End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Come A Little Closer – Cage The Elephant

YOU KNOW that one person in your life who’ll tell you the truth, no matter what? Who’ll call you an asshole while everyone else blows smoke up there?

That uncomfortable person who you love but who you don’t open up to because if you do, it’ll sting?

That’s Gracie Bukowski for me.

Just sitting with her in this shithole of a bar is already making me feel a thousand times better, too.

Once upon a time, we’d been close friends.

Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if Kow hadn’t almost died that day twelve years ago.

If he hadn’t fallen through the ice in the Bukowskis’ backyard pond, my allegiance wouldn’t have shifted.

Everything would have been different.

That was our beginning.

But I know she isn’t talking about when I dumped her for her brother, switching friendships like I’d switched underwear.

God, I’d been an asshole.

“Do you want some wings?” I ask, desperately trying to shift my thoughts away from shitty memories of a time when I had nothing to be proud of and everything to be ashamed of.

Confusion’s cute on her as she states, “They have saturated fat in them.”

I shrug.

“A million calories.”

Over my glass of water, I pin her with a look as I take a sip.

“And I hate to besmirch Chuck’s rep, but I doubt the chickens are free-range or organic.”

That has me wincing.

She chuckles. “I know you too well. Don’t think you can distract me with promises of food. Especially when you wouldn’t be the one clearing the plate.”

I grimace.

Kow had made her weight a running joke at one point during our teens, but she’d always told him to shove it. The last thing I wanted was for her to think that I was calling her out—

“Come on, we can go back to your place. I’ll cook.”

I gape at her. “Jesus, do I look suicidal?”

She kicks me under the table. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“I won’t, I won’t.” Mostly because both of us know how close it’s come these past couple years. “Sorry. That was in poor taste.”

“It was, but don’t be sorry. Just shut the fuck up about being suicidal. And screw you,” she says lightly. “I can cook. It’s been years since I burned those noodles. Despite all those hits to the head, you guys never freakin’ forget, do you?”

“Memories of elephants when it comes to fuckups.”

She hums, but I can see the concern in her eyes. I’m getting tired of seeing that, of facing people’s worry over my state of mind, but with Gracie, it doesn’t feel like a burden.

She never makes me feel that way.

“I heard from Kow and Mom that you’ve been pulling away…,” she mutters, bringing me back to the subject at hand. “They never said anything about this, though. I mean, fuck, the Stars? You’re a Hall of Famer—” Her mouth gapes wider. “Wait a minute, you’ve had a no-trade clause for years! Why would you agree to go to the Stars? What was your agent thinking in letting you accept the trade?!”

He was thinking that the payoff was phenomenal because, even with the salary cap, the money was great and the sponsors based in New York that he had lining up for me meant a couple more million in the ‘just in case I’m kidnapped again’ fund.

He was thinking that I’d likely be captain again.

He was thinking I could be pivotal in bringing the ‘new look’ Stars to the Stanley Cup.

As for myself, I was thinking that Gracie was in New York.

She, without knowing it, without anyone else knowing it either, is the real reason I’d signed on the dotted line.

“You probably need to fire Andrews.” My agent. “Immediately.”

I shake my head. “He’s earned his commission.”

“Liam, how has he? This is a terrible deal! It’s like you’ve started playing for Russia in the Olympics. You and the Stars? It doesn’t make sense.”

I stare at her, wanting to open up, wanting to share, but it’s hard. Really hard. Impossible, even.

When I’m in therapy, the same thing happens—it’s like my tongue freezes.

Hell, it’s as if I freeze.

Mike, my therapist, says it, and a whole host of other shit, is a form of PTSD. PTSD or not, I’m hoping Gracie will defrost me.

She achieved it by sitting on my face, so why wouldn’t she come through this time with a dose of common sense and real talk? Okay, the stakes are different, but she doesn’t remember when she sat on my face, does she?

Fuck. My. Life.

“You want ice cream?” I ask her, needing to change the subject.

Gracie frowns. “The day just gets weirder and weirder. Sure, I’ll take ice cream. We can stop at a store because there’s no way you have any in your freezer.”

I nod as I get to my feet.

Tugging on my cap, I drag the visor farther down to cover my face.

