Chapter One – Jack
The music is pumping, and O’Malley’s bar is packed with the usual preseason crowd—wannabe puck bunnies checking out fresh meat and old-timers buying us drinks like we’re already champions. Fuck, I love this time of year. Training camp’s about to kick our asses. But tonight? Tonight, we own this place. Being first-line center and team captain of the Boston Bruisers means I get the best spot at the bar.
“Jack, another beer?” Jimmy the bartender keeps my beer coming without my having to ask.
I’ve earned every inch of this territory, fought my way up from nothing to something. The team’s my actual family now, the only one that’s never let me down. These guys don’t know about the foster homes, the sick abuse, or the nights I spent wondering if I’d ever find somewhere safe. Somewhere I belong.
They just know I’m their captain, their Beast, and that’s exactly how I want to keep it.
You don’t get nicknamed ‘Beast’ by being gentle, and you sure as hell don’t get to be the captain of an NHL team by backing down from a challenge. I’ve spent my entire career proving I’m more than just a pretty face who can hit. I’ve got the highest-scoring record of any power forward in the league for the past three seasons.
“Captain!” A familiar voice booms over the music as Marcus “Mayhem” O’Sullivan crashes onto the stool next to me, sloshing his beer. My front-line defenseman and alternate captain, Marcus, has been watching my back on and off the ice for the past five seasons. The guy’s a demon on defense and mean as hell when he needs to be, which is why we call him Mayhem. He’s taken more penalties protecting me than I can count, but he’s also got the softest hands on the blue line. The fans love him almost as much as others hate playing against him.
“Mayhem.” I nod, grinning as he barely saves his beer from spilling. Some things never change. The guy’s got perfect balance on skates but turns into a damn klutz the minute he hits solid ground. “Try not to break anything tonight. Coach will have both our asses if either of us shows up to camp banged up.” I’m already nursing a knee that’s not at full strength. At my age, niggling injuries can cause a career retirement, and I’m sure as hell not retiring before I’ve held the Stanley Cup.
“Please,” he scoffs, straightening up and scanning the crowd with those predatory eyes that make opposing forwards think twice about crossing our blue line. “You see the talent in here tonight? Fucking insane, man. I missed this over the summer break.”
I scan the crowd, taking a slow pull from my bottle. He’s not wrong. O’Malley’s always draws the hotties, but tonight, it’s like every smoking piece of ass in Boston decided to show up.
I’ve never seen the need for relationships. I’m never gonna get married or have children. Not in this fucked-up world. So, casual sex is my middle name. I never promise more than I’m capable of giving. I’m so damaged, all I can give is one night of pleasure. Never a second. I’m not sure who I’m protecting—the ladies or me!
“Not bad,” I say, keeping it cool. As captain, I’ve got to at least pretend to be civilized. Sometimes.
“Not bad? Jesus, Beast, you going blind?” Marcus punches my shoulder, and I barely feel it. They started calling me Beast back in juniors—partly because I was already six feet at sixteen and built like a brick shithouse, but mostly because of how I play. I’m not the fastest guy on the ice, but I’m impossible to knock off the puck, and I’ve got a reputation for absolutely destroying anyone who tries. All clean hits, though. The media loves playing up the whole “Beauty and the Beast” angle too. Apparently, being good-looking and willing to draw blood makes me complicated. Whatever. It works.
“Tell you what, let’s make it interesting,” Marcus continues. “You pick one, I pick one. First to score for the night wins.”
“What are we, rookies?” But I’m already looking, because hell yeah, I’m competitive. And some fun before training sets in wouldn’t go amiss. Not that I hadn’t had plenty of fun over the summer.
Then I see her.
Dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, legs that go on for fucking days, and an ass that could start wars. She’s leaning against the bar in a Red Sox jersey that’s just tight enough to show she works out without trying too hard. Who fuckin’ wears a baseball jersey to the bar of the Boston Bruisers hockey team? That’s enough to pique my interest. The way she carries herself, confident, like she belongs here but isn’t looking for attention—makes her even hotter.
