A rookie goalie with a secret and a handsome yet hotheaded defenseman clash in the locker room and on the ice—but their shared desire to make the playoffs might help them move from enemies to lovers.
When the goalie for the Seattle Cascades hockey team is injured while drunk driving and Alex Fanning is recruited to take his place, Alex thinks his dream has come true. But to hold on to his hopes, he must keep his vampire heritage secret as the sport moves to ban Paranormals. The sexy but infuriating defenseman Sasha Petrov won’t make that easy. The injured goalie was his best friend, and he resents Alex’s presence—maybe even enough to use his bloodline against him.
Tensions mount, but the realization that there’s more to their feelings than animosity hits both men like a punch to the gut. Alex and Sasha’s newfound friendship promises passion, but a shocking betrayal could cost them all the ground they’ve gained.
GOALTENDER ALEX Fanning might not be the most recognizable face in the Portland Loggers franchise, but his name is certainly on everyone’s tongue after the incredible save he made in the remaining few seconds of last season’s playoff final. That save brought the Calder Cup to Portland for the first time in franchise history, and made Fanning’s #30 jersey a fan favorite. —Jason Rawlins, PortlandHockeyBlog.com
THE DOOR creaked when Alex pushed it open, and he winced, freezing in the doorway and watching for movement. The hotel room was completely still apart from the steady deep breathing that emerged from beneath a lump of blankets. With a silent exhale, Alex nudged the door open the rest of the way and slid inside, then closed it behind him as quietly as possible.
His roommate didn’t budge.
Success.
The clock on the nightstand between the two beds glowed an angry, accusing red, letting Alex know that it was well after midnight, and well after curfew. But they’d played a game earlier that evening, and the hard loss against San Diego had sent everyone back to the hotel early—which meant no one had been around to see Alex sneak out shortly after ten, or return hours later.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tossed it on the bed before starting to strip out of his jeans and hoodie. The display lit up, obnoxiously bright in the dark room, and revealed a missed text message.
Meg: Sorry again for being so late, man. I owe you one.
Alex rolled his eyes and let the screen go black again without replying. His team, the Portland Loggers, weren’t in San Diego more than three or four times a season, but he’d met up with Meg every time they’d come through town for the last three years now. She’d never once been on time. Tonight hadn’t been just ten or fifteen minutes, though; she’d shown up almost an hour late, flustered and sweating despite the early January chill.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” his dad had always said, and Alex was definitely not in a position to be choosy. Besides, once Meg showed up, she was always extremely professional, which was more than Alex could say for some of his contacts in other cities.
Tonight’s visit had been much needed, or he wouldn’t have waited so long for Meg and risked getting caught returning after curfew. The Loggers were in the middle of a road trip, and it would be another three days before he was back in Portland. They’d left Phoenix a couple of days prior, riding high on a victory, but back-to-back losses against San Diego had combined with a growing ache in his chest, and driven Alex to text Meg before he’d gotten in the shower in the locker room after tonight’s game.
At least Meg was always broke, which meant she was willing to help him out, even on short notice.
He balled up his shirt and tossed it on top of his suitcase in the corner. A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he glanced over to see his reflection staring back at him from the mirror above the TV.
Thank goodness that myth isn’t real, he thought. He fit the stereotypes to a T otherwise—too pale, nocturnal, and too fond of red meat. But, hey, that describes almost every other hockey player I know too. Mirrors and garlic were useless superstitions, and these days only the dumbest humans believed in them. But the sunshine myth… that one was true enough, and it was pretty much the only reason he’d been able to hide in plain sight from the anti-Para nutjobs.
He was a professional athlete in a sport that played mostly night games during winter, and he lived in a city where the cloudy days outnumbered the sunny ones four to one. At this rate, he was hopeful no one would find out that he was a vampire unless he got traded to Florida or something.
Half vampire, he mentally corrected himself. The half part was important for two reasons: One, it meant that he didn’t combust on the walk from his car to the arena during daytime practices. And two, it meant that he could cling to that 50 percent of humanity and try to forget about the rest.
Nights like this were harder, though. Staring at himself in the mirror, the taste of blood still lingering on the back of his tongue, Alex couldn’t help but see exactly how inhuman he was—how he was, in fact, a Para, even if he tried to ignore it.
