more than any other: forty million over five years. That’s all it took: A team management that believes in me and forty fucking million. A bonus was the screw-you to those who thought I’d never amount to anything, even after I had won two cups. I’ve still got a lot to prove. A lot to prove with off-the-college-boat teammates who have barely grown whiskers, let alone full-on beards, and vets like me who are still feeling the effects of last season. If Lucky is any indication of how our top-of-the-line picks new to living on their own and playing for an NHL team will rollout, this gig will be worth every bit of the 40M.

  The Dominator, my right defenseman and best friend, Nick George, stands beside me, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares at the monstrosity. “You’re screwed,” Nick mutters so only I can hear him as the banner flaps in the warm summer breeze against my Rover. “What is this, the third one in a week?”

  I nod. And grimace. This is what happens when your teammates don’t respect you: they fuck with your most prized possessions. Most of the time it’s standard locker-room shit. Someone pranks, someone else reciprocates. Lather, rinse, repeat. What else is there to do when you’re on the road more than you’re at home? I’ve done my share. A newly formed team taking it to my SUV during the off-season has brought this to another level. How will these assholes ever respect me if I allow them to pull this shit all the time? I let it go and laughed it off twice before t
his. That didn’t stop them. So, I’ve got to change tactics.

  “Ready to teach them a lesson in respect?” I ask my friend and teammate.

  The smirk plastered on Nick’s face says it all. He’s more than ready. “Let’s do it.”

  I approach my teammates—those who came to today’s training session. It’s preseason and not many are here yet. With the exception of Lucky, who remains at my car, they stand in a semicircle. Left to right, I eye each of them. Alexi Vladislav, our left defenseman, also known as the Vampire. Mighty Mike Gallagher, our right defenseman. Gunnar Valentin, a second line defenseman we call Blondie for obvious reasons. Liam “the Mountain” Clair, goalie. Damon “the Demon” DeLaurentis, my left winger. Theo Ture, another second line defenseman who goes by Thor. His uncanny resemblance to Chris Hemsworth can’t be denied, though it has nothing to do with his nickname. Theo loves pretending that his hockey stick is an Asgardian hammer. Who am I to judge? Especially when his mad skills make him a force to be reckoned with.

  These are the players who showed up during the summer, before training has officially begun, in order to build a team, to build relationships, to bond. Many of us are also rebuilding our bodies from the previous season, rebuilding muscles with our trainers. Having won the cup two years in a row, I need that rebuilding more than most, which is why vandalizing my car has me so irritated. “Listen up. You like pranks, I get it, but my car is off limits. If you love that cover so damn much, plaster it on the walls of our locker room. Whatever gets your rocks off, with the exception of my SUV.”

  Lucky glances at Mighty Mike Gallagher. That subtle eye contact leads me to study Gallagher. The smirk he’s hiding behind his hand tells me he’s pulling the strings. He’s also considering the locker room as his next form of attack. We were on opposing teams and mine beat his two years running, knocking them out of the playoffs. He’s brought our rivalry with him. Nice to know.

  With one shrug of the shoulders and a curt nod from Gallagher, Lucky goes back to untying the knots like he’s in no hurry. Great. He doesn’t respect me. It’s Mighty Mike’s influence. If this doesn’t change, my mentoring will mean crap, and we won’t stand a chance at that shiny engraved silver cup we all covet.

  Most in the group avoid eye contact with me or stare at their feet. Damon the Demon shakes his head stronger than a goddamned earthquake in a hell, no, I wasn’t in on this way. Nice to know, especially since he’s my left winger and crucial to my success as center. I want him by my side, just like Nick the Dominator.

  As for Gallagher and Lucky? It’s time for a different approach. “You pull shit like this again and you’ll find that my pranks aren’t petty jokes. They’re mental torture.”

  Nick grins. “These A-holes have no idea what lengths you’ll go to, do they?”

  “Nope. I prefer it that way.”

  Nick slides his finger across his neck. Like a slasher in a horror movie. It’s overdramatic. It’s meant to be. Nick loves hamming it up. Partners in pranks, we’ve got this good cop/bad cop thing going on, Nick and me. He’s always good cop to my bad. Funny, since he happens to be the resident bad boy of the NHL. That’s probably why he’s so convincing. He’s also the expert in mental torture. It’s his specialty, and Nick can get into anyone’s head, especially on the ice. It’s a hidden talent that’s served us well. So well that Lucky is rattled by Nick’s over-the-top performance.

  Losing his grip on the banner, Lucky chases it through the parking lot. Good thing no one’s driving through right now or else he’d be a pancake instead of a breakfast cereal. Guess he does have the luck of the Irish.

  Once he has control of the banner, Nick laughs. “Shit, you’re gullible. Seriously though, don’t mess with the car. Ever again.”

  Mighty Mike Gallagher glares at me, his shoulders set in challenge. “Why? Because you say so?” Gallagher mocks. He may be mighty on the ice, but off? So far, I’m not impressed. He’s at best Mighty Mouse.

  “How about because I’m asking you or because it means something to me? Those two reasons should be enough.” I tilt my head to the side, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “If you need one more reason, then sure. Let’s go with because I said so.”

