Table of Contents
Title Page
Faceoff
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
ABOUT Rebecca Connolly
Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Connolly
E-book edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Interior design by Cora Johnson
Edited by Kelsey Down and Lorie Humpherys
Cover design by Rachael Anderson
Cover image credit: Deposit Photos #82835504
Published by Mirror Press, LLC
NORTHBROOK HOCKEY ELITE SERIES
Faceoff
Powerplay
Rebound
Crosscheck
Breakaway
Shootout
DEDICATION
Thanks to Grizz for letting his younger brother have a story, and to Ryker for not getting in the way of my plans.
Shout out to the Chicago Blackhawks. Just because they’re awesome. And because their games helped a girl whose only hockey experience was Miracle and Mighty Ducks to fall in love with an amazing sport.
FACEOFF
She isn’t supposed to want him. He isn’t supposed to want her. But wanting each other is inevitable.
Clint McCarthy has finally achieved his dream of playing for a professional hockey program, and is eager to make his mark with his new team. While getting settled in his new city, he happens across Bree Stone, whom he has known for years, with their respective brothers both being in the famed Belltown Six Pack. But for the life of him, he can’t remember Bree ever looking so attractive. Or being so captivating. Or taking over his every waking thought.
In the middle of her graduate degree, Bree has no time or desire for working on her dating life, or lack thereof, but the impossibly handsome Clint McCarthy coming back into her life makes everything complicated. She shouldn’t be focusing on him, or on them, not when her professional future hangs in the balance. But once she hears about Clint’s past with the Northbrook Hockey Elite program, and where that program stands now, Bree just might find a way to make her career, and a future with Clint, come to life.
“I don’t know why you’re dragging me into this.”
“You love doing this, don’t lie.”
“Actually, I don’t. It’s not my type of scene.”
“Not your scene? It’s the guys, bro. You’ve known them since you were a kid.”
“A teenager, thanks. You’re not that much older than me, and they are your friends. Not mine.”
“Don’t tell any of them that. They specifically told me to bring you. Wouldn’t want anyone to think it was personal.”
Clint McCarthy rolled his eyes and bit back a sigh of resignation as he followed his older and, admittedly, larger brother into the restaurant. It wasn’t often that Grizz pulled him into one of the semiannual Six Pack gatherings, but when he did, Clint was always left feeling out of place.
That sort of thing tended to happen when six of the most popular professional baseball players in the world got together. They’d all played on the same team in college at Belltown University and made a sort of history all getting drafted, then defied further odds by all getting called up to the majors. The news outlets were full of random reports and gossip about them, and the favorite segue on any channel was “Speaking of the Six Pack . . . ”
Clint didn’t mind having a famous older brother; most of the time he was pretty amused by the thing. He would be a wealth of information for any reporter wanting a more real and embarrassing side of Grizz McCarthy, not that he’d ever seriously consider doing such an exposé.
Grizz would fight back with one of his own, and Clint was fairly certain there were just as many stories about him as there were about Grizz.
That wouldn’t help him get called up at all.
“Heard anything from Marcus yet?” Grizz asked as the two of them pushed their way through the regular Friday night crowd at Corky’s Brewhouse.
Clint shook his head at the mention of their agent, one of the rare kind that worked with athletes in two different sports—and it was even rarer that two of his clients were brothers. “Nope. I’m not expecting anything for at least one more year. Two seasons with the Rays isn’t enough to make a point when I’ve been gone so long.”
Grizz looked over his shoulder with the sort of scolding look only a brother could give. “You’re a star, Clint. Anyone can see that. I’ve read the reports on you, and it’s only a matter of time.”
There was nothing to say to that, so Clint only shrugged. Grizz was as good a guy as ever walked the earth, but there was no changing the fact that he was always going to think Clint was better than the reality just because he was his brother. Besides, Grizz played baseball, not hockey.
His brother would have argued that he knew enough about any given sport to be a good judge anywhere, but Clint refused to accept that.
Taking four years away from the sport to serve in the Marines had seemed the obvious choice to Clint at the time, and he would never regret a single moment he had spent on active duty, but there was no denying that it had affected his playing. Oh, he’d kept in prime physical shape—the Marines made sure of that—but being away from the game for that long . . .
No amount of solo drills on whatever ice he could find when free to do so could compensate for that loss.
Four years of active duty. Now he was starting his third reserve year, as well as his third season in minor league hockey, and he felt tugged in both directions.
He’d chosen the Marines when he hadn’t been drafted, thanks to a season-altering knee injury in the middle of his senior year of high school. Two years of junior college to get back into prime shape, and when he still hadn’t been picked up, he’d walked away. He’d served his country well, made good connections, and matured, which some might have argued was his most valuable development.
But his love and passion for hockey hadn’t gone away.