The pale white skin was the most obvious sign, though a faint pink flush highlighted his cheeks and chest now that he was recently fed. A face that was a bit too young—he was twenty-two, but the guys in the locker room teased him for being popular with their teenage fans, calling him babyface and jailbait. A sense of smell that meant he could sniff out a bar of dark chocolate from across the room, but also made him want to breathe through his mouth when entering a locker room. And an ability to see better than average in the dark, which only ever helped him when sneaking into a shared hotel room in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, the human half of him needed sleep. They’d have to be up early to get on the bus and head north to Bakersfield, so Alex pulled his gaze away from the mirror and crawled into bed, collapsing face-first against the pillow.
SEATTLE POLICE Dispatch (@SPD_Dispatch)
AUTO ACCIDENT/INJURY
EMS NEEDED, 84TH AVE NE, MEDINA
04 JANUARY, 12:05 AM
HIGH PRIORITY
SASHA STEPPED out of his car and exhaled, breath forming a white cloud in front of him. Seattle never got truly cold—not like Russia did—but the early-January front that had moved in was wreaking havoc across the city. Given the rarity of nights like this, where the temperatures dropped to the 20s, it was no surprise that drivers were vastly unprepared for the icy roads that had appeared.
Case in point—
The vehicle in front of him had once been a sleek black sports car, the kind that turned heads as it cruised down the road. Now it was scrap metal. From what Sasha could tell, the car had slid out of control until the front had hit a telephone pole, crumpling the metal frame like it was a piece of paper. Now, lit up by flashing red lights, it looked like something out of a nightmare.
He tucked his hands into the pocket of his coat and jogged across the road to the nearest police car.
“Hey, officer?” It was late, and he had to struggle to remember his English. “What happened here?”
A tired-looking police officer glanced up. “Car skidded out on a patch of ice. But you can’t hang around here, sir.”
“Wait, пожалуйста.” Sasha shook his head. Going on six years in North America, but sometimes even the simplest words escaped him. “Please. This is my friend, I think. My teammate, Ed Despres. He called me, said he was in car accident. I tell him to call 9-1-1 and I will come find him.”
The officer hesitated, then pulled out a notepad from her back pocket. “Well, you’re in the right place. You said he called you first?”
Sasha nodded. “He sounded very out of it, you know? Like he was in pain, but also like….” He thought for a second. “Like concussion. He got concussion three years ago, after bad hit to head during a game. Sounded like this tonight, confused.”
“That fits reports from the emergency dispatcher.” The driver frowned. “Your friend was almost incoherent when EMTs arrived. We managed to get a name, but not a lot more. You said he’s your teammate?”
“Yes. We play hockey, Seattle Cascades. My name is Alexander Petrov.” A glimmer of recognition sparked in the officer’s eyes, so Sasha continued. “Please, he is injured badly? I need to call other people from team.”
Sasha’s English was fading fast, a combination of the late hour, the cold, and the fear for Ed. He had no idea why his friend had been out so late, especially the night before a game, but he’d been woken up by the call just after midnight and hadn’t hesitated to rush to the road that Ed had described.
Before the officer could respond—or feed him some kind of bullshit line about patient privacy—someone called his name. When he looked up, Ed was being wheeled by on a stretcher.
“Officer—”
The woman nodded. “Yeah, you can go over. I’m sure the EMTs will have some questions for you, and they’ll need emergency contact information if you can provide it. Then I’ll need to talk to you and get some information as well, okay?”
Sasha quickly ducked around her and rushed toward the ambulance. Ed looked horrible: a bloody cut stood out on his jaw, and livid bruise was already forming across his cheek—possibly from the airbag. His eyes were glazed too, though he smiled unevenly when Sasha approached. But what concerned Sasha the most was the brace around his friend’s neck, and the sling holding his arm against his chest.
“Ed,” he said as soon as he was close enough. “Eddie. What happened?”
Eduard Despres, starting goaltender for the Seattle Cascades, blinked slowly. “Sasha.”
“Yes, Старина, I’m here.”
“Hurts.” Ed winced, then groaned when the movement pulled at the injuries on his face.
