"Son of a mother fucking bitch!" Johnson, our goalie, slams his stick on the ice, cursing the puck I just sent sailing into the upper corner of the net.

Haart skates up beside me, clapping me hard on the shoulder, a grin spread from ear to ear. "You still got it, Killfeather."

"No shit," I smirk past my mask, skating lazy, backward circles around Johnson. "What do you say? Best thirty-one out of sixty?"

Johnson rips off his glove and flips me the bird.

"Alright, ladies," Coach Burt calls from behind the boards. "That's enough for today. Hit the showers."

The team skates toward the chute, pulling off helmets and shaking out sweaty hair. I start to follow when Haart stops me, drags me back toward Coach. Swinging my leg over the boards, I take a seat on the bench alongside the two men, gulping water.

"I want Killfeather on my line in the game against the Everblades," Haart declares matter-of-factly.

I blink, stunned.

I'm the newest signed forward on the Cincinnati Cyclones, on loan from the Buffalo Sabers. I expected to sit bench for at least the first few weeks of games and let the more established players get ice time. These guys have a history together.

"I agree." Coach runs a hand through his massive Viking beard. "The Everblades are known for turtling up—we'll need an aggressive forward with your goal ratio."

I grin. "No worries here."

Burt chuckles. "Get a shower. Don't party too hard tonight. You have Friday and Saturday games this week."

Again, I'm shocked. Even as I grab a shower, change, and head out of the arena with Haart, I feel the resentment roiling off the other players in palpable waves. I pretend not to notice; act like I don't care. I'm the bubble NHL player. My skill has been weighed, measured, and proven. I'm here and not back in Buffalo because of a misunderstanding with my former Captain.

"So," Spencer prompts as we head out into the chilly November night. "What part of Cincy should we wreck tonight?"

I hold my hand over my heart in a feigned affront. "I've never wrecked anything a day in my life."

Spencer chokes out laughter. "Bullshit. I'm still waiting on one of your famous Killfeather pranks."

I wink at him, ducking against the brisk wind. "I have no idea what you mean."

Spencer was a senior when I was a freshman on the McGill hockey team before I got picked up by the league. He's the stereotypical all-American dude; massive, tattooed, rugged as fuck. The first time I faced off against him, I ended up as a blood spatter on the ice. I got him back for the split lip and nosebleed by replacing his spray-on deodorant with neon pink spray paint.

Rather than beat the ever-living tar out of me, he took me under his wing.

We've kept in touch since college. Both of us were signed for a few NHL contracts. Over the years, we've played on opposite teams, met up for drinks, partied from sundown to sunup. A severe knee injury took him out of the ranks for a time, saw him to the farm team for development. He fell in love with Cincinnati and never left.

Me? I don't care where I'm at. NHL or ECHL, I get to play hockey a few times a week and attend some pretty stellar team parties and events.

We head toward Great American Ballpark and bank left toward the Holy Grail. It's an L-shaped tavern with various sports memorabilia decorating the walls and ceiling. I even note one of Haart's old jerseys over the bar when he played for Toronto. Mid-afternoon on a Monday ensures that there aren't a lot of people.

"Oh, Captain, My Captain!" A pretty little thing with a pixie cut calls from behind the bar, sidles toward Spencer eagerly. "What can I get you?"

"Voodoo Ranger IPA."

Pixie looks at me, and I shrug. "Make it two."

"Sure thing, guys." She bites her lip, rolls her shoulder flirtatiously at Spencer. "First round's on me."

I watch her ass as she sashays away, nudge Spencer. "And I was under the impression that Americans were rude."

He chuckles, eying the same show I am. "Not all of us."

"I take it you come here often?" Not because I care, but I need to know if I'll be breaking bro-code hitting on the bartender.

"Often enough," he concedes with a sly smile.

All clear.

The bartender returns with our beers, and he raises one to her. "Thanks, Mandy."

"Anytime, Spence." She flashes an alluring smile first to him, then to me. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you, boys."

"Actually," I lean forward a bit. "I'm new in town."

"Really?" Mandy's blue eyes widen. "Where from?"

"Montreal, originally."

She becomes much more excited. "Wow! So you speak French."

"Oui," I smirk. "Perhaps I could convince you to show me around town. I'll teach you some words."

