N'S

tside the elevator. Those sharp, guarded eyes narrowed with

dly forgotten me, but I had remember

had truly begun. Multiple reconstructive surgeries and grueling rehab had miraculously put me back on the ice to lead the Specters to championships, but the chronic joint strai

ool after intense training sessions, as well as a calculated disguise that led bot

ating walking away from the game for good. Then, an unfamiliar girl walked up, han

the edge of collapse. Later, my contacts tracked her identity-an MIT student attending

nderstated black gown contoured her figure with quiet elegance, co

t entitled, parasitic fraud in the league. I had spent months wai

handed me the sordid details of Donald's affair with his stepsister. Kier

omeone with enough absolute leverage

black silhouette for a VIP guest in my personal entourage. The guards bowed respectfully,

until her gaze locked onto Donald Mcgee and Cindy Richards. The two

dn't waver. She moved like a seasoned

e mezzanine where my alternate ca

y leg. "Captain, how's the joint holding up? That five-hour team scrimmage was brutal, and Chris s

day," I muttered, brushing it off as I looked through the one-way glass. "Keep a discree

crowd, catching on immedia

uiet table near the perimeter, pulling out her

tion for legendary hockey icon Benson Allison. The Mcgees were using the coma

he amber liquid in my glass. "Get ready. W

eyebrow. "Settin

ded attention," I replied, running my th

d when you finish tearing their world apar