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Chapter 1: Devon

I’m not saying summer in Manhattan is magical or anything. It’s not. It’s sweaty and sticky, with trapped heat and stale air. It’s too humid, too loud, and too damn long.
But I don’t spend my summers in Manhattan. I, along with most of the city, escape the heat. Sure, some crews hit up the Jersey shore, but my teammates and I, we do it up in style. We go to the Hamptons.
Beach clubs, themed parties, champagne and Negronis, models and B-list actresses, the last decade of summers for me meant wild nights, hungover mornings, and pure debauchery.
But not anymore.
I step off the plane and the Tennessee heat hits me square in the face, fogging up my Wayfarers. It coats my skin, sticks to the three-day-old stubble I’m rocking, and causes beads of sweat to gather on the back of my neck.
I look around the dusty expanse. Mountains rise in the background. I guess they could be picturesque if everything else—the old trucks, the cargo shorts and trainers, the goddamn heat—wasn’t so mundane.
Fuck this.
I roll my shoulder, wincing as residual pain flares. After a decade of going all in with the New York Sharks, I suffered an injury that led to a professional blowback. I got traded. Not once, but twice.
I’m now the keystone player for the Tennessee Thunderbolts. The Bolts are a shit team going through a massive rebuild, recently purchased by former NHL players Jeremiah Merrick, Noah Scotch, and Torsten Hansen and his family. There is a sliver of hope that under the right leadership, the Bolts will grow into a powerhouse in the future. But how far in the future?
Right now, the roster is mediocre at best, the fans would rather watch a shitty football game than a hockey shootout, and I may as well light my career on fire.
“Welcome to Tennessee,” a friendly voice, a smiling face, greets me. She’s younger than I am, probably eighteen or twenty. She’s wearing overalls, but not the trendy version that popped up in recent street fashion and could be seen all over the city, covering up cropped tops that looked more like bras. No, this chick is wearing legit overalls. Like she’s still stuck in the early nineties when moms dressed their offspring to look like they should live on a farm. I wonder if she’s got some silly embroidered heart sewn on her ass.
I scowl. Why the hell is she so damn friendly? It’s...unsettling. She doesn’t know me. Narrowing my eyes, I mutter, “Hey.”
She offers a hand. “I’m Lola, Axel’s daughter.”
I frown, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. But after a moment, my manners, the ones Mom instilled in me and Granddad insisted upon, come to the surface and I take her hand. “Devon.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she says, but not in a fangirl way. At least, not in a way that indicates she fans over me. Huh?
“Lol,” a gruff voice hollers out.
I turn and the pieces click into place. Axel Daire, former defenseman for the Seattle Rams and my new teammate, barrels toward me. His scowl is ferocious, giving credibility to his nickname, Brawler.
I take a tentative step away from his daughter and drop my hand.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his glare darting from Lola to me and back again.
“Welcoming Devon to Tennessee. You guys are going to be teammates,” she states the obvious, still smiling. Tipping her head toward her dad, she mutters, “Play nice,” before bounding away to greet another newcomer.
“What is she, the welcoming committee?” I question.
“No, she’s my kid. And you better treat her with the respect she deserves,” he growls at me.
I put my hands up in a surrender position. I don’t want to tell Brawler that Lola isn’t close to being my type, so I keep my mouth shut. “She was just introducing herself.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Just steer clear of her.”
“Just here to play hockey, man,” I say, growing annoyed by his ridiculous assumption that I’d hit on his daughter. One, that’s a golden rule I’d never cross. And two, she’s wearing goddamn overalls. Besides, I’m not sticking around Tennessee. I’ve been adamant with my agent to get me back on a real team, preferably in a real city. Knowing I’m going to live forty minutes outside of Knoxville depresses the shit out of me.
“Then we won’t have a problem.” He crosses his arms over his chest and widens his stance. Something behind me catches his eye and he sighs. Turning around, I spot Lola, chatting with a girl who also shows questionable sense in fashion. Are overalls a thing here? She shoots her dad a look. “Sorry to hear about your shoulder.”
Surprised, I turn back to Axel, noting the uncertainty in his gaze, the clench of his jaw. Man, this dude sucks at small talk. “Thanks.” I hold out a hand and he shakes it, his grip harder than necessary. A not-so-subtle reminder to not fuck Lola.
Got it.
After Axel drops his hold, I shoulder my bag and fall into step with him. “When’d you get in?”
“For training?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
He narrows his eyes, a dark brown that looks black. “What would you call it?”
“Forced team bonding.” Coach Scotch summoned the team to The Honeycomb, the Bolts arena, located forty minutes outside of Knoxville in a small town. A suburb. We’re here six weeks before the regularly scheduled training camp to get to know each other, to form some bonds, to make sure we have enough camaraderie to gel on the ice. And yeah, we’re getting paid but…money isn’t everything. Not when I can practically taste the zest, feel the pull, of the Hamptons, a memory from an old life I don’t want to forget.