If Gracie worked in a regular sports bar, I’d be fucked. Instead, this place appears to value baseball and chicken wings above all else so I should be okay.

When she approaches the counter, Gracie snatches a lightweight hoodie that someone from behind the bar tosses to her, then we walk outside.

I let her go first.

Not because I’m a gentleman, which I kind of am, but mostly because Gracie looks good going.

Coming too.

Kow would break my jaw for thinking it, but I’ve got eyes.

So do Chuck’s patrons.

Fuck if it doesn’t grind my gears to watch them watch her leave. They wave at her as she weaves through the tables, patting some on the shoulder and jeering at others, talking smack about their team in a way that’s purely Gracie because I don’t know anyone with as much random sports trivia in their head as her.

That’s what happens when you grow up in a household with three brothers and a variety of billet kids over the years, I guess.

When a guy taps her on the ass, before I can do dick—hell, I don’t even have time to get angry—she grabs his hand with a smile and shoves it behind his back, giving me zero opportunity to wade into the fray and smash the fucker’s face in. Shame.

“Now, Jason, what did we say about getting handsy with the servers?” To the woman behind the bar, she yells, “Mia, cut Jason off, would you?”

Mia shakes her head and tuts. “Jason, this is getting to be a regular thing. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Jason pouts. “It was only a little tap.”

Gracie wags her finger in his face. “Is one little tap on my ass worth being beaten with that Jung-ho Kang signed baseball bat Chuck just bought?”

His eyes widen to a comical degree. He clearly knows that she can put her money where her mouth is as he sputters, “N-No.”

“Good answer.” She claps him on the shoulder, hard enough for him to cough and almost face-plant into the table. “Right, I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Don’t get into trouble unless I’m here. Twinkle Toes behind the bar can’t bat for shit.”

“Fuck you, Gracie!”

She winks. “You know you love me, Mia.”

Mia boos and hisses, but Gracie just smirks at her as she sashays out the door.

“You handled that well,” I say once we’re standing on the sidewalk, my tone uneasy. “You have to deal with that on the regular?”

It’s an unseasonably chilly night for mid-June, but it means that she loops her arm through mine as she huddles into me for heat.

I don’t want to think about why that feels so fucking good.

“Sometimes, but Chuck isn’t afraid to toss out patrons so it’s mostly okay. Jason’s different. He’s… loopy.” Her nose crinkles. “He used to play college ball and was on his way to the NFL, but he took too many hits to the head. His boundaries are still back in 1999 when you could do shit like that without it being called sexual assault.”

That’s a lot of information to process. “It’s not your job to police him.”

She shrugs. “He never takes it too far.”

“Yet,” I point out.

“What are we supposed to do? The boys in blue do dick if a woman gets hit, never mind tapped on the ass in a bar, Liam.”

If that was supposed to make me feel better, she failed.

“Anyway, he’s a good guy, just stuck in a different era. It’s sad, really. The game fucked him up.” Gracie drags her hood over her head, whacking me in the arm when I try to tug it down at the back. “I worry about you idiots turning into him, to be honest. One too many pucks to the face and you’ll have cognitive issues as well.”

I snort. “Kow says it was worth it to get new teeth.”

She shakes her head. “He would. I’m surprised he bothered.”

“He’s too vain not to.”

When she laughs, I dislodge my arm from hers and curve it over her shoulder, tugging her deeper into my side.

God, that feels good.

“You guys are always so warm. I need that superpower,” she grouses.

Another woman would be giggling and flirting as she said that, but not Gracie.

Charlotte, that so-called friend of hers, told Gracie her only worth was her brothers, that she was destined to be surrounded by hot hockey players who’d want to screw puck bunnies but never her.

I heard all about it secondhand from a snickering Kow whose nose I proceeded to break.

I don’t know why Gracie listened to that bitch, I just know that she did.

That was the year she stopped following Kow and me from city to city after she turned us green.

That was the year I started to miss her. Our talks. Her smack. That damn tuque she practically lived in. The way she braided her hair as she recapped a game with us.

Sometimes, the moves she lauded were better than what our coach at the time developed. What she knew about the sport was unreal back then, and her capacity for strategy was seriously impressive.

