My alarm goes off, alerting me that I need to leave in the next ten minutes so I can pick up Bishop and make it to the arena on time. “The team meeting starts in less than an hour, so I gotta run.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice that every single time I bring up your love life you suddenly have somewhere to be.”

“I really do have somewhere to be, though.”

“I’m just giving you a hard time. Have a great day. I’ll talk to you later in the week.”

“Sounds good. Message if you need anything.”

“I will. I love you, Ry.”

“I love you, too, momster.” I end the call and stare at the blank screen for a few long seconds, hoping she really is okay, and that our family isn’t making this divorce more difficult for her instead of less.

Thirty-seven minutes later my teammate and best friend, Bishop Winslow, and I push through the front doors of the arena, ready for the first team meeting of the season. I inhale the familiar scent of cleaning products, rubberized mats, ice, and—no matter how much they bleach—the slightly stale smell of hockey equipment.

“What are the chances that Waters won’t throw a preseason team party this year?” Bishop asks.

“Slim to none, I’m thinking.” I’m not opposed to the preseason party. It’s a good way to get to know the new players and catch up with the ones I haven’t seen in the off-season in a less formal environment. “It boosts team morale, and the new guys feel more comfortable with the team.”

“Why must you always be so damn positive about every fucking thing, King?” Bishop gripes. Bishop is a bit of a pessimist and not much of a people person.

“Because you’re negative about everything, and we all need balance in life.”

“It’s a fucking miracle that I have friends and a wife, isn’t it?” He gives me a wry smile.

I clap him on the shoulder and grin. “Not at all. I consider myself one of the lucky few who actually know what’s under the surly exterior.”

He rolls his eyes and knocks my hand away, but he’s still smiling too.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip it out, checking to see who it is. My family text has twenty-five missed messages—which is not unexpected, since I was driving and everyone is chatty first thing in the morning. There are also three from Jessica.

Bishop glances at the phone and then at me. “Everything okay?”

“Should be. Probably the usual ‘Have a good day’ stuff.” At least, the family group messages should be like that. Every morning at nine my mom—it still freaks me out to think of her as my grandmother—posts her quote of the day, usually taken from her daily “words of inspiration” calendar. My dad—uh, granddad—chimes in with a funny meme, and then we all see if we can post something funnier or mess with Mom’s quote.

The messages from Jessica I leave for now, because once I respond there’s a chance she’ll call. Since I’m going into a team meeting, I won’t be able to manage the situation in a sensitive manner should it be necessary. There have been a few occasions in which she’s called and then ended up in tears. It can take a while to talk her down, and I don’t currently have the kind of time I may need to explain, gently, why our relationship wasn’t working for either of us and that getting back together is a bad idea.

“Jessica’s still texting you? Is that a regular thing?” Bishop asks, glancing at my phone screen.

I shrug. “She’s having trouble letting go.”

Bishop blows out a breath. “Dude, if my ex was still messaging me, Stevie would shit a brick.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend or a wife, though, so I don’t have to worry about anyone else’s feelings getting hurt.”

“Not right now, but you’ll have a new girlfriend eventually. How do you think Jessica’s going to react when that happens?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping I won’t have to deal with that scenario.”

Bishop’s brow creases. It’s not an unusual expression for him to wear. “Are you planning to get back together with her or something?”

“No. Definitely not.” Jessica was under the very misguided impression that once we got married I would quit playing professional hockey. When I explained that I would continue with my NHL career for as long as they kept renewing my contract, she got upset, accusing me of putting my career before her.

And in some ways she was right. I had put my career before her. But she hadn’t proven to be very supportive over the years, always talking about our life together after hockey.

At thirty I have some solid years left in the game. Goalies can have long careers, and I signed on with Seattle for seven years. I won’t even be in my midthirties by the time my contract is up for renewal, and as long as I stay in good shape and keep my stats up, I’m hoping for more years after that. I didn’t want to continue in a relationship that felt like it was on hold until I was done with hockey, since realistically I can’t imagine ever being finished with it. I realized that no matter how much history we had, she was never going to be able to handle my career, so I broke it off.

We arrive at the team meeting room. A catered hot breakfast buffet is spread out along one end of the room. Half our team is already seated at the tables, shoveling food in their faces while they catch up after off-season. Bishop and I grab a plate and load up.

“Shippy, King, have a seat!” Rook Bowman, our team captain, gestures to the two open seats at his table.

“Always with the Shippy bullshit,” Bishop mutters.

Bishop and Rook loathed each other with the fire of a thousand burning suns during the team’s first season. It got a lot worse when Rook found out Bishop was dating his younger sister. They had it out behind a garbage dumpster—I mediated—and now most of the time they get along.

“Keep calling me Shippy, and I’ll tell you all about your sister’s favorite positions in the bedroom,” Bishop mutters as he takes the seat across from Rook.

Rook half chokes on his sausage link, and Chase, one of our teammates, who’s sitting on his other side, gives him a couple of slaps on the back. He waves his hand away and shoots a glare at Bishop. “You wouldn’t.”

Bishop gives him a you-try-me look. “Only your sister is allowed to call me Shippy, so unless you’re going to start snuggling with me during movies and fondling my—”

I slap the table to prevent Bishop from finishing that statement. Also, Rook looks like he’s about to launch himself over the table. My shirt is white, and I would prefer not to walk around all day with remnants of my breakfast splattered on it.

“It’s too early for this nonsense. We don’t need the team captain scrapping with teammates on day one in front of the actual rookies.” I nod in the direction of two very fresh faces standing by the door, watching their new captain and his brother-in-law get into it. They’re too new to know that it’s just two guys giving each other the gears. Mostly.

“We’re good.” Rook shovels in a forkful of scrambled eggs and pushes away from the table. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and tosses it at Bishop before he heads for the new guys.

“Man, I’m glad I don’t have to be all friendly and peppy this early in the morning like he does.” Bishop picks up a strip of bacon and folds it accordion-style into his mouth.

“I’m not sure peppy is something you could achieve, even if you mainlined energy drinks and ecstasy,” I offer.

“Probably not.” Bishop looks around the room and tips his chin up. “You think our GM got himself an assistant?”

I follow his gaze to the front of the room. Standing at the desk with her back to us, arranging papers, is a woman with wavy chestnut hair that nearly reaches her waist. “Maybe an intern?”

She’s wearing a navy dress that conforms to her very feminine form. I trace the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip, skimming down to where the hem of her dress hits the bend in her knee. Her calves are bare, athletic, and toned, and her heels boast a little bow on the back. Classy, yet sexy. “Possibly.”

“I hope the eye candy is gonna be permanent,” someone at the table behind us says, loud enough for everyone close by to hear.

“I wouldn’t mind if she helped me with my jockstrap,” one of the other guys chimes in, eliciting a loud chuckle from the rest of the table.

I glance over my shoulder and pin them with an unimpressed glare. I recognize Foley from Tampa, and Dickerson is an LA trade. They’re notorious womanizers. “Watch your mouth and have some respect. That’s someone’s daughter.”

“Take it easy, King. It’s not like we’d actually say that to her face,” Foley says.

I don’t have an opportunity to reprimand him further because the GM, Jake Masterson, and our head coach, Alex Waters, enter the room through the side door. The GM crosses over to the woman, whose back is still turned to us, and he gives her a smile that seems . . . overly warm. He leans in and squeezes her shoulder as he says something with his mouth close to her ear.

“Maybe she’s not his assistant. Maybe she’s his new girlfriend, ’cause that looks pretty damn friendly to me.” Bishop jams a sausage link into his mouth.