Chapter 2

This time, his leg comes nowhere near Eric, who is being led away by two of his teammates. As Christian strains to loosen himself from whoever it is holding him back, he calls out, “Fuck you, Latimer. Where do you get off—”

“You already have five for fighting,” Burle mutters in his ear. “Want to get kicked out of the game entirely? Keep talking. They’ll pull you and you know it.”

Christian stops struggling, and Burle lets him go. With his most menacing stare, Christian pins his former teammate with a look so fierce, he’s surprised Eric has the courage to skate away from it. Burle hooks one arm around Christian’s and leads him to the penalty box as Eric returns to his bench.

For the briefest moment, Ronnie Niedermeyer looks up from his fastidious study of his fingernails to meet Christian’s gaze.

“Ronnie,” Christian sighs. He tries to skate closer, to read what might be written behind those cold eyes, but Burle keeps a tight hold on his arm and, before Christian can free himself, Ronnie turns away.

* * * *

This time last year, Christian was a rookie with the Richmond Rebels. He’d blown away the competition in try-outs, and landed a coveted spot on the Virginia Professional Hockey League’s best team. Sure, it wasn’t the majors, not yet, but the Rebels were a step in that direction. With Christian’s skills, he knew he’d be hitting the American Hockey League in no time, and after that? The NHL, maybe even the Olympics. He could skate rings around his competition, and no goalie could block his shots.

The first day of practice, he arrived at the Richmond Coliseum with his ego inflated from try-outs. Once on the ice, however, he wised up quick—the Rebels were a cohesive team who played together like a fine-tuned machine, many parts working toward one common goal.

Christian could only hope to integrate himself into their camaraderie. He started out as he had at practice, fast and furious, taking no prisoners in his fight to attain the goal. It was hispuck, hisgame. He would show them just who they were playing with now. He’d show them he was the best.

Afterward, in the locker room, Christian stood by himself as he undressed. His jersey, his pads, his helmet and gloves, each was tossed unceremoniously into his locker. He’d heard the muttering from his teammates as they skated off the ice; he knew he wasn’t welcome among them. The others hadn’t hung around the lockers after practice, but rather ignored him and left quickly. There wasn’t even a wordof encouragement to him. He’d played good out there, damngood, and not one of them bothered to mention it. So fuck them. Fuck them all.

Behind him came the sound of a sneaker scraping over the concrete floor. Christian didn’t bother to turn around. A man cleared his throat, and Christian ignored him.

“So,” came the soft Southern drawl, “you’re the one they call Magic out on the ice.”

Christian felt his cheeks heat up. “It’s mad-jook. You’re pronouncing it wrong.”

The man behind him snickered. “You looked like Magic to me.”

Now Christian turned and saw Ronnie, one of the Rebel’s best players, leaning against the lockers with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His dark hair was a disheveled mess, as if he hadn’t bothered to brush it after climbing out of bed that morning. A faint shadow clung to his chin and jaw, making his lips look impossibly pink. His eyes were the clear blue of a summer sky—Christian thought if he stared into them for too long, he’d see through to the other side.

With a grunt, he turned back to his locker. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

Ronnie closed the distance between them to lean against the locker next to Christian’s. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding anything but. “For a minute there, I thought we were on the same team.”

Christian glanced at him, confused. “We are—”

“Then fucking act like it.”

Ronnie’s voice was that same slow drawl, but now it held a sharpness that made Christian bristle. They stared like wild alley cats, each assessing the fight in the other, each gauging the other’s weakness and strength. Christian felt as if he were being pulled into that crystal gaze—he was in danger of toppling over into it, drowning in that frozen stare, and never resurfacing. He tried to look away and couldn’t, but he didn’t know if it were because Ronnie held him prisoner, or if he himself didn’t want to be set free.

After a long, breathless moment, Ronnie smiled. His grin warmed his eyes, and Christian relaxed. Strong fingers touched his wrist, surprising him, and he had to look down to assure himself it was Ronnie’s hand on his.