Fox Coulter fidgeted on his skates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He tapped the toe of his left skate with the oversized blade of his goalie's stick.

Two other goalies stood on either side of him as the coaches for the New York Brawlers deliberated over which of them they'd call up to fill the backup position for the upcoming season. He barely resisted the urge to shout, "Pick me!" Their former backup had been a free agent and signed with Dallas a week after the end of the previous season.

Fox sized up the guys on either side of him as best he could without looking at them or acknowledging their presence. It was all part of the game. On his right was Henri Jacobson. He had come to the United States to play just a year earlier when he was seventeen, having already been on one of Sweden's professional teams for two years. On his left was Bobby Jones. He'd just graduated high school and had a scholarship to Boston College waiting for him if the Brawlers didn't choose him.

Fox was twenty—one and had been kicking around the minor league farm system since his own high school graduation three years earlier. He had been offered a place on the hockey team at several colleges. Some had even offered him a little scholarship money, but he'd turned them all down, opting for playing semi—professionally right off the bat.

He'd never been academically inclined, and there was nothing he wanted to do except play hockey, so college seemed like a waste of time.

Now he wondered if he'd made a mistake. He'd underestimated how difficult it would be for him to distinguish himself as a goalie. It wasn't a position with a lot of turnover or flexibility like forwards or defensemen. Most teams had their main goalie and a backup—maybe two—who got ice time for one game in four or five. Fox had thought he'd play one season in the farm system before his call came, maybe even less. But it had been three years and still he hadn't been called up. Instead, he was starting to see players younger than him getting offered contracts. True, few of them were goalies, but it still made him feel older than he thought it should. Fuck, had he screwed up his life?

When he looked at his older brothers, or hell, at his sister Echo, and saw where they were with their careers, he felt like he was a lost cause. The Coulter who had failed.

Bryce had several major doubles tennis titles under his belt with his wife, Tami, and was famous for the comeback he'd made after a serious injury. Dax had just signed a contract extension with Jacksonville's pro football franchise, and the team was continuing to improve under their new coaches. They had made it all the way to the AFC Championship last season before getting knocked out by the Broncos on their way to the Superbowl. Echo was an Olympic silver medalist in track, and had started transitioning into an entrepreneur and fashion designer. Shit, even his little brother Gage was more successful with his scholarship to San Diego University and a prominent placement on their basketball team. The commentators who were already hyping next spring's March Madness brackets were speculating that he might even be better than their father Brent, who was a legend in his own right. Hell, his season hadn't even started yet.

The coaches deliberated out of earshot, and Fox began to feel the cold radiating off the ice, even under the layers of padding. He started going over each mistake he'd made during the skills demonstrations they'd run through.

The scrimmages had gone well enough. Fox knew he was solid when there were five men on the ice working with him. They had his back and were counting on him to have theirs as well. He was quick to pass the puck when he got it in the trapezoid behind the net and made it back to block the net easily. There were quite a few saves he'd made that had clearly impressed them. The team had impressed him as well. Fuck, he wanted this. But there had also been more than a few missed saves that he should have had; basic fake—outs he'd fallen for, and would continue to beat himself up over. Penalties were his biggest weakness. One—on—one, as players lined up to take unimpeded shots on him in practice, he was able to stop about half of them. In a shoot—out situation, his numbers dropped by more than half. And he hadn't done any better than that during the scrimmages the coaches had orchestrated.

If he was honest with himself, he knew what was coming, but he still tried to steel himself against the blow. Henri had done better than him, and his experience in Europe carried more weight than the Coulter name and legacy in this situation. His father's and grandfather's connections didn't extend into the hockey world.

Fox had always been the odd one out in his choice of sport. The lone child of winter while his siblings had all played in the warmth of summer—or at least indoor warmth. But he loved working up a sweat to combat the chill of the rink.

Of his brothers, he was the only one who had taken to a defensive position. Tennis required a bit of both, but with Tami at Bryce's side, the pressure and responsibility were halved. Dax and Gage both enjoyed the glory of being the one scoring points for their team.

Fox bore the weight of the goals scored against his. If the other team scored, it was his fault because he was the last line of defense. He had little control over his teammates' success in scoring, but he was the one between the pipes, making sure that whatever they did score truly counted.

The coaches emerged from the bench area and approached Bobby first, thanked him for showing them what he could do and wished him luck at BC. They assured him that they'd be keeping an eye on his college career, and that they were sure they wouldn't be alone in that. Then the eighteen—year—old skated off the ice, leaving just Fox and Henri with the coaches.

Fox took a deep breath and puffed up his chest, praying their eyes would go to the younger man at his right.

They looked at him. Fuck.

