CHAPTER ONE
Cannon
“So this is it?” Heath called, one brow cocked and his jaw squared as Cannon jumped down the last few steps of the bus.
“Guess so,” he commented, stretching his arms over his head as he surveyed their surroundings.
One by one, the men piled out of the bus, some still yawning and blinking the sleep from their eyes, but their expressions soon turning somber at the sight before them. They were staring at a lake. Just... a lake.
“Coach?” Cannon called, his voice slightly tentative as he motioned for Heath to keep his trap shut, sensing from a mile away that his friend—and one of the most aggressive forwards he’d ever had the pleasure of being on the same team with—was going to run his mouth again.
No one needed that shit right now. Least of all Cannon Wright, the captain of the Chicago B… scratch that, captain of the yet-to-be-named Idaho ice hockey team, stranded seemingly in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. He slicked his hand through his short-cropped dark hair, watching the grizzled old man, who went by the name of Coach to anyone who dared refer to him at all, amble out of the bus at a leisurely pace.
For a fleeting moment, Cannon hoped that there had been some sort of a mistake. A little mishap, a wrong turn somewhere along the way that was supposed to take them to a city and a decent ice rink, but ended up with a team of brash, powerful shifter hockey players staring at a goddamn lake. No Zamboni in sight, just snow and good ol’ fashioned ice.
“What a beautiful day,” Coach chuckled, stretching much the same as Cannon had, the crack of his back sounding more like bones snapping in half.
“Uh-huh. Beautiful. Coach, you wanna explain yourself here or what?” Memphis asked in his trademark drawl, leaning on the side of the big white and blue bus that had brought Cannon and eight other unfortunate young men to wherever they were now.
Somewhere in Idaho. Where the mountains are high and the cell reception is shit, Cannon thought wryly, shoving his smartphone back in his pocket after confirming that he got exactly zero bars in the middle of the high pine trees and the lush smell of nature.
And while the man was both pissed off and aggravated at having to be cooped up in a bus for fourteen hours for no apparent reason, the grizzly bear in him was practically standing up on its hind legs, trying to smell everything and anything at the same time. A quick glance around confirmed that he wasn’t the only one. Aside from glaring at Coach, most of the men seemed to be preoccupied with not shifting and tearing it for the hills.
No wonder. Considering their training and the fact that most of them were city-slickers through and through, the team didn’t see a lot of open spaces anymore. Unless the rink counted. Cannon got the sinking feeling that this little tidbit of insight had a whole lot to do with why exactly they were standing around Coach at the moment, anxiously anticipating an answer.
“Explain myself?” Coach asked, his voice always more of a roar than anything approaching conversational. “What do I have to explain myself for? Open up the cargo compartment. You’ll find enough shovels and brooms for all of you. There’s a whole goddamn lake to clean up.”
Oh yeah. There it was. Trouble.
“Heath,” Cannon growled as he stepped forward, recognizing by the way the man’s nostrils flared that the bear shifter was not satisfied by Coach’s comment. “Coach, man-to-man here. What’s going on? Why are we in Idaho? I know you said we’re relocating, but… Idaho? And as far as I can tell, we’re not exactly anywhere yet. This seems to be…” Cannon trailed off, motioning around with one outstretched arm before returning his steely blue gaze to Coach. “A forest.”
“And right you are, Cannon. Perceptive as always. It’s a forest. And that,” Coach said, pointing at the wide, roughly circular lake covered with snow, “is a lake. A lake that you will
Cannon
“So this is it?” Heath called, one brow cocked and his jaw squared as Cannon jumped down the last few steps of the bus.
“Guess so,” he commented, stretching his arms over his head as he surveyed their surroundings.
One by one, the men piled out of the bus, some still yawning and blinking the sleep from their eyes, but their expressions soon turning somber at the sight before them. They were staring at a lake. Just... a lake.
“Coach?” Cannon called, his voice slightly tentative as he motioned for Heath to keep his trap shut, sensing from a mile away that his friend—and one of the most aggressive forwards he’d ever had the pleasure of being on the same team with—was going to run his mouth again.
No one needed that shit right now. Least of all Cannon Wright, the captain of the Chicago B… scratch that, captain of the yet-to-be-named Idaho ice hockey team, stranded seemingly in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. He slicked his hand through his short-cropped dark hair, watching the grizzled old man, who went by the name of Coach to anyone who dared refer to him at all, amble out of the bus at a leisurely pace.
For a fleeting moment, Cannon hoped that there had been some sort of a mistake. A little mishap, a wrong turn somewhere along the way that was supposed to take them to a city and a decent ice rink, but ended up with a team of brash, powerful shifter hockey players staring at a goddamn lake. No Zamboni in sight, just snow and good ol’ fashioned ice.
“What a beautiful day,” Coach chuckled, stretching much the same as Cannon had, the crack of his back sounding more like bones snapping in half.
“Uh-huh. Beautiful. Coach, you wanna explain yourself here or what?” Memphis asked in his trademark drawl, leaning on the side of the big white and blue bus that had brought Cannon and eight other unfortunate young men to wherever they were now.
Somewhere in Idaho. Where the mountains are high and the cell reception is shit, Cannon thought wryly, shoving his smartphone back in his pocket after confirming that he got exactly zero bars in the middle of the high pine trees and the lush smell of nature.
And while the man was both pissed off and aggravated at having to be cooped up in a bus for fourteen hours for no apparent reason, the grizzly bear in him was practically standing up on its hind legs, trying to smell everything and anything at the same time. A quick glance around confirmed that he wasn’t the only one. Aside from glaring at Coach, most of the men seemed to be preoccupied with not shifting and tearing it for the hills.
No wonder. Considering their training and the fact that most of them were city-slickers through and through, the team didn’t see a lot of open spaces anymore. Unless the rink counted. Cannon got the sinking feeling that this little tidbit of insight had a whole lot to do with why exactly they were standing around Coach at the moment, anxiously anticipating an answer.
“Explain myself?” Coach asked, his voice always more of a roar than anything approaching conversational. “What do I have to explain myself for? Open up the cargo compartment. You’ll find enough shovels and brooms for all of you. There’s a whole goddamn lake to clean up.”
Oh yeah. There it was. Trouble.
“Heath,” Cannon growled as he stepped forward, recognizing by the way the man’s nostrils flared that the bear shifter was not satisfied by Coach’s comment. “Coach, man-to-man here. What’s going on? Why are we in Idaho? I know you said we’re relocating, but… Idaho? And as far as I can tell, we’re not exactly anywhere yet. This seems to be…” Cannon trailed off, motioning around with one outstretched arm before returning his steely blue gaze to Coach. “A forest.”
“And right you are, Cannon. Perceptive as always. It’s a forest. And that,” Coach said, pointing at the wide, roughly circular lake covered with snow, “is a lake. A lake that you will
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