“Her,” I say, pointing with my bottle. “The brunette in the Red Sox jersey.”
Marcus whistles low. “Damn, you don’t mess around. Pretty sure that’s Tara Collins, though. She’s a college sports reporter. She interviewed my sister.” Mayhem’s sister, Jenny, plays college basketball. Height runs in the family.
Even better. I love a woman who knows her shit. “Watch and learn, my man.”
I make my way over, saying hello to the fans as I push through the crowd. Years of skating have given me perfect balance, even three beers in. Plus, I know exactly how good I look in my fitted black Henley and dark jeans. Being six-two of solid muscle doesn’t hurt either.
The familiar push of bodies reminds me of the first children’s home—if you can call it that—I got taken to. I was a wild one. But it was learn to fight or be fucked over. I learned to fight. And I fought a lot before I learned to channel that rage into something productive. Now, I’m known for controlled aggression on and off the ice, but it took years to master my emotions. My condo’s pristine organization, my carefully structured routines—they’re all part of maintaining that control. No surprises, no mess, no chance for things to spiral like they did in my childhood.
“Let me guess, Sox fan?” I say, sliding up next to her at the bar.
She turns and, fuck me, if she isn’t even hotter up close. Those eyes are something else. Deep brown with little gold flecks that catch the light. But there’s something sharp in them too, like she’s already got my number.
“What gave it away?” She arches one perfect eyebrow, and I catch her friend—a cute blonde in a sundress—trying not to laugh.
“Just a hunch.” I flash the smile that’s gotten me on two Sports Illustrated covers. “Do I know you?”
She looks me up and down, and I hate that I can’t read what she’s thinking. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of waking up next to you.”
Damn. Direct. I love it. I move in close, loving her sass. “If you’d ever woken up with me, I promise you’d remember. Jack Callahan. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I know who you are, Callahan. And I’ve got one, thanks.” She lifts her glass—whiskey neat, not some fruity bullshit. Definitely my type.
“In that case, maybe we could discuss your thoughts on the Beanpot Tournament? Unless you’d rather hear about my scoring stats from last season?”
That gets me a hint of a smile, but it’s more amused than impressed. “I cover college sports, Callahan. Though I caught that embarrassing turnover against Tampa in Game Three. Even the BC Eagles’ defense would’ve stopped that one.”
Shit. She knows her stuff. And she’s not afraid to draw blood. My competitive streak kicks in hard. “Ouch. Game Three was rough, I’ll give you that. But we took the series in seven. How about you tell me what you would’ve done differently?”
“You really want to know?” She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or just running game.
“Yeah, I really do.” And weirdly, I mean it. Most people just want to talk about my goals or ask for selfies. This woman’s actually critiquing my play.
She takes a sip of her whiskey, considering. “Your defensive zone exits were sloppy all series. You kept trying to force passes through the neutral zone instead of chipping it off the boards. Tampa’s forwards were reading you like a book by Game Three.”
I let out a low whistle. “Fuck, you’re not wrong. Coach ripped me a new one after that game.” I lean against the bar, genuinely interested now. “What else you got?”
“Your power play setup is too predictable. You always position yourself in the same spot on the half wall. After watching two games, I could tell you exactly where you’d be before the puck even dropped.”
“Okay, hockey savant, so what would you do?”
“Mix it up. Bumper position, net-front presence, switch sides with Kennedy occasionally. Keep their penalty kill guessing.” She’s warming up now, her eyes bright with passion for the game. “You’ve got the hands and the hockey IQ to play anywhere in the offensive zone. Why limit yourself?”
Something in my chest tightens. Not many people talk to me like this—like I’m more than just a goal-scorer, like they actually see the strategy behind the game. “You know, my coach said almost the exact same thing.”
“Then maybe you should listen to him.” She smirks. “And me.”
“Maybe I should. You got a name, or do I just call you ‘woman who’s absolutely right about my defensive zone exits’?”
