Maddman in Dallas Read online

  Maddman in Dallas

  Stacy Lane

  C O P Y R I G H T

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental or fictionalized.

  Copyright © 2020 by Stacy Lane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by the copyright law.

  Edited by My Brother’s Editor

  Proofread by Chrissy at Book Happiness

  Cover design by Stacy Lane

  Playlist

  Looking at Me ~ Sabrina Carpenter

  More Than That ~ Lauren Jauregui

  Back To Me ~ Marian Hill & Lauren Jauregui

  One Time ~ Marian Hill

  Vices ~ Mothica

  What If I Never Get Over You ~ Lady A

  This Love ~ Camila Cabello

  Liar ~ Camila Cabello

  Miss U More Than U Know ~ Sofia Carson & R3HAB

  Love You Like I Used To ~ Russell Dickerson

  Love Me Again ~ Katelyn Tarver

  Wrong ~ MAX ft. Lil Uzi Vert

  Older Than I Am ~ Lennon Stella

  Hurts So Good ~ Astrid S

  Dress ~ Taylor Swift

  August ~ Taylor Swift

  No Peace ~ Sam Smith ft. Yebba

  All I Ask ~ Adele

  It Is What It Is ~ Kacey Musgraves

  Contents

  Title

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Also by Stacy Lane

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my Tampa Bay Lightning,

  thank you for bringing

  Lord Stanely home!

  The methods I chose to release decades’ worth of pent-up anger was not approved by my three hundred dollar an hour therapist. She also recommended relieving my insurmountable aggression in small doses—frequently. Otherwise, one day I would blow like Old Faithful at Yellowstone National Park.

  She nailed that part. You can guarantee and trust that, like a geyser, I will explode and give people a show while it’s happening.

  The glove came from my left with a nasty hook. Pain exploded in my jaw. My face sprang away so hard it felt like my head would snap off my neck. I usually welcomed the blows since I was the one initiating the brawl. The timing caught me off guard, but who the fist belonged to was no surprise. This fight was more than team rivalry.

  On instinct, I swung back. A good man would accept his fuck-ups and let David exact his revenge. Give him this one fight because what I did was worth a beating. But good was so infrequent in my life I didn’t claim to know it. Therefore, I didn’t practice it.

  Gloves dropped, and the arena goes silent.

  Every scrape from our blades could be heard cutting into the ice. Two sets circling each other like prey. Countless other skates shifting with curiosity. It’s a small sound a hockey player becomes accustomed to, but at this moment, the noise was almost deafening.

  Pure silence. Bloodthirsty hockey fans were always ready for a fight on the ice to break out.

  This particular crowd, however, stood to watch a disaster in the making.

  “Took you long enough, David.” I smirked, despite the muscle around my mouth beginning to go numb.

  It was the third period. I expected the New York captain to toss the gloves at first puck drop.

  “I’m gonna enjoy breaking that cocky fucking grin, Maddeford.”

  My teeth flashed broader.

  His fist connected with my upper lip. Fluid slipped between my teeth, the familiar taste of iron hitting my tongue.

  David deserved that one. I broke code. Doesn’t matter what the story is behind the facts. I should let him beat my ass. But I’m doing him a service by not succumbing to a brawl that has nothing to do with hockey. As a fellow player, and a man, we don’t want the opponent to give in.

  Helmets fall to the ice. Refs circle nearby, waiting for us to go down next. They do their best to split us up, but we’re at the point of no return. No one is getting between two pissed off hockey players.

  Blood gushes from my lip and David’s nose.

  David lets his temper get the better of him and dives for me.

  Where most guys lose control and make mistakes, aggression sheaths itself differently within me. I relax as it consumes me. I calculate movement before it even happens. I see which result will have the most damage. The feeling is tranquil from the inside, but the delivery is crazed. I resemble a man gone mad.

  I pull at his jersey, landing uppercuts to his face and chest before taking him to the ice.

  The arena goes wild—the volatile shouts of boos and slander directed at me.

  Yesterday, these people were my fans, my crowd, my home. They may not know why, but if their captain hated me, then so would they. Loyalty was untouchable in this sport. Their shift away from me was as evident as the dark red splotches sinking into the frozen rink.

  Fists grip my sweater and pull me from David, but it takes a minute for the madness flowing through my veins to settle. I’m led toward the benches, being sent to the locker room for the final five minutes of play in the game.

  I grin toward the New York bench, taunting my former teammates as I pass.

  My new teammates smack their sticks against the boards in support—though the solidarity is waning with uncertainty. My morals are always in question, but they are just glad to have Maddman on their side.

