End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

PRESENT DAY

𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Breezeblocks – alt-J

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

Liam might be the best thing since sliced bread in the world of ice hockey, but to me, at this moment, he’s a pain in the ass for coming into my place of work with that face of his all out in the open.

That very recognizable face.

That very recognizable, very gorgeous, very droolworthy, very kissable face.

It’s all out there.

For everyone to see.

Honestly, it should be illegal.

What is illegal?

My crush.

On. Him.

I’m screwed.

“Such a welcome, Gracie,” he drawls, tugging on his baseball cap.

Ha. As if that disguises his identity.

“If you wanted a welcome, you should have gone to a different bar,” I grumble as I set down the menu in front of him. In a low voice, I mutter, “Thank you for the Cameo, by the way.”

His smirk is annoyingly hot. “Liked it?”

I huff. “Blink-182 asking me if an MBA stands for Mothers Breaking Ass? Um. Yeah. Anyway, what do you want to drink?”

“Water.”

“Water?” I repeat. Though I know his penchant for lean proteins, I needle, “Chuck’s is famous for hot wings and beer, Liam. You can’t come here and have water.”

“I didn’t realize there were rules. You know I can’t eat hot wings.”

“Because you’re a pussy. Nothing to do with being a pro hoc—” I stop myself before I can finish my sentence.

The last thing I need is for the nosy fuckers around here to eavesdrop on our interaction.

He doesn’t comment on me stuttering to a halt, just rumbles, “That sounds like trash talk.”

I smile. Slowly. “You know it. What are you doing here? You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s a bar. Why do people come to bars?”

“Not to drink water,” I retort, and because my boss isn’t an asshole and I’m practically management, I plunk my butt opposite Liam in the booth. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

Too quickly.

Having grown up around hockey players my whole life, I know their various quirks and the BS they spew.

This is grade-A, toxic BS.

Mostly because Liam’s been in the crapper for a while now.

Not hockey-wise. Nah, on the ice, he’s practically a god to fans. The idolatry people have for him is only getting worse.

See, Liam’s one of those unusual players—the more depressed he is, the better he plays because he puts his whole focus into hockey.

It’s when he’s happy that his game suffers and Liam hasn’t been happy for a while.

He’d played like Hermes on ice during the playoffs. No wonder the Mounties won the Stanley Cup again, despite him not being in top shape mentally.

That’s why his excuse of ‘nothing’ doesn’t ring true.

“Tell Aunty Gracie your problems, Liam,” I state, moving my fingers in a ‘gimme’ motion.

“I don’t have any problems.”

“Your life’s perfect, huh?” I mock, knowing that’s a lie.

It’s not like I’m unhappy to see him. In fact, I’m very happy, just not here and without any notice.

“Well, no, but nobody’s life is perfect,” he remarks, flicking a look at the table then back to me. “Don’t you have to work?”

“You didn’t come here for water. You didn’t come here for hot wings. You came here to talk to me.”

“I thought you were studying for your MBA. Why are you working in a bar?”

“And what does that have to do with you?”

“I’m… family.” He scowls. “Saying that no one in the family knows either.” His scowl darkens even more. “Kow seemed to think you were working on a sex hotline.”

Barking out a laugh, I shake my head. “Only Kow.”

“You don’t do that… right?”

I bat my lashes. “I’ve got the voice for it.”

His gaze dips to my mouth and quickly flashes away. He clears his throat. “You have a great voice, yeah. If your mom and dad knew you were doing sex work—”

I snort. “Puritans.”

“No lie.” He clears his throat again. “So, I mean, are you?”

“Would you tell them if I were?” I purr.

He immediately tenses—smart guy. The softer my voice, the deadlier the threat. “Of course not. I was just thinking out loud. They give you shit for living in the US when Canada is the best country on earth—”

“—best country on earth—”

We say that at the same time.

“—so I don’t think you working a sex hotline would go down well.”