"Fox, you're a talented and knowledgeable goalie. The team you're with now is very lucky to have you," Coach Tremblay began. "This was an incredibly tough decision to have to make, and we wish we could extend an offer to both of you. But given the schedule we're facing and the competition in our conference, we're going to have to leave you where you are for the time being."

Coach Tremblay indicated for Fox to follow him a short distance away while his assistant coach tried to explain what was going on to Henri, who was still working on his English. Fox's pads suddenly felt like they weighed five hundred pounds, but he moved his legs and leaned on the stick to keep himself upright as Coach Tremblay continued.

"We're going to be keeping an eye on your numbers during this season, and if your clinch numbers improve a bit more, I promise you we'll be paying you another visit. It's just that we're anticipating a tough race in the conference to make the play—offs. The Rajun Cajuns are going to be tough to beat. We're going to need those ties to be overtime wins and…it's just not your strongest area. But improve there and in penalty kill goals, and we won't be the only team showing an interest in you for long."

Fox forced his mouth to move. "Thank you, sir," he managed to say as they reached the boards, and Coach Tremblay held out a hand for Fox to shake. Moving his stick and tucking his gloved hand under his other arm, he pulled his hand free to shake the coach's before turning and heading down to the locker room. He didn't let himself sag until he was safely inside.

Bobby had already cleared out by the time he got there, so he had the place to himself. Thank fuck. They'd held the goalies for the end, of course, so the other players had gone home to celebrate or commiserate.

Fox checked the messages on his phone, knowing there would be texts from his friends for him to join them. Most of them had been through the process enough times that they were familiar with the disappointment. Or they'd already had their brief time in the big leagues and were on their way down again because of injuries or age.

Many had simply gone home to their wives and children, but they weren't the teammates he was closest to. Most of his closest friends had been picked up to play the preseason with the team, and while he desperately wanted a drink, he wasn't in the mood to drink with any of them. He didn't want their pity or their reassurances. Not this time.

And he wasn't ready to go home. It hadn't been the same since Echo moved out some months before. He'd been crashing with his teammates more often than not. His trust fund had kicked in on his twenty—first birthday, and unlike the rest of his siblings, he had actually started dipping into it regularly. They all had other sources of income to fall back on; endorsements, spokesperson gigs, and paid appearances. And then there was Echo, who was developing her own athletic wear line.

He needed to move out. And while his minor league salary wasn't enough for the kind of place he wanted, his trust fund would make up the difference…if he let it. He didn't want to rely on that money. Not in that way. It was tantamount to admitting failure. And he wasn't ready to throw in the towel just yet. Or admit that to anyone. Especially not his family. He was the only Coulter to never reach his full potential. Congratulations to him.

***

Sasha Tenison knew better than to answer the phone when assholes called, but this particular asshole couldn't be avoided. She answered on the third ring. "Hi dad."

"Where are you? I called your office and was told you weren't there."

She bit her bottom lip to keep from groaning. She hated it when he checked up on her. It was as if he thought she was a child who needed his protection, or worse, his berating.

"I'm just waiting to see a friend. I'll be headed back to the office in a little bit," she replied with a sigh. She shouldn't have answered. She didn't have the patience for this conversation right now.

"Why you insist on working there is beyond me. It's like I never taught you better," he scolded.

It was times like this when she has truly hated him. Ever since her mother left, Sasha had been her father's special project. The man seriously needed his own hobbies.

"Dad, we've been through this. This is what I want to do."

"We both know you're not going to listen to me anyway. When have you ever done that? Exhibit A: that loser you're dating."

This was such a tired conversation. They'd had it a million times, and nothing was ever going to change. Her father was an old—school misogynist who believed that the only place for a woman was in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant.

How her mother had dealt with him for so long, Sasha had no idea. After all, her mother was a traditional debutante. She was the whole package. But eventually, the pressure of having to be the 'perfect athlete's wife' had gotten to her, and she'd left when Sasha was eight years old. At this point, Sasha understood why her mother had left and didn't blame her. What she didn't understand was why her mother left her behind. Whatever, it's water under the bridge now.

The problem this time, though, was that her father was right about her loser boyfriend. Ryan was a total dipshit. She knew it. His jealousy had gotten out of control lately. She needed to do something about it, but right now she was in avoidance mode.

You know how, you're just too lazy and tired.

Man, was she tired. Between her internship at TVN television network, her job at the restaurant, and her schoolwork, she didn't have time to breathe. Let alone, cater to her boyfriend's every whim. Or her father's, for that matter, even though her father was right. Ryan was convenient and available. He'd long outlived his welcome, but she was too exhausted to make any changes.

Yeah, like that's a good reason.

"Dad, you don't have to tell me how you feel about him every time we talk. I already know."

