Rule #1: Don’t fall in love with the coach
Gabriel Theriault’s been skating on thin ice for the past two seasons with Toronto but his arrest following an off-ice fight is the final straw.
His only shot at redemption is to start over in Evanston and prove that he still has what it takes to be a pro player.
No more fights. No more drinking. No more random hookups.
Rule #2: The team always comes first
Years ago, Lance Tate’s on-ice injury ended his career and marriage.
His long road to recovery led to a job he loves as assistant coach with the Evanston Otters, and he wouldn’t dream of giving that up.
Until he meets Gabriel.
The French-Canadian is nineteen years younger, burdened by too much responsibility, and the most intriguing man Lance has ever met.
He’s also the absolute last man Lance should get involved with.
The draw between them is impossible to resist—even if it could cost them the game they love.
Their only chance at winning it all is to change the rules.
For trigger warnings, please use the 'look inside' feature.
PROLOGUE
FOUR MONTHS PRIOR
“Ostie de tabarnak de sacrament, de câlisse de ciboire de crisse de marde!” Gabriel Theriault swore and kicked a trash can, sending it skittering down the dirty alley, leaving a trail of garbage in its wake. “Fuck!”
But it didn’t matter what language he swore in. It wasn’t going to make his father any easier to find.
Gabriel glanced at his phone, his stomach churning. No news on Alain’s whereabouts and if Gabriel delayed any longer, he’d be late for the game. He’d received more fines from Coach Casey than he could count this season, and his reputation and future career were already in tatters.
He jogged away from the filthy, reeking alley where he’d found his father last time and got in his car, anger bubbling up once again.
The stress of trying to deal with his father’s condition and the chaos it led to had taken its toll on Gabriel’s hockey career. And sometimes, on days like today, his father still managed to slip away from the caregiver and wander off.
Gabriel had checked all of Alain’s usual spots with no luck. The aide had been out searching too but she hadn’t found him either. Gabriel pulled out his phone, tempted to call 911. Should he initiate an official search for Alain? He’d be pissed if Gabriel did, but the risk of exposure or dehydration was high. It was late spring though. The weather was soft and mild, and he had only been gone an hour or so. What was the right call?
Gabriel twisted the key in the ignition and glanced at the clock, hope sinking into despair. Now he had no choice but to give up the search or miss a playoff game. Fuck, he’d be cutting it close to make it to the arena as it was.
And what was that smell? Ugh. He must have gotten something on the soles of his leather shoes. He just hoped it wasn’t splattered on the hems of his suit or there would be one more thing for Coach Casey to ream him out about.
Gabriel called the caregiver.
“I have to get to the game,” he said. “If you haven’t found him in two more hours, call the police. His photo and medical info are in the binder if the authorities need it.”
“Yes, Mr. Theriault. I’ll do my best to find him. I called a few friends to help. I hope that was all right.” Her voice was tentative. “They’re medical professionals and will respect confidentiality, I swear.”
Gabriel swallowed back the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “Oui. Merci. I … I thank you. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to play while he’s missing but I have obligations and—”
“I understand. We’ll keep looking.”
“Thank you,” he said roughly. “Thank you. I mean that.”
He hung up, pressing the accelerator as hard as he dared. Despite the speed, the drive across Toronto to the Fisher Cats’ arena took forever and Gabriel skidded into the dressing room with little time to spare, earning him a glare from Coach.
“Nice of you to join us today, Theriault. You’re on the top line tonight. Don’t make me regret it.”
Gabriel muttered an apology, promised Coach he’d make him proud, then dressed for the game on autopilot, wrapped his sticks just the way he liked them, and dodged the team’s starting goaltender, Noah Boucher, when he looked like he might come over to talk.
Gabriel skated onto the ice for warmups, taking his frustration out on the puck, whacking it into the net with sharp, angry slapshots. Matt Carlson, his defensive partner, gave him a raised eyebrow when he skated past. “You okay there, Theriault?”
