Page 1 of Rowdy Hearts

CHAPTER ONE

Rowdy

“Listen up,ST-Double-Ds! Season starts tomorrow so what are we gonna do?”

“We’re gonna kick some ass!”

“And whose ass are we going to kick?”

“Deer Run Stags ass!”

The cheer went up from the other twenty-two members of the St. David Devils, loud enough to be heard over the blaring jukebox, the old-fashioned kind that played actual vinyl records.

Right now, it blasted Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train,” which had been the Double-Ds theme song since the first Devil skated onto the ice fifteen years ago.

“You bet your asses we are!” I shouted over Ozzy’s maniacal laughter and the deep bass pumping out of the speakers mounted in all four corners of the Tea Room, which did serve tea but sold a hell of a lot more beer on any given day. Especially the night before the Devils opening game of the season.

Like almost everything in St. David, first impressions were usually deceiving. Or just flat-out wrong.

Raising my glass over my head, I saluted my teammates then downed the rest of my soda, having reached my one-beer limit an hour ago. Around me, a motley crew of players, fans, and support staff filled the bar with raucous laughter and enough f-bombs to get us thrown out of our own game. Tonight was the night to let it all hang out and blow off some steam.

Tomorrow, the show started, and the real work began.

“Hey, old man. We keeping you up past your bedtime?”

Rebel smacked me on the shoulder hard enough to make my muscles groan. Not that I would ever admit it, especially not to my younger brother.

“Watch your back tomorrow night, Jedi.” My brother’s team nickname was both an insult and a compliment. “I’m just saying, it might not be the other team running you into the boards.”

Rebel laughed so hard I thought he might shoot beer out of his nose. “You know you can’t do that. Mama still knows how to use her wooden spoon.”

I couldn’t argue that, so I smacked my younger brother on the back of the head, just hard enough to sting. Rebel was just the slightest bit taller than me, which meant I could hit him just a little harder than I should. Because that was the unwritten rule of brothers.

In retaliation, Rebel elbowed me in the side, taking care not to hit me anywhere that could do damage. Fucking hell, I wasn’t that old.

“Boys. Save it for the game tomorrow.”

Colonel Reston Lawrence didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard over the jukebox. The old man’s normal speaking voice was just below a bellow. My spine snapped straight, an automatic response to my pop’s voice, which I immediately countered by shoving my hands in my pockets and slouching forward. Goddammit, I was thirty-fucking-years old, and he wasn’t mycommanding officer. Or anyone’s commanding officer, since he’d retired nearly twenty years ago.

Rebel smirked at me before he grinned down at our dad.

“He started it, Pop.”

Pop and I exchanged a look before he put an arm around our shoulders and bear-hugged us. And damn, the man was still strong enough at seventy-two to make my bones creak.

“Save it for your mom, boys. She buys all your bullshit. I know better.”

Since it was true, I shrugged as he released us, watching with a grin as our dad purposely messed Rebel’s dark hair.

“There,” Pop said, “Now you look like a real hockey player.”

Rebel rolled his eyes, running his fingers through his perfectly cut hair, which annoyingly fell right back into place. The guy looked like he’d just stepped off a photo shoot for some fancy magazine. Hell, even tonight, at a bar in the middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania, he stood out in black slacks and a perfect white button down amid a sea of henleys and flannel shirts and cargo pants.

“I’m going for Lundquist, not Burns, Pop. Rowdy’s got that one covered.”

Couldn’t argue with that. My own brown hair brushed my shoulders and looked like it hadn’t been cut in months. Which it had. I just didn’t like it short. I hated having to get it cut every couple of weeks. Besides, women loved to run their fingers through it.

Yeah, and when was the last time that had happened?

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