POV: COLTON
The puck rockets off my stick—blink and you'll miss it.
Suddenly, time stretches thin. Twenty thousand fans are all holding their breath, waiting. The goalie's already dropping into his butterfly, but he's late. The puck whistles past his glove, top shelf, rings off the bar, and hits the net. The red light behind the goal blares to life.
That's it. Game over. Devils take it.
Madison Square Garden goes wild, total pandemonium.
"Colt! You legend!" Jack Mercer slams into me first, practically bouncing me off the boards. The rest of the team piles on, helmets and gloves flying everywhere. The ice shakes from the roar.
I rip off my helmet and hold my stick high. This is why I play. The noise, the adrenaline, the feeling like nothing can touch me.
"Hayes! Colt! Over here!" The reporters are already crowding by the glass, hungry as ever.
I skate toward the tunnel, grinning for the cameras. They love this. Bad-boy Colt Hayes, cowboy-turned-hockey-star, game-winner, heartbreaker. They don't even have to try to write the headlines.
Back in the locker room, the place is buzzing. Music's blasting, guys are hollering, and champagne's flying around like we took home the Cup, not just a February win.
"That's how you finish, boys!" Jack smacks my shoulder pad so hard my teeth rattle.
"Top shelf where Mom hides the cookies," I say, voice thick with a Texas drawl while peeling off my jersey. My whole body aches, but in the best way, three assists, a goal, and a hit that rattled their D-man.
Coach pokes his head in. "Hayes, media in five."
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you." I wave him off.
And then I see her.
Victoria's in the doorway, all curves and trouble in a dress that probably cost more than my first car. Her dark hair spills over bare shoulders, and her lips—red as sin—hint at mischief.
"Vicky." I can't help the grin. "Restricted area, you know."
"Have I ever cared about rules?" She struts over, hips swaying, ignoring the whistles and catcalls. Her eyes are all for me. "Congrats, superstar."
"Thanks, but the press is waiting."
"They can wait." Her fingers trail down my chest, still sticky with sweat. "I couldn't stop thinking about you out there."
I should tell her no. We're a mess—on, off, whatever suits her mood or my schedule. No promises. Just sparks.
But damn, she looks good.
"Five minutes," I mutter, grabbing her hand.
I drag her past the lockers and equipment room, straight into the showers. Steam still hangs in the air. The tile's slick, and I'm still in my skates.
"Colt." She pushes me against the wall and kisses me—rough, hungry, wild.
My hands lock around her waist, pulling her close. Stupid, reckless, but that's never stopped me.
She tastes like vodka and bad decisions.
Then, footsteps. A door opening. The sharp click of a camera.
"Shit." I shove her behind me, but it's already too late.
Two guys stand in the doorway. One's got a camera, the other's filming on his phone. Not team media—tabloid scum.
"Colton Hayes, caught in the showers with a mystery woman," one sneers, practically drooling. "Front page for sure."
Victoria yelps, tries to cover up. I step in front, shirtless and fuming.
"Get out." My voice is ice-cold.
"Public interest, Hayes. The fans wanna know who their hero really is." The camera guy keeps snapping, flash after flash.
Jack materializes behind them, ready to wreck shop. "You heard him. Beat it."
But it's too late.
By the time security gets them out, those pictures are already online, already blowing up my world.
"Hell, Colt," Jack mutters, running a hand through his hair. "Coach is gonna flip."
Victoria's hugging herself, mascara running. "I'm sorry, I didn't know they'd follow me."
"Just go." I can't even look at her.
She hesitates, then grabs her purse and disappears.
I stand there in the steam, staring at nothing, feeling the mess settle on me like a two-hundred-pound D-man.
My phone starts buzzing. And buzzing. And doesn't stop.
Notifications pour in, Twitter, Insta, ESPN, TMZ.
Devils Star Colton Hayes Caught with Mystery Woman
NHL's Bad Boy in New Scandal
Hayes Rocks The Garden, For All the Wrong Reasons
"Damn it." I hurl my phone at the wall. It shatters.
Jack picks up the pieces. "You better call your agent."
"What's the point? It's already over."
"The point is damage control before it gets uglier."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "How could it get any worse?"
The next day, I find out.
I'm in GM Bill Crawford's office, still tasting last night's whiskey. The walls are covered in Devils memorabilia, banners, signed sticks, the history I was supposed to be part of.
He barely looks up. "You know how many calls I got?"
"No, sir."
"Sixty-three. Sponsors, reporters, the league, even the mayor." He finally meets my eyes—pure ice. "You're a liability, Hayes."
"It was one mistake."
"It's never just one with you." He slides a folder over—trade papers. "Bar fights. DUIs. That rodeo in Texas. Now this. We're done."
My jaw clenches. "You benching me?"
"Worse." He opens the folder. "You're going to Nashville."
It hits me like a slapshot. "You're trading me?"
"Effective immediately. They need a scorer. We need peace. You're reporting there tomorrow."
"Nashville?" I shoot out of my chair. "That's barely even hockey country!"
"It is now. And maybe you'll remember: talent's not enough. Discipline matters." Final word. "Pack up, Hayes. You're a Predator."
I walk out of his office feeling like the bottom just dropped out.
Traded. Dumped. From the heart of New York to country music land.
My phone buzzes, unknown number.
"Hayes? Coach Reynolds, Predators. Practice tomorrow, six a.m. Don't be late."
Click.
I stand on the curb, watching taxis blur past, and for the first time, I'm actually scared.
Not of hockey. Not the trade. But of how close I am to losing it all and somewhere deep down, knowing I can't help myself.
Still chasing bulls, even when they're about to trample me.