“Tara Collins.” She extends her hand, all business now.
I take it, and the contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with hockey talk. Her grip is firm, confident. “So, Tara Collins, where’d you learn to break down game film like that?”
Something flickers across her face—pain, maybe, or an old memory—but it’s gone before I can name it. “Let’s just say I grew up around hockey. Spent a lot of time watching games, learning the sport.”
“Family?” I press, curious now about what’s behind those defenses she’s got up.
“Something like that.” She pulls her hand back, that wall going up again. “Look, Callahan—”
“Jack. Please. ‘Callahan’ makes me feel like I’m back in the principal’s office.”
That gets an actual laugh out of her, short but genuine. “Were you in the principal’s office a lot?”
“More than I’d like to admit. Turns out fighting in the hallways isn’t considered ‘channeling your competitive energy appropriately.’” I give her my most charming grin. “I’ve mellowed since then.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” But she’s smiling now, a proper smile that transforms her entire face.
“So, Tara Collins, who knows more about hockey strategy than most of my teammates—have dinner with me. Not breakfast,” I add quickly, seeing her about to protest. “Just dinner. We can talk about hockey. I’ll even let you tell me everything else I’m doing wrong.”
“I don’t date players. Period.” But she says it softer this time, less like a hard rule and more like she’s reminding herself.
“Why not?”
“Because—” She pauses, seeming to wrestle with how much to say. “It’s hard enough getting taken seriously as a female sports journalist without that kind of reputation.”
Yeah, I can see that. The sports world is brutal for women trying to break in. “Okay, fair. But what if I promise it’s not a date? Just two people who love hockey, talking shop.”
“Nothing you do is ‘just’ anything, Callahan. I’ve seen you play. You don’t do subtle.”
“True,” I admit. “But I also rarely have to work this hard for a ‘yes’. You’re making me earn it, and I respect that.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I feel like I’m being scouted—evaluated for more than just my stats. “You really want to talk hockey strategy? That’s your angle?”
“My angle is that you’re smart as hell, you know the game, and you’re not impressed by the fact that I can put a puck in the net. That’s rare.” I lean in closer, lowering my voice. “And yeah, you’re gorgeous, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about what’s under that Red Sox jersey. But mostly? I want to know what else you think I’m doing wrong, because something tells me you’ve got opinions.”
“Oh, I’ve got opinions.” The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Your transition game needs work. You’re a half-second slow reading the rush, which is why you take so many stick penalties.”
“Jesus. You got any compliments in there, or is this just a complete takedown?”
“You want compliments?” She leans back, considering. “Fine. Your board work is some of the best I’ve seen. You protect the puck as if it’s your firstborn. And that backhand sauce pass you did in Game Five against Montreal? That was pure art.”
The fact that she remembers a specific pass from months ago does something to me. “You remember that play?”
“I remember good hockey when I see it.” She finishes her whiskey, and I can see her preparing to leave. “Look, this has been fun, but—”
“Coffee.” The word comes out more desperate than I intended. “Not dinner. Not a date. Just coffee. Tomorrow morning. I promise I won’t even try to charm you.”
“That you think you’ve been charming is adorable.”
“So, is that a yes?”
Before she can answer, Marcus swoops in. “Collins! Looking fine as ever. Are you cruising for stories? Because I’ve got a few stories that are definitely off-the-record…”
She cuts him down even faster than she did me. “O’Sullivan, that line didn’t work the last time, and it’s not working now. But hey, maybe try it on the next girl. Third time’s the charm, right?”
The blonde sitting next to her snorts into her cocktail. Marcus raises his hands in surrender and retreats, shooting me an ‘I’m going to win this challenge’ look.
Tara turns back to me, and there’s something softer in her expression now. “You put him up to that?”
“What? No. That’s just Marcus being Marcus.” I shake my head. “Though I’m realizing how that looked—two players hitting on you back-to-back. I’m sorry. That’s exactly the shit you were talking about.”
