Unrivaled, page 1
Table of Contents
Blurb
Ashlyn’s Acknowledgments
Pregame
Warm-ups
First Period
Second Period
Third Period
Overtime
Postgame
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Inside Edge by Ashlyn Kane
About the Authors
By Ashlyn Kane
By Morgan James
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Copyright
Unrivaled
By Ashlyn Kane and Morgan James
Hockey Ever After: Book Three
People say there’s a fine line between love and hate. If you ask Grady Armstrong, the line’s as obvious as the one across the middle of a hockey rink.
So he can’t explain why he doesn’t walk away when his Grindr hookup—a guy who accused him of impersonating himself—turns out to be Max Lockhart, a rival player Grady once punched in the face. Apparently Max can goad him just as well off the ice as he can on it.
Max Lockhart showed up thinking he was going to expose a fake. Instead he hooks up with a guy who claims to hate him. And has a good time. A really good time. But that doesn’t mean players from different teams can be together.
Max has always wished Grady would relax a little. When the season starts and Grady accepts Max’s offer of help with finding someone to date for real, Max gets his wish. But he should’ve been careful what he wished for, because now that he knows Grady is a big softie under that prickly shell, he’d rather keep Grady for himself.
Grady only goes on a handful of dates before he realizes he has a lot more fun with Max. But he can’t be falling for a rival player… can he?
Ashlyn’s Acknowledgments
THIS BOOK is the direct result of interference and meddling from Aurora Crane. Thank you. I’m so glad we’re friends.
I also owe thanks to a huge team of cheerleaders and alpha readers: Laura, Sibel, Amanda, Curry, JEB, Rufus, and more. Thank you for loving my gremlins (almost) as much as I do.
Pregame
“WOW, TRY to look less like you’re having fun.”
Grady Armstrong self-consciously pulled his hand away from his cuff link and realized he was scowling. “I can’t help it. You know I hate these things.”
His sister, Jessica, rolled her eyes, unsympathetic. “Yeah, it’s so terrible being paid millions of dollars with the catch that you’re expected to put on a tux once a year and go to a fancy party.”
Grady flinched. Jess had three Olympic hockey medals and she’d made more in one season as an NHL scout than she had in her entire professional hockey career. “It’s not like they’re gonna give me the Lady Byng.”
Sure, he was nominated. He’d been nominated three times now, not that he cared about individual trophies. If he couldn’t have the Cup, nothing else mattered. But they kept nominating him for the Lady Byng—hockey’s sportsmanlike conduct award—so he had to come, basically.
“Maybe if you didn’t keep letting Mad Max goad you into a fistfight at the end of the season, they would.”
Grady flushed. “I don’t let him goad me—”
Jess snorted.
Fine, he did. It wasn’t his fault Max Lockhart had such a punchable face and insisted on putting it in front of Grady’s fist.
He’d played in the NHL for over a decade. He prided himself on his clean play, or he’d never have been nominated for so many useless Lady Byngs. Chirps didn’t get to him. He had thick skin and he was proud of it.
Max Lockhart got under it like a twelve-gauge needle, which was why Grady didn’t have any Lady Byngs.
Besides, he started it when he broke Grady’s arm. Even if general consensus said it was an accident.
Grady sighed.
Ever the big sister, Jess patted him on the back in faux sympathy. “It’s fine. The Art Ross would get jealous if you had to put it next to another trophy anyway.”
Even if he’d won that this year instead of last, Grady wouldn’t get to keep the award for being the season’s top scorer. It lived in the Hockey Hall of Fame. But he guessed that wasn’t the point. “Thanks for the perspective,” he said dryly.
A server stopped by their table with a tray of champagne, and Grady took two glasses with a nod of appreciation.
She raised her flute to him. “What are siblings for?”
They touched glasses.
“Other than an excuse not to bring a real date to the NHL Awards, obviously.”
Grady downed the glass in one go out of pure spite. They’d had that conversation one too many times. “Jess—”
“It’s not like you’d be the only one!” She gestured over his shoulder to a table three rows over, where a couple of the Orcas were making sappy heart eyes at each other. Kirschbaum was getting the Hart—league MVP. His boyfriend wasn’t nominated for anything.
That wasn’t the problem.
“It’s not the attention.” Grady was out, but he was a low-key kind of guy. He didn’t go around in a rainbow-flag cape at Pride like some players he could mention—not because he wasn’t proud, but because he only cared about parades if there was a Stanley Cup involved.
Jess rolled her eyes. “Yeah, duh. You’ve always had that.” No trace of bitterness, even though she was objectively the better player of the two of them. “Who has time to date with hockey?” she mimicked in a fake baritone that sounded nothing like Grady. His voice wasn’t that deep. “Literally everyone else, bro. But you don’t have to date to get laid. Like, I wasn’t out there living a life of celibacy.”
As if he needed the reminder. “Thanks for that.”
She grinned. “Welcome.” Another server came around—hors d’oeuvres this time—and she snagged a couple plates. “Anyway. The point is you could have someone if you put the effort in. Your personality leaves a lot to be desired, but you’re rich and you have a nice face. Plenty of guys would hit that.”
