War (Boston Bolts Hockey #3)

One

ONE

DANIEL

“Calliope, guys.” I shake my head. I pulled up her article on my phone and immediately inhaled the entire thing. If not for practice, I’d read it again and take notes.

Calliope is a genius. Her articles changed my dating game and my sex life. The woman is honest and direct, and though her column is catered to an audience of women, time and again, it gives me direct insight into how to please the opposite sex. As a man who’s determined to give 110 percent a hundred percent of the time, I take her word as gospel.

So far, she hasn’t steered me wrong.

Our captain, Tyler Warren—War to his teammates and Bolts fans—groans. “Could you at least try to make it one day without mentioning her name?”

Brooks, our goalie, chuckles as he laces up his skates. “Leave him be. What was the article about today?”

Here’s the tricky part. Calliope is absolutely a genius, but if I tell them about what she’s pushing, they’ll be on my case again.

War, Brooks, and our center, Aiden—who’s one of Brooks’s brothers—all have blinged-out dicks. It’s been a bit of a sore subject for me—no pun intended—because though I really want one, I chicken out every time we walk into the tattoo shop to get it done.

The three guys got their piercings before I was drafted to the team. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s like the event bonded them, and I feel left out. But I can’t quite get past the idea of a man sticking a needle through my precious jewels.

Before I can decide whether to tell them about the article or make something up, our coach walks in, all business.

All chatter dies at the expression on his face. Gavin Langfield isn’t a hard-ass coach. As part owner of the team, he played a role in scouting most of us. Two years ago, though, he took over as coach as well. His unique position means that he not only knows the team inside and out, but he’s got to do a lot of schmoozing. He’s a genuinely nice guy, too, and that translates to his relationship with all of us. We respect the shit out of him, but also think of him as a friend friend.

He and my dad have been best friends for years, and since he married my twin sister last year, we’re exceptionally close. So the formal expression on his face throws every one of us. Especially knowing that the trade deadline hits at midnight. Is he coming in here to break some bad news?

I scan the locker room, studying my teammates. Our team is good, though there’s always room to be better. This season especially. Something has been off, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned. I’ve played on the first line since I was drafted during college. While War is known for protecting the guys on the ice, taking the hits when a fight breaks out and instigating them when necessary, I have a different set of skills. As the other winger, I have to anticipate War’s moves, as well as those of our center, Aiden. I’ve got to be ready to make the play or put Aiden or War in position to make it. It’s why the guys started calling me Playboy—despite the other obvious connotation. I always find a way to make a play work. Essentially, my goal has been to be good at everything. In turn, though, that means I’m not particularly fantastic at one specific skill.

War, Aiden, and I are one hell of a line, but I’ve heard the rumors about Noah Harrison, and if they’re true, they won’t lead to anything good for me.

Harrison is one of the best snipers in the league. He’s a winger like I am, but he’s just as adept at scoring as his center. The whole league knows it. If he gets the biscuit, even from the most improbable angle, the man somehow finds the back of the net.

He’s a coach’s dream and is well liked by everyone he’s ever played with. His college team called him Beauty, and that name stuck when he was drafted to the NHL.

In hockey that’s the gold standard. A player who is talented and well liked.

And his nickname is the kind a player should be proud of. The kind that commentators can’t make jokes about. He’s Hall of Fame worthy.

If I wasn’t already playing with two of the best guys in hockey, I’d be pumped about the possibility that the guy has been traded to the Bolts. Passing the puck to a player like Noah Harrison would be a dream.

But I am playing with two of the greats. I am the weakest link.

And if I were Gavin Langfield and I had the opportunity to trade for Noah Harrison, I wouldn’t hesitate.

“I’ve got some exciting news,” Gavin says. He glances in my direction, a quick acknowledgment. He doesn’t look ashamed or guilty. And he shouldn’t, whether he’s done what I’m pretty sure he did or not. I may be his wife’s twin and his best friend’s son, but he’s never shown favoritism to anyone in this locker room, including his own brothers. Outside this arena, the dynamics between all of us are different, but here, we are his players and he’s our coach. And he’s a damn fair one. He decides who plays and how hard we practice. And we listen. Every one of us wants to please him since it’s up to him whether we do the one thing we love the most—play hockey.

“Noah Harrison—” I don’t hear the rest of his sentence, but from the cheers going up around me, it’s easy to guess what he’s just announced. We’ve secured Noah Harrison in a trade.

And whoever Gavin traded for him isn’t in this locker room. Our coach-slash-owner is far too respectful to make an announcement like this before notifying the player affected by the negotiation. He would have thanked them for their dedication to the team and wished them luck ahead of time.

I take in the faces around the room, and once I’ve accounted for all the guys I’m close with, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“This is fucking awesome.” Aiden rubs his hands together, budging War in the ribs with his elbow. “Don’t you and Harry have matching tattoos?”

War glances at me, his eyes full of concern. He knows I’m secretly freaking the fuck out. “They’re not matching tattoos. It’s our college team’s logo.”

Oh did I forget to mention that Brooks, War, and Harrison played together in college? That they’ve been friends for years? Yeah, this just keeps getting worse.

War tips his chin at Brooks. “This guy was too chicken shit to get one.”

Without shame, Brooks says, “Always knew I was going to be a Bolt. No need to put some other logo on my body.”

“Spoken like a Langfield.” In the next breath, War’s eyes light up. “But you don’t have a Bolts tattoo.”

Brooks rolls his eyes. “What is it with you trying to get everyone tatted?”

“Your fiancée would think it’s hot.” War raises a brow.

“Does Harry have a dick piercing?” The second the question is out, I want to punch myself in the face. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The guys’ faces scrunch up in various what the fuck? expressions.

I double down. “Well, does he?”

“No, that’s a Bolts thing,” Brooks says, eyeing War. “That’s our Bolts thing.” His voice is stronger now, like he just found his way out of getting inked. “No need for a fucking tattoo when I have Bolts-blue bars through my dick.”

I wince. Fuck, that sounds painful. But it’s a Bolts thing. Their thing. Our thing .

“After practice,” I say, forcing the words to sound resolute.

“After practice, what?” War watches me, his lips twitching like he knows where I’m going with this. So what if I’m insecure about Harrison’s impending trade? So what if I’m acting like a fucking toddler having a temper tantrum and trying to hold on tight to my friends. They’re my friends. Anyone would be a little territorial.

I meet War’s eyes, determination setting in. “After practice, we’re going to the tattoo shop.”

“You really think you’ll go through with it today?” War sounds all sorts of skeptical.

“Yeah, Calliope says that real heroes pierce their dicks for their women’s pleasure.”

“Fuck yeah, they do,” Aiden says, wearing a too big smile. “Can’t wait to use that line on Lex later.” He holds up his fist for Brooks to bump, but his brother just glares at the outstretched arm. He shrugs and holds it out to me instead.

“Fuck yeah, they do.” I bump him back. “And real friends have matching dicks.”

My stomach bottoms out. What the fuck, Playboy?

I have two choices here, punch myself in the face or own the comment and hold a fist out to War to complete the assholery.

I go with the latter, leaning into this moment, a moment that, with any luck, will bind these guys to me for life.

War chokes on air. “You need help, Playboy. So much fucking help.” He shakes his head, but with a laugh, he bumps my fist.