Page 2 of Rowdy Hearts

Ignoring that smartass inner voice, I watched Rebel grab a bottle of the family’s whiskey off the bar, lift it over his head and turn to the rest of the team.

“I think we’re gonna have a good year, Pop.” I shouted over the cry of “Shots! Shots! Shots!” as Rebel took the bottle to the nearest table and started pouring.

“I think so, too, son.” Pop nodded, his gaze skimming over thecrowd. “Good group of boys. If we can keep them together.” Then his voice dropped until I could barely hear him. “Be a nice way to go out.”

I’d heard my dad talk about retiring before, but I didn’t believe the old man would ever do it. He loved the game too much. Hell, my entire family loved hockey, even more than we loved the multi-million-dollar whiskey business that enabled us to play hockey.

Decades ago, my granddad had created a craft distillery in central Pennsylvania and, through hard work, determination and a shit-ton of luck, had created a multimillion-dollar business. And when dad had resigned from the Marines and married my mom, he’d made that distillery work for him, until he’d been able to create a hockey league from the ground. The league that kept me, Rebel and our sister Rain gainfully employed.

While Rebel and the team downed their shots, I leaned closer to my dad.

“Fuck that, Pop. You can’t leave. What would we do without you?”

My dad’s laugh held an edge. “The same thing you’ve been doing. This is what we’ve been working toward, son. We’ve got good people where we need them. And you and Rebel and Rain know what needs to be done. You’ll all be fine when I decide to step back.”

Guilt slammed into my gut, the phone call I’d gotten a couple days ago weighing on my mind. I hadn’t said anything to anyone about that call. Hell, I knew I wasn’t going to take the offer, but I still hadn’t called my old friend back to turn it down.

My future was here. In St. David. With the Devils. That had always been the plan. For as long as I could remember. I’d play until I couldn’t or didn’t want to. Then I’d take over so Pop could retire. Maybe I’d coach. Maybe I’d be the general manager.

Maybe you don’t want that anymore?

“Shots! Shots! Shots!”

Bullshit. Of course, I wanted it. Just not yet.

I leaned closer to my dad. “Your team needs you, Pop.”

My dad glanced at me, shaking his head with a smirk. “They certainly don’t need me to give them an excuse to drink.”

No, this crew definitelydid notneed an excuse to drink. Or party. Or raise hell.

That’s what we were paid to do. To raise hell on the ice. To give our fans the show they’d come to expect. But some of these guys were here because they owed the Colonel their lives. Literally. And they showed him their appreciation in the only way they knew how.

“Shots! Shots! Shots!”

The Colonel gave a wide grin to his team and reached for the nearest shot glass.

“Alright, you mangy lot.” Then he turned and bowed to the women of the dance squad, gathered in a group at the end of the bar. “And lovely ladies. Here’s to a successful year.”

Everyone raised their glasses of whatever they were drinking and called out “Hear, hear." Or “Fuck yeah,” depending on who was saying it.

I raised my glass along with everyone else, though mine was empty.

Kinda sad commentary on your life lately.

Goddammit, I needed to shut my brain off and just enjoy the night.

“Rowdy, honey, you look like someone kicked your puppy. What’s wrong, babe?”

I turned with a smile for the gorgeous blonde behind me. Sunny Yeakley’s smile could light an entire sports arena, and her body gave men of all ages the will to live another day.

“Hey, Sunshine.” I curved an arm around her waist and drew her close enough to lay one on her hair. Didn’t want to be a dick and muss up her perfect makeup. “Just my resting grump face. Everything’s fine.”

Her perfectly arched brows rose. “Yeah, not buying that. You can fool a lot of people, but I know you better than most.”

Couldn’t argue that one. We’d been high school sweethearts. Prom Queen and King. She’d been voted Most Likely to Succeed, and she definitely had. We’d broken up before going to different colleges, but we’d remained friends. Even after she’d married John Yeakley, who ran the distillery for my dad. Smart guy all around and a good friend.

“It’s nothing. Just season-opening nerves.”

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