That was the first phase of her fading from my life. Moving to New York had pretty much been the final period. I’m hoping this is my shot in OT.

I don’t say any of that. I just tell her, “You can thank oatmeal for why we’re always warm. Central heating for the bones.”

“I hate that shit. Don’t even talk to me about overnight oats. Mom’s trying to get me onto those and I told her that anything that can soak overnight, be mush, and still go viral on social media is the work of the devil.”

My lips quirk into a grin and a slither of something I haven’t felt in a long while rushes through me—happiness.

“Thanks, Gracie.”

“For what? Hating oatmeal?” She drags me to a halt. “There’s a Duane Reade on that corner. We can pick up some Ben & Jerry’s. Swedish Fish too. It’s been a day.”

Grimacing, I say, “Sorry. You don’t need my crap on top of it.”

“Don’t be a doofus.”

“I’m not. I can’t just wade into your life and expect you to drop everything—”

“If you’d expected me to drop everything, I wouldn’t have dropped dick. You came in to talk, we got to talking, and now we need to talk because I can tell something’s going on with you if you can downgrade to the Stars.” Her scorn is impressive. “Kow’s got about as much sensitivity as a drunken donkey, as do the rest of the boys, so you need to chat with someone who actually has sense.” She pats my abs in what I assume is supposed to be a comforting gesture, then she pauses. “Man, you’ve been working out.”

Automatically, I tense the muscles in my abdomen.

Automatically, she pulls back and punches me in the gut.

She waggles her fingers, teasing, “Man of Steel.”

“You Bukowskis fucking suck,” I complain, even as I guide her across the street.

“You knew it was going to happen.”

“Yeah, because I’ve been around you heathens for too long.”

Still, it’s good to be back with at least one of the ‘heathens’ again. Kow moved home to Winnipeg last year after a stint in Denver, and Trent got traded and will play for San Jose this upcoming season. As for Noah, he’s in Dallas, Cole’s in Newark, and Matt’s heading to Boston. Gray’s still in Tucson.

We’re spread out, far-flung, and though we’re technically living our best lives, at the top of our game, I’ve missed them.

At my lowest point, through no fault of their own, my adoptive family has been far away. They’ve tried to reach out, but Christ, there’ve been times I’ve felt unreachable.

If I can thank the collusion of my agent and father for one thing, it’s for getting me traded to the same place where Gracie is.

Not that Padraig has admitted to being a part of this, but he can deny it as many times as he wants—his sticky fingers are all over this deal.

He’s got connections now.

“Did you keep ahold of that tuque you used to wear?” It’s a random question. Not even I’m sure why I asked it.

She pauses in the doorway to the convenience store. “Which tuque?”

So, some things do change.

“Never mind,” I dismiss.

When we walk into the convenience store, I grab the Phish Food container before she does because I know that’s one of her favorites, then I realize she got a basket, so I dump in another carton of Butter Pecan, as well as Swedish Fish, some of those crazy hot Takis because I know she loves them, and then a bunch of other snacks she likes.

“You getting anything for yourself?” she asks, peering at me though she knows the answer.

“Nah. I’m good.”

She rolls her eyes as we stroll over to the cashier. While the guy checks out our stuff, he keeps glancing at me in that way I’ve come to recognize. Gracie elbows me in the side, telling me she knows I’ve been spotted too.

Neither of us says anything, but as he scans our purchases, I know he’s going to.

“You were on the news yesterday, weren’t you?” he blurts out.

“No,” I answer. Today, sure. Not yesterday. It’s Gracie who surprises me, though.

“Yeah.” Her cheeks turn pink. “Just a small segment.”

Bewildered, I demand, “What happened?!”

Sighing, she shoots me a look before starting to tuck her stuff into a reusable grocery bag she liberates from one of her pockets. “This asshole grabbed a kid off the sidewalk and threw him into the street for shits and giggles. This city, man, it’s becoming a gong show.”

“A gong what?” the cashier mutters.

“What did you do?!”

“Managed to snatch him before the boy could get hurt.”

