Page 1 of The Secret Play

Chapter 1

Casey - 5 Years Earlier

Iadjusted my mask again, trying not to feel ridiculous.

The elastic strap bit into my scalp. A quick glance around the ballroom told me I wasn’t the only one fussing with theirs, but somehow everyone else looked like they belonged.

It was always that way for me at formal events. Tonight, the women were in shimmering gowns, and the men were in perfectly tailored tuxedos, their masks ornate or elegant, making it all look effortless.

Meanwhile, I was a forty-three-year-old man in a penguin suit, fidgeting like a kid at a school dance.

Get a grip, McConnell.

The ballroom was elaborate—polished marble floors, towering floral arrangements, and chandeliers that dripped with crystal like they’d been plucked from some Gatsby fever dream. The Atlanta Fire’s newly promoted PR manager, Whitney, had outdone herself, and for her, that was saying something.

I’d never complained about these events to her face, but she always seemed to know they were not my style. Whenever we talked about them, she did that subtle head tilt thing women do when they know you’re putting up with something. Sympathy and patient humor.

From the auction tables piled high with team memorabilia to the cocktail waiters gliding through the crowd with trays of champagne, every detail was perfect.

Every detail but me.

The whole scene made me feel like I was wearing someone else’s skin.

I felt most at home in my skates and the Atlanta Fire team jacket with 'COACH' stamped across the back.

“This is for the kids,” I muttered to myself. That phrase had been my mantra for weeks now. It was why I’d agreed to this masquerade ball in the first place, even though black tie formals were not my thing.

Hell, tuxedos weren’t my thing. But this wasn’t about me. It was about raising money for Atlanta Children’s Hospital, helping fund a new wing for kids who deserved a fighting chance. If dressing up like a waiter at a Michelin-starred restaurant got that done, then so be it.

Still, I felt out of place. Maybe it was because most of the people here were half my age, all young professionals and twenty-something influencers who probably didn’t know a puck from a football.

Or maybe it was because every time I was in a room like this, I couldn’t help but think about how much simpler life had been twenty years ago, back when all I needed was my skates and a stick.

“Looking sharp, Coach.”

I turned to see Sebastian Blue grinning at me, his own mask tilted slightly askew. Seb was one of our oldest centers, an oddity in the league. He was the son of a tech mogul, and everyone had thought he’d burn out in his first year. A spoiled brat with a complex. But he’d shocked everybody with his hard work ethic and determination.

I’d watched him grow into a solid, dependable player. Tonight, though, he looked more like he was trying to survive a family wedding than attend a charity gala.

“Seb,” I said, nodding. “You clean up well.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, tugging at his bow tie. “This thing’s choking me.”

“Try wearing a mask,” I muttered.

He laughed. “You look good, Coach. You should dress up more often.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Seb’s grin widened. “The guys are betting on how long you last before you ditch the tux.”

“Tell them to focus on staying out of trouble,” I said, though I couldn’t help smiling.

“Will do,” he said, giving me a mock salute before disappearing into the crowd.

I watched him go, shaking my head. The thing about coaching players like Sebastian—and most of the team, really—was that they reminded me of just how long I’d been at this.

The younger guys called me “Pops” behind my back, and though I pretended not to care, some days it stung. I wasn’t just older than my players. I was as old as some of their dads.

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