“Fine,” he grunted, taking a whack at another puck. It pinged off the post on Noah’s net with far more force than necessary and his roommate held up his blocker in a “what the fuck?” motion.
“Whatever’s going on, you better get your shit together,” Matty said under his breath fifteen minutes later as they skated off the ice and tromped through the tunnel. “This isn’t just any game.”
“Merde! You think I don’t fucking know that?” Gabriel snarled, anxiety making it impossible to keep a lid on his temper. “It’s the final game against Boston in the third round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. I know what’s at stake.”
“Do you?” Matty whirled on him. “Because your head has barely been in the games lately. Our defense has sucked and if we didn’t have Boucher saving our asses, we’d be toast!”
“Guys!” Coach Casey barked. “Cool it. Both of you. Save the aggression for out on the ice.”
Gabriel nodded tightly, his jaw aching as he clenched his teeth. Then again, when didn’t it ache? He woke up every morning with pain radiating through his jaw and neck and into his head. Tension, the trainer had said.
No shit.
“Ostie de colon,” he muttered under his breath.
“What did you call me?” Matty asked, bristling. He might not be fluent in Quebecois profanity, but he’d spent enough time with Gabriel over the years to pick up some of it.
“I called myself an idiot, not you.” He dropped into his stall in the dressing room and closed his eyes, the hot press of helpless fear making his lungs tight.
Gabriel knew he was in bad shape when he’d pissed off a coach often described as the most mellow guy in the NHL and a teammate who was generally a big, loud teddy bear, but God, the terror he felt at not knowing what was going on with his father warred with his duty to his team.
Please keep him safe, he whispered in a silent prayer, pressing his hand to the ornate fleur de lis cross tattooed on his chest. Let me win this game and keep my father safe.
Twenty minutes later Gabriel got in position for the puck drop, gripping his stick, trying to wipe all thoughts except hockey out of his head. He’d been with the Fisher Cats for years. He knew this team, knew Coach Casey’s plays, knew this ice, and knew their opponents.
When the puck dropped, the Boston Harriers struck with swift, deadly accuracy like the hawks they were named after. They were a damn good team and there was no room for sloppiness from Gabriel tonight. He tangled with one of Boston’s wingers immediately, getting in his space, giving him no room to pass or score.
Gabriel reveled in the chance to release the pent-up aggression inside him. The hard clack of sticks as they fought for the puck was music to his ears, as was the player’s frustrated grunt when Gabriel finally swiped the rubber away from him and threaded the needle between his teammate’s legs to pass it to his Captain, Dustin Fowler.
Gabriel got a sharp jab of an elbow to the side in retaliation from his opponent, but he was gone, skating after Fowler. Blood sang in his veins, his body thrumming with anticipation when Boston snagged the puck back.
Back and forth, up and down the ice, his legs burning, his stick fast, his mind sharp as he and Matty worked together to keep the puck away from Noah’s goal. However fucked Gabriel’s head was, however pissed at him Matty was, they were clicking tonight. He needed this win to prove that he wasn’t washed up. He still had what it took to belong on a winning NHL team. He needed this for himself and for the team.
“Nice one, boys,” Coach Casey praised when they dropped onto the bench after the line change and, for a few fleeting moments, Gabriel felt a sliver of hope that he could get his head back in the game, regain a fraction of the skill he’d once had, and help his team win the damn Cup.
But the moment he was out on the ice for the third period, it all went wrong.
Luke Crawford delivered a shoulder check right to Fowler that knocked Fowler to the ice. Gabriel’s brain flooded with memories of the dirty hit Crawford had dealt to Noah last season. The one that had fucked up their chances for a Cup win and taken Noah out of the game for nearly ten months. The one that Gabriel should have been there to prevent.
Rage filled him, fueled by the guilt and anger and helplessness that had been building in him since then. He went after Crawford, shoving him with his stick and headbutting him.