“And beat the shit outta the guy. Don’t forget that part.” The cashier makes a few ‘pow-pow’ noises as he copies what I assume were Gracie’s moves in the altercation. “You got him real good, lady.”

She waves a hand. “I have a lot of brothers. Practice makes perfect.”

The guy chuckles. “I noticed on the TV that you were tiny, but seeing you in real life, that douche is gonna get his ass kicked for being beat on by a little girl.”

That has Gracie’s embarrassment turning into annoyance. “I’m not a little girl.”

Before the cashier can get a taste of her knuckle sandwich, I quickly pay him and tug her out of the store. With one hand on the bag, the other I use to dig inside for a glucose hit.

Tossing her the pack of Swedish Fish, I mutter, “Here, start eating!”

It’s always wise to appease the beast.

She harrumphs but does as I asked. “Want one?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no, but I waggle my fingers at her instead. She tosses a couple onto my palm, obviously too annoyed to comment on me eating junk food, and starts chomping on the candy like she’s eating rocks.

“So, you’re a hero then?”

She squints at me. “I just did what anyone would do.”

I hide a smile to dispel my panic. “I mean, save the kid, yeah. Get into a fight with a lunatic, no.”

God, that could have gone wrong in so many different ways.

“Asshole deserved it.” Her harrumph is louder this time. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. He thought it was funny. The kid was screaming and a truck was incoming and…” A gust of breath escapes her. “It was a nightmare.”

“You were brave—”

“I did what anyone should have done.”

That has me curving an arm around her shoulder again. “Yeah, but no one did, did they? Just you.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “You shouldn’t have gotten into a fight. You could have been hurt.”

She chuckles. “That guy had a fist made of glass. Talked the big talk but had nothing behind it.”

The idea of her punching above her weight makes the Swedish Fish in my gut start swimming.

“I know we said we’d head to yours,” she asks, voice kind as she changes the subject. “But this is my place. Want to hang out here?”

I study the street, the area, the building itself and pull a face.

If Kow and the rest of her brothers knew where she was living, they’d hit the roof.

“Yeah, let’s. There’s barely any furniture at my apartment,” is all I say. “I have to set it up this week. That was supposed to be on today’s to-do list.” My nose crinkles because I got dick done.

As she unlocks her door, she offers, “I can help if you want.”

“I mean, I’d appreciate it, but I don’t want you to think that’s why I came to the bar.”

“Oh, it’s not as much of an offer as you think,” she teases. “You haven’t seen my place yet. It’s a dive.”

“Do your brothers know?”

“Know what? That I have shitty taste? I think they figured it out when I wallpapered Benji Madden everywhere.”

I grin at the memory. “Remember when you snuck into Noah’s room and covered up all his titty models with Justin Bieber’s face?”

Cackling, she nods. “Good times.”

Her amusement fades like a lightbulb just went out. Switched on and immediately switched off.

“You okay?” I ask her as we start to walk up the rickety stairs to her apartment.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” is her breezy retort.

Why don’t I believe her?

When we reach her door, she opens it and walks in after she toes off her shoes. Knowing that’s her mom’s house rule, I obey the silent prompt and take the opportunity to look around.

While she was exaggerating about having bad taste, that she runs so much toward neutrals comes as a shock seeing as Gracie is the opposite of neutral.

Her apartment is a two-room space with a tiny bath. My fancy mud room is bigger than her kitchen/dining area/living room combo and her bedroom barely fits a double bed.

“Compact and bijou,” she jokes, sensing then disregarding my disapproval, while she walks over to the freezer and shoves in the cartons of ice cream. “I made pierogi yesterday. Want some?”

“Your mom’s recipe?”

“Of course.”

“Polish potstickers?” I ask hopefully.

“Yeah, yeah. We can have some.”

“Cheese?”

“Stop with the puppy-dog eyes,” she grumbles. “They’re cheese.”

Beaming, I rub my hands together. “The best.” Watching as she draws out a pan from the stove, I grimace. “You’ve been working all day. I should—”

“Yeah, you should.” She wafts a hand. “Get cooking.” Then, she wriggles her shoulders. “Give me five. I’ll get showered and changed.”

She’s already walking out the door or she’d probably have noticed my reaction to those words.

A stupid reaction.