"I'd love that." She holds out her hand, gesturing for me to give her my phone. She enters her contact information and sends a text to herself before handing it back. Giggling, she informs me, "I close tonight, but tomorrow I'm off at ten."

"Je vais me souvenir." I'll remember.

Mandy emits an airy laugh, then sashays around to assist another patron.

Spencer shakes his head at me. "Really? You're in the states less than a month and already shooting your shot."

"She's cute." I take a pull on my beer. "And I didn't see you making a move."

"What about the chick from the café?"

I throw my arms wide, gesture to my torso. "You think I can limit all this to just one girl?"

"Uh-huh." Spencer eyes me knowingly. "So, the Cyclones is your third team?"

I finish my drink. "Fourth." I correct.

"Four teams in six years," he surmises. "What got you branded this time?"

Just like I followed his career, Spencer has followed mine. I live a big life, and it's a hell of a ride. A lot of times, that gets me into trouble.

It's not a secret why Buffalo wrangled me into a double-contract. Hell, it's been splattered everywhere in sports gossip columns. Tends to happen when your captain ices his own teammate in front of a crowd of hundreds right before playoff season.

"Slept with the captain's sister," I say truthfully. Mandy places another IPA in front of me without prompting. I wink at her and continue, "I told her before it ever started that it was a 'one and done' thing. Said she was cool with it."

"And she wasn't?"

"No." I grimace past a gulp of bitter IPA. "Cried to big brother. Said I manipulated her."

Spencer tenses. "Did you?"

"Of course not!" I leer at him, pissed he'd even think that. "I'm an asshole, but I'm not that asshole."

Dark eyes search me for a moment before he shakes his head. "Never stick your dick in crazy."

That makes me laugh. "Speaking of 'crazy,'" I pause while we both pull from our beers. "How's Anneliese?"

"Same." Spencer's jaw tenses under his beard. "Yanks my chain all the time with Brixton. Switches up when I get to see him. Emails me a list of dietary restrictions every week."

I grow concerned. Brixton was born just as I graduated from college. Blond-haired and blue-eyed like his mother. He must be almost three years old by now. Same as my nephews, Gabe and Oscar.

"Why?" I press. "Is he sick?"

"I don't think so?" Spencer shoves his hand through his hair. "Anneliese has always kept up to date on the fad food trends. I think this is just another weird fixation."

"That's insane."

"I'll toast to that." Spencer taps his beer on mine, guzzles the dregs. Mandy appears with a second before the glass ever hits the bar. He smiles at her before turning to me. "Ever thought about sticking around? Put some effort into forming relationships and not pissing off important people?"

"Change is good for me." I laugh. "New city, new stomping grounds."

"Hmm." Spencer cocks a knowing brow. "Sounds lonely."

Thankfully Mandy comes back around to ply us with shots before I'm required to respond. The introspective bullshit stops after we knock back doubles of bourbon. The conversation turns to shallower conversation topics like NHL brackets and the importance of first-touch during a faceoff.

There's a lot of hockey shenanigans to recount and pass the time. Spencer's rise to Captain, my own journey through the ranks, and stories of drunken debauchery. The afternoon becomes evening as we drink and catch up.

Cashing out, we head back to the streets. Of course, the sun has set, and the night carries a particularly fierce chill. I pull on my toque and yank my hood up to bar against the wind coming off the river.

"Too cold for you, Montreal?" Spencer teases, even as he zips up his hoodie and shudders. "Heading back to the arena?"

I shake my head. "Naw. Think I'll walk around a bit, see some of the city."

Spencer nods. "Don't have too much fun. We need you for the Everblades game."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

We part ways, and I wander along the bustling city streets. I've been in Cincinnati for a few weeks and have formed a rough map in my head with the arena as my epicenter. My apartment is about a fifteen-minute drive from the entire sports and riverfront scene. There's a college, theater, concert venues, and many great dining options around it. It's an exciting place to be; a fun place to live.

Still, Spencer's words eat at me. Lonely.

I shake them off. I'm the youngest of six, and we're all still close. My family has always been supportive, even becoming a goon for the minors. I'll play three, sometimes four games a week, six months of the year. It's hard, it's rough, and I fucking love every second of it.

I double-majored in marketing and graphic design. Thought I could use a bit of my artistic perversion if hockey didn't work out. At least I wasn't like every other jock who slid by with a communication major. I've also dabbled in systems integration, informatics, and anything else I could put my hand to.