Crawford grunted, taken by surprise. Gabriel dropped his stick and tore off his gloves, grappling with him, hanging on to his jersey with one hand while he slugged him with the other. Too fast for Fowler to block completely but he managed to dodge enough that it only glanced off his jaw.
Crawford snarled, “That the best you can do? When are you going to admit you’re a washed-up has-been like your old man?”
The world went red, Gabriel letting out a bellow as he tried to shove Crawford back against the boards.
“Crisse! J’vais t’en câlisser une tabarnaque. Tu vas t’en souvenir crissement longtemps!”
He yelled it in English too, calling him a bastard and threatening to punch him so hard he’d remember it for years. Shouting that he wasn’t a has-been, and neither was his father.
But linesmen were there before Gabriel could follow through, yanking them apart, his teammates helping when Gabriel lunged for Crawford again.
“You, penalty box!” the ref barked, pointing at Crawford. He turned his attention to Gabriel. “And you, dressing room. You’re out for the rest of the game.”
Fowler, his ever-loyal Captain, argued with the ref but he wouldn’t be swayed. With the clock winding down, the multiple penalties he’d undoubtedly earned were more than enough to knock him out for the remainder of the game.
The ref announced his ruling. “Boston, number fifty-four, five-minute major for fighting. Toronto, number eighteen, two-minute minor for high sticking, five-minute major fighting, and ten-minute misconduct for instigating.”
Seventeen goddamn minutes. Coach would crucify him. Just a few more seconds and Gabriel would have managed a solid hit too. God, he needed that, needed the rush of adrenaline, was desperate for the way it made his mind go clear and sharp. Needed anything but the aching worry about his father and the guilt over not doing enough to protect Noah last season. That desperation flooded over him now, returning in a rush of stomach-churning emotion when he skated past Crawford on his way to the tunnel, who only gave him an arrogant nod, baring his teeth in a snarl at Gabriel through the glass.
They won that night, but after the post-game reaming Coach Casey gave him about his penalty allowing Boston to score on the power play and nearly costing them the game, Gabriel wasn’t in a celebratory mood.
Before he hit the showers or did anything else, he checked his phone and found a message from the caregiver. Found Alain. He’s a little banged up but nothing too critical and he’s home resting now.
Relief hit first, then worry about what she meant by banged up. God. They couldn’t keep doing this. He had to come up with a better solution. Something to keep his father out of harm’s way.
Gabriel pushed his sweaty hair off his face, helpless and sick. The fight had made him feel purposeful, full of energy, but it wasn’t enough. He could do little to help his father, but he needed something. The fight hadn’t been enough to purge the roiling emotions in him.
Maybe a fuck …
Gabriel tore through his post-game routine and was out of the dressing room in record time, hair still dripping onto his suit collar. He stared at his phone while he walked down the hall of the arena, debating if it was a Tinder or a Grindr night. Fuck it, maybe both.
He got in the elevator, distractedly jabbing at the button for the parking garage as he scanned the threesome app searching the profiles of couples looking for a third. Maybe two people would be enough to pull him out of his head.
Gabriel felt like a shitty son, not going to see for himself that his father was okay, but he couldn’t be the cool, calming presence his father needed right now. No, better to fuck it out of his system and go to his father’s house with a clear head tomorrow. The night caregiver would look out for Alain in the meantime. He was home and safe. Gabriel could take a few hours to not think about what a mess his life was. He deserved that at least.
Mmm, maybe that couple … He eyed the explicit photos appreciatively as he flicked through them. Yes, they’d do. They were exceptionally attractive, and he liked what their profile had to say, their energy coming through in their words and promising him a fun time. That energy was what attracted him to a person the most. Noah had burned bright. Gabriel had never fooled himself into thinking it was love between them, but his roommate had always been a joyous distraction in bed.
But his injury last season had ended their casual hookups, Noah turning single-minded about returning to play. And then he’d met Simon.
Ahh well, there were plenty of other willing and eager people out there for the taking. Gabriel hadn’t fucked everyone in Toronto.
