Page 4 of Pucking Revenge

“He definitely loves to stir it up since he took over the position after Fedir Rudenko retired and we love to see it,” Colton drolls.

“Don’t we ever. But the real star of last night’s game against LA was Boston’s favorite good boy and last year’s Sports Illustrated Hockey Bachelor of the Year, Brooks Langfield. He is truly a Saint on and off the ice.”

“He only let in one puck, despite the constant pressure in the crease. All in all, the team looks great. On defense, Bolts’ Captain James “Gravy” McGreevey and Rowan “Slick” Parker were nearly unstoppable as well. It’s going to be a great season, Eliza. Now stick around, folks. We’ll be back after a word from our sponsor, Hanson Liquors.”

TWO

BROOKS

“Oh my God. Is that—”

I turn my head and fight back a grimace. I should be used to it, the whispers and the stares, the pointed fingers, the ogling.

Yet it still sends a shiver of unease through me. Does anyone ever truly get used to being stared at like this?

Doubtful, because this attention isn’t about my status as a hockey player—a fucking great one, at that—but because these teenage girls have seen me in my damn underwear on billboards all over town.

Coach chuckles as I slide into the bench seat across from him. “Can I get your autograph?” he teases in a high-pitched voice.

I roll my eyes and scan the menu. There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll get anything but my regular order—a six-egg-white omelet with sautéed veggies, turkey bacon, and whole wheat toast—but studying the menu means avoiding the stares that inevitably follow once the people around me realize that yes, I am that Langfield brother. Because not only am I on a billboard, but my family owns half of this city. So if my body doesn’t do it for people, then odds are that my bank account will.

Despite the billboards and the notoriety my name brings, my persona as “Saint Brooks” makes me the most approachable of the Langfield brothers. It’s exactly what the man seated across from me raised me to be: a saint, as well as a great hockey player.

“Incoming,” Coach warns.

In my periphery, a boy just a smidgen taller than our table shuffles up, and his mother follows close behind.

Donning the friendly smile I perfected years ago, I keep my focus locked on the little guy and patently avoid the eyes his mother is making at me. “Hi, big guy. Whatcha got there?” I point to the kids’ menu he’s clutching. It’s been colored and is covered in some foreign substance I’m doing my best not to think about. I’m really hoping I can avoid touching it.

“Can I have your autograph?” the boy says, darting a glance back at his mother.

I survey her quickly, just to see if she’s pushing the boy to approach me. When she catches on to the attention, she offers a flirtatious smile.

No, thank you.

It’s not that I have anything against moms, but I loathe people who use their kids as props. Probably because, for years, my siblings and I were often displayed as shiny props for our parents.

With my focus back on the kid alone, I sign what I discover is a syrup-covered menu. When I’m finished––and realize my hand is nice and sticky—I say goodbye to the little boy while expertly ignoring his mother’s attempt to offer her number. Then I turn back to face the man who actually raised me.

Coach married my Aunt Zoe when I was five. My younger brother and I, the perfect props, were ring bearers in the wedding. The morning before the I dos, Seb and all his groomsmen took to the ice for a skate.

Maybe he was trying to impress my aunt, or maybe he liked us. Either way, Coach asked if Aiden and I could join in. And that’s the day I fell in love with hockey.

Coach played for the Bolts at the time. He wasn’t a star, but he was on the ice, and to the majority of us players, that’s all that matters. My family, of course, owns the team, and that’s how he met my aunt.

From the moment I stepped onto the ice, I was filled with a power I’d never experienced before. And when I looked up and discovered one of his bigger friends gliding straight for me, my life flashed before my eyes. Not in the sense that I thought I was going to die, though. In that moment, I intrinsically knew exactly what to do to stop him from getting the little black object past me.

The save was epic. For a five-year-old, that is. The guys all cheered and bragged about me for the rest of the day. A few weeks after the wedding, Coach showed up and brought me down to the rink. And then he showed up again.

My father had no time to haul me back and forth to early-morning hockey practices, but Coach made sure I got there. When I wasn’t practicing with my team, I was watching the Bolts play. I grew up in that arena. There wasn’t another place on earth I felt more comfortable.Not then, and not now.

This man across from me is the person I have to thank for it all. He saw me that day, saw my potential and nurtured it. And he’s been doing it every day since. He’s one of the best guys I know.

“You look tired,” Coach says, brows furrowed as he studies me.

“Feel fine.”

“Hope you weren’t out all night like the other guys. You know you have to set an example?—”

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