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This moment.
This very fucking breath.
Astrid balled up her mother’s veil in her hand and locked eyes on her reflection. Today was supposed to be a day for solemn vows, and it sure as hell was still going to be. Staring right at her own tear-stained face, Astrid O’Malley swore to herself on all that she held dear that she was officially and forever done with the craptastic trinity of men, love, and stupid fucking hockey.
D.
O.
N.
E.
Done.
And that’s exactly what she was going to tell everyone crowded into the pews when she marched out into that church and told them the wedding was off and that Tig Jones was a complete and utter asshole.
Chapter Two
Present Day…
Sure, the sign outside of the Waterbury bar said the Penalty Box, but Cal Matsen knew he was actually in hell.
Even worse, he couldn’t even get a beer at a fucking sports bar because it was so damn crowded. The space between the corner booth where he was sitting and the bar was hips to elbows with three kinds of people.
One, tourists who made the trek across the bridge to Waterbury from Harbor City because some travel app said the bar owned by a now-retired Ice Knights defenseman and future hockey hall of famer, Zach Blackburn, was a must-see.
Two, diehard hockey fans who acted as if they were having a religious experience as they stared at the walls covered in team memorabilia and tried to work up the courage to approach the handful of past and current players around Cal who were shooting the shit.
Three, armchair general managers who thought they knew more than the people actually paid to do the job. These assholes weren’t afraid of telling every single one of their hockey-related thoughts very loudly.
It was the kind of place that made the four-inch jagged scar on Cal’s right thigh throb and his mood go dark. He fucking hated hockey bars, and he never would have set foot in this place if he hadn’t been forced by that giant asshole Blackburn.
“For fuck’s sake Cali, another beer is coming.” Blackburn scanned the sports bar. No doubt he was looking for his wife, who he couldn’t be apart from for longer than six breaths. “You can stop making that pissy face.”
“I’m not making a face,” Cal muttered. “It just is my face.”
“Fucking unfortunate,” Blackburn said with a grin.
“You’re telling me,” Cal said, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. Trash talking was familiar and welcome territory. “I’m the one who has to see it every time I shave.”
“Highly recommend you go with a beard.”
Cal had a beard once, well, as good as he could grow during his first and only playoff run two years ago with the Cajun Rage. He hadn’t liked it then, and that wasn’t going to change now.
“They itch,” he grumbled as he watched the hockey game playing on one of the ten screens within his view.
“It’s always something with you. Never satisfied. Almost makes me feel sorry for Jonesy. Nah, I take that back. The kid deserves whatever you’re about to send his way.” Blackburn scowled. “What were you thinking saying yes to that job? Even if it’s only for the rest of the season, that’s more time than I’d want to ever spend again with Tig fuckin’ Jones. The kid’s a jackass. The absolute pure fucking joy I felt at the thought of never having to play with him again may have been the last push I needed to officially retire.”
Cal didn’t need to be reminded about Tig Jones’s less-than-charming personality. Everyone knew about it. There were magazine cover stories and social media fan accounts documenting his assholery—or eccentricities, depending on who was talking. And it was now Cal’s job to be a goalie whisperer to the giant prick who had gone from the best in the league to someone who couldn’t stop a shot from his granny using a limp spaghetti noodle instead of a hockey stick.
Lucky fucking Cal.
But the thing was most goalies were high-strung weirdos. He should know; he’d been one. Goalies were superstitious, temperamental, and slightly unhinged. They were annoyingly calm until they weren’t, and then the Gatorade bottle sitting on the back of the net felt their fury. They were more than a little intense and had earned their collective reputation as hockey’s misfits. They were a breed apart. They had to be. They were the player on the ice who willingly got into a net where they’d do whatever it took to stop a frozen rubber disk coming at them at a hundred miles per hour from crossing the goal line—including taking that puck to the helmet if that’s what was needed.
“It’s not just goalies,” Cal grumbled, sticking up for his fellow oddballs. “All hockey players are jackasses.”
Blackburn rolled his eyes. “This is the last time I’m inviting you out for a beer.”
