Broken Play: Pucks and Passion Book 1

Boston air hits differently.

Sharper. Colder. The kind of cold that gets under your skin and stays there, swirling with the smell of harbor wind, espresso from the street carts, and the burnt-toast scent of the subway grates. I breathe it in anyway, forcing it deep, letting it scrape the inside of my lungs like I deserve the punishment.

I can handle the cold.

It’s the ice I’m not sure about.

The Boston Reapers Training Center rises in front of me like something out of a sports documentary—steel, tinted glass, banners flapping with players’ faces, and a massive Reaper logo looming overhead, grim and iconic. The city hums behind me: traffic, horns, the distant yell of a vendor, the brutal honesty Boston is famous for.

The second I walk through the doors, it hits me:

Hockey.

Men.

Heat wrapped in cold.

The scent of sweat and skate oil and expensive cologne. Bodies moving with purpose. Voices echoing off concrete and metal. Pucks clacking against boards. The low growl of someone cursing from the rink.

My pulse stutters, then steadies.

This is exactly what I signed up for.

And exactly what I promised myself I’d avoid.

But bills don’t care about promises.

A receptionist waves me through. “Wren Harper? Coach is expecting you. Locker Room Hall C.”

I adjust my bag on my shoulder and start down the hall. Every step drags up memories I don’t want—bright lights, screaming fans, ice so clean it glittered like a mirror.

And then the fall.

The sabotage.

The humiliation.

I swallow hard and force the past down.

This is different.

New city. New job. New version of me.

I stop in front of Hall C. The door is cracked. Voices spill out—loud, unfiltered, rough. There’s laughter. The clatter of gear hitting the floor. Something thumps against a locker.

I push the door open.

And stop breathing.

Eight men—half dressed, half undressed, all sculpted like Greek statues that swear too much—turn their heads toward me.

The room goes silent. A stretched, vibrating silence that thickens the air until it feels humid.

Then someone whistles low.

“Well, shit,” a player mutters. “Management finally got something right.”

I arch a brow. “I’m Wren Harper, your new athletic trainer and rehabilitation specialist.”

A few of the guys look disappointed I’m not strutting in wearing lingerie.

A few look like they wish I was.

A few look like they’re imagining it anyway.

And then he steps out.

Kael Mercer.

Captain. Defenseman. Boston legend.

Tall, bare-chested, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water sliding down his torso like they’re being pulled by gravity and a higher power. Chest carved. Shoulders wide. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. And those eyes—ice-gray, assessing, dangerous in the way a loaded gun on the coffee table is dangerous.

He freezes when he sees me.

Not long.

Just enough.

His gaze skims my face. My throat. My chest. The line of my waist. Not sleazy. Not lingering. Just… thorough. Like he’s cataloguing things he shouldn’t be noticing.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low and gravelly.

“Should I be late?” I ask.

His eyes flicker with something—interest or irritation, hard to tell.

Before he can respond, another body slides into view.

Tall. Lean. Smirking like he sins recreationally.

Finn Rourke.

Goalie. Darling of Boston’s sports media. Tattoo on his ribcage peeking over the edge of a towel like it’s flirting too.

He looks me up and down without shame.

“Well damn,” he purrs, “if I knew our new trainer was going to look like that, I would’ve sprained something last week.”

I blink. “Give it ten minutes. You still might.”

He grins, wicked and beautiful. “Promise?”

A deep scoff echoes from behind him.

And then Atlas Ward appears.

The Reapers’ enforcer.

The league’s favorite hooligan.

Tattooed from throat to wrist, muscles stacked on muscles, expression carved from violence and boredom.

He looks at me like I’m a new problem he didn’t ask for.

“Great,” Atlas mutters. “A kid.”

A kid?

I step closer—not enough to touch him, but enough that he has to tilt his chin down to keep glaring at me.

“You five-foot-four thundercloud,” I say calmly, “I’ve put grown men on the floor for less.”

The locker room erupts.

Finn doubles over laughing.

Several players choke on whatever they were drinking.