Being from Canada, I'm used to half a year of winter and the other half of construction. My summertime sports include a lot of BMX biking and skateboarding amid the cement jungle. Oh, and graffiti.

The street art scene in Canada is dwindling. Particularly in Montreal and Toronto, where there have been increased efforts to clean up the city, salvage it from the riffraff I used to be. Still, there's something about the visceral feelings I can represent on canvas, paper, and digital media that I can't quite express on the ice.

I suppose that's why I trundle back to the Anarchy Café. Half-frozen and mostly sober, I'm drawn immediately to the back wall with its wash of random decorations, exorcised feelings, and wishes yet unmet.

Sharpies are arranged haphazardly on a nearby table, colors ranging from black to chartreuse. I smile at the gesture. So American. The welcome of self-expression, even through the defacement of property.

Then I spot words that hadn't been there a few days ago, smile despite myself.

Love is poison.

I murmur in objection to those words. "Mon cher. Ce n'est pas vrai." My dear, this isn't true.

Compulsion powers me. I take up one Sharpie, then another. In loops and swirls of color, I change the black of 'poison' to 'passion.' Below and above the phrase's ichor, I erupt chasms of color: red, orange, green, and blue dance and swirl like long lost lovers.

I cap the markers, shove my hands into my hoodie, and admire my work.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A man asks from behind me.

I jump, turn. I hadn't realized anyone else was in this part of the café. "It is."

The man, blond shot with gray, deep laugh lines and kind brown eyes, nods to the wall at my back. "It was my baby Reece's idea. She's into tattoos and piercings and all that." He waves a hand, smiles resignedly.

The name summons memory like a flame. Reece. Soulful brown eyes, blonde hair, and pale skin peeking out from under her hoodie.

The barista from the day when Spencer and the team dragged me here after putting me through the wringer in practice. Everyone laughed at videos of me eating ice and plays I fucked up. There were moments when the camera was on me, and I did something stupid—like slipping on my own gloves trying to initiate a fight—hazing at its finest.

Reece. She never called or texted me back.

The man sticks out his hand. "Lukas. I own the place."

I meet the gesture. "Bastien Killfeather."

His eyes take on a knowing look. "Ah. NHL superstar for the Cyclones, right?"

I grin. "Of course."

"C'mon," he lassos me around the shoulders. "Let's get you a drink."

Lukas escorts me toward the front of the café. So late at night, it's mostly deserted. The occasional UC student is clacking madly away on their laptop, but, for the most part, it's just Reece and her blue-haired friend.

"Kaila, Reecie," Lukas states. "Give this boy the house special. My treat."

The blue-haired one, Kaila, winks at me. "Coming right up."

Lukas claps me on the shoulder. "Enjoy."

I lean my elbows on the counter, staring at Reece as she makes a valiant effort to appear engrossed in cataloging the various beans of espresso. She's thin—a little too thin—but gorgeous. All sharp angles and big brown eyes. The Sharpie on her arms is different today—more astral than abstract.

When she continues to ignore me, I clear my throat. "Your dad seems nice."

She glances up, scowls. "Why are you talking to me?"

I cock a brow and grin. "You never called."

Reece heaves out a sigh, props a hand on her hip. "Maybe I don't like talking on the phone."

"I know how to text."

An eye roll, but I see a slight curve to her mouth. "I'm not a puck bunny."

"I didn't think you were." I chuckle, side-eye Kaila as she adds more than a few ounces of Jameson to the coffee.

Reece's arms cross over her chest, entire posture becoming guarded. "Then why give me your number?"

Oh, babe, who hurt you?

"Because," I murmur, low enough that she's forced to come closer. "I like your eyes."

"My eyes?" She echoes.

"Oui." I reach out, brush my thumb over the sketch of Sharpie on the bit of skin exposed by her hoodie. "And your art."

She pulls away from me as though I've burned her. "That's personal."

"Tell me about it." I prompt, glance to where Kaila is carrying not one but two of the house specials toward us. "I want to know."

"I don't—"

"Sorry!" Kaila chirps with a wink, heedless that she interrupted Reece. "Made a bit too much! You don't mind, right, Reecie?"

I grin where Reece gives her coworker an exasperated look. Kaila hip-bumps her and sashays away. This time, however, my eyes remain focused purely on the blonde standing before me.

"One drink." She concedes.

I raise my coffee cup. "One drink."