He was speaking quietly, and Sasha had to bend over to hear him. When he got closer, he could smell beer and the sharp tang of alcohol on Ed’s breath and clothes. It was enough for him to put the pieces together and figure out what had happened.
Not again. “You been drinking, Eddie?”
Ed scowled. “Just a couple. To unwind, y’know? ’M not drunk.”
The presence of the police, combined with the hundred-thousand-dollar sports car currently wrapped around a pole, told Sasha otherwise.
“Oh, Eddie. We got a game tonight. Why were you drinking so late?”
Eddie tried to sit up, and an EMT had to rush over to haul him back down. “I’m fine. I can play tonight.”
Sasha met the eyes of one of the medical technicians, who shook their head. “Okay, Eddie. But right now you gotta go to the hospital and get checked over. I’ll call Denis and other trainers, okay?”
Two of the EMTs moved to load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, leaving Sasha alone with the third. He sighed and wished he could get some of whatever painkillers the EMTs were putting Eddie on; he had a monster headache building.
“So, how bad is it really?” he asked.
The EMT shook his head. “Hard to tell without X-rays, but probable dislocated shoulder, maybe a broken arm. He’s not passing concussion protocol, but we can’t tell if that’s because of the adrenaline and alcohol or not.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Look, Mr. Despres isn’t answering any of our questions. We need to know if he has any allergies or prior medical conditions that we need to be aware of.”
Sasha thought for a second. “Not sure about allergies. Not for food, I don’t think? I need to—I can call team trainer; they will know all this.”
“Okay. Why don’t you make some calls, and we’re going to get your friend to the hospital so doctors can start running some tests. Tell your trainers he’ll be at Virginia Mason.”
The EMTs finished securing Ed’s stretcher, and then the ambulance pulled away with a burst of siren. The police officer from before was still waiting for him, looking just as cold as he felt and increasingly impatient. Sasha clenched his hand around his phone in his pocket and thought longingly about his nice, warm bed.
Police, paramedics, and one drunk-driving goalie. It’s going to be a long night, Sasha thought.
SEATTLE CASCADES (@CascadesNHL)
#BreakingNews Goalie Eduard Despres out with upper body injury, estimated 3-6 months. Cascades recall goaltender Alex Fanning from AHL’s @PortlandLoggers. https://t.co/vebMUVp1AZ
SEATTLE SPORTS News (@SeattleSportsNews)
Cascades’ Despres (G) out 3-6 months after late-night car accident. Police suspect alcohol may have been involved. More details as we get them.
IT FELT like Alex had been asleep for only minutes when his phone rang. He jerked awake, heart pounding. The alarm clock said it wasn’t even four o’clock; he’d managed only a couple hours of sleep.
“Shut it off!” The mumbled command drifted out of the lump of blankets on the other bed, as Alex’s roommate Cory shifted and buried his head beneath his pillow.
Alex groaned and rolled onto his side, hunting for the phone in the mess of sheets and blankets. He found it a moment later and jabbed the Accept button.
“’Lo?”
There was a long silence before a man spoke. “Is this Alexander Fanning?”
“Yeah.” Alex yawned and closed his eyes. It was too early for a telemarketer, but the number hadn’t been one that he recognized.
“Mr. Fanning, this is Martin Dubois.”
What? Alex sat up straight, clutching the phone to his ear. He knew that name. Everyone in the NHL knew that name. Former three-time MVP, two-time Stanley Cup champion, current general manager of the Seattle Cascades… and apparently calling Alex. At 4:00 a.m.
“Sorry for the late hour,” Dubois continued, seemingly unaware of the shock racing through Alex. “I know you played a game last night, but we need you to come up to Seattle first thing this morning. We’ll be emailing you an e-ticket shortly for a flight in four hours out of San Diego International.”
It was way too early, and Alex definitely hadn’t had enough sleep. “I’m sorry… what now?”
Dubois paused again. “Fanning, get your gear and get to the airport. You’re dressing for the Cascades tonight.”
Alex was vaguely aware that Dubois was still speaking, passing along information that he’d probably need to remember later. But he was too busy trying to process, blinking as Cory appeared from beneath his pillow to send Alex a concerned look.
He must have responded to Dubois, because the call ended a moment later with a reminder to get moving and get to the airport. Alex let the phone fall to his lap, the light from the screen illuminating his face.
