Chapter 1

Brock

The familiar scent of ice and Zamboni fumes hits me as I push through the double doors of Cedar Valley Ice Arena. My footsteps echo across the concrete floor, each step bringing back a flood of memories from my childhood.

"Holy shit, if it isn't Brock Clarkson!" Pete Wilson, the ancient Zamboni driver, waves from his perch on the machine. His white mustache hasn't changed a bit in ten years. "The prodigal son returns!"

"Still keeping this place running smooth, Pete?"

"Someone's gotta maintain standards for when you NHL hotshots visit." He winks and continues his languid lap around the rink.

Coach Martinez emerges from his office, clipboard in hand like always. "Didn't believe the rumors until now." He crosses his arms, weathered face breaking into a grin. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence?"

"Thought it was time to give back to where it all started." I adjust my duffel bag strap, scanning the empty bleachers where scouts once sat watching my every move.

"Well look who decided to show his face." A deep voice cuts through the air.

My eyebrow perks upwards as Logan Matthews approaches from the locker room tunnel. He's broader than I remember, arms crossed over his chest like he's ready for a confrontation. The sight of him yanks me straight back to senior year of high school—to quiet moments with his younger sister, Jasmine, in this very rink after hours.

"Logan." I extend my hand, wondering if he still doesn't know about his sister and me. My stomach twists with guilt I've carried for years. "Been a while."

He grips my hand hard enough to make a point, his fingers crushing mine in a way that screams this isn't just a friendly reunion. "Quite the career you've built for yourself. Three Stanley Cup appearances in five years. Must be nice."

"Just got lucky with opportunities." I flex my fingers when he finally releases his death grip.

"Luck. Right." His eyes narrow slightly, dark and accusing. "Funny how some people chase opportunities while others stick around to build something that matters. Something real."

The weight of unspoken history hangs between us, thick enough to choke on. I force myself to hold his gaze, wondering if Jasmine ever mentioned to him what happened between us, about that summer before I left for the draft. About the way I walked away without looking back, chasing NHL dreams instead of the girl who deserved better.

He was one of my hockey teammates growing up, often by my side on the rink. Logan was always the one who would push me to my limits, the one who wanted me to break records with my abilities. But sometimes, that tough love got a little stifling. He'd run extra drills with me after practice, shouting encouragement until my lungs burned and sweat froze on my face.

Still, I have only a few people who believed in me all along, and he was one of them. Even when scouts started showing up and everyone else got jealous, Logan kept pushing me forward.

"Your dad must be excited about tonight." Logan's stance relaxes slightly, some of that earlier tension bleeding away. "Thirty years of coaching, that's something else."

"Yeah, whole town's gonna be there from what I hear." I set my bag down, memories flooding back of Dad drilling us on fundamentals until our legs gave out. My thighs ache just thinking about those endless suicides. "Remember those 5 AM practices? Dad would blast that awful 80s music to wake us up. Bon Jovi at five in the morning should be considered cruel and unusual punishment."

"Oh yeah. Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin'' still gives me PTSD." Logan chuckles, some of the tension melting. "Your old man taught half this town how to skate."

"Including your sister." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Logan's expression shifts, but he nods. "Jasmine was probably his best student. Natural grace on the ice, that one."

My throat tightens at her name. Countless winter mornings flash through my mind—helping Jasmine perfect her crossovers, her laugh echoing off the empty bleachers as she'd grab my hands for balance. The way she'd stick her tongue out in concentration during figure-eights, determined to match my speed.

"Dad always said she had better form than most of his hockey players." I trace a crack in the concrete with my shoe, remembering how that used to get under my skin. "Used to drive me crazy when he'd use her as an example during drills. I mean, she was just a spectator most of the time. Though she probably logged more ice hours than half the team, watching us practice."

"But she loves the rink as much as anyone," Logan replies simply, his shoulders squaring with pride. "She's a sports psychologist now. She helps the kids with their mental game while they're playing on the ice. She's making a real difference now. Got a waiting list longer than your NHL contract."

