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Prologue—6 years ago
Nigel
Corwin Sanhover walks into the locker room a step behind Coach and I realize two things simultaneously: one, that he has the kind of face poetry was written about, and two, that I was going to hate this little motherfucker. Coach is addressing the room, introducing Sanhover (laughable, given who he is) and explaining that he’s here to play with the team for the week as a tryout (again, laughable, since his last name pretty much guaranteed an offer). I turn back to my skates, ignoring them by making a show of needing to adjust my laces.
“Hi.” Says a soft, unfamiliar voice to my right. I look up.
Sanhover is sitting next to me, leaned over just enough that he doesn’t have to raise his voice for me to hear him over the noise in the room. I notice right away that he has the clearest blue eyes I have ever seen: blue like the pictures you see of the ocean in the Maldives. Paired with that dark brown hair, narrow nose, and high cheek bones, he’s a stunner. I would have to Google his father later, because I am 99% certain he doesn’t look likethis.
“Hi.” I reply, curtly, and tear my eyes away from him before I do something embarrassing like drool.
I have what is probably an unreasonable amount of jealousy concerning Corwin Sanhover. He is every bit as different from me as it is possible to be: born into hockey royalty, a childhood filled with the best coaches and gear money can buy, and so much innate talent that rumor had it his agent is fielding offers from multiple NHL teams, even though he’s only eighteen. And apparently, he is also blessed with beauty, because life hasn’t given him enough already.Seriously, fuck this guy.
I glance back up at him to find him already looking at me. No, not just looking, staring.
“You need help tying your skates?” I raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t blush, or look embarrassed by my teasing—which, admittedly, had come out meaner than even I intended—but instead continues to watch me.
“No, thank you.” He answers seriously, as though I really had been offering to help him. He bends over to pull on his skates and lace them up over his joggers. One thick lock of hair falls down over his forehead and he brushes it back with a thin, fine boned hand. He’s tall, the same height as me if his stats can be trusted, but he’s young and hasn’t quite put on all the muscle that comes with age and hard work. He’s probably fast on the ice, but sitting here he just looks delicate and young.
It’s not quite time to hit the ice, and none of us are wanting to expedite that; Coach has a weird tradition of having what the team calls ‘naked skating’ drills on the first day. No pads, no sticks, and no pucks—just skates. Everyone hates it, which is probably why he continues to uphold the tradition. I’m just thinking about getting my phone out of my bag when Sanhover speaks again.
“Do you like playing for Florida?”
I close my eyes, sighing. When I open them and turn to look at him, he’s staring at me earnestly, like he actually wants to know. “This is only my second season. And I just like playing hockey, I don’t care where I do it.”
He nods, like this isn’t an asshole thing to say, and tries again. “Do you like the beach?”
I stare at him. I honestly can’t remember the last time I visited the beach. “It’s fine.” And then, because he’sstillstaring at me, I add: “Do you like the beach?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been. I think I might, though.”
“Cool.” I turn away from him, hoping one of my teammates is sitting close enough on my other side to save me from this conversation. No such luck.
“Do you live around here?”
“Are we playing twenty questions, Sanhover?” I feel like I’m being interviewed by the media team, where they ask us inane questions and post the videos on social media.
“Corwin.”
“What?”
“Just call me Corwin, please.” His eyes are big, the blue overtaking the rest of his face. It’s really fucking distracting.
“Sure.” I tell him, and then turn away again, because I am determined not to like him. It’s a relief when Coach calls for us to hit the ice.
The week passes quickly, and soon enough it’s the final day and I’m standing along the boards watching as Corwin smokes our starting goalie for the third time today. There are several wolf whistles, and lots of stick tapping. When he skates to a stop next to me, I try to shake off my animosity;stop being a dick, he can’t help who his father is and his talent has nothing to do with you.
“Nice shot.” I tell him, grudgingly, and pat myself on the back for being civil.See, I can be nice.
“Thank you.” He’s frowning, dark brows low over his eyes. “I need to work on my back door, though. I made a stupid mistake during the last run.”
Great, so he’s humble too, instead of the cocky bastard I had been expecting. For some reason this makes me dislike him more. I don’t dignify his comment with a response, content to just shake my head in exasperation.
“Hey Saint, you coming out tonight?” Von skates to a stop in front of me, lifting his helmet up so he can swipe a forearm over his face.
“Yeah, probably.” I need to get laid, badly. Preferably by someone who doesn’t have blue eyes and brown hair, which has suddenly become my fantasy of choice.
“Cool.” Von taps his stick against Corwin’s shins. “What about you, kid?”
