Roughing

  Roughing

  Michaela Grey

  This book is for everyone out there who’s struggled with the idea that they have to do everything on their own. Accepting help is not a sign of weakness. Love yourself enough to accept that we’re stronger together than we are alone.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Blindside Hit

  Two-Man Advantage

  1

  Saint reached the practice arena’s side door and slipped inside quickly, avoiding eye contact with passersby. In the dimly lit hall, he stopped and took a deep breath. He could hear skate blades and cheerful shouting, smell the ice, the rubber mats, sweat, metal, and leather—it all mingled in his head and made the tension drain from his shoulders. This was home.

  His phone buzzed and Saint pulled it out.

  It was from his coach. Upstairs, first conference room.

  Frowning, Saint took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and the conference room with the huge windows that overlooked the arena. He found the coaches standing at the window, talking in low voices as they watched the players in the rink.

  Flanahan saw him first. A big man unafraid to use his size to intimidate opponents into agreeing with him, he’d been the first to welcome Saint to Portland and the most vocal in his support when Saint took the captain’s letter. Saint didn’t like him very much—Flanahan was far too willing to throw his weight around to get his own way—but he trusted him, at least as far as the team went.

  “Saint, glad you made it! How was your summer? How was Montreal?”

  Rogelio Reyes and Velvet Brennan turned to greet him as well. Reyes was a tall, thin, watery man, pale eyes that blinked too much and hands that constantly twitched as though he was resisting the urge to wring them.

  On the other hand, Velvet was vivid colors in bright contrast to each other. Her dark red hair was cut in a messy pixie cut that highlighted her pointed chin and sharp brown eyes, and her pantsuit was a neat, staid tan but the shirt under the jacket glowed a vivid jewel green. She gave Saint a real smile as Reyes nodded.

  “It was great,” Saint said. “Nice to catch up with friends, you know?” He hesitated. “I should be on the ice. Is something wrong?”

  Flanahan glanced at his assistant coaches, who didn’t look inclined to say anything. “Nothing’s wrong,” Flanahan finally said. “We’ve just made some changes to the roster over the summer that you as captain should be aware of.”

  Saint tensed. “You made changes without consulting me?”

  Flanahan’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t your team, son. You may be the captain but that doesn’t mean you get to tell us how to fill the lines.”

  “No, of course.” Saint ducked his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

  Flanahan seemed to accept that. “Well.” He rubbed his hands together, a beaming smile breaking out over his ruddy face. “Come see your new team.”

  His new team? Unease shivered through Saint as he joined the coaches at the window to look down into the rink. Some thirty skaters were on the ice, warming up individually, some batting pucks back and forth and others taking shots at the empty net.

  Saint squinted. There was Roderick Murphy, off in the corner doing his stretches. And there—Jason Carlyle on the near side of the arena, skating through a complicated footwork drill. And Felix Papillon—Butterfly—the rush of relief when Saint saw him in net at the far end was almost dizzying. Most of his third and fourth lines seemed intact. But his first and second lines were almost unrecognizable.

  “Coach—”

  Flanahan cut him off. “Management’s been busy while you were gone. Lot of deals, lot of paperwork back and forth, but I think we’ve got a real chance this year.”

  “Coach,” Saint tried again, his throat dry. “Where’s my team? My team?”

  “Right there,” Flanahan said, pointing.

  “No.” Saint shook his head. “The team I played with last year. The team I’ve spent the last three years developing. Where’s March? Where’s Branson? Where’s Flynn?” He cut himself off as Velvet made an aborted motion toward him, taking a deep breath and touching his thumbs to his fingers in a vain effort to calm himself. “Where’s my team, Coach? And who are these people?”

  “Be honest with yourself,” Flanahan said, gripping Saint’s shoulder. His grip was heavy, almost painful, thumb pressing hard against Saint’s collarbone. “Were those players going to get us to the playoffs this year?”

  “We had a shot!” Saint said, fighting to not pull away. “They were gelling, we were close to finding what clicked!”

  Flanahan made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat but he let go of Saint’s shoulder. “The owner and GM felt differently. So this year, this is your team.”

  Saint’s head was spinning, dread and misery a cold, heavy lump in his stomach. “How did you even pull this off without me knowing?”

  Flanahan laughed, a delighted bray. “You turned your phone off for the entire summer and you’re surprised you didn’t find out?” He sobered. “We told those we traded not to tell you, and we kept as much out of the news as we could. Not because of you, but because we want to control the narrative when we’re ready to tell the hockey world. Besides, all you would’ve done is fret yourself to death up there in Montreal. The GM wanted you to enjoy your summer.”

  It made a Machiavellian sort of sense. Saint knew the general manager, Kevin Dumont, well enough to know this was the kind of thing he would pull.

  Still. “You should have told me.”

  Saint couldn’t help the stab of betrayal at the thought of Flynn—Flynn—not at least warning him. Flanahan he understood, but he’d thought he and Flynn were closer than that.