  With every team I’ve been with—from age ten to now—I held the leading minutes for penalties. I wasn’t out to harm anyone intentionally. Fighting in hockey is a gray area on the moral compass. I’m a bull on skates—charging and always seeing red.

  At this point in my life, a part of me recognized some form of anger as my first emotion. But inside the arena, all anyone saw was me doing my job as a defenseman. I caused the hard hits. I threw myself in front of ninety mile an hour pucks. I fought for fun, and when my team or the fans surrounding us needed a change in the atmosphere when a game was lagging.

  I love my job.

  But I hate life.

  Not in a morbid, I want to off myself way. I just wasn’t dealt a fortunate hand, no matter how much money I threw at it.

  Money doesn’t solve every problem, but mainly the people who say that shit are the ones who know nothing about being broke.

  Mom and I made the best of our situation. She gave me the very best of her life by taking as many hardships out of mine as she could. Playing pro hockey was always the dream. But my goal was repaying my mom.

  Instead, all I get to pay for are her medical bills.

  The trainer kneels in front of me, gluing my split lip. The final buzzer echoes around the empty guest loc
ker room.

  There were no cheers from the crowd because we beat New York by two.

  At yesterday’s game, I took up locker space with the home team—if I want to be technical, it was just five hours ago. New York released me from the final year of my contract three weeks into the new season.

  Trades happened two times in the year, and this soon into the season was not one of them.

  I was the exception to the rule. New York’s captain insisted on it.

  I felt nothing when New York released me. Not panic at being out of a job, or sadness that I was losing the career I worked so hard to get. I didn’t even feel guilty for what I did that caused this whole mess. And my agent knew better than to suggest I try fixing it with an apology. He immediately dove into finding me a new team.

  I was numb inside. I haven’t felt anything except confusion since my mom handed me a metaphorical packet worth of significant information about my dad.

  Then my agent showed me the one and only offer on the table.

  I felt a whole lot of something. Namely karma.

  I stirred the pot so hard the spoon was scraping nothing but air. No team wanted me because of the drama I caused. Completely unrelated to hockey, but our organization wasn’t like the NFL. If you were a criminal; good luck ever putting on a national hockey jersey again. Even though my actions didn’t land me in jail, it might as well have been the equivalent.

  My behavior was unacceptable and unforgivable. I mainly recognize that now because my dumb actions got me shipped off to the one team—the one city—I never wanted to be in again.

  Outside the meeting of the minds room where my agent disclosed what went down between me and David, no one knew why I was dropped.

  The new set of fans in Texas were thrilled. Maddman had landed in Dallas.

  I fucking hate Dallas.

  All for personal reasons, but it was my best shot back in the game. It was my only shot.

  My agent is instructed to keep looking. Trades would be happening just after the New Year, and by then, I hoped to prove my skills were better warranted than my mistake.

  I loathed the move down south, but if I’m capable of loving something, it’s hockey.

  “How’s that fat lip feeling?” Haans, a forward on the top line with me, smacked my arm and took a seat. The veteran was considered well out of his prime, but he wasn’t ready to give up the game yet.

  “Stings like a bitch,” I reply, running my tongue over the cut.

  “So, you love it. You’re a masochist.” He watches my mouth as I invite the pain in by messing with the open wound.

  “If you want to see my dick, Haans, you’re in luck.” I stand and strip off the rest of my gear.

  Stark naked, I head for the showers.

  He chuckles, shaking his head as I walk away.

  I stand under the stream of hot water, welcoming the pain that slaps onto my mouth. My palm runs back and forth through the sodden hair falling into my eyes.

  I wash and scrub the grime and blood off in minutes. Wrapping a white towel around my hips, I head back to the bag I left in the locker and get dressed.

  The T-shirt clings to my damp skin on the walk to the bus. Players and equipment are loaded, and then we’re taken back to the hotel.

  What should be a peaceful bus ride with the engine’s loud hum through the dark streets, turn into unease. My leg bounces the entire short trip. I can’t take the calm right now. Any silence will only be met with deep thoughts I don’t want to let in.

  Concern for Mom. The confounding information about my father.

  I don’t want to deal with any of it.

  No, that’s not true. My mom is the only parent I care about.

  I plan to hit the hotel bar and get drunk enough to pass out and sleep through the problems in my life that are trying to work their way into my conscience.

  My teammate and roommate for the night, Benson Vass, strolls into the room five minutes after me.

  “Crashing early tonight, Maddman?” he asks.

  “Not without getting hammered first.” I stand at the small closet, hanging the few suits I brought with me.