Sitting back in the booth, the red vinyl creaking, I murmur, “They can sleep peacefully in their beds because I don’t.” Anymore. I’d done it for three months two years ago though. Had a whale of a freakin’ time until I’d gotten laryngitis that wouldn’t quit. How Kow knows any of that is a mystery. “But to answer your question, I’m waiting tables because I have rent to pay and I enjoy it. I’m pretty much management here and it’s a nice change of pace from my studies.”

Though his scowl lessens, he still seems confused by my life choices when we both know my brothers would pay my way through school.

To be fair, most of the men in my life have worn that look around me at some point—I’m used to it. But this is my show. Not theirs.

“How did you even know I worked here?”

“Got my own ways of doing things,” is all he says, making me roll my eyes because he probably got it out of my landlord for twenty bucks before he remarks, “I don’t think it’s possible for you to be my aunt. You’re barely six months older than me.”

For a second, I’m in the dark, then I realize he’s pivoted back to my earlier ‘Aunty Gracie’ comment.

He didn’t like that… Huh.

Not giving a damn whether he likes it or not, I get to my feet because something’s going on with him and I need to get to the bottom of it.

The second I start to walk away, however, he snags my hand. “Don’t go.”

That has my brow furrowing with concern. Not just the request, but his tone.

Liam’s cocky, but without being a jerk. Of the best friends my three brothers have, as much as I love them, he’s the only one I can stand for more than two hours without wanting to whack him between the legs with a hockey stick.

And while my brothers got all the talent, I inherited the swing too.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I inform him, aware that my voice is pitched softer. “I have to tell Chuck, my boss, that I need to cut my shift short.”

“You don’t have—”

I huff. “Make up your mind, Liam. Do you want me to go or not?”

He squirms in his seat, and that right there is worth losing an hour’s pay.

There’s nothing like making a hockey god squirm.

Millions of women around the world drool over the IG stories he shares of him diving into a pool in designer swimwear for dough, men knock beer bottles over the chicks he’s reportedly banging while wishing they were him, and here I am, little Gracie Bukowski, making the Leprechaun squirm in his seat.

Honestly, nothing beats that.

“Yes. But I’ll make up the pay,” he offers quickly.

With a grin, I duck to kiss his cheek. It’s not where I want to kiss but beggars can’t be choosers. “I’m not too proud to take it,” I declare.

As I rush to the bar, Mia Charles, bartender, my work wife, and the owner’s niece, mutters, “Who’s the hottie?”

Chuck’s plays nothing but baseball on its fourteen TVs, so that’s why she doesn’t recognize Liam. Mia and I are birds of a feather—we freakin’ loathe sports.

Everything sports.

Except with two differences.

One, she’s a figure skater so she doesn’t hate that.

Two, she never tried to use sports as a bridge to connect with the rest of her family how I did.

My desire to stop feeling like an outsider in my own home means that I can tell you who won the soccer World Cup in 1962 (Brazil), the male 1989 US Open winner (Boris Becker), and the PGA Championship Winner in 2017 (Justin Thomas with the US), even as I loathe every single sport I’ve ever come across.

Though, it is a great party trick for trivia night.

“He’s best friends with my brothers.”

That’s about as deep into it as I can get without having to explain what a billet family is to someone who doesn’t give a damn about hockey.

She whistles under her breath.

I snort. “Shut up.”

“What? I didn’t say anything. Anyway, you’ve got eyes. I’ve got eyes. Hell, honey, every woman in Chuck’s has eyes too.”

“It’s just Liam.”

“‘Just’ Liam, my ass,” she retorts.

Glancing across the bar, I see ‘Just Liam’ is watching me and I wave at him.

“He’s been checking you out since he sat down.”

“Shut up.”

Mia raises an eyebrow. “Baby, I’m telling you, he’s been watching you.”

“Probably because he wanted to talk to me. Speaking of,” I demur. “I need to duck out early.”

“It’s quiet tonight, so you should be all set.”

“Where’s your uncle?”

“Playing pinball. Where else?”

With a nod, I nudge my hip into hers. “He wants some water. Could you get me a bottle while I go talk to Chuck?”

Her expression’s puzzled. “Water?”

I shrug. “Water.”