Yet.
The elevator doors opened, and Gabriel blindly stepped forward, typing out a message to the couple. He ran smack dab into something immovable and rocked back on his heels. He glanced up to see Luke Crawford glaring at him, a wall of human blocking his path.
“Come back for more, Theriault?” His voice was a low, menacing rumble.
Gabriel glanced around, confused as to what Crawford was doing in the players’ parking area but he realized he’d gotten out on the visitors’ level. Boston’s charter bus idled across the lot, ready to take the team to the airport.
“No.” He rubbed his head. “I just got off on the wrong floor.”
“You really are a chip off the old block. When we all played up there in Calgary, everyone knew he had a screw loose. Especially there at the end.”
And like that, the exhaustion was gone, replaced by a white-hot fury that sent searing rage through Gabriel. He threw himself at Crawford, not caring that the guy stood six inches taller, his only goal shoving his fist through the back of his skull. He nearly took Crawford down, but he righted himself, letting out a grunt of annoyance when his own shove couldn’t knock Gabriel off his feet. Gabriel braced himself and threw one punch, then another, pain shooting through his knuckles when he made contact with Crawford’s mouth.
“You don’t talk about him that way,” Gabriel shouted, but the words were muffled by the blood pounding in his ears. Crawford got a punch in to his ribs that forced the air out of him with a gasp and he staggered back a moment before he threw himself into it again. He dimly heard the sound of yelling and feet pounding on pavement.
“Hey! Hey! Break it up, guys!” a security guard hollered, yanking Gabriel away from Crawford. Gabriel fought him off, snarling, but several more people arrived, hauling them apart and Gabriel’s arms were pinned behind his back in a grip he couldn’t shake. The guard was easily twice his size.
“Fuck, they’re players,” someone muttered. “Shit, what do we do?”
“Police are on the way!” someone shouted.
Gabriel groaned, the anger leaching out of him as reality settled over him. He was in deep, deep shit.
“Câlisse,” he whispered.
Crawford spat on the ground, leaving a froth of red on the stained pavement. He bared his teeth and through the tinge of blood, Gabriel saw the black square of a missing tooth.
Gabriel was screwed.
“Hey, punkin’,” Lance Tate said cheerfully as he answered his daughter’s call.
Hailey laughed. “Geeze, I’m twenty-seven and engaged to be married, Dad. Not sure I’m much of a punkin’ anymore.”
“You’ll always be my punkin’,” he protested. “Unless you don’t want to be.”
“Nah, of course I do.” Her tone softened. “You know that.”
“Just making sure.”
Sometimes Lance wasn’t sure. Because the truth was, he’d been a terrible father. Hailey might say otherwise now, but he’d been estranged from his children for far too long. It hadn’t all been his fault. He hadn’t meant to abandon them. Wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it intentionally, but the head injury he’d had when Hailey was seven had ended his career, his marriage, and his relationship with his kids.
He could hardly blame his ex-wife, Cammie, for protecting Hailey and Scott from his erratic behavior. But by the time Lance had recovered and been ready to be a father again, the kids hardly knew him. The job offer in Buffalo had been too good to pass up, but it had taken him farther from them. Cammie had been the one to raise them. The one who’d been there for every parent-teacher conference and scraped knee. She’d been the one who slipped money under their pillows for the tooth fairy and taught the kids to ride bikes. She’d been their sole parent for far too long.
Scott still resented him. Lance understood why, but it stung that they weren’t close. Lance had tried. God had he tried. But though they texted periodically, and Scott always replied eventually, he was never the one to initiate sending messages. Half the time Hailey was the one who let big news about her brother slip.
Lance had found out about Scott’s college acceptance that way, and about his new job several months ago.
The three of them, plus Hailey’s fiancé, Jay, had met for dinner a few days later to celebrate but Hailey had done all of the planning and Lance had wondered if his son would have bothered otherwise.
The painful truth was, he probably didn’t care to.