“What the hell was that?” Cory asked.
Alex swallowed hard. “I’m playing in the NHL tonight.” The words still didn’t seem real, spoken aloud like that. He’d been dreaming of the NHL since he was a kid, had hoped the day would come when he was called up. And now that day had finally come. Holy shit. He swiped a hand through his hair. “I’ve gotta pack.”
THE DOOR creaked when Alex pushed it open, and he winced, freezing in the doorway and watching for movement. The hotel room was completely still apart from the steady deep breathing that emerged from beneath a lump of blankets. With a silent exhale, Alex nudged the door open the rest of the way and slid inside, then closed it behind him as quietly as possible.
His roommate didn’t budge.
Success.
The clock on the nightstand between the two beds glowed an angry, accusing red, letting Alex know that it was well after midnight, and well after curfew. But they’d played a game earlier that evening, and the hard loss against San Diego had sent everyone back to the hotel early—which meant no one had been around to see Alex sneak out shortly after ten, or return hours later.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tossed it on the bed before starting to strip out of his jeans and hoodie. The display lit up, obnoxiously bright in the dark room, and revealed a missed text message.
Meg: Sorry again for being so late, man. I owe you one.
Alex rolled his eyes and let the screen go black again without replying. His team, the Portland Loggers, weren’t in San Diego more than three or four times a season, but he’d met up with Meg every time they’d come through town for the last three years now. She’d never once been on time. Tonight hadn’t been just ten or fifteen minutes, though; she’d shown up almost an hour late, flustered and sweating despite the early January chill.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” his dad had always said, and Alex was definitely not in a position to be choosy. Besides, once Meg showed up, she was always extremely professional, which was more than Alex could say for some of his contacts in other cities.
Tonight’s visit had been much needed, or he wouldn’t have waited so long for Meg and risked getting caught returning after curfew. The Loggers were in the middle of a road trip, and it would be another three days before he was back in Portland. They’d left Phoenix a couple of days prior, riding high on a victory, but back-to-back losses against San Diego had combined with a growing ache in his chest, and driven Alex to text Meg before he’d gotten in the shower in the locker room after tonight’s game.
At least Meg was always broke, which meant she was willing to help him out, even on short notice.
He balled up his shirt and tossed it on top of his suitcase in the corner. A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he glanced over to see his reflection staring back at him from the mirror above the TV.
Thank goodness that myth isn’t real, he thought. He fit the stereotypes to a T otherwise—too pale, nocturnal, and too fond of red meat. But, hey, that describes almost every other hockey player I know too. Mirrors and garlic were useless superstitions, and these days only the dumbest humans believed in them. But the sunshine myth… that one was true enough, and it was pretty much the only reason he’d been able to hide in plain sight from the anti-Para nutjobs.
He was a professional athlete in a sport that played mostly night games during winter, and he lived in a city where the cloudy days outnumbered the sunny ones four to one. At this rate, he was hopeful no one would find out that he was a vampire unless he got traded to Florida or something.
Half vampire, he mentally corrected himself. The half part was important for two reasons: One, it meant that he didn’t combust on the walk from his car to the arena during daytime practices. And two, it meant that he could cling to that 50 percent of humanity and try to forget about the rest.
Nights like this were harder, though. Staring at himself in the mirror, the taste of blood still lingering on the back of his tongue, Alex couldn’t help but see exactly how inhuman he was—how he was, in fact, a Para, even if he tried to ignore it.
The pale white skin was the most obvious sign, though a faint pink flush highlighted his cheeks and chest now that he was recently fed. A face that was a bit too young—he was twenty-two, but the guys in the locker room teased him for being popular with their teenage fans, calling him babyface and jailbait. A sense of smell that meant he could sniff out a bar of dark chocolate from across the room, but also made him want to breathe through his mouth when entering a locker room. And an ability to see better than average in the dark, which only ever helped him when sneaking into a shared hotel room in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, the human half of him needed sleep. They’d have to be up early to get on the bus and head north to Bakersfield, so Alex pulled his gaze away from the mirror and crawled into bed, collapsing face-first against the pillow.