“Does he know we’ve got a gazillion different types of beer on tap?”

“He does. He wants water.”

I leave her shaking her head over the oddities of mankind and stroll toward the vintage arcade games in the back corner.

I can’t blame her for finding his order strange. It’s not often that a single guy comes in on a Thursday at 9pm with water on his mind. Liam couldn’t do incognito if he tried.

“How’s my favorite warrior princess?” my boss exclaims.

Snickering, I knock elbows with Chuck, amused as always by how his focus can be on pinball but he somehow knows everything that’s going on around him.

Chuck really does have eyes in the back of his head.

“How many times, boss? It’s Gracie, not Xena.”

“Well, Princess Gracie, how ya faring?”

Though I pull a face, I know that he was super proud of me yesterday. I’m pretty sure he’s got the news reports of what went down outside the bar recorded from a few shows.

Chuck’s an indeterminate age of somewhere between fifty-four and seventy-four. I’ve seen pictures of him at thirty-two and he looked like he was in his fifties back then.

His grizzled features, bulbous nose from a history of an alcohol problem, and full head of silvery white hair set him apart. Last year, when he redid the logo on this place and was going to go all fancy, Mia drew him and he’s now the symbol of Chuck’s.

The funny thing is, Mia told him it was a portrait, but it’s his caricature.

That’s just Chuck, though—he’s got a face only a cartoon animator would love.

“I’m fine, boss. How are you?”

“Back’s aching—”

“That’s because you’re hunched over these games all the time,” I immediately retort with zero pity.

He harrumphs. “You ain’t got no sympathy for an old man.”

“I’m still not sure if you are old,” I reply with a grin.

“Trust me, my arthritis says otherwise.”

My nose wrinkles. “It’s quiet out there, Chuck. You mind if I take off early? I’ll make it up tomorrow. I’m on a half-shift.”

He waves a hand. “Sure thing, kiddo. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, an old family friend popped in and he’s looking…” How did Liam look? I mean, Mia’s not wrong about him being a hottie. He never looks bad per se. But whatever’s wrong with him, it has me offering to take off work early, so I noticed something. “…odd.”

Chuck tuts. “Odd? Is he painted blue like that kid last week?”

When he says ‘painted blue,’ he means in his entirety.

The idiot had covered every inch of his body with paint and he’d ended up riding to the hospital in an ambulance.

That was an expensive game night. One that made me reminisce about the time I turned Liam and Kow green.

“Nah. He’s just…” I purse my lips. “…sad.”

Yeah, sad. That fit.

“Huh. Go for it, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I knew he wouldn’t mind, and not just because he’s a great boss, but I’m usually the first to volunteer whenever he needs an extra hand.

Seeing as I live on the same block, he knows he can always rely on me; it’s how I became ‘management’ without the job title but with a pay raise.

Plus, I’m not a jackass and don’t take advantage of his kind nature.

We both know that I could pick up and leave at any moment and get a better job, but I meant what I said to Liam—I’m happy here.

I tap him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Chuck. You need me to get you some ibuprofen for your back?”

“You’re a good girl, but nah. It’s fine.” He stretches. “You’re right. I’ve been playing this too long. I should probably sit down and do some bookkeeping anyway.”

“Yeah, you should,” I retort, aware that Chuck’s filing system is a walking hard-on for an IRS auditor with a quota to fill.

“You go cheer your boy up,” he shoos.

My boy… I wish.

“Night, Chuck.’

Having made my retreat, I dump my order pad on the counter when I’m back at the bar and toss my apron on top of it. Next, I grab the tray Mia has loaded up with Liam’s bottle of water as well as my regular order of cream soda.

Ice clatters in his glass as I ask, “Mia, babe, do you mind putting my apron in the hamper?”

As she snags the bright orange fabric, she informs me, “He’s still watching you.”

With a sniff, I wiggle the cream soda at her. “Thanks.”

“You look like you need it.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long day.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and it’ll be a long night too.”

“Shuddup,” I retort, flinging my order pad at her.

Catching it, she just winks and walks off when someone calls out for a refill.

