A Perfect Strategy

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_1c3e0b37-033e-5e39-9842-a3bd9f802357)

Fifteen years ago

“MAN, IT’LL BE good to finally play a game for real.”

Scott “Scotty” Matthews hefted his bag over his shoulder, shut the hatch of his SUV and followed the small group of teammates toward the arena.

“Yeah, the preseason just doesn’t cut it,” grumbled Cam “Bullet” Lockhead. The New Jersey Ice Cats’ much-feared enforcer slammed his palm against the security bar to open the door into the building’s lower ground level. “Pansy-assed friendlies aren’t worth the effort to strap on my skates.”

“You’re only pissed because Coach banned you from hitting and fighting.” Ryan Grey punched Bullet on the arm. “He wanted you to save it for tonight’s home opener.”

“We’ve had the entire freaking summer off. I want to get back to work.” Cam hip-checked his friend into the door frame. “But how can I do my job if I can’t drop the gloves?”

Scott pushed them ahead of him into the wide, concrete area where all the behind-the-scenes magic for the arena took place. The cold air was filled with the low hum of the ice-making machinery, the grinding of skates being sharpened and the throaty rumble of the Zambonis. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of buttered popcorn and the acrylic tang of heating sticks. Yeah, it was good to be back.

“You can make up for it tonight,” he reassured Bullet. “Plus you’ll keep the crowd happy. They always bay for blood at a rivalry game. With Philly here, our fans will definitely expect you to put their fourth line out of business.”

Ike Jelinek, who’d recently been promoted to the role of starting goaltender for the Cats, cuffed Bullet on the back of the head. “I don’t know what you’re whining about. You didn’t play more than five minutes in each game. I was out there for the full sixty in four of the six.”

“And you sat on your butt wearing the ball cap for the other two.” Cam stuck out his lower lip and flicked it up and down with his forefinger. “Aww, did the poor, little net-boy get tired standing in his crease for so long?”

Scott grinned as Ike told his friend to do an anatomically impossible sexual act. Much as he loved Celine and his kids, he’d missed hanging out with these guys over the summer. They were more like family to him than his real siblings.

One of the problems with not making the postseason was that he’d finished playing in April. Which meant he’d had too long a break from hockey. Sure, the family vacation in the Caribbean had been great. He’d loved having the time to play with Angela and Wayne, who were growing up way too fast, and to chill with Celine. But by the time the Conference Finals were done in May, he’d already been itching to get on the ice. He’d been working out and training even before the Cup had been lifted by Tampa.

Scott had volunteered to help out with the younger guys at prospects camp in July and had counted off the days to training camp.

“You can—Oomph.” Scott ran into Grey’s back. His friend had halted abruptly. “What the hell?”

Grey had a strange grin on his face as he stepped aside and gave Scott a clear view of the locker room. Most of the team was already inside, getting changed for the pregame skate. A heavy rock beat pounded. As he walked in, the music switched off and the guys stopped what they were doing and started to whoop and applaud.

Scott frowned, confused. It wasn’t his birthday, he hadn’t done anything dumb that the media was gnawing over and he hadn’t even played in the last preseason game. Shaking his head, he walked forward a couple of steps, heading to his stall. He was surprised to see the room was full of coaches, trainers, equipment guys and other backroom staff. They must be as excited as he was about opening night and...

His brain froze. His steps faltered.

His gaze narrowed to the red jersey with the snow-leopard logo hanging in his stall. More specifically to the left shoulder. To the letter stitched there.

He blinked, thinking he must be dreaming. But nothing changed. Instead of the A he’d worn last season, there was a C. “Holy crap.”

Scott had known that there would be a new captain, since Johnny “Bruiser” Bruskowski had retired at the end of last season. As one of the alternate captains, Scott had figured he’d be on the list of possibles to lead the team but had assumed he was still too young. That it would go to one of the veterans. In his mind, next time around was more likely and he was good with that.

