End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Unforgettable – French Montana, Swae Lee

SLIDING the puck across the ice, I watch Lewis snatch a hold of it like his stick is magnetized. I swear we’re on a roll this season—something that’s backed up when two Seattle defensemen almost collide with me to stop the pass from happening.

Lewis, practically on his own now, slips the puck into the goal. As the stadium roars in triumph, he skates over to me and bumps my fist before turning into his signature goal celly—a pirouette.

“Fucking cocksucker,” the defenseman, a jerk by the name of Condon, mutters under his breath.

Just loud enough for me to hear.

And that’s it.

Off the gloves come, off with the helmet too.

One second, Condon is skating away, and the next, my fingers are on his jersey as I drag him back and he’s flat on his ass on the ice as I punch him.

The crowd goes wild. Roars from the Stars and boos from the Killer Whales accompany each of my hits like an aria, but I don’t give a fuck.

A linesman scurries over and grabs my fist before I can lay into Condon again.

In the background, I hear Lewis calling, “Come on, dude, he’s down. He’s down.”

I point my fingers at my eyes and jerk them in Condon’s dazed direction. “You back the fuck off with that homophobic shit. You hear me?”

“I’m not gay,” Lewis drawls, amused.

“Don’t give a shit where you stick your dick,” I disregard. “It’s the principle.”

He peers at me. “I get it all the time.”

“I know. But not on my watch.”

His lips quirk into a smirk as he bumps fists with me again. “Appreciate the backup, man.”

I tip my chin at him then accept being tossed from the game with grace as I skate over to the bench, snagging the puck on the way.

Condon, struggling to get off the ice, is helped up by two of his teammates. I took him by surprise, which wasn’t exactly an example of sportsmanship, but I’m sick of this BS.

It’s a goddamn pirouette—not an orgy in the neutral zone.

The shit Lewis gets for his celly is ridiculous and bullshit macho nonsense taken to the extreme. To be frank, it’s happening too frequently for my liking.

When Condon is guided not just off the ice but to the locker room, I figure I went a little too Mad Max on his ass.

Oh, well, shouldn’t have been a fucking douche bag.

As I storm down the tunnel, stopping only to toss the puck at one of the kids in the stands, behind me, the crowd goes wild. I’m not sure who scored but it ends up being a Stars’ 4-1 win.

In the locker room, after Bradley’s debrief which consists of him throwing shade my way, the journalists wade in.

Ordinarily, I’d do my time and head for the showers, but in this instance, I’m the first to face the fray.

“Chase Winnows with NYCT Sport. Liam, any clue as to why things turned aggressive between you and Condon?” one of the reporters asks.

Bradley glowers at me in the background, warning me with his glare to keep my trap shut, but I don’t.

I can’t.

“One of the ways to talk smack to other men is to diminish their masculinity. And, you know what, that’s life. That’s how things go. It’s just talk. But I can’t help but notice how what we say verges on hate speech.” I shrug. “When a player calls someone a derogatory term in front of me, as captain, I think I’m within my rights to defend my teammate.

“Especially when that derogatory term spews hate toward a subsection of the population who are already underrepresented in this sport.”

One inserts, “Mack Finnegan with PSN. Condon was being homophobic?”

“I have no desire to get into fights with anyone. Violence is not a language I want to be fluent in. But when adrenaline is high and tempers are surging, things get out of hand. I regret what I did and know that it was wrong, but so was what he said, which is between Lewis, Condon, and me.

“The toxic masculinity in hockey goes much deeper than this and everyone here knows it.”

Feeling like I accomplished something, even if it’s only small in the long run, I head for the showers, ignoring the barrage of questions that follow me.

But even there, I’m not granted any peace and quiet when Raimond hollers, “You need to cut that shit out on the ice, Lewis. We can’t have our captain getting into brawls to defend your honor.”

He meant it as an insult, but I chuckle. “Fuck you, Raimond. I’ll defend your right to be an asshole out there too. Isn’t that what teammates are supposed to do, or didn’t you get the memo?”