SEATTLE POLICE Dispatch (@SPD_Dispatch)
AUTO ACCIDENT/INJURY
EMS NEEDED, 84TH AVE NE, MEDINA
04 JANUARY, 12:05 AM
HIGH PRIORITY
SASHA STEPPED out of his car and exhaled, breath forming a white cloud in front of him. Seattle never got truly cold—not like Russia did—but the early-January front that had moved in was wreaking havoc across the city. Given the rarity of nights like this, where the temperatures dropped to the 20s, it was no surprise that drivers were vastly unprepared for the icy roads that had appeared.
Case in point—
The vehicle in front of him had once been a sleek black sports car, the kind that turned heads as it cruised down the road. Now it was scrap metal. From what Sasha could tell, the car had slid out of control until the front had hit a telephone pole, crumpling the metal frame like it was a piece of paper. Now, lit up by flashing red lights, it looked like something out of a nightmare.
He tucked his hands into the pocket of his coat and jogged across the road to the nearest police car.
“Hey, officer?” It was late, and he had to struggle to remember his English. “What happened here?”
A tired-looking police officer glanced up. “Car skidded out on a patch of ice. But you can’t hang around here, sir.”
“Wait, пожалуйста.” Sasha shook his head. Going on six years in North America, but sometimes even the simplest words escaped him. “Please. This is my friend, I think. My teammate, Ed Despres. He called me, said he was in car accident. I tell him to call 9-1-1 and I will come find him.”
The officer hesitated, then pulled out a notepad from her back pocket. “Well, you’re in the right place. You said he called you first?”
Sasha nodded. “He sounded very out of it, you know? Like he was in pain, but also like….” He thought for a second. “Like concussion. He got concussion three years ago, after bad hit to head during a game. Sounded like this tonight, confused.”
“That fits reports from the emergency dispatcher.” The driver frowned. “Your friend was almost incoherent when EMTs arrived. We managed to get a name, but not a lot more. You said he’s your teammate?”
“Yes. We play hockey, Seattle Cascades. My name is Alexander Petrov.” A glimmer of recognition sparked in the officer’s eyes, so Sasha continued. “Please, he is injured badly? I need to call other people from team.”
Sasha’s English was fading fast, a combination of the late hour, the cold, and the fear for Ed. He had no idea why his friend had been out so late, especially the night before a game, but he’d been woken up by the call just after midnight and hadn’t hesitated to rush to the road that Ed had described.
Before the officer could respond—or feed him some kind of bullshit line about patient privacy—someone called his name. When he looked up, Ed was being wheeled by on a stretcher.
“Officer—”
The woman nodded. “Yeah, you can go over. I’m sure the EMTs will have some questions for you, and they’ll need emergency contact information if you can provide it. Then I’ll need to talk to you and get some information as well, okay?”
Sasha quickly ducked around her and rushed toward the ambulance. Ed looked horrible: a bloody cut stood out on his jaw, and livid bruise was already forming across his cheek—possibly from the airbag. His eyes were glazed too, though he smiled unevenly when Sasha approached. But what concerned Sasha the most was the brace around his friend’s neck, and the sling holding his arm against his chest.
“Ed,” he said as soon as he was close enough. “Eddie. What happened?”
Eduard Despres, starting goaltender for the Seattle Cascades, blinked slowly. “Sasha.”
“Yes, Старина, I’m here.”
“Hurts.” Ed winced, then groaned when the movement pulled at the injuries on his face.
He was speaking quietly, and Sasha had to bend over to hear him. When he got closer, he could smell beer and the sharp tang of alcohol on Ed’s breath and clothes. It was enough for him to put the pieces together and figure out what had happened.
Not again. “You been drinking, Eddie?”
Ed scowled. “Just a couple. To unwind, y’know? ’M not drunk.”
The presence of the police, combined with the hundred-thousand-dollar sports car currently wrapped around a pole, told Sasha otherwise.
“Oh, Eddie. We got a game tonight. Why were you drinking so late?”
Eddie tried to sit up, and an EMT had to rush over to haul him back down. “I’m fine. I can play tonight.”
Sasha met the eyes of one of the medical technicians, who shook their head. “Okay, Eddie. But right now you gotta go to the hospital and get checked over. I’ll call Denis and other trainers, okay?”