Clearly, the coaching staff and management had had a different idea.

Before he could process that, Scott was surrounded by people slapping him on the back and congratulating him.

“Hail the new captain,” Bullet said, with the right mix of deference, respect and mockery. “Best man for the job.”

“Only because none of you bozos wanted it,” Scott retorted good-naturedly, trying to hide his awe at the faith the organization and his team had put in him. “You’d have to toe the line too much.”

“Damn straight.”

“Come on, guys. Stop jawing and get suited up. Ten minutes before you hit the ice for warm-ups.” The trainer nodded at Scott. “Be good to see you leading the boys out there.”

“Thanks, man.” He raised his voice above the hubbub. “And thanks to all of you. I’ll do my best to fill Bruiser’s skates, though he’s a tough act to follow. Luckily for me, this is the best freaking hockey team in the world and I look forward to proving it to those other suckers, when we lift the Cup next June.”

A rousing round of cheers echoed through the locker room before everyone turned to the serious business of getting ready for a game. Scott strode to his stall, opened his bag and began his pregame routine, starting with placing the latest photo of Celine and their kids in pride of place—on the shelf above his sweater. He looked forward to celebrating his good news with them tomorrow. If she wasn’t too tired, there might even be a private celebration with Celine tonight. Especially if the Cats won.

He allowed himself a few seconds of heady anticipation before clearing his head and getting himself into game mode. By the time he’d changed into his gear, his mind was 100 percent focused on the task ahead.

It wouldn’t be easy tonight. Philly had made a lot of changes over the summer and were hot favorites to win the East coming into the season. They hadn’t lost a single preseason game, so were riding high on confidence. Scott planned to ensure the Cats knocked that cockiness out of them. They would not win in his barn, or at his first game as captain.

“You ready?” Grey called out from across the room.

Scott gave him the thumbs-up before reverently lifting his sweater off the hanger and slipping it over his head. On only two other occasions had the action meant as much to him—the day he was drafted by the Ice Cats and the night he made his first appearance in the show.

Putting on his helmet, he headed to where his friends were waiting. Then he led the way out, through the short tunnel and into the brightly lit main bowl of the arena. As his skates hit the ice, he looked over behind Ike’s goal to his seats. His heart swelled to see Celine, Angela and Wayne going crazy clapping and cheering him from behind the glass. He saluted them with his stick, then began his warm-up.

The rest of the pregame routine passed in a blur, no matter how hard he tried to imprint it all on his brain to preserve the memory. He couldn’t remember heading to the locker room, what Coach said or even what he’d said in his first captain’s speech. The next thing he knew, he was standing by the famous snow-leopard logo, with Ike ahead of him and Grey behind him, ready to lead his team out.

When the doors swung open, he cleared his throat. “Let’s go out there and show them the Ice Cats play the best damn hockey in the world.”

As he strode toward the ice, he allowed his mind one small lapse in focus to acknowledge that life couldn’t get much better than this.

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_4cc4795d-b0cc-5761-8e32-939854174034)

Present day

“THE HOCKEY NETWORK, New York, isn’t renewing my contract?”

Scott paused, steak-laden fork halfway to his mouth, to look at his agent.

“They want to go in a different direction. They want a more ‘three-sixty’ coverage.” Andy added air quotes.

“You mean they’re changing me because I suck at color commentary.” Scott had never been good at running his mouth off and THNNY seemed to want to fill every second of the game with talk. He didn’t mind commenting on plays and stats, strategy and tactics, even guys’ college or juniors careers. But the network wanted him to gossip about the players, as well.

Sharing in-depth information about the men he’d been teammates with less than a year ago was something he had no interest in. He’d been on the butt end of that kind of intrusion enough this past season, between his retirement and divorce, to be real uncomfortable with sharing details about guys’ personal lives. He didn’t even like repeating locker-room tales.

Besides, who cared? Scott sure as hell didn’t. The only thing that mattered was what happened on the ice.