Page 1 of Chips & Checks
Prologue
Bowen
It’s an overcast day in Las Vegas, but despite the cloud cover, it’s miserably hot. I’m already sweating so badly that my shirt is sticking to my skin in ways I didn’t know were possible.
You’re not in Minnesota anymore,I remind myself. You’re in Vegas, baby.
I park the car in the mostly empty player ramp, half-distracted by my fantasy of what it will look like with fans streaming in, and the place lit up in the dark. I don’t plan to stay in Vegas for more than a few years, and the fact that I got picked up by an up-and-coming team isn’t ideal, given that I was originally a first-round draft pick. I keep telling myself that I’ll get traded to a better team once I’ve played a season or two here. Hopefully to one that isn’t based in the middle of the fucking desert.
Hockey is in my blood. Literally. That’s the problem with legacies: you don’t choose them. They choose you. Hence the reason why I’m standing in front of an NHL arena that’s new to me.
The rink brings back memories of being eight years old, watching Dad lift the Stanley Cup. Everyone swarmed him—his teammates, the media, Mom—and there I was, tugging uselessly on his jersey, totally invisible. Dad was hockey’s greatest guy. Everybody’s hero. And somehow, that always made me feel like there wasn’t enough of him left for me.
I head to the back entrance, curious to see more of the place where I’ll be training, and where I hope to establish myself as one of the best players of my generation. Not a flash in thepan. Not a legacy player who skated by—ha, ha—on his daddy’s reputation.
A security guard stands just inside the glass, arms crossed, earpiece coiled tight against his jaw. He clocks me immediately—tall guy in all black, hockey bag slung like a chip on my shoulder.
“Can I help you?”
“Bowen Murphy. I’ve got a meeting with Briggs Sawyer.”
His brow lifts like that name should mean something, but he still grabs his radio. “Yeah, this is east ramp. Got a… Boflex Murray? Says he’s expected?”
He listens. Then smirks.
“Uh-huh. Destiny’s on her way. You’re to ‘stand there and be hot,’ her words, not mine.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Great.”
He shrugs, deadpan. “Could be worse. Yesterday she made a guy do push-ups for being late.”
“Please tell me that’s a joke.”
“Wish it was.”
Vegas already feels exactly like the kind of flashy, loud place Dad always loved. Another place he’d have belonged perfectly, smiling, ‘huggling’ strangers while his own kid wondered if he’d ever come first.
I’m still stewing in that when the player entrance buzzes, and a girl in four-inch heels click-clacks toward me like she’s making a runway out of the concrete.
“Bowen Murphy?” she asks, already smiling like we’ve been flirting for weeks.
“That’s me.” I nod to the guard, who steps aside to let her pass.
“I’m Destiny.” She drags it out like Deeestiny, all sparkle and teeth. “PR assistant-slash-welcome wagon. And, well…” Shesweeps her gaze down my body and back up, shameless in its inspection. “Consider yourself officially welcomed.”
She loops her arm through mine before I can dodge it and starts leading me through the tunnel.
“So,” she hums, “you got plans after your meeting? Because I can think of a few things that might help you settle in. And I don’t just mean your hotel room.”
I gently peel her off me. “Destiny, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You seem sweet. But I’m more of a solo-tour kind of guy.”
She blinks. “Oh. Wow. Is that like… hockey code for something?”
“Nope. It’s just code for: I’m super focused on my career.” I give her my most charming, heartbreaker smile—the kind that usually softens the blow.