“Dad?” Hailey’s voice pulled Lance from his thoughts, and he let out a little laugh.
“Sorry, I was off on another planet, I guess,” he said ruefully. “What were you saying?”
“Just asking if you were planning to bring a date to the wedding. Jay and I are trying to get a rough idea of the headcount.”
“Oh geez.” Lance ran a hand across his short hair. “I don’t know. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
Nor was he likely to. He could hardly remember the last time he went out on a date. It was late May now. Was he likely to have a date before the wedding in December? No, probably not. Not with the Evanston Otters heading to the Cup finals. He’d have a little time off in the summer but then it would be the pre-season, followed by the regular season. As an assistant coach, he traveled with the team, so it wasn’t like he’d have the opportunity to meet someone.
“Oh, hmm, I wonder if I can set you up with anyone,” Hailey said. “Oh! I have this great co-worker, Sue. She’s a little younger than you but not by much and she’s absolutely fantastic.”
“Ahh, thanks, kiddo, but no. I don’t need you to set me up on a date,” Lance said with an awkward laugh.
The truth was, he’d sort of lost interest in dating women. And he’d had even less luck with men. But his family knew nothing about that side of him and he didn’t think that would change any time soon.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind!” Hailey said brightly.
“I will. And if I meet someone before December, I’ll let you know. But for now, no plus one for me.”
“We’ll put you down as a maybe.”
Lance smiled. Ever the optimist, his daughter.
They talked for a while longer but eventually he had to let her go so she could make dinner. He needed to do the same, but he leaned his elbows on the counter and stared out the window of his apartment at the darkening skies beyond, acutely and painfully conscious of just how lonely he was.
And then his phone buzzed with a message from Ken Daniels.
Lance let out a rueful chuckle as he read the urgent text. He might be lonely but there was always hockey.
Forty minutes later, he took a seat across the desk from Ken, the head coach for the Evanston River Otters. He stared blankly at him. “You want us to do what?”
“We were approached by a player for the Toronto Fisher Cats about a trade.”
“That’s … not how this is usually done,” Lance said, baffled.
“I’m well aware.” Ken’s tone was dry.
“Sorry. Of course you are. This is just … bizarre.”
“No, I hear you.” Ken huffed. “If it was anyone but Boucher, I might tell them to fuck off, but he’s …”
Daniel’s didn’t finish his thought, but Noah Boucher’s name carried a great deal of weight. He was a top goaltender in the NHL. Well-respected and well-liked by players and coaches both. He was also the first out man in the league. He’d changed the game of hockey forever.
Boucher wouldn’t do this lightly.
Lance rubbed his forehead. “What happened again?”
“Gabriel Theriault got into a nasty on-ice fight with Luke Crawford during the conference finals. They took it off-ice after the game. Crawford is raging about what a loose cannon Theriault is, but the league talked him out of pressing charges, so it won’t be a police matter. They will handle it internally. Both players have been fined and suspended but because of prior issues and the fact Theriault was the instigator in the initial fight, they’re coming down hard on him. He’ll be suspended through the end of the season and Toronto is done with him. They want him gone next season.”
“And they want us to pick him up?”
“Boucher does, anyway.”
“I mean, I don’t know Theriault’s reputation that well,” Lance said thoughtfully. “I know at one point he was burning up the league in assists and he’s fast as hell but …”
“Was being the operative word,” Daniel countered.
“Not anymore?”
He shrugged. “He’s … erratic. Some games he’s the best D-man on the ice, some games he’s a wreck. No one knows what’s going on with him. Toronto’s tested him for drug use but so far everything’s consistently come up clean.”
“You’re considering him though?”
Daniels sighed. “With Underhill’s ankle issue, we’re down a solid D-man.”
“Yeah, but is Theriault a solid D-man?”
“Only time will tell. Boucher assures me Theriault’s problem is a private, family issue that he’d prefer to keep under wraps but that could be improved by getting away from Toronto.”