  “There’s one more thing,” Flanahan said, all but rubbing his hands with glee. “You have a new D-man on your line.”

  Saint narrowed his eyes.

  “Carmine Quinn,” Flanahan announced, without even the decency to look abashed.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Flanahan’s eyebrows shot up at the expletive. Saint ignored him.

  “Carmine Quinn, who went out of his way to board me or slash me or trip me every time we were on the ice together the last time we played the Otters, forgetting the fact that he fought me during that game? That Carmine Quinn? The Carmine Quinn who fractured three ribs and put me out of commission for six weeks?”

  “You still won,” Flanahan pointed out. “The fight, if not the game. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal?” Saint threw his hands up. “I only won because I fell on him. The guy’s a thug, Coach! All he’s good for is throwing his fists. Can he even skate? Does he know what a puck is?”

  “It’s the black rubber thing, right?” The voice came from the door and Saint spun.

  Carmine was standing there, hands in his pockets. He looked unbothered by Saint’s diatribe, b
ut closer inspection revealed lines around his mouth, tightness in his shoulders.

  His eyes were dark, almost unreadable in the fluorescent lighting, and the dimples Saint knew existed were nowhere to be found. There were shadows under his eyes, and he rocked back on his heels, raising one sardonic eyebrow.

  “I could be wrong,” he continued. “After all, I barely know one end of a stick from the other.”

  Saint opened his mouth and closed it again. Something in Carmine’s bearing said an apology would be sneered at.

  “Glad you made it!” Flanahan said, falsely hearty. “You know Saint, of course.”

  Carmine inclined his head, mouth tight.

  “And my assistant coaches, Rogelio Reyes and Velvet Brennan,” Flanahan continued. “We’re all excited to see what you bring to the team!”

  “Are you?” Carmine murmured. “Well, first time for everything.”

  Flanahan gestured for Carmine to join them. “Take a look,” he said, pointing out the window. “Your new team. Some of them are from the Embers—the next few weeks will determine who stays. What do you think?”

  Carmine stepped up to the glass, keeping Velvet and Rogelio between him and Saint. He gazed contemplatively at the players and Saint averted his eyes from Carmine’s profile, perfect except for the broken nose that had healed crooked.

  “I think 47 is weak,” Carmine said. “He’s slow and his reactions are shit. He’s not going to be able to keep the puck, let alone score.”

  Flanahan peered dubiously down at the ice. “He’s done well on the Embers.”

  “You know best, I’m sure,” Carmine said. “Can I get on the ice or did you need me for something else?”

  “Just wanted to welcome you to the team,” Flanahan said, waving him away.

  Carmine nodded and left the room without looking at Saint.

  Flanahan’s eyes gleamed. “It’s going to be a good season,” he said. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Are we done?” Saint asked.

  Flanahan made an impatient gesture, and Saint escaped.

  He took the back way to the dressing room, the one with the lowest chance of running into anyone who’d demand conversation. Halfway there, he stopped and pulled out his phone.

  What the fuck, he texted Flynn.

  Flynn’s response was swift. They threatened to put me on waivers, man. :(

  Saint blew out a breath. Of course Flynn had chosen to save his career. But it still stung. Where did they trade you?

  Wildfire, was Flynn’s answer. Too hot. I’m dying.

  Saint closed his eyes. Arizona was so far from Oregon, and now he’d never get the chance to find out if Flynn’s lips were as soft as they looked, or if the heat in his eyes had meant something or if he flirted that way with everyone.

  He shoved down and strangled the misery that welled in his throat. They’re lucky to have you, he sent, and put the phone away before Flynn could reply.

  The dressing room was silent and empty, and Saint thanked his lucky stars as he quickly changed and laced up his skates. The big C on his jersey seemed to be mocking him. What exactly can you captain? Jack shit, that’s what.

  No one noticed him as he stepped into the rink and made straight for Butterfly. Felix’s eyes lit behind his goalie mask at the sight of him and he pulled Saint into a rough hug.

  “Did you know?” Saint managed in rusty French, his voice wobbly.

  Felix shook his head. “Non, cher. Not until I got here. I’m so sorry.”

  Saint rolled his shoulders. “It is what it is, right? We’ll make the best of it. At least you and Roddy and Jase are still here.”

  Felix’s green eyes were unhappy. “I would have told you. Had I known—I would have told you.”

  “I know,” Saint said. He clapped Felix on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  Roderick broke away from the group he’d been talking to and made for them. Tall and craggy, he’d long ago adopted the role of put-upon father to the team of rookies led by Saint. He held out his arms and Saint went into them gladly.

  “Missed you, kid,” Roderick murmured.

  Saint let himself have a brief moment of comfort, closing his eyes as Roderick kept the world at bay, and then he gathered himself and moved back, forcing a smile. Around them, some of the new players were pretending not to watch them while others stared, unabashed.

