Page 1 of War

ONE

TYLER

“Good morning,Boston. This is Beckett Langfield, along with my brothers, Gavin, Brooks, and Aiden. Today, we’re bringing you another Langfield love story.”

Gavin sighs. “That is definitely not what we’re doing. We’ve been over this.”

Brooks snorts. “Good luck with that. I don’t know why you still try to stop him. He takes over every episode.”

“Anyway,” Aiden quips. “This is theLangfield Report, and today, we’re here with Boston Bolts captain, Tyler Warren.”

“To discuss how he fell in love because of me,” Beckett interrupts, every word brimming with pride.

A laugh threatens to burst out of me, but I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle it. It’s hard to be around these four and not laugh, but I’ve got a reputation to maintain—hard-ass enforcer, right winger, and yeah, captain of the Boston Bolts—so I don’t want this interview to go off the rails.

Aiden tries again. “The purpose of this podcast is to give players a direct link to fans. To allow them to tell their own stories rather than be the subject of someone else’s.”

Pride fills me as I focus on my center’s words. He’s the best damn player in the league, and not all that long ago, he opened up to the world about his struggles with depression. From there, he and his brothers created thispodcast so they could help other players. The topics don’t stop at mental health and hockey, though.

“Go on,” Beckett says, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin, wearing a shit-eating grin. “Tell Boston about the first time you met the love of your life.”

The love of my life? That has me biting back another laugh. Definitely don’t think that’s what I was thinking when we got into this. The bane of my existence would be more apt. The pain-in-my-ass wench I tied myself to for life. OrVicious, maybe. But since I can’t say any of that, I go with my favorite nickname for her. “Fine, I’ll tell you about the first time I met mywife.It was about two years ago…”

About Two Years Ago

There is not enough caffeine in existence to rid me of the headache my stepmother’s phone call just caused. No, I do not need help with my investments. If I did, the last person I’d hire to handle my retirement plans is Xander, my asshole stepbrother. The guy would probably tank my portfolio on purpose—as long as he could skim at least 10 percent off the top first.

Why the hell did my father bring him on as a partner? The kid is an unmotivated, selfish prick. The clients who aren’t scared off by Xander’s bad attitude will cut ties when they realize he’s a thief.

With my head thrown back, I mutter afuck itand stalk to the door. I need to work out. If I don’t keep myself busy, I’ll end up calling my dad and giving him a piece of my mind.

Outside my apartment, I take the elevator to the gym in the basement. The building and my team—the Bolts—are owned by the Langfields. In fact, two Langfields play hockey with me—Aiden, our center and the youngest of four brothers, and Brooks, our goalie and my best friend. Brooks and I met in college. Not only did we play hockey together, but we were roommates for all four years.

Brooks and Aiden and their two older brothers are the definition of brotherhood. What they have is nothing like my relationship with fucking Xander. At the thought of him, my blood, which has just begun to cool, simmers again. I clench my fists, willing myself not topunch the elevator wall. Gavin Langfield—the brother who owns the Bolts and is far more hands-on than any owner I’ve ever encountered—has cameras all over this building. The last thing I want is to be fined for acting up. Sure, they signed me because I’m a fighter—they like when I protect Aiden, our star center, as well as the other guys—but I don’t think they’d appreciate it if I destroyed their property.

This is my first season with the team, so I’ve got to prove my worth and not piss off the front-office staff. My friendship with Brooks alone isn’t enough to guarantee I keep my spot. The Bolts won the Stanley Cup last year, but as always, loyalty or not, the roster was shaken up after the season ended. They traded one of their best players for me and two defensemen. Guys get too expensive or too difficult, they’re gone. It’s not personal; it’s business.

Ha, that’s what I should have said to my stepmother. Even if my decision is personal. I hate Xander, so why would I hire him?

The bass thumps loud enough to vibrate through me when I step into the gym. Aiden, our team’s lucky charm, is in the corner, dancing between his sets. Camden Snow, a winger like me, is shaking his head at him while doing a set of curls.

Already, the chemistry I have with these guys on the ice is incredible. Fuck, I can’t wait for the season to start so we can put it to use. For now, though, I need to work out my frustration. I head to where the punching bags are set up at the back of the gym.

As the music from the front of the facility fades, I pick up on another sound. One much more melodic. I pick up my pace and head straight for the separate room in the back. Hovering in the doorway, I watch as a woman leaps across the wooden floor, long limbs spread wide. When she lands, she spins, then juts her chest forward, her arms swooping in, her movements filled with emotion, her chest heaving.

As “Scars to Your Beautiful” by Alessia Cara plays, she runs across the floor and throws herself into another jump. This time, though, when she comes down, she lands in a heap on the floor.

My pulse races as I dart for her, and the French Canadian inside me rears its head. “Merde. Are you okay?”

The woman scrambles to her feet. Hair the color of autumn, a mixture between burnt orange and red, escapes from her bun. Warygreen eyes as vibrant as the leaves on the white cedar trees outside our home in Canada blink up at me. Her skin is coated in a sheen of sweat, and beneath her cream-colored leotard, her chest rises and falls heavily, causing her nipples to strain against the fabric and make my mouth water.

She’s gorgeous and absolutely nothing like the women I usually date. Though I guess dating would be a gross exaggeration.

Her expression is reserved, even timid, making it obvious she didn’t sneak into the building with the goal of hooking up with a hockey player. That kind of shit happens often, and even a year ago, I gladly would have fucked a woman who did. But since coming to Boston, my priorities have changed.

“I’m fine. You just scared me.”

“I can see that,” I say as I take another slow perusal of her body.

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