Page 6 of Second Shot

I have control over him.

As the realization hits me, the weirdest sense of euphoria fills me. This is how I’ll get my revenge. This is how I’ll stick the knife in and twist.Becausehe doesn’t recognize me, I can fuck with him. He respects me as a hockey player. He respects me as a man. I can pick at him and undermine him until he’s ruined. Once a hockey player starts to doubt himself, or is snakebit, he’s fucked.

If I play my cards just right, I’ll be able to destroy Ryan Caldwell after all.

Chapter Two

Ryan

I’m relieved when practice is over. Meeting the team was necessary but really fucking stressful. It was basically a job interview and we all know how traumatic those are. It went well, overall.Mostof the guys seemed happy to have me join the team. Now I just need to settle in at the condo the team has provided for me, and decompress.

The town car pulls up to a sleek glass tower just as the sun dips low over the bay, spilling gold across the mirrored surface like a movie shot that had been manipulated for effect. Everything about Bayfront Promenade screams money, glass towers rising above the marina, trimmed hedges that don’t have a single leaf out of place, valet stands with staff who look like they work for a five-star hotel. The pavement’s smooth enough to skate on.

The valet opens the car door before the driver even cuts the engine. “Welcome to the Bayfront,” he says with a polite nod, grabbing for my bag. I nod back but wave him away so I can carry it myself. My main suitcases were already delivered earlier today, straight from the airport. I can handle one lousyduffle bag.

Inside, the lobby is… cold. Temperature-wise and vibe-wise. It’s like a museum. Polished marble floors stretch out like a showroom. The ceiling’s high enough to echo. A massive aquarium built into the back wall shimmers with lazy saltwater fish. There’s no music, just the soft hum of filtered air and the serene sound of a fountain somewhere in the room.

The concierge at the front desk greets me with a polished smile. “Mr. Caldwell? Welcome. You’re in 22C. Elevator on your left, keycard’s already programmed. If you need a vehicle or a reservation, just call down.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the card and heading toward the elevator. I’m alone in the elevator car and it’s silent inside. Smooth ride, barely a whisper of movement as it climbs. No music here either. Just my reflection in the polished chrome door, looking tired.

When the doors open, the hallway is hushed and seamless. Just a row of matte black doors, minimalist sconces, a carpet that swallows footsteps. I easily find 22C and let myself in.

The condo smells faintly of lemon and bleach. The space is sleek and cold, like the rest of the building. Concrete floors. White leather sectional. Black marble countertops. Everything is gray, white, or silver. No warmth. No clutter.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, overlooking the marina and the citylights blinking on along the shoreline. I stand there for a long second, taking it in. The view is gorgeous. Maybe a little too perfect. The kind of view people post online with captions about success and peace. I feel neither of those things.

I feel small and worried. My new team has huge expectations of me. They paid a lot of money to bring me over, but I need to earn that fat paycheck. I’m glad the guy’s seemed welcoming and open to working with me. The only player who seemed a little standoffish was Jacobs. That could be a problem. If he doesn’t like me, that can really fuck up my season. It’s imperative that the right and left wing work well together, but he didn’t seem impressed with my play out on the ice during practice.

My gut churns remembering how tepid his praise was. I thought I was playing really well. It seemed like we were syncing up perfectly, but fuck, the guy barely threw me a bone. I shouldn’t need his praise, but I want it. I want everyone to like me. It bugs the shit out of me when someone doesn’t like me. I’ve always been greedy for praise and compliments. I can’t seem to function if I don’t get that. I don’t like to fixate on why I’m the way I am. I prefer to ignore that weakness in me. But the way Jacobs withheld his praise is eating at me. Twisting me in knots.

The memory of Jacobs’ cool, sea blue eyes makes my pulse flutter. I know better than tofixate on how attractive he is. I’m an openly bisexual player in the NHL, but only an idiot gets involved with someone on his team. That’s a recipe for fucking disaster. No matter how sexy the right winger is, I’m keeping my dick in my pants. I’m not here to get laid. I’m here to play the best hockey I can, and hopefully help the Seadragons win the cup.

I drop my bag by the couch and rub the back of my neck. First thing I do is pull out my phone and try to call my boyfriend Tam to let him know I arrived safely. My call goes straight to voicemail. Scowling, I try again. When it once more goes to voice mail I leave a message telling him I made it to California and to give me a call back.

Not sure what to do with myself, I wander into the kitchen. The kitchen is sleek, compact, and upscale. Custom cabinetry, seamless, handleless, runs from floor to ceiling in a soft dove gray. The countertops are veined Calacatta marble, cool and pristine, with under-cabinet lighting that casts a warm glow along the edges.

A hidden panel conceals the fridge; the induction cooktop is flush with the counter, more art than appliance. The faucet is matte black and arcs gracefully over a deep basin sink carved from the same stone as the counters. Above it all, a linear pendant light glows like ambient art. It’sa kitchen built for someone who likes to cook, but I’m more of an eat-out kind of guy.

I’m happy to see there’s a stack of prepped meals in the fridge with a handwritten note from the team’s nutritionist stuck to the door: “Welcome to Sierra Point. Stay hydrated, well fed, and positive.”

I’ll do my best.

I take out one of the meals and study it. It’s grilled chicken breast sliced with surgical precision, sitting on a bed of quinoa. Roasted sweet potatoes are lined up like bricks, and a portion of broccolini, I’m in California now so of course it’s broccolini, adds a splash of upscale green. The whole thing looks like it was arranged with tweezers. At least it smells fine. Clean. Garlic and lemon. But it’s the kind of meal that reminds me this is a job, not a vacation.

I pop the meal into the microwave, and while it heats, I check out the master bedroom. It’s about what I expect. The decor keeps the same theme of sleek, cold, and a little too perfect going. The king-sized bed is framed in matte black with crisp, white linens tucked so tight they could pass military inspection. Floor-to-ceiling windows span one wall, offering a glittering view of the bay below. There’s a low, modern dresser along the opposite wall, its surface empty except for a chrome lamp and some kind of abstract sculpture.

The closet could fit a race horse, and my luggage is sitting just inside, waiting to be unpacked. The en suite bathroom is all black marble and glass with a massive walk-in shower, double vanity, lighting. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I wince. I have dark circles under my eyes and I look exhausted. Well, I am exhausted, emotionally and physically. The sudden trade and subsequent move across the country has been very stressful.

From the other room I hear the microwave beeping, so I head back to the kitchen. I open the microwave, carefully take out the steaming meal, and grab a fork from the drawer. Then I go to perch on the edge of the massive sectional to eat. I’m starving from the long trip and strenuous practice, so I wolf the meal down. I could easily eat another, but I control myself. I need to be in peak condition if I’m going to prove myself to my new team.

Through the massive windows, I can see other towers just like this one. They’re glass and steel monuments to success, each unit probably filled with tech executives and finance bros who measure their worth by square footage, bank balances, and thread count.

Guys like my dad.

Below, the marina glitters with yachts where people are living their best lives. I can’t deny that the Bayfront Promenade is impressive.It’s exactly the kind of place I dreamed of living in when I fantasized as a kid about making it to the NHL.

So why do I feel so empty?

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