She blinks, as if she wasn’t expecting the apology. “Most guys don’t get it.”
“I’m trying to.” And I mean it. Something about her makes me want to be better than my reputation. “Look, forget coffee. Forget everything. But answer me one question?”
“What?”
“If I weren’t Jack Callahan, captain of the Bruisers, would you say yes?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I see the conflict in her eyes. “That’s not a fair question.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are Jack Callahan. And I am trying to be taken seriously in sports journalism. Those aren’t things we can just set aside.”
“But if we could?”
She looks at me for a long moment, and something passes between us—recognition, maybe, of two people who understand what it means to fight for respect, to prove yourself every single day. “If we could? Then yeah. Maybe I would.”
It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either, and it’s more than I usually get from someone who sees past the surface.
“I’ll take the maybe.” I pull out my phone. “Can I at least get your number? Strictly professional. If I have questions about my neutral zone game, I’ll know who to call.”
“Nice try.” But she’s smiling again as she slides off her barstool. “But I have a feeling you know exactly where to find me if you really want to talk hockey.”
“At your paper?”
“Now you’re catching on, Captain.” She grabs her jacket, her friend standing up beside her. “Good luck with training camp. Work on those defensive zone exits.”
“I will. And Tara?” I catch her wrist gently, just for a second. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to make it. The pros, I mean. You’re too good not to.”
Something vulnerable flashes in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or hope—before that professional mask slides back into place. “Thanks. That actually means something, coming from you.”
She walks away with her friend, and I watch that perfect ass disappear into the crowd. But this time, I’m not just turned on. I’m completely fascinated by the woman who just schooled me on hockey and turned me down flat while somehow making me want to be a better player and a better man.
Yeah, I can see why this is unsettling. I don’t do intrigued.
“Crash and burn?” Marcus appears at my shoulder, grinning like the asshole he is as I walk back to the team table.
“Something like that.” But I can’t stop watching the spot where Tara disappeared. “She thinks my defensive zone exits are sloppy.”
“She’s not wrong.” Marcus claps me on the shoulder. “You gonna see her again?”
“Don’t know. Maybe.” I take a long pull from my beer. “She doesn’t date players.”
“Smart woman.”
“Yeah.” I nod slowly, still thinking about the way she’d analyzed my game, the passion in her voice when she talked about hockey. “Yeah, she really is.”
Marcus studies me with those too-knowing eyes. “You actually like her. Like, like her.”
“Shut up.”
“Face it, Beast. She rattled you. Doesn’t happen often, does it?”
He’s right, and I hate it. Twenty minutes later, I’m chatting up a leggy redhead who’s making it very clear she’d love to give me a private tour of her condo. She’s hot, she’s willing, and best of all, she won’t expect a call tomorrow. That’s how I like it—clean, simple, no messy feelings or complicated promises.
But as I lead the redhead toward the door, I catch Tara watching from her booth. Our eyes meet across the crowded bar, and I see something in her expression—not jealousy exactly, but maybe disappointment? Or recognition? Like I’m proving something she already believed about me, and she’s sad to be right.
That hits me in a weird spot. Like maybe the perfect order of my life feels…hollow.
I almost turned back. Almost. Because in that brief conversation, Tara Collins made me feel like someone who could be more than just the Beast, more than just another player with commitment issues and a rotation of one-night stands. She made me feel seen in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.
But I’ve seen what happens when you let someone matter. Seen my mom hit the bottle after Dad left, seen the way each of Dad’s new marriages made the last one seem like a fucking joke. No thanks. Jack Callahan doesn’t chase women. They chase me; we have fun, and everyone knows exactly what they’re getting.
Still, as I flag down a cab, I can’t shake the feeling that I just lost something more interesting than a bar bet. So, I put the red-haired beauty in the cab and send her home—alone.
Training camp’s going to be a bitch, but for some reason, all I can think about is Tara Collins telling me my power play setup is too predictable and that backhand pass was “pure art.”
Game on, reporter. Game fucking on.
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