The fact that Grizz’s agent had called Clint and offered to represent him before his active duty years were up had shocked Clint, and the ball hadn’t stopped rolling yet.
The Rays had taken a huge chance on him, despite not being one of the better minor league teams, and he would be forever grateful they had.
Someone might have pulled some strings to get him there, considering they were an affiliate for the team with the best coach in the nation, arguably. He had no grand ideas of being called up to play for the Hawks in St. Louis, but to play for Jon Singleton would be beyond his most insane dreams.
But none of that was on the table tonight. In the brief lull between when their season drew to a close and his season hadn’t really begun, the Six Pack had decided to meet up in Cincinnati before Cole Hunter’s team started their World Series run. That, of course, meant at least one of them would be having a dry evening,
and since Clint was starting his season and was always alcohol free in season, there would be two of them.
If any of the Six Pack’s ladies were around, however . . .
Well, Clint didn’t want to assume anything, but he wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of them had some sort of announcement about certain additions, and then the whole evening could be a dry one.
None of them were especially excessive drinkers, but the degree of one’s social drinking did tend to fluctuate depending on who was around. And there was no telling what anyone in the Six Pack would do at any given time. Then there was the possibility of any in-season bets that had yet to be paid . . .
Sudden images of his brother in a chicken suit flashed into Clint’s mind, and he grinned with all the mischievous deviousness any little brother in the world ever possessed.
“What’s that for?” Grizz asked in alarm, catching a glimpse of his expression before Clint could clear it.
Clint shrugged again. “Just a funny thought. Never mind. Hey, is everyone coming?”
“Think so,” Grizz grunted. “The guys, anyway. Rach couldn’t get away, Harlow’s coming in late tonight, Erica drove down, but the rest . . . ”
Clint’s head spun with the names. Rachel he knew well, as she was his brother’s wife, but he barely kept up with the rest. In the last few years, there had been three weddings, and he’d gone to them all, but as to who had yet to tie the knot . . .
“Grizz and company in the house!” someone bellowed as they entered the private room that had been reserved for them at Corky’s, and Grizz, ever the enthusiastic socialite, raised both arms into the air with a whoop better suited for an arena than a dining room.
What a goon.
Clint slowly shook his head and slid his hands into the pockets of his brown leather jacket, worn to just the right texture in just the right places. Now the entertainment would, allegedly, begin.
And the inquisition.
“Hi there,” a stunning woman completely out of the league of any man in the room greeted him as she came over to Clint with a dazzling smile.
Swallowing the lump in his throat associated with the confrontation of such glamorous beauty, Clint straightened as much as he was able, though he was already six foot three and nearly as big as his brother. “Hi.”
The beauty’s smile widened. “You don’t remember me. That’s surprisingly charming.” She held out a hand. “Trista.”
Idiocy, that fabulous friend, smacked Clint upside the head, and he found himself smiling sheepishly. “Right. Right, I’m sorry. Clint McCarthy.” He shook her hand and was impressed by the strength in her grip.
“I could tell,” Trista said with a laugh, tilting her head towards Grizz, now thumping a few of the guys on their backs. “You and Grizz are practically twins.”
Clint grinned knowingly. “The McCarthy curse, I’m afraid. The four of us boys could each pass for any of the others. Grizz has the best beard, though. Or so he tells us all. I still think my scruff is better.” He leaned closer to whisper, “And I’m faster than he will ever be.”
Trista tossed her head back and laughed. “Does he know that?”
“Everybody knows that, babe,” Ryker Stone assured her as he came up beside Trista, slipping an arm around her waist possessively while brushing a light kiss on her cheek. “Hey, Clint.”
“Rabbit.” Clint shook Ryker’s hand firmly, smirking as he used the guy’s nickname, as they all did. It was second nature to do so, given the closeness of the Six Pack and the brotherhood they shared, and being a Six Pack sibling, Clint was included in that.
Sort of.
“Good season this year?” Ryker asked, tucking his free hand into the pocket of his dark fitted jeans.
“Could be. Got some fresh blood after a few trades.” There wasn’t anything to do but shrug yet again. The team was still learning their rhythm, and Clint’s line, while the fastest, was also the one with the most misses.
Communication seemed to be a problem with them, and it could hold all of them back from moving up if they didn’t figure it out soon.
“Season?”
Clint smiled at Trista’s perplexed question. “Hockey.”
“Clint plays center for . . . ” Ryker looked at him with wide eyes, confusion swirling. “The Rays?”
“Very good,” Clint confirmed with a nod. “Starting my third season with them.”
Trista held up a hand in defense or surrender. “I know absolutely nothing about hockey, Clint, and I admit that freely.”
“Well, as long as you admit it, that’s fine,” he teased, nodding when his brother silently inquired if he wanted a drink from across the room. “I’m the guy in the middle waiting for the puck to drop.”
