Page 1 of Risky Pucking Play

Chapter 1

Elena

Iswirl the wine in my glass, watching it catch the low light of the hotel bar. Just one drink to steady my nerves. That's the promise I made to myself when I stepped off the elevator fifteen minutes ago.

The lobby bar of the Palmer House gleams with old Chicago money—lots of mahogany wood and brass fixtures with soft jazz playing in the background. I take another sip, letting the wine's warmth spread through me. It’s definitely helping to take off the edge of anxiety I’m feeling about my first day of work tomorrow.

"Another glass, ma'am?" The bartender appears before me.

"No, I'm good." As much as I’d like another one, it’s not a good idea. I’ve got to be sharp tomorrow.

The bartender nods and moves away. I check my watch. Only 8:30 p.m. I really should head back up soon. My temporary home—room 714—waits fourteen floors above. Just a little more time until I can move into my apartment. I can’t wait. Living out of my suitcase is definitely not ideal.

Chicago feels both familiar and foreign. I haven’t lived here for almost eight years. Long enough to build a life in San Francisco. And long enough to see that new life crumble.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Dad: Ready for tomorrow? Don't be late.

No "good luck" or "glad you're home." Just Dad, aka Coach Martinez, giving orders. I type back a quick "Yes" before putting my phone face-down on the bar.

The San Francisco memories bubble up even though I’d rather forget them for good. My boss’s hand on my shoulder. His fingers lingering too long. His voice dropping to a whisper when he asked me to stay late. The way he'd cornered me in the equipment room, breath reeking of scotch. "We work so well together, Elena."

I’d filed a complaint. Administration had hemmed and hawed. By the time they promised to "look into it," it had happened again several times and I'd already packed my apartment and submitted my resignation.

Working for my father hadn't been the plan. I'd left Chicago to escape his reach, and to prove I could succeed on my own. But when I called to tell him about what had happened in San Francisco, he'd cut me off mid-sentence.

"The Blades need a sports psychologist. Position's yours if you want it."

I'd resisted at first. "I appreciate that, Dad, but I can find something on my own."

"Elena, don't be stubborn. It's a great opportunity." His voice had softened, a rare occurrence. "And I need you back in Chicago."

That last part had been the hook. Anthony Martinez almost never admits to needing anyone.

Mom would have told me to trust my gut—that’s how she always rolled. But Mom has been gone for twenty-one years.

I remember sitting near my dad at Blades games when I was six, the year after my mom died. The crowds, the cold air, the thunderous cheers when a goal was scored. Dad's voice carryingabove it all as he shouted instructions to players who couldn't possibly hear him from the bench.

I wasn’t supposed to be at the games with him, but he didn’t care. Hockey became our language, the thing that connected us when grief made words impossible.

Until I turned eighteen and decided I wanted to go to college in California. The arguments had been explosive. My father couldn't understand why I would ever leave Chicago. And him.

"There are plenty of great schools right here in the city. Or close by."

"I know, Dad. But I need space to figure out who I am."

But now I’m back and about to dive headfirst back into my dad’s world. Tomorrow morning, I'll walk into the Chicago Blades training facility as the newest sports psychologist, not Coach Martinez's little girl.

I check my phone again. Two texts from her best friend Reese.

Reese: You back in town yet?

Reese: Dinner this week? I can’t believe you live here again!

I smile. At least Reese is still in Chicago. We’ve known each other since elementary school and I can’t imagine what my life would be like without her. Even though we’ve lived far apart for quite awhile it’s rare a week goes by without a phone call that can last for hours.

Me: Just got in yesterday. And yes to dinner—I desperately need some Reesey time.

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