  I usually don’t carry so much of my belongings on road trips. This time I have three suits and a duffle full of all my essentials from home.

  I had to pack quickly, though.

  When I got the trade, Dallas was landing in New York for their away game. I met with the team, suited up in new threads for the pre-game practice, and now I’ll travel with them for the next two games on the road before they go home.

  Hired help will be at my New York apartment first thing in the morning to pack and ship all of my belongings to Texas. Outlaws set me up in one of their properties. Our careers are hectic and often unpredictable. Most teams have apartments on standby for newcomers. Gives us time to find our own place after signing contracts. Or, in my case, if we don’t plan on staying, then we at least have somewhere other than a hotel to live in for the season.

  “A few of us are going to Lux. Wanna join?” he asks.

  I’ve been in New York for four years, and I’m aware of the appeal of the nightlife out here. We have some of the best exclusive clubs for VIPs.

  I glance over my shoulder at Benson.

  He’s a friendly dude, welcomed me right away earlier today when I met everyone at the rink. He told me we were bunking together, and I thought he was only being nice so I wouldn’t murder him in his sleep.

  Some guys haze as a way of welcoming the new guy to the team. They should be breaking me into their mold in whatever creative way the Outlaws do it.

  But I have a reputation, and it sets some of them on edge, so I’m excused from the ritual.

  My teammates are as close to a friendship as I make with anyone. After what I did to my old captain, that’s saying a hell of a lot about my loyalty.

  “Are you asking because we’re bunkmates and you feel obligated?” I narrow my gaze to watch his reaction.

  Benson laughs. “Does it matter?”

  “No, not really,” I answer quickly, not needing to think about it more than a second because then he might think I care.

  “I get along with everyone, Maddeford, but I would be lying if I wasn’t a little scared that I’m sleeping in the same room as you.”

  My lips twitch, and I almost laugh.

  Luckily I’ve already turned my back, and he doesn’t see it. Reputation to consider and all.

  “I was gonna drink at the bar downstairs. Easier to get back to my bed that way.”

  “You’re too big to carry, but I promise I’ll drag you back to the hotel if I have to.” Benson draws an X over his heart.

  If I cared about fitting in with this Dallas team, I might have made an effort to be friends with Benson. Too bad this is the last place on Earth I want to be.

  The camaraderie between teammates is the difference between winning and losing. We have to be one.

  These are a good set of guys, so it’s nothing against them.

  David and I clashed from the beginning. I’ve wanted to smash his face in for four years, but I found the restraint not to.

  Then my world outside of hockey crumbled, and none of it mattered anymore. I didn’t directly go after David, not that he sees it that way.

  Everyone already thought I was a loose cannon. I’ve been loaded in the chamber knowing one day I was finally going to go off.

  Things are still looking up since I haven’t committed an actual crime that would put me in prison like my old man.

  I changed back into the suit I wore to the game when we arrived at the arena.

  Lux has a dress code. I’d gone there often with the guys from my old team.

  Benson and I stepped into the hall. A few of our teammates were waiting near the elevator.

  “David could be at Lux tonight,” Nate Baker, the Outlaws’ captain, greets me with a warning.

  I don’t bother responding. If David shows up, I’m not going to go seeking another fight. He’s not worth the
effort. He might want to go another round to redeem himself for losing against me, but that’s his problem when I whoop his ass again.

  “You gonna behave?” Nate asks.

  “That question will never be followed up with yes, so no point in asking,” I reply.

  Two of the guys laugh. Benson hides a smile behind his palm.

  Nate stares, jaw ticcing. “The bloodbath you and David shed was a part of the game. Outside the arena is unacceptable, Maddeford.”

  “If he’s there, I’ll keep my distance.” I slide behind him, pressing the button to call the elevator up.

  I won’t promise beyond that.

  The doors open, and we step inside. The car descends with little chatter between the guys. Nate keeps drilling his stern gaze into the side of my head.

  “Speaking of bloodbath, that seemed to be more than about hockey.” Thorsen, who everyone calls Thor, wags his eyebrows.

  “Your trade was unordinary,” Benson adds.

  I meet Nate’s cold stare.

  He’s the captain. He knows why I was traded.

  I wouldn’t assume otherwise.

  “If David shows up and pulls anything, we got your back.” Thor claps me on the shoulder.

  “Loyalty is earned,” Nate grinds out.

  The guys share a look at the tension exuding from their captain.

  Benson’s easy smile falters.

  I should have fucking stayed in my room.

  We exit the elevator and cross the lobby. Two women working the check-in counter stop everything they’re doing and watch us with hungry eyes.