Page 1 of Double Puck

Prologue

Darcy

Not once have I ever regretted being right before.

But less than an hour ago, I walked into the Beachside Bears' locker room, invading the biggest win in our franchise history, and recommended trading one of the three brothers holding this team together.

Now I'm standing in the middle of their victory party…

And everyone hates me.

I should be in my convertible by now, driving home with the roof down, filling my lungs with cold ocean air to erase the look on every person's face in that locker room tonight.

Instead, Bears GM Colin Holden cornered me as I tried to sneak out, insisting we discuss tomorrow’s emergency roster meeting before I leave. Of course, he disappeared into a pack of sponsors shortly after, and I haven't seen him since.

I should be immune to rooms full of people silently wishing I was gone.

I’m the only daughter of the celebrated Madden family.

You’d think I’d have built up a tolerance by now, instead, I find myself stranded at Breakers Bar & Grill with five hundred celebrating hockey fans and absolutely nowhere to hide.

The bar is packed beyond capacity tonight, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath hundreds of glowing string lights. The garage doors are thrown open to the beach, and the whole place smells like grilled shrimp tacos and spilled beer.

It's a victory celebration like Beachside has never seen before.

A sold-out game. A last-gasp winner.

For a brand-new franchise that has spent most of its first season staring at empty seats, this is exactly what hope looks like.

Loud. Drunk. And probably violating the fire code.

I take a breath and look around, trying to shake the weight off my shoulders.

A fan near the small stage has hijacked the microphone and started a chant, as Finn MacAllister, the Bears' Irish import, drinks beer out of an actual skate. It looks like someone stole from the equipment room. It's disgusting.

Travis Campbell, the team Canadian, is standing on a chair filming it until Coach Pearson's voice cuts through the pounding music.

"Campbell! Chairs are for sitting! You want to elevate something, elevate your penalty kill!"

It's wild. Absolute chaos.

But I stay exactly where I am. With my phone gripped in one hand, my other resting near a gin and tonic I haven't so much as sipped, despite Mack—the bar's owner—insisting it was on the house because I was "brave for showing up."

Fuck.

Is he serious?

Brave implies fear. Emotion. The possibility that I knew exactly how badly this would hurt the Bears franchise, but did it anyway, because I believe someone has to make difficult decisions.

So I lower my eyes to my phone and scroll through tomorrow’s emergency meeting agenda for the fourth time.

I already know every line by heart.

Beck Morrison's conversion rates. His defensive liabilities. The salary structure that makes him undeniably the most logical trade asset on this roster.

The numbers are clean.

Whether the team likes them or not.