Page 3

If I was being honest, tequila and me had trouble written all over it.

“No trying to set me up while we’re there, Gracie.” She rolled her eyes at the warning, passing me a shot glass. The clear liquid balancing precariously at the top of the rim threatened to run down the side of my hand. “I’m being serious. I’m out here for my career, to show everyone I can do this…” The last part was barely above a whisper.

Her eyes softened, the corner of her pink lips pulling into a sad smile. If anyone understood the cultural pressures coming from home, it was Gracie.

She’d managed to break the hold when she left for college, but it came at a price. My tío still refused to speak to her. Despite the differences in opinions on how I should live my life, I had comfort in knowing my family would never cut me out the way my uncle had with her.

I shook my head, needing to clear the sour mood.

“Vamos,” I said, raising my glass and waiting for Gracie to join. “To new opportunities, breaking generational machismo⁠—”

“And amazing cousins who let you move in with them,” she added.

I smiled at her, all of my earlier worries suspended for now.

“¡Salud!”

TWO

DALTON

WELCOME TO HOCKEY SLANG

"You call that skating, boys? Pathetic. Looks like none of you want to keep your damn jobs. Again!" A chorus of groans echoed across the rink, swallowed by the sharp blast of Monroe’s whistle.

Goddamn lines.

We’d done so many this off-season that I’d lost count, and my legs were toast. The promise of sweet, sweet release in the form of a massage was the light at the end of the hellish tunnel Monroe was putting us through.

The chill coming off the rink did nothing to stop sweat from trailing down my face, threatening my concentration.

“Winners always finish first, Dalton. And I don’t associate with anyone other than winners.”

Vincent Langley’s harsh mantra played on a loop in my head, driving me to go faster, to edge out my teammates. I pushed harder. Dad didn’t believe in soft encouragement—just brutal expectations.

At least with me.

Fire burned through my quads as I powered myself forward, pumping my arms like my damn life depended on it, the blades of my skates cutting into the ice. Our defenseman, Jimenez, was right on my heels, giving me the final boost to push through the discomfort. I nearly collapsed when Monroe’s whistle sounded, marking the end of today’s torture session.

“Bring it in, boys,” he called right as one of the rookies hurled, barely getting his helmet off in time.

“Welcome to the big leagues, Roberts,” Jimenez snickered beside me. “Coach, why you got us ripping lines like that? Robby over there isn’t just sucking wind. You got ‘em blowing chunks.”

I bit down on my mouthguard to smother a grin.

My best friend loved giving the guys shit, and the new winger, Roberts, would never live this moment down.

The kid was a good sport, though; he skated over, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his practice jersey, a goofy smile plastered on his face. He reminded me of a puppy with his happy-go-lucky attitude and blonde mullet that peeped out of the bottom of his helmet when we played.

“Three… two… one…” I counted under my breath, bracing for it.

“Up-Chuck,” Jimenez yelled out right on cue, pointer finger tapping on his bottom lip like he was deep in thought. “That’s what you’ll be called now, Roberts. Up-Chuck.”

“Wow, Jimenez.” I leaned against my stick, looking over my shoulder at him. “Real stroke of genius there.”

The second the words were out, I regretted them. You couldn’t say anything even remotely suggestive around the guy without it being turned into a sex joke. It was like he’d been hardwired to spit out that shit on instinct.

And I knew better than to say the word stroke within his earshot.