Out of place, unnecessary, making me no better than that jerk from the bar Jason.

‘Showered and changed.’

I lived with her for three years. She’s showered and changed plenty under her parents’ roof, never mind mine and Kow’s place in Montréal.

This is no different.

“So why is it different?” I ask myself as I dig around in her refrigerator and find the dumplings in question.

Hanna made sure all her boys could cook. It’s probably why each of us handles our own food even though we started making enough our first year of playing to hire private chefs.

Despite her ability to burn water, some recipes were purely for the only girl of the family, with pierogi being one such mythical food item.

I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Drawing the large Tupperware dish from the refrigerator, I pop the lid and groan with delight when I find thirty tiny carb bombs that are worth the destruction of a day’s macros.

Mouth already watering, I stick the pan on the stove, drop in some butter, let it get nice and hot, then I position the dumplings in the fat so I can get as many in as possible in one go.

Over the sizzle, I hear the water come on in the bathroom next door.

It’s more difficult than it should be to shift focus away from what’s happening in there.

“Stop making this weird,” I mutter to myself, giving the pierogi more attention than they need, seeing as you have to leave them to crisp up on the bottom and that’s pretty much it.

After I’ve flipped them over, that’s when Gracie walks into the kitchen.

Except, it’s not the Gracie I’m used to seeing.

The kid who lived in hoodies and jeans… even at home. Even at night. I didn’t see her in PJs because she’d switch out a day hoodie for a night one and would throw on some jean shorts.

Gracie, the adult, is wearing a bathrobe, with her hair tucked into one of those towel turban things. Her face is pink and clean. Her scent is gardenias—I know because I always buy them for her mom on her birthday since Gracie told me they are her favorite.

They aren’t.

They’re Gracie’s favorite, not Hanna’s.

Gracie had pranked me and I just always kept it up.

As I try not to stare, I’m still left dealing with the aftermath of my dick reacting to the only stimuli it’s been interested in for the last couple years.

Quickly glancing away from places my eyes have no right landing yet, I tell her, “I hope you don’t want any of these.”

“I made thirty,” she complains.

“Yeah, and I’m a growing boy.”

She scoffs, but there’s a smile on her face as she drags out the bottle of milk from the refrigerator and glasses from the cupboard. If she leans into me to reach above the sink in her tiny ass kitchen, well, I know she doesn’t realize how close that shoves us together.

Nor does she realize how goddamn addictive her scent is.

Or that I can see down the robe.

Fuck.

When she pours herself some milk and then wiggles the bottle at me, I nod as I dish out Poland’s version of potstickers between two plates.

“It’s weird they don’t have milk in a bag here.”

“You get used to it. All Americans are faintly weird,” she advises me. “You get used to that too.”

Ketchup soon finds its way onto the table because I’m an animal and she remembers and forgives me for it, and both of us take a seat so we can dig in.

At the first bite, I groan. “Jesus, these are almost better than your mom’s.”

She smirks. “I have a secret ingredient she doesn’t.”

“Tell me more.”

“Wouldn’t be secret if I told you, would it?” She pours me some milk, too, then snags her glass and takes a sip. “You owe me big time for sharing these. They’re a pain in the ass to make but I was feeling nostalgic yesterday.”

“I’ll love you forever.”

“Ha! That won’t sustain me.”

I place my hand over my heart. “That’s just rude.”

“Who said I was polite?” There’s a gleam in her eyes as she studies me while I chow down on Polish potstickers. “Must have known you were coming to eat them all.”

“Fate has a way of working out in my favor.”

“Never thought I’d be sharing my pierogi with the Liam Donnghal tonight,” she breathes mockingly.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

“Maybe before.”

She grimaces.

I point my fork at her. “No pity.”

“I don’t pity you. I can wish it didn’t happen though.”

“Fair. Did I ever thank you for coming to the hospital the day I was rescued?”

She hitches a shoulder, and maybe she doesn’t know it or maybe she does, but the deep V of the bathrobe gapes at her neckline. Her words are unfortunate as she says dismissively, “We’re family.”

“Yeah,” I say gruffly, aware that, not for the first time since I moved in with her kin, I wish we weren’t. “We are.”