  Gallagher marches forward a couple of steps until Damon the Demon grabs him by the elbow. “Knock it off. You’re the asshole instigating this thing with the Cyclone’s car. Do you really want to keep it up and see where it gets you?”

  Liam shakes his head. “Calm down, everyone.” He’s our family man, our Mountain, and has taken the role of peacekeeper. Admirable, but I’m not letting this go yet. Gallagher’s bad attitude and lack of respect have gotten under my skin.

  “No one likes a well-played prank better than me. But not with my car. Is that too much to ask?” My tone is controlled, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I’ve got to remain calm. Gallagher is testing me. It comes with the sport. He’s busting my balls, but there is more to it. He’s still competing with me, like we did in the playoffs. My guess is that he hates that my former team won the cup. If so, I’ve got to convince him that we’re on the same team and not opponents. Not anymore. Time to pivot.

  Once Lucky has managed to toss the banner into the bed of Nick’s truck, I stand straight and tall, arms crossed, waiting for him to join us. My eyes are glued on Mighty until he begins to shift uncomfortably. He blinked first. Just what I was waiting for.

  “Gather ’round, men.” Now that I’ve got Gallagher’s attention, it’s time to team build, even if we’re just a portion of the team. Even if Mike is a pain in my ass. Even if the Mountain’s habit of avoiding confrontation is fucking annoying.

  As we huddle together, my voice is strong. “We’re the Nighthawks. We rattle opposing teams who think we don’t have a chance at that cup. We stand beside one another and have each other’s backs. Our team is going all the way if we work together and respect one another. We are on the same team. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize. We can get that cup…together. Now get outta here. Let’s meet up at The Tap in a couple of hours and have some fun tonight.”

  After a loud “Nighthawks!” shouted in unison, the guys scatter to their cars as Nick removes the banner from the bed of his Ford F-150. “I swear Lucky the Leprechaun needs to learn a lesson. That dude is going to be hell on ice, but a pain in the ass off.”

  “Lucky is gullible. Mike instigated that whole damn thing and the Leprechaun did his dirty work.” I rub my neck, my every muscle aching. This is what happens in the off-season, after the run for the cup—what most fans never see. The wreck that our bodies become. Not to mention our minds. “Ever feel like we’re getting too old for this shit?”

  “All the damn time. Where do you want this piece of crap?” He holds out the banner.

  I kick my foot under my tailgate and it slowly lifts. “With the others. Think I can have a bonfire?”

  “Aren’t these things toxic?” Nick tosses it in my car and rubs his palms against his T-shirt.

  Fucking great. Now I’ve got three of these hazardous things. This day keeps getting better. I shove the banner back, making room for my gym bag, then close the power tailgate.

  The vein pulsating in Nick’s neck makes it clear he’s got something on his mind. “Out with it. Lucky and Mighty don’t respect me.”

  “New team, new city, brand-new stadium, same ego trips.” He releases an exaggerated breath. “Straight up: I don’t think Lucky or Gallagher respect the sport or the team, let alone you, Chris.”

  “Most of the team isn’t here yet and as for those who are, the rookies haven’t even toured our stadium.” Nick knows this. Still, I remind him. It’s the off-season. We’re fortunate some of the team agreed to spend this time with us. “As for Gallagher, we knocked him out of the running for the cup two years in a row. Remember how he took trash-talking to the extreme during playoffs? Losing sucks. Gallagher is clearly holding a grudge even t
hough we’re all on the same side now. I’ll need to work on mending that fence.”

  I turn to my friend. We met at Michigan State. I was on a Division 1 scholarship, while Nick wasn’t hurting for cash. We bonded over our hockey skills and have played together since. As pros in Indianapolis, he was beside me when we won the cup. Both times. He’s always been by my side, and he’s the best right winger in the league, which is why I insisted he join me at the Nighthawks as part of the terms of my acquisition. Like Gretzky did with McSorley. “You still got my back?”

  Nick holds out a fist. “Always, bro.”

  I bump it with one of my own. Yeah, Nick is skilled at what he does. He’s also family. The only family I’ve got aside from my team, coaching, and management staff.

  As I pull out of the parking lot and head home, I turn the volume up—loud. It’s an iconic eighties band singing a stadium song about champions. I can’t stop thinking about the team. How do I earn their respect? Shit, what if I fail the Nighthawks?

  Sweaty and overthinking things, I stop for gas, parking in front of the pump before running inside. I head to the refrigerated section and grab an orange Gatorade from the cooler, obsessing over the banner fiasco and wondering if I made it better or worse. I tried being nice, which did jack crap. Then challenged Gallagher before swooping in with an inspirational speech. Did I make the right calls? I’ve never doubted myself like this before. Then again, there’s never been such a weight on my shoulders. It’s a forty-million-dollar weight and I feel like I’m buckling beneath it. Crap.

  Turning around, I crash into something solid. A blonde with a ponytail, sunglasses on the top of her head, no makeup, and a look of horror on her face.

  “What the fuck?” She shivers, glaring down at the crushed Slurpee cup in her hands, and the blue ice covering her white tank and pink yoga pants.