Grady dragged one of the plates of crostini over in front of him. “Stop. I’m blushing.”
Jess didn’t have time for a rejoinder, because the microphone made a godawful screech as the commissioner stepped up to the podium.
Fantastic. Time for the show to begin.
BY THE time the awards were over, Grady had loosened up a little, mostly because of the champagne. Jess left him to mingle, and he spent some time circulating, talking to the guys who’d passed through his team over the years, guys he knew from the American national team, and his usual competition for the Lady Byng. He didn’t enjoy it—he knew he came across as awkward and as aloof as he felt—but it would be worse to keep to himself, and when no actual games were on the line, Grady could be a gracious loser.
“Congrats,” he said to Caelan Murphy, this year’s winner.
Murphy accepted Grady’s handshake with a laugh. “Yeah, thanks. Glad I’m not in your division. I’d never get to take the thing home either.”
At least Grady wasn’t the only one who found Lockhart so aggravating. “I should have better self-control.”
Murphy snorted and shook his head. “If you say so.” Then his wife caught his arm and he smiled. “Sorry, looks like duty calls. Have a good one, eh?”
Grady acknowledged him with a tilt of his head and started to plan his escape. Now that the awards had been handed out and he’d been seen making nice, he could sneak away. He’d use the restroom and then track down Jess to let her know he was leaving.
It seemed like a solid plan until he was washing his hands at the Luxor bathroom sink and Max Lockhart came out of the stall behind him like a demon emerging from the bowels of hell.
Fuck.
“Armstrong,” Lockhart said cheerfully. Whatever his many other sins, apparently he wasn’t one of those guys who used the washroom without cleaning his hands afterward. He wristed the tap on and slathered himself in soap. “My condolences on your Lady Byng loss.”
Grady had never spoken to Lockhart off the ice and couldn’t decide if he was being an asshole or being sincere. Maybe he was a sincere asshole. “You could always decide not to provoke me next year.”
Lockhart met his eyes in the mirror and cracked a shit-eating grin that still had all its original teeth, despite his punchable face. “You could always decide not to rise to the bait.”
Grady never felt like he could, was the problem. Something about the guy gave him itchy mitts. “Guess we’re at an impasse.” He made for the door before the tension in his shoulders could coil any tighter. You weren’t allowed to punch people in real life either.
This time Lockhart laughed at him outright. “Yeah, all right, bud. Hey, who’s the rocket you brought tonight? Thought you were queer.”
Fuck’s sake, could this guy leave nothing on the ice? Grady gritted his teeth. “That’s my sister.”
Now he was cackling. “Oh shit, my bad.” He turned the sink off with his forearm and turned toward Grady. “Don’t worry, though.” He flicked his wet fingers at Grady, splashing tiny droplets on his face. “You’re prettier.”
There he went, right under the skin again. Was Grady supposed to be flattered or simply knocked off-kilter? Maybe he was supposed to be offended. Pretty wasn’t always a compliment when you were talking to a dude. “Prettier than you,” he agreed.
Lockhart grabbed a couple paper towels and dried his hands. “Too bad.” With a wink, he dropped them in the trash. “If I were up to your standards, we could probably have some fun together.”
And then, before Grady coul
What. The fuck.
Warm-ups
NHL Announces Return of World Cup of Hockey
By Kevin McIntyre
With the off season well underway, you might be asking yourself—wait a second. Isn’t the World Cup in May? Didn’t we just do that?
And you’re right. The International Ice Hockey Federation World Cup is in the spring, when playoffs are going on in the NHL.
The World Cup of Hockey is a different animal—distinguishable by its logo, which resembles a certain type of hygiene product. Depending on your philosophy and the year, it’s either a fun way to launch the season, a paltry offering to appease NHL players who are salty they can’t go to the Olympics, or a money grab. It’s probably the inconsistent schedule that lends credence to that last theory. There have been four World Cups of Hockey, played anywhere from 3 to 15 years apart.
Unlike Olympic and IIHF hockey, the World Cup of Hockey is played by NHL rules on NHL-size ice. This year’s teams include Canada, the US, Russia, Czechia, Finland, Sweden, Europe (comprised of players from European nations not otherwise represented), and North America (Canadian and American players 23 and under).
The tournament will once again take place in Toronto. Preliminary games begin on September 10 when Czechia faces off against Russia.
GRADY TRAINED hard all summer.
That wasn’t unusual. Grady trained hard every summer. Throwing himself into the hockey season was one way he distracted himself from the anniversary of his parents’ death at the end of August. Besides, you didn’t keep your spot on the top line of a professional hockey team without putting in the work. He liked to push himself, challenge himself to do better than he had in previous years.
This year was the first time he resented it.
He used to love getting back to work. Each season was like a freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, waiting for his mark. But that was the problem too—at the end of each season, the Zamboni went by again and any impression Grady might have made was erased. Without that big win, or even just a handful more wins than losses.
He tried not to think of it that way. He couldn’t afford to think of it that way. But it had been years since the team did more than limp pathetically into the playoffs for a first-round exit. Usually they didn’t even get that far.