“Hmm.” Lance was still skeptical. “It’s a gamble.”
“It is. But we either gamble on a man who has a history as a high performer in the league or a guy from the AHL who might not hack it at this level.”
“True.” Lance brought up the database, scanning through Theriault’s stats. “Well, he’s not getting much ice time but if you compare that TOI in relation to his Corsi rating, it’s better than I’d have expected.”
“His blocked shots are pretty good relative to the league average as well,” Daniels said with a shrug. “On paper, he’s not a bad choice.”
Lance nodded. He wasn’t a huge proponent of using advanced stats solely to evaluate a guy. To Lance, personality and the way a player meshed with a team often told him more, but those stats did help shape the overall picture.
“Franklin is on board with this?”
“His only comment was that he wanted guys who could win us games and Hines has given his approval.”
Lance resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He wasn’t fond of the franchise owner, though he’d never say it aloud. Along with their GM, Cliff Hines, they let one of their current defensive players, Jack Malone, get away with murder, all in the name of winning.
Lance frowned at Ken. “That’s a lot of hot tempers on our defensive line,” he said doubtfully. “I mean, Underhill will be away from the team for a while, which will be good. But Malone’s a dick and we both know it.”
Daniels nodded, not denying it.
“O’Shea could be a good kid, but Malone and Underhill were a terrible influence on him last season. I just don’t want to set us up to spend half of each game with our defense cooling their heels in the penalty box.” Lance grimaced. “Not that I have much say in that. Sam is the defensive coach so ultimately, it’s up to the two of you.”
Daniels leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, but Sam’s leaving at the end of the season and while I’m pleased Horton will be taking his place, he doesn’t know our team yet so I’m hesitant to weigh either of their opinions heavily.”
“Yeah. Fair enough,” Lance agreed.
“You may not be in charge of our defensive lineup but there’s no one’s opinion I respect more.”
“That means a lot to me. Should we talk to Murphy too? See what our Captain says?”
That could change too but Zane Murphy had been captain for years and the guys liked and respected him. He couldn’t imagine they’d vote in someone different next season.
Daniels shrugged. “He’s the one who cooked this up with Boucher. He’s on board if we are.”
“Ahh, hell.” Lance snuck a peek at the official player photo of Gabriel Theriault, struck by the sadness in his dark eyes.
Hmm. If a trade to the Otters could help the guy get on his feet again and he had the skills to help the team, why not give him a shot? They’d see how he did at training camp and go from there.
“Okay, let’s go for it,” Lance said with a sigh, wondering if he’d regret this. “Every guy deserves a second chance, right?”
Rumors Swirl Around Theriault’s Departure from Toronto Fisher CatsDefenseman Gabriel Theriault was conspicuously absent from the post-playoff celebrations after the Toronto Fisher Cats’ highly anticipated Cup win. The city was out in force to celebrate but one member of the Fisher Cats was nowhere to be found.Theriault’s off-ice brawl with Boston’s Luke Crawford led to his arrest by the local police department. Although no charges were filed, he was suspended for the remainder of the season and missed the finals in the Stanley Cup playoffs.Amidst the announcement about his recent acquisition by the Evanston River Otters, speculation has varied from a possible stay in a private rehab facility for drug abuse treatment to a rift between him and the newly retired Fishers’ goaltender, Noah ‘La Bouche’ Boucher.If rumors are to be believed, long-time teammates Theriault and Boucher shared more than an apartment.With La Bouche’s move to Michigan to live with new boyfriend, gallery owner Simon Lawrence, our money is on a nasty breakup.
RULES OF THE GAME READING ORDER
Curious about the reading order for Rules of the Game? There are two series within the Rules of the Game universe, following two hockey teams. This is the chronological reading order:
Road Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Coming March 31, 2023
Bending the Rules (Toronto Fisher Cats) - Available Now
Changing the Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Unwritten Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Rules of Engagement (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Breaking the Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Author Bio:
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.
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