Raimond’s scowl follows him out of the showers.

The heat of the water feels good on my bones as I let it pound away some of my annoyance.

The growing pains of a new team have faded, but there’s no getting away from the fact that some guys will grind your gears more than others.

When I’m through, I head out and see Raimond hovering by my locker.

“What do you want? I already spoke to you more than once today. That’s my quota done.”

He swipes a towel over his head. “You don’t need to get into shit for that kid.”

“Says who?”

“Says anyone with sense. It isn’t a good look.”

“A good look?” My frown shifts into a scowl. “And who the fuck are you to decide what is or isn’t a good look for me? Lewis is carrying this team right now. He’s the golden boy.

“You’re managing to hold things up in defense, but that’s more by luck because the last couple games, you’ve all been slow as molasses. I think those parties you’re having are messing with your game.”

Raimond’s eyes narrow. “What do you know about my ‘parties?’”

Aware that I owe Gracie big time, I smirk at his finger quotes but zoom in for the kill. “A) it’s my job to know what you’re up to as your captain. I’m watching out for you, dipshit. B) You’ve been bringing hookers in and messing around with that new ‘performance-enhancing’ drug that’s doing the rounds.”

“I’m not taking—”

“Not steroids,” I immediately counter. “RED. You need to watch yourself. Eventually, they’ll start testing for it.”

“When I need your advice, I’ll come and ask for it.”

That has me barking out a laugh. “Like I asked you for advice. Whatever problem you have with Lewis is between you and him. So long as it doesn’t mess with the team, I don’t give a shit, but you stick to your end of the locker room and we’ll stick to ours, okay?”

He grunts but starts to slouch off like the jackass he is.

That’s when I remember the outreach program.

Fuck.

“Raimond,” I call, watching as he glances at me. “Coach will be hitting you up for a couple of hours a week to deal with the outreach program.”

“What outreach program?”

“The one the Stars is organizing to help inner-city kids. You know, the one that everyone is talking about? Who’s the guy with one ear here?”

He scowls. “Why the fuck would I want to help out with that?”

I didn’t need confirmation he was a jerk, but I got it anyway.

“We’re all contractually obliged to donate at least three hours a week.”

“I never agreed to that—”

“Yeah, you did. Get your lawyer on it if you’re that much of a selfish jerk, but when Coach hits you up, you make time, got me?”

“My agent will hear about this,” he growls.

‘Good. Cry to him,’ I call to his back. ‘Maybe it’ll take your mind off your dick and hookers!’

He flips me the bird over the top of his head.

Lewis, making his way out of the showers, sees him go. Because his cubby is next to mine, he quietly asks, “What did RaiBoy want?”

I snort at the name the press have given Raimond, a moniker they only use when he’s fucked up. “To tell me to stop defending you.”

His brows lift, but he shrugs. “He’s not wrong. I can defend myself.”

“You didn’t hear him talk smack about you. I did.” I eye him. “I practice ballet too. I’m just not as… effusive as you are and I don’t think it’s right that I feel I have to hide it as if it’s a crime.”

Lewis elbows me. “You practice ballet?”

My grin is sheepish. “Have a barre in my apartment and an instructor comes by once a week.”

“I just go to a studio,” he admits. “Mom wanted me to be a primo ballerino so I’m comfortable there.”

“She did?” I laugh. “Man, she must have been disappointed with the multimillion-dollar contracts for hockey teams, then. What a letdown.”

He rolls his eyes. “I never hear the end of it. Anyway, thank you. I appreciate you having my back.”

“Told you before that I would.”

“Yeah, but you keep on proving it.” His brow furrows. “I don’t get it, to be honest. I appreciate it but why do you care?”

“We’re teammates,” is my simple answer.

I’m saved from saying that I like him and that I think RaiBoy is an ass when the door to the locker room blasts open.

Silence throbs through the space at the explosive sound, and trust me, that we noticed in this chaos says a lot…