But her father was no longer listening. "What I find exasperating, is that you refuse to do anything about it. Even when you have better prospects. Fox Coulter has been sniffing around since you guys were kids, and you still haven't pulled the trigger on that. You're missing out on a prime opportunity you won't have forever. God knows I'm not giving you a trust fund or college fund. You have to leverage what you have, because nothing else is coming for you."

As if there is a college or trust fund to be had. The whole world knew he'd squandered the fortune given to him by her grandfather. He'd also squandered what he had earned from his own football career. Although, what he earned hadn't gone far—her father liked to spend as though there was an endless pool of cash coming his way. And a lifetime of injuries had kept him from playing again.

"I know, Dad. Listen, I have to go. I'm waiting on Fox."

"You got that boy on a hook. You better get yourself a piece of that Coulter money, because I'm not gonna take care of you."

"Yeah, I got that," she bit out.

She hung up the phone and shoved it back into her pocket. She didn't want to think about her father. She hardly ever saw him, but she couldn't help but answer when he called because the guilt ate away at her. If she didn't answer the phone, then who would? Lord knew the man didn't have anyone. And as much as she disliked him, he was still her father. Her sense of obligation was usually what got her into trouble. That's why she had been with Ryan for this long.

She set those thoughts aside. She wasn't here for either of them. Right now, she was here for Fox. She hoped and prayed that he had made it this time. She knew how it killed him to get this close but not quite make it. He'd be devastated, and she never knew how to help.

Fox was good. Really, really good. Watching him skate and play was like a revelation. Everyone from his family to sports enthusiasts said it and had high hopes for him. Fox's biggest obstacle was that he always managed to psych himself out, always getting too much into his own head. She knew that better than anyone because she had been his best friend for the past ten years. This time, she prayed he would get everything he had ever dreamt of.

He worked harder than anyone she knew, even in high school. He would always be on the ice before anyone else, practicing long before he had to be there. There was nothing Fox wanted more than to be on the ice.

She prayed hard that this time, he would get his dream. Simply because it killed her to watch him beat himself up when shit didn't go his way.

When the side doors opened to the arena, she watched as one of the biggest men she'd ever seen lumbered out with a bag on his shoulder. No denying it, this guy was one of the players. One by one, she watched as huge tree trunks of men filed out. She prayed that he wouldn't come out of the door next.

She looked at the sign she had brought, it was their thing. One side said, Congratulations, Let's Get Drunk. And the other side was the dreaded other. She hoped she wouldn't have to flip her sign over.

The door opened once more, and Sasha silently pleaded for it not to be Fox. She knew the longer he was in there, the better the news was. Even if the San Diego sun wasn't shining brightly in the sky making his numerous tattoos stand out, she'd recognize his build. Still, Sasha held onto her hope. She held up her sign of Congratulations, Let's Get Drunk! with a bright smile on her face and continued her silent prayer.

Please, please, please God. Please, please, please let him have made it.

As he approached, she knew that his dreams weren't coming true today. No one was hearing her prayers. But she refused to give up on him.

She held her sign high and yelled, "So, where're we drinkin', superstar?"

Fox shook his head. "We're not. They went with Henri."

Sasha's heart sank. She wanted to run up to him, cradle him in her arms, and say that everything was going to be okay. She knew better than to do that, though. Instead, she kept her smile in place and turned her sign over to the side that said, Fuck Them, Let's Go Drink.

"I see you changed it." Behind the sorrow, she saw a glimmer of humor. Her Fox was in there somewhere.

She had changed up the sign. He'd been going on more and more tryouts, just to come home disappointed each time. She didn't want to seem predictable, so she kept trying to come up with one that would make him laugh.

"Well, I can't let you figure me out. You don't want me to get boring, do you?"

Fox shook his head, "Thanks Sash, but I kinda want to be on my own tonight."

She could see the shadow pressing on his shoulders. "Look, it'll happen, Fox. Just believe me, I'm never wrong."

He gave her a weary smile, "I know. Still, I'm just gonna head on out."

When he got like this, there wasn't much she could do except wait for him to come around. "I hear you. But obviously, you know, if you need to talk—" she stopped. He doesn't want my pity.

"I know."

"You know, you still haven't seen my new place. You could drop by with a bottle of wine, or something."

A smile tipped his lips. "Yeah, I got you, Sash. Call you later."

Sasha could only watch as Fox lumbered to his car. She hoped he would be ok. She wasn't sure how much longer she could watch the disappointment sink into him. She hoped that something happened for him soon. He deserved it.

Without Fox, her choices were to either go home or to the office. Before she even pondered her options, she knew where she was going. The office, because the longer she could put off the impending confrontation with Ryan, the better.