Page 1 of Revenge Puck

PROLOGUE

AARON

My teammate has been acting strange lately.

How he thought he could fly under the radar is beyond me. We share a locker room, a practice schedule, and a mutual hatred of leg day. But that’s professional hockey for you—grown men with multimillion-dollar contracts and zero modesty.

Case in point: I see that hairy bastard naked on an almost daily basis.

And yet, I would bet money he’s been slipping out of the locker room like he’s avoiding something. Or someone.

Me, mostly.

And that isnotlike him—might even be funny if it weren’t so damn obvious.

Declan Kennedy doesn’t do avoidance.He’s the guy rallying after a loss, after a win, or when team morale takes a hit. He kicks us in the ass when we’re dragging.

Hockey has a way of blurring lines for us.

Teammates become roommates.

Brothers.

Built-in best friends.

We spend more time together than we do with our families, for fuck’s sake. More time than I spend with my girlfriend,Bailey, if I’m being honest. Practices, conditioning days, travel, games—there’s no such thing as personal space when you share a bench, locker, and hotel room with the same fifty guys for nine months straight.

Longer, if we get lucky and make it to the playoffs.

I notice him leaving practice early lately, skipping team dinners.

I notice the absence of his usual shit-talk during drills, the empty seat besidemeon the bench. I notice because he’s usually the one making the effort when the grind starts wearing everyone down.

The guy left his equipment bag at the rink, and Kennedy doesn’tforgetthings, not when it comes to hockey.

Kennedy is the guy who shows up.

And I want to be the guy who shows up for him.

Which is why I’m riding the elevator up to his high-rise apartment instead of minding my own damn business. Something is up, and I’m gonna find out what it is.

I knock.

Knock again when I don’t hear footsteps walking toward the door.

“Dude,” I call out. “I know you’re in there. Your truck is in the parking garage.”

Silence.

I exhale, dragging a hand down my face, unease curling low in my gut.

I don’t love this.

I don’t like meddling, but I trust my gut, and my gut is telling me something is off and someone should know about it.

Hesitating, I search my phone for the door code he gave me months ago after a late night and too many beersin case of emergencies.

I punch it in. Turn the handle, door clicking open.