Even Kael’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

Atlas stares.

Then—VERY faintly—smirks.

Dangerously attractive.

Unfortunately attractive.

“Alright,” he says. “Maybe not a kid.”

Kael steps forward, cutting the chaos cleanly.

“Enough,” he snaps. The entire room stills. Even Finn’s grin dims.

Kael looks at me. “Follow me.”

I do.

Because honestly? My legs don’t seem interested in doing anything else.

He leads me into the training room—cold, quiet, lined with equipment and treatment tables. The door closes behind us, muffling the noise.

The silence between us feels thicker.

Kael faces me fully. “Before you start, understand something.”

I cross my arms. “I’m listening.”

“This team is volatile right now. You’re walking into a storm.”

“I’m not afraid of storms.”

(Only the ice. Only falling again. But he doesn’t need to know that.)

His gaze lingers on my mouth. Just long enough to feel it.

He’s too close.

He smells like cedar and winter and something male and warm beneath it.

And Boston cold does NOT explain why my cheeks feel hot.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice dropping.

“What?” My pulse jumps. “Why?”

“Because you look like trouble.”

His gaze drags over my face, my throat, my hips.

“And this team already has too much of that.”

I swallow. “Are you telling me not to do my job?”

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m telling you to be careful.”

It’s protective.

Almost intimate.

And annoyingly magnetic.

Before I can respond, the rink erupts in noise—shouts, the crack of bodies slamming into boards.

Kael curses under his breath and grabs his gear.

“Welcome to Boston,” he murmurs as he passes me, voice brushing my ear like a touch. “Try not to get yourself hurt.”

***

Practice is pure chaos.

Ice flying. Bodies crashing. Players growling at each other like wolves fighting over a carcass.

And Boston fans think hockey is a religion? Being down here is like walking into a cathedral where all the saints are sinners in disguise.

Finn is first to mess up.

He slides too hard into the post, slamming shoulder-first. He stands like nothing happened, but when he skates past me, I catch the tightness in his jaw.

“Finn!” I call. “Off the ice!”

He pretends not to hear, so I march over and grab his jersey.

His breath catches—just slightly.

“I said off the ice,” I repeat.

“You like grabbing me, Harper?” Finn asks, low and wicked.

“If I liked grabbing you, I’d hold tighter.”

He smirks like that just became his new religion.

But when he sits on the bench, he winces, then tries to hide it.

I press my fingers gently against his shoulder. His breath stutters again—this time from pain.

“You’re strained,” I say.

“I’m fine.”

“You will be, after treatment. That’s not a suggestion.”

He looks at me differently then. Not cocky. Not flirty.

Hungry.

“I’m starting to think you’re dangerous,” he murmurs. “And I really fucking like dangerous.”

Before I can answer, shouting erupts.

I look up.

Atlas has another player pinned against the glass, fist drawn back. Blood on his lip. Rage in his eyes. Everyone else is shouting, trying to pull them apart.

Kael barrels into the mess, trying to break it up.

I react before thinking.

I sprint onto the ice.

“HEY!” My voice cracks through the arena. “KNOCK IT OFF!”

Everything stops.

Atlas freezes, chest heaving.

Kael stares, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

The other player drips blood onto the ice.

They’re all watching me.

I step between Atlas and the other man, palms up.

“Sit,” I tell Atlas.

Shock flares on his face.

But he… sits.

Then I point to the bloody player. “Bench. Now.”

He moves immediately.

Finally, I turn to Kael.

His eyes drop to my mouth again.

Then lift, slow, dangerous.

“Captain,” I say. “You done?”

His breathing slows. Shoulders drop. The tension bleeds out of him.

He nods.

The entire arena exhales.

And I realize something terrifying.

They listened to me.

All of them.

Kael.

Atlas.

Finn.

Every single one of these massive, muscled, volatile men just obeyed me like I was the one wearing the C on my chest.

My heart thuds hard against my ribs.

This job is going to ruin me.

Or it’s going to set me on fire.