  “You’re still on my line, right?” Saint asked.

  “Like they could take me off,” Roderick said. There were dark circles under his eyes, but then, there were always dark circles under his eyes. He’d looked permanently exhausted for as long as Saint had known him, and yet his energy was seemingly boundless.

  “Who else is with us?”

  “Arkady something.” Roderick gestured with his chin toward a lanky man a few years younger than Saint. Sandy blond hair curled against the nape of his neck and he caught sight of Saint staring and smiled radiantly at him, his eyes bright green and cheerful.

  “Incoming,” Felix said under his breath as Arkady skated toward them.

  He skidded to a stop with an elegant spray of ice, careful not to snow any of them, pulled off a glove, and shoved a hand at Saint.

  “Arkady Volkov,” he said. “They call me Volly but you say Kasha, yes? Is an honor, Sinclair.”

  “Just Saint is fine,” Saint said, shaking his hand. He let go as quickly as he could but Kasha didn’t seem bothered, beaming at him. Up close, he was younger than Saint had realized, nineteen or twenty at most. Saint found himself liking Kasha’s open expression, the way he shifted on his skates as if hoping Saint would approve of him. “Where did you come from, Kasha?”

  “The Direwolves,” Kasha said. “But I’m from Russia. Excited to be here!”

  Saint eyed him but didn’t challenge that. “How long have you been on the ice today?”

  “Hour? Maybe two.”

  Saint nodded. “Tell me what you’ve seen.”

  Kasha perked up. “That one—” He pointed at a big man out of earshot down the ice, the one Carmine had indicated. “Likes to fight, I’m think.”

  Saint glanced at Roderick.

  “David Stahl,” Roderick said in a low tone. “And Volly’s right—he’s itching to throw his weight around.”

  “What else?” Saint asked Kasha.

  Kasha pointed at a slender player on the other side of the rink. Saint couldn’t make out details from so far away, but he had dark curly hair peeking out from under his helmet.

  “He is good,” Kasha said. “Slapshot is really good. But footwork nice too.”

  “Embry Rather,” Roderick said. “Second line center, I think.”

  Embry smacked a puck down the ice, right between the other goalie’s knees.

  Roderick whistled softly. “You’re right, Volly, he’s good.”

  Kasha beamed. He indicated a tall brunet, talking to the equipment manager by the edge of the rink. “Tye. Don’t know last name. Good footwork, maybe needs puck time? Seems nice. D-man.” He scrunched up his face then and pointed at Carmine, warming up alone in the corner. “Carmine Quinn. He—”

  “I know who he is,” Saint said, too harshly. He took a deep breath and tried to gentle his voice. “What do you think of him?”

  “Good skater,” Kasha said, shrugging.

  “That’s it?”

  Kasha looked unhappy. “He is—I’m not know how to say. Bad stories about?”

  “Bad reputation?” Felix offered.

  “Yes,” Kasha confirmed. “He fights. Too much. Is always taking penalties, for stupid shit. He not—think.”

  “Sounds about right,” Saint muttered. He rolled his shoulders again. “What else?”

  Kasha kept going, naming more players. He had an eye for detail and a dryly funny delivery that had Felix and Roderick laughing as he reenacted a scuffle between two defensemen earlier. Saint forced a laugh, unable to take his eyes off Carmine for long.

  Carmine didn’t seem bothered by the players m
illing around him, but he didn’t speak to them, either. He stretched and did his warm ups and then began circling the rink in slow, easy laps. Kasha was right—he was a good skater, light on the blades and perfectly balanced, avoiding the slower and more clumsy players with ease. Saint couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be like with a stick. Were his hands as deft as his skating? He shook himself. Carmine wasn’t there for puck handling. He was there to start—and win—fights.

  Saint looked away. “Kasha, shooting drills on Butterfly?”

  Kasha’s eyes lit as Felix groaned theatrically but picked up his blocker and got in his crease.

  Saint took the first shot, moving slowly to give his muscles time to warm up. He was aware of the eyes on him, most of the players stopping to watch. Saint didn’t bother with anything fancy—Felix would stop it anyway. Instead he skated toward the net at half-speed, watching as Felix dropped his left shoulder invitingly. Saint didn’t take the bait.

  Almost on top of him, Saint faked left, then scooped the puck up and over Felix’s right leg, under his elbow. He couldn’t help the grin as he skated back to Kasha while Felix shouted profanities at him.

  “Slow is best on him?” Kasha asked, eyes intent.

  “Only if you know which way he’s going to block,” Saint said, leaning on his stick. The other players were gathering, drawn by the action. “He’ll try and draw you in, make you shoot a particular way. He’s really good at blocking top shelf, go low on him.”

  Kasha nodded, grabbed a puck, and was off. More players joined Saint, and he nodded at them. A few smiled back, others avoided his eyes. Saint made mental note of those—he’d have to put in extra work with them. Down the ice, Kasha made a shot that Felix easily blocked.