Grady was a gifted hockey player. When Philadelphia drafted him, they were supposed to turn a corner. But they kept driving straight toward the cliff’s edge, and they’d taken his career with them.
He liked to push himself, but he didn’t have the drive to push a whole team.
He was thirty years old and he was tired of bearing the brunt of the expectations of a perennially disappointed fan base. If they couldn’t turn things around by November, he’d told his agent to request a trade.
They might not give him one, but his contract expired at the end of the season, and he wouldn’t extend his stay in Philly. If they didn’t trade him, they’d lose him for nothing.
The request would probably make him a pariah. Fans hated players they saw as disloyal, but what was Grady supposed to do? They were tired of losing, and half the time they blamed him. There was only so much he could do on the ice.
So he trained hard all summer, but he wasn’t eager for training camp. A few years ago, management had tried to make him captain, but he’d declined, and now everyone looked at him like he had one foot out the door. Like he thought he was too good for them.
Okay, not everyone.
A familiar hand clasped his shoulder. “At least pretend you’re optimistic.”
“I’m too old to have to fake it.” But he pasted on a smile for Cooper, who’d taken the C instead. Grady wasn’t a people person. He’d learned his lesson back in juniors. For him, being captain would’ve been a nightmare. Coop’s mix of cockiness and approachability made him perfect at the job.
“Your acting skills aren’t up to it anyway.”
No shit.
Grady half turned toward Coop on the bench. If they were having this talk, the least he could do was face it head-on… more or less.
“So. This is the year, eh?”
Grady let out a long, slow breath. “Looks like it.”
Coop nodded. “We better make it count, then.” He rolled his shoulders and then tapped his stick against Grady’s leg. “Come on. Fresh ice awaits.”
If Grady was going to set himself up to be trade bait, he needed to be in top form. He stood. “Let’s do it.”
Player Profile—Max Lockhart
By Natasha Chu
As part of our series leading up to the World Cup of Hockey, we’ll be profiling players to watch from every team. Today it’s left-winger Max Lockhart’s turn.
If your team plays in the Eastern Conference, you already know him by reputation. Lockhart plays a major part in the powerhouse New Jersey Monsters lineup. To put it bluntly: he’s a pest.
No, that’s not fair. Lockhart is a gifted goal scorer in his own right and has been a contender for all the NHL’s major scoring trophies. He’s had multiple hundred-point seasons. That’s part of what makes him so annoying. He makes you mad, and then he makes you pay, and he grins the whole time.
I go into our interview expecting he’ll make me mad too. As a dyed-in-the-wool Shield fan, I’m no stranger to hating on Max Lockhart.
So of course the first thing he does is turn my expectations on their head.
There’s a formula to how these interviews generally go. I meet players in the bar at the hotel they’re staying at. I offer them a drink. The ones with the serious image—the ones who don’t eat sugar during the season and drink kale smoothies three times a day—order water. The more casual guys order beer or, occasionally, Jack and Coke.
Max Lockhart—“Hey, I’m Max”—orders a frozen margarita and asks if I want to go halfsies on a plate of nachos.
He’s casual in jeans and a Raptors T-shirt, his dishwater-blond “hockey hair” somewhat windblown. His blue eyes are very bright, and he smiles a lot. He’s not handsome, exactly. But something about him is magnetic. It makes it hard to look away.
I already like him more than I expected to. Though I suppose that could be the margarita talking.
“You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” I have to ask.
“Nah, I know how it goes.” He gestures vaguely. “Besides, hard to eat nachos if you’ve got to take notes by hand.”
He has a point. And they’re very good nachos. I’d hate to miss out. I set my phone to record and reach for my list of prompt questions.
Except I never quite get to it. Before I can ask the first one, Lockhart’s phone pings. He’s cursing and apologizing and putting it on silent, but then he lights up a little. “Sorry, I’ll put this away in a second. Just, my sister sent me a picture of my dog and it’s super cute—want to see?”
I obviously want to see the dog. He’s got wavy brown fur and big brown eyes and a stub of a tail. In the picture, he’s holding a battered yellow doll shaped like a stick figure. His name is Gru, Lockhart—Max—tells me, but when I ask what kind of dog, he laughs.
“He’s a rescue. Someone asked me that once and I was like, ‘I don’t know. Brown?’ What, am I going to 23andMe my dog? He’s maybe part Lab, part cocker spaniel… part someone’s leg for all I know.”
Was that a Terry Pratchett reference, I wonder. But instead I take the opportunity to ask about his family. “So you have a sister—older or younger? Any other siblings?”
“A sister and a brother. Nora’s the youngest. She just graduated dentistry school in April, so that’s why she’s watching Gru. Nora couldn’t get off work, so she volunteered to dog-sit. Then there’s me, typical middle child. My older brother Logan’s married now—he totally married up—and he’s got two kids who fortunately take after his wife. My parents have always been super supportive, even though the three of us were hellions as kids. I’ve got a couple duds for aunts and uncles—no, I’m kidding. I have a big family, though. We’ll be here all night if I have to make fun of all of them.”
He says this with a gleam in his eyes that makes it hard to believe he harbors anything but love for these people, whatever his mouth might say.