Looking around at the desolate expanse and sad city skyline, my hopes are pretty low. I won’t even be living with a view of this sad city skyline. My new place, close to the arena, will probably feature a well and a cornfield. Most likely, I’ll endure pie-eating contests and cow tipping because I have no clue what people do here for entertainment.
Axel huffs out a snort. “I moved here in May, right after the season ended.”
“Why?”
At the obvious disdain in my tone, his jaw clenches tighter. Still, he responds honestly. “Lola. She’s a junior at the University of Tennessee.” Pride fills his tone as he adds, “She’s studying computer science. Coding.”
I look back at Lola, now bouncing around in her overalls. Figures.
“That’s why I asked to be traded,” Axel adds.
My neck snaps up. “You asked to be traded? Here?”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re young, Hardt. There’s more to life than hockey.”
“Like what?”
“Like family.” His tone holds an edge, one that reminds me of Granddad.
Dipping my head, I don’t bother to respond. I’m not going to win this argument. Brawler’s probably never been to the Hamptons in July.
“Lola signed us up for today’s meet and greet.” He slows his walk as we arrive at a table. Picking up a packet of paperwork with my name on it, he thrusts it into my chest. “Fill these out for tomorrow morning and get to the office by 10 AM. Coach wants you to meet the new physical therapist.”
“Yeah, okay,” I mutter, gripping the folder.
“One of the cars over there will take you to your new place.” He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “If you need help looking for a more permanent place, let me know. I bought a house last month and know a good realtor.”
I bite back my laugh. There’s no way in hell I’m looking for a permanent anything. All I want is to heal my shoulder, have a sick season, and get back to the city. But, recognizing Axel’s offer as a sincere attempt at friendliness, I nod. “Thanks, Daire. Appreciate that.”
“See you tomorrow, Hardt.”
I watch as he shuffles away. He’s got at least eight years on my twenty-eight, and is still built like a linebacker. My eyes flick to Lola, a junior in college. Shit, Daire must have knocked some fangirl up real fucking young. Poor sucker, he probably missed out on most of the perks of being a young, hotshot, NHL player in a major metropolitan city.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel the high of my life in New York. I can still recall my last hookup. Red lips wrapped around my cock, the pressure just right. She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she sucked me off, her heels tossed beside her on the floor. She worked me so damn good, and when it was over, I swiped up my phone, called her a cab, and pulled up my favorite app. In three minutes, I got rid of the woman who knew better than to strike up small talk. In fact, she didn’t even leave her number. I ordered a green smoothie, scheduled a delivery time for my laundry, and confirmed dinner reservations at a new, trendy restaurant. Then, I tossed my phone aside, collapsed on my couch, and watched a movie as the greatest city in the world loomed just outside my floor-to-ceiling windows. Ah, that was the damn life.
Shaking my head, I adjust the bag on my shoulder and head toward one of the cars. My luggage has probably already been delivered. I wave to the driver, slide into the back seat, and tell him my name.
“Got it,” he mutters back, pulling into the nonexistent traffic. “Your place is on the Hill.”
The Hill? I frown, but not in the mood to make small talk, I don’t reply. Instead, I pull out my phone and call my agent, Callie James. I need to get the hell out of the middle of nowhere. The sooner, the better.
* * *
Callie James is not impressed with my attitude. After reminding me that I’m in no position to make demands, I tune her out and stare out the window. Downtown Knoxville speeds by and slowly, the space between houses increases. Expansive green lawns and white houses, twenty times the size of anything in New York, appear. Columns, horseshoe driveways, and artfully arranged floral window boxes, it’s clear I’m a long way from the grit and hustle of the city.
Sighing, I take back my earlier view on small talk and try to engage with the driver, but he indicates that he’s listening to something on his AirPods.
Shit. Not that I expected the red-carpet treatment, but I at least thought people would be interested in the players, the new team, the Bolts. Turns out, I was wrong.
The driver leaves me in front of a small, two-bedroom house, on a quiet street filled with houses just like mine. I have a driveway, a lawn, and a shed, all things I’ve never wanted. Sighing, I shoulder my bag and make my way inside, pleasantly surprised by the clean scent of lemon and the remodeled kitchen, a simple white design. Knowing it could be worse, I toss my bag down on the brown leather sectional in the living room and poke through the rest of the place. My bags are at the foot of the bed in the bigger bedroom. The fridge is stocked with essentials, but I’ll have to head out for dinner.
Blowing out a sigh, I sit down on one of two barstools at the kitchen island and resign myself to making the most of this season.
I’m not here for the long haul. I don’t need to be anyone’s best friend or do the community outreach bullshit. I’m here for hockey. And maybe some good, meaningless fucks with country girls along the way.
But that’s it. After this season, Callie will have something better for me. If it’s not New York, I’ll settle for California. LA or San Diego. At least then I’ll be closer to Grandad, Mom, and my sisters.
Axel wasn’t wrong. Family is important. I just don’t want to make one here, in Tennessee, with the overalls, the sheds, and the immaculate lawns that must take an entire afternoon to cut.