“Basically, Clint plays Hungry Hungry Hippos with one puck and a stick.” Ryker raised a brow, daring Clint to argue the point.
He wasn’t going to; Ryker was one of the nicest guys on the planet, and Clint couldn’t exactly say he was wrong. A bit simplistic, slightly inaccurate, but the concept fit.
It was a stretch, but he’d let it slide.
“And where are you?” Trista asked him, nodding at the explanation from Ryker, evidently tucking it away for future reference. “I mean, where does your team play?”
“Clint!” Cole Hunter bellowed, coming up behind Clint and thumping him hard. “My, my, how you’ve grown! Almost as big as Grizz now.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Big Dawg.” He gave Ryker and Trista a despairing look. “This is what I get for beating the Dallas minor league team last week. It’s not my fault Dawg places bets on the wrong squad.”
Ryker shook his head, smiling. “The Rays are the affiliate of the Hawks, aren’t they?”
“Sure are!” Grizz handed a glass of soda to Clint, nodding with pride. “Lansing is fine and all, but we’ve gotta get Clint down to St. Louis. Fans are incredible in that city; I hate when we have to play. Great teams, for sure, but those fans . . . ” He whistled and shuddered. “Being the visiting team is brutal. Dylan Proctor is starting third right now out there, and he says he’ll never leave.”
Sawyer Bennett joined them now, his grin eerily identical to his sister, Rachel, Grizz’s wife. “Dylan Proctor happens to be in a position to actually dictate where he plays and for how long. Not everybody else has that freedom.”
And just like that, the conversation switched from hockey to baseball, which tended to happen in settings like this. Clint had never met Dylan Proctor or any of the other players they were mentioning that had played for St. Louis, so he had nothing to add to the conversation as he stood there like a sidekick in an old-school superhero film.
He wasn’t sure whom he was sidekick to in this scenario, but it was entirely possible that the entire Six Pack, as a whole, was the superhero.
They did have something supernatural about them, come to think of it.
“Hey, kid.”
Clint turned in surprise to see Levi Cox, otherwise known as Steal, lingering at the edge of the group, smiling only slightly.
That was pretty much the only way Levi smiled.
“Steal. How are you, man?”
Levi shook his hand hard. “Can’t complain. Heard you go by Fido now. Trying to compete with Big Dawg?”
Clint laughed once. “Not even a little. And how’d you hear about that?”
“Pete Crawley went to high school with me, and we had a reunion a month ago.” Levi exhaled, his broad shoulders slowly relaxing as he did so. “What are your chances of getting called up, huh?”
Normally, Clint hated this question. It was impossible to say, and it really wasn’t anybody’s business if he played minor or major, considering he was fortunate to be playing hockey at all. But Levi was different; he understood the battle and the drive, wouldn’t judge a player of any sport for the level at which he played, and respected the process.
Mostly.
“I don’t know,” Clint admitted, nodding as the final member of the Six Pack, Axel Diaz
, came up to them silently. “My first season with the Rays was tough, second fantastic, and this year will probably be somewhere in the middle.”
“Come on,” Axel protested, shaking his arm in protest. “You’re lightning, man! I went to a game last season, remember?”
Clint gave him a dubious look. “That was a good night. No one gets called up for one good night.”
Levi hadn’t reacted, only listened. “What does your agent say?”
“Same as always. Getting there, hearing chatter, stick with it . . . ” Clint smiled at the pair of them without humor. “Noncommittal to the full. I’m just fortunate to be playing, and I know it.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, kid,” Levi grunted with a very brotherly look. “You’ve earned this.”
Clint grinned at Levi, then at Axel as he thumped him on the back in encouragement. “Can I take you guys back to Lansing to be my roommates or something? This is great for my ego.”
They laughed and pretended to debate the idea, though he knew they were all mostly settled where they were now. Well, as settled as a professional athlete ever is. There’s always a risk of trade, and each of them had learned over the years that you go where your team is.
And your team can change in an instant.
Slowly, Clint sipped his soda, trying to remember the last real team he had played on. Not counting the Marines, of course, which was far more of a brotherhood than a team. But a real, honest-to-goodness hockey team. One where your line is practically three parts of the same heartbeat, where your defense is a reflex of the offense, and the goalie calls out things a millisecond before you can anticipate it.
Such a team was a rarity. A good hockey player could play for almost any team, with almost any collection of equally talented guys, and make a run of it. But that feeling of team, that unity and clarity . . .
That had only happened once in Clint’s life, and it had been ages ago.
A buzzing in his back pocket broke him from his reminiscence of teenage kids on the ice rinks of Chicago, and he pulled his phone free to glance at the screen.
Faceoff (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 1) Page 1