I smile, ignoring the jab. "I always knew she would do something big with her life. She was too damn smart not to."

"And she always made you work harder." Logan's tone carries a weight I can't quite read, like he's testing the waters. "Speaking of, she's handling the slideshow presentation tonight. Put together photos from all your dad's coaching years. Been working on it for weeks."

My heart stumbles, and I shove my hands in my pockets to give them something to do. Of course she would—Jasmine never half-assed anything. She probably dug through decades of team photos, newspaper clippings, championship celebrations. All those moments preserved in time, back when everything seemed simpler. Back when I thought I had it all figured out, before I made the biggest mistake of my life by leaving.

"That's... That's great." I manage to keep my voice steady. "Dad'll love that."

The Zamboni hums in the background as Pete makes another pass. This rink holds every important memory of my life - my first goal, my first real check, the scout who eventually led me to the NHL. But mostly, it holds her—she and I holding hands when nobody was around to watch us, Jasmine stealing kisses in the penalty box, making promises neither of us could keep.

Logan shifts his weight, checking his phone. "Well, I should head back. Got a group of peewees coming in soon." He starts zipping up his jacket, keys jangling in his pocket.

"Actually..." I clear my throat, making a halfhearted gesture to the rink that encapsulates us. "That's part of why I'm here. Beyond Dad's celebration tonight."

His eyebrow raises. "Oh?" The way he says it reminds me of when we were kids.

"My team wants me running youth clinics during the off-season. Community outreach, you know?" I gesture at the ice where Pete's finishing up, the Zamboni's engine winding down. "Figured what better place than where it all started? Management's been pushing for more hometown involvement."

"No shit?" Logan's eyes light up, and suddenly he's not moving toward the door anymore. "We could use the help. These kids worship you, man. Half of them wear your jersey during free skate." He lets out a low whistle, wetting his bottom lip. "Damn, they would go crazy having an NHL player teaching them? They're gonna lose their minds once I let them know Brock Clarkson is in town."

The thought of little kids wearing my number sends a warm feeling through my chest. "The Bruins are big on giving back. They've got this whole program set up—equipment donations, scholarships, the works."

"Sounds nice." Logan nods slowly. "That would be huge for some of our families. Not everyone can afford travel teams these days."

"Tell me about it." I think of my own parents scraping together money for gear when I was coming up, working extra shifts just so I could chase my dreams on the ice. Mom waiting tables on weekends, Dad picking up overtime at the plant. "Plus, having an NHL presence here could open doors. Get more scouts looking at local talent. Maybe even set up some more clinics."

"Like someone did for you?"

"Exactly." I run my hand along the boards, feeling the familiar nick where I'd caught an edge during my first hat trick. The memory's crystal clear - three goals in the third period, the crowd going absolutely nuts. "I owe this place. These kids deserve the same shot I got. Hell, probably more than I did."

"Well..." Logan scratches his chin, and I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. "We could definitely use the help. Program's grown since you left. Got waiting lists for ice time. Some families are driving an hour just to get their kids on the ice."

The idea of working alongside Logan, helping shape the next generation of players - it feels right. Like coming full circle. Even if it means facing everything - and everyone - I left behind. The thought sends a familiar ache through my chest, but I push it down. Some things are worth the discomfort. And fuck if these kids don't deserve someone who knows what it takes to make it.

"I want to do this right," I say, squaring my shoulders. "Not just show up for a photo op. Real coaching, real mentoring. Get down in the trenches with them, teach them what I learned the hard way in the NHL." My hand unconsciously rubs at the shoulder injury that sidelined me for a few months years ago. "Show them there's more to the game than just scoring goals."

Logan studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face like he's trying to read between the lines. "You've changed, Clarkson."

"Had to grow up sometime, right?" I crack a half-smile, but there's no hiding the weight of regret in my voice. "Better late than never."