If it is a long night, it won’t have anything to do with what she’s imagining. Hell, what I’ve been imagining for far too long—one of my fave fantasies involves us, a lakeshore, moonlight, and the number 69.

Bad Gracie!

I tried the old-fashioned way to cure my crush—distance—and that hasn’t worked.

The nuns in school were liars when they preached that suffering leads to rewards.

Though, I guess the rewards they were talking about are of the heavenly variety, not earthly, which means I’m plain screwed all ‘round because this crush isn’t going anywhere.

Years after his kidnapping, it’s still an uncomfortable ache I can’t fight.

And him being here, all up in my space and one of my booths, with that gorgeousness of his spotlighted from on high, while a choir of angels sings, isn’t helping.

Why do men never do what you want them to do?

Still, if he needs me, that changes things.

Retreating to his table, I drop a napkin and place his water on it then drink directly from my bottle of cream soda as I plunk my butt opposite him. He frowns at the soda so I tip it forward.

“Go on, preach about clean living to me, Liam. I just dare you.”

He pours water into his glass and takes a sip. “I don’t preach.”

“No? You looked preachy to me.”

“Kow’s the preacher. The whiner too.”

I don’t bother to hide my smirk. “Yeah, he is. ‘Gotta live life to the fullest, sis.’” I mimic my brother’s baritone voice. “God, I’m glad I don’t have to share a bathroom with him anymore. If I never have to hear him puking again, I’ll die a happy woman.”

His jaw works. “It sucked when you left for Vancouver. I missed you.”

That has me blinking.

What’s with him tonight?

“You missed me?”

“That so hard to believe?”

Short answer, yes.

Long answer, yes.

I pick at the sticker on the perspiring bottle in my hand. “I guess that’s nice.”

“Nice?” He squints at me. “Nice?”

“Oh, Liam,” I mock, my voice high and breathy, “I’m so grateful that you missed me. What a compliment coming from the Liam Donnghal.”

“Don’t,” he grumbles, tossing the napkin at me.

It’s my turn to smirk. “With an arm like that, it’s a wonder you were scouted at all, never mind drafted.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes another sip. “It’s good to see you, Gracie.”

“Good to see you too. Didn’t realize you were in New York. You never messaged. The Mounties have you down here for publicity or something?”

He shakes his head. “Got traded.”

Well, that’s news to me.

Brows high, I ask, “Does Kow know?”

“Everyone does now. You’re losing your touch if you weren’t clued in.”

My lips purse. “When was it announced?”

“Today. You clearly didn’t check the family group chat,” he mumbles.

Ha. I haven’t checked that in a week. I don’t seek out stress—do I look insane? “Where?”

“The Stars.”

I gape at him. “The Stars?”

“Yeah, the Stars,” he growls, his fingers fussing with the bottle in front of him.

“Wait, what?” I mutter, rubbing my forehead. “Did you not just win the Stanley Cup? Or am I dreaming? I must be. What the fuck are you doing playing for the Stars?”

They were bottom-of-the-division losers for a reason.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Um, yeah, it does. I’m so confused and you know I hate being confused.”

“That’s because you’re too clever for your own good,” he grouses, his gaze flickering around the bar rather than at me.

Shaking my head, I ask, “So, did you fall or were you pushed?”

“Pushed.”

“By?”

“The new owners of the Stars.”

“Who are they?” My mind races as I try to assimilate what the hell’s going on. A snippet from a PSN clip on Tiktok comes to mind. “Acuig Corp? Didn’t I read that that fancy real estate firm was diversifying into sports teams or something?”

“Yeah. But that was midseason last year. Their overhaul is all the news has to talk about right now.”

“You might be into stocks and shares with your fancy investment portfolio, but I have enough to do without reading that section of the paper when school’s out for the summer and I’m working sixty-hour weeks.”

But this is… huge.

It’s like Tom Terrific playing for the Buffalo Bills in the ‘71 season when they went 1-13.

It just doesn’t compute.

Taking a deep sip of my cream soda, I muse, “I think you need to start at the beginning.”