Two of the EMTs moved to load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, leaving Sasha alone with the third. He sighed and wished he could get some of whatever painkillers the EMTs were putting Eddie on; he had a monster headache building.
“So, how bad is it really?” he asked.
The EMT shook his head. “Hard to tell without X-rays, but probable dislocated shoulder, maybe a broken arm. He’s not passing concussion protocol, but we can’t tell if that’s because of the adrenaline and alcohol or not.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Look, Mr. Despres isn’t answering any of our questions. We need to know if he has any allergies or prior medical conditions that we need to be aware of.”
Sasha thought for a second. “Not sure about allergies. Not for food, I don’t think? I need to—I can call team trainer; they will know all this.”
“Okay. Why don’t you make some calls, and we’re going to get your friend to the hospital so doctors can start running some tests. Tell your trainers he’ll be at Virginia Mason.”
The EMTs finished securing Ed’s stretcher, and then the ambulance pulled away with a burst of siren. The police officer from before was still waiting for him, looking just as cold as he felt and increasingly impatient. Sasha clenched his hand around his phone in his pocket and thought longingly about his nice, warm bed.
Police, paramedics, and one drunk-driving goalie. It’s going to be a long night, Sasha thought.
SEATTLE CASCADES (@CascadesNHL)
#BreakingNews Goalie Eduard Despres out with upper body injury, estimated 3-6 months. Cascades recall goaltender Alex Fanning from AHL’s @PortlandLoggers. https://t.co/vebMUVp1AZ
SEATTLE SPORTS News (@SeattleSportsNews)
Cascades’ Despres (G) out 3-6 months after late-night car accident. Police suspect alcohol may have been involved. More details as we get them.
IT FELT like Alex had been asleep for only minutes when his phone rang. He jerked awake, heart pounding. The alarm clock said it wasn’t even four o’clock; he’d managed only a couple hours of sleep.
“Shut it off!” The mumbled command drifted out of the lump of blankets on the other bed, as Alex’s roommate Cory shifted and buried his head beneath his pillow.
Alex groaned and rolled onto his side, hunting for the phone in the mess of sheets and blankets. He found it a moment later and jabbed the Accept button.
“’Lo?”
There was a long silence before a man spoke. “Is this Alexander Fanning?”
“Yeah.” Alex yawned and closed his eyes. It was too early for a telemarketer, but the number hadn’t been one that he recognized.
“Mr. Fanning, this is Martin Dubois.”
What? Alex sat up straight, clutching the phone to his ear. He knew that name. Everyone in the NHL knew that name. Former three-time MVP, two-time Stanley Cup champion, current general manager of the Seattle Cascades… and apparently calling Alex. At 4:00 a.m.
“Sorry for the late hour,” Dubois continued, seemingly unaware of the shock racing through Alex. “I know you played a game last night, but we need you to come up to Seattle first thing this morning. We’ll be emailing you an e-ticket shortly for a flight in four hours out of San Diego International.”
It was way too early, and Alex definitely hadn’t had enough sleep. “I’m sorry… what now?”
Dubois paused again. “Fanning, get your gear and get to the airport. You’re dressing for the Cascades tonight.”
Alex was vaguely aware that Dubois was still speaking, passing along information that he’d probably need to remember later. But he was too busy trying to process, blinking as Cory appeared from beneath his pillow to send Alex a concerned look.
He must have responded to Dubois, because the call ended a moment later with a reminder to get moving and get to the airport. Alex let the phone fall to his lap, the light from the screen illuminating his face.
“What the hell was that?” Cory asked.
Alex swallowed hard. “I’m playing in the NHL tonight.” The words still didn’t seem real, spoken aloud like that. He’d been dreaming of the NHL since he was a kid, had hoped the day would come when he was called up. And now that day had finally come. Holy shit. He swiped a hand through his hair. “I’ve gotta pack.”
Elyse is an author and world-traveler, whose unique life experiences have helped to shape the stories that she wants to tell. She writes romances with LGBTQIA+ characters and relationships, and believes that every person deserves a Happily Ever After. When she's not staring futilely at her computer screen, Elyse spends her time adding stamps to her passport, catching up on her terrifying TBR list, and learning to be a better adult.
