A Better Man

Dedication

This one is for the tea
chers

who encouraged me in my early y
ears.

For the teachers who go above and b
eyond

with knowledge, patience, and compas
sion.

And for Claudeen Berg
eron,

one of the nicest and
best.

May your lessons and voices be
heard

and appreciated for generat
ions.

Contents

Chapter 1

T
he pungent scent of sweat-­soaked bodies and the ice beneath Jordan Kincade's skates filled his nostrils. He devoured the energy, the thrill of the game, and the barely controlled chaos like a perfectly grilled steak. Queen's “We Will Rock You” and anticipation vibrated through the jam-­packed arena as he skated to face-­off with his opponent on a power play. The Carolina Vipers might be down by a goal, but he knew the high-­decibel, foot-­stomping boost from the home crowd would pull them thr
ough.

It always
did.

After an earlier vicious cross-­check delivered by Dimitri Pavel, Jordan—­much to the crowd's delight—­racked up five for fighting. Now it was time to cut the shit and focus. He couldn't allow Pavel's toothless sneer to tempt him into chalking up any more penalty points. There was just too damn much at s
take.

“Gonna vipe smile off dat pretty face, kinky
man.”

Pavel spat when he spoke, a habit that tempted his opponents to dodge the spray and miss the drop. Jordan, who had mercifully retained all his own teeth, imagined it was hard to speak properly when you had the gums of an infant. Still, Pavel could have strings of snot hanging from his nose and Jordan wouldn't care. He didn't dodge anything if it meant he'd lose the face
-­off.

“Your saggy jock calls bullshit,” Jordan shot back. Yeah, okay, the bait had been too strong to resist the smack talk. So sue
him.

Like a wolf focused on its prey, Jordan's attention sharpened as the ref lifted his hand and dropped the puck in front of Jordan's skates. Jordan wasted no time in pushing the biscuit across the ice into Tyler Seabrook's stick. The center took control. Dodging sticks, skates, and elbows, he managed to set up a shot in the sweet zone. Jordan snagged the pass and slapped it through the five-­hole before the goalie could get his glove o
n it.

Red lights flashed behind the net and the horn blew, signaling the goal. The crowd leaped to their feet in an ear-­splitting roar as the players came together for congratulatory slaps on the back. Nothing felt better than a team celebration after an important goal. The one he'd just scored had been vital and hopefully took the burn off the penalties he'd drawn earlier. With the score now tied, the Vipers would have to quickly score once more or win it in overtime. The chances of either were
iffy.

The shift change gave Jordan a chance to catch his breath and rest his legs. During a regular season game he didn't usually tense up. But the closer they got to making the playoffs, the more he tended to tighten every muscle to the extreme. By the time he made it home tonight he'd feel like he'd been hit by a bullet train. Once his team claimed victory and made it into the locker room, he'd need to have his favorite masseuse make a house call. Lucky for him his favorite masseuse came with a pretty smile, long blond hair, a taste for fine whiskey, and preferred to work in the
nude.

A smile curled his mouth as he watched Beau Boucher press his opponent into the corner boards with a glass-­quaking thud. The hulking defenseman used his weight and muscle to steal the puck and slide it across the ice to power forward Scott O'Reilly. O'Reilly sank it into the net so fast the goalie barely saw it flas
h by.

With only two seconds remaining on the play clock, the Vipers bench emptied and the entire team roared onto the ice to celebrate the win. Unless a miracle materialized for the other team in the next blink of an eye, the Vipers were one step closer to the Stanley
Cup.

Hallefreakingl
ujah.

A
fter a loss a locker room could be as silent as a crypt. Tonight, the noise level and celebration escalated to ear-­split
ting.

Jordan did his best not to grin like a raging fool during his post-­game recap with the reporter from the
Observer
. Exhilaration tingled through his chest. He loved this damn game, his team, and right now he even loved Coach Bill Reiner, who openly admitted that he was an unlovable SOB. Didn't matter. Hope remained alive. Every man on skates in this room could imagine the coveted silver Holy Grail of hockey pressed to their
lips.

Interview complete, Jordan had time to celebrate with the guys before everyone dropped their jocks and headed for the showers. Plans were already being made to take the party to the team's favorite sports bar. Turk's Ice House provided cold beer, perfectly cooked finger steaks, sharp darts, and plenty of pretty ladies who didn't mind if the newest rookie sported a purple Mohawk or wore his jock strap on the outside of his jeans. Hazing could be hell, and Turk's was always more than happy to add a little extra torture to the new
bies.

Tonight it didn't matter if you were the captain, a veteran, or the newest kid on the ice. Tonight they were a team and tonight they'd celebrate as one. Come tomorrow they'd all be back to kicking ass in practice and preparing for the biggest games of the se
ason.

Near the lockers, Boucher tangled rookie Colton Dahl up in a headlock, and Jordan laughed. Damn, he was happy. Just out-­of-­his-­mind fucking happier than he'd been in a long time. Things had been going great for a while now. If he were a superstitious man, he'd be worried that his string of good luck was about to break. But he wasn't even the type to grow a good-­luck beard during the playoffs like the other guys. He didn't hesitate to walk under ladders, and he didn't flinch when a black cat crossed his path. The vibe he had going was pretty sweet, and he planned to do everything in his power to keep it on fast t
rack.

Grabbing the back of his jersey with one hand, he pulled the number eighteen shirt over his head. A flash of purple and black briefly covered his eyes before he tossed the stinking material into the hamper and hung his pads in the locker. Before he could sit down to remove his skates, his cell phone
rang.

He debated answerin
g it.

Somehow the bleached blond princess he'd tangled legs with last week had gotten his number. Not that he didn't appreciate her willingness to go above and beyond between the sheets, but Jordan didn't have a want or a need to tie himself down to any woman. Especially one who had dollar signs in her eyes and envisioned his ring on her finger. Still, there were others who could be calling. And with five siblings it could be any one of
them.

Grabbing the black case, he glanced down at the calle
r ID.

Ryan.

His big brother rarely picked up the phone. Usually the man was too busy helping their parents run the family vineyards back in Washington State and being a single dad to his nine-­year-­old daughter. Then again, maybe Ryan had seen the game on TV tonight and was calling to offer his congratulat
ions.

Jordan poked the
ANSWER
button. “Hey, big brother. Did you see the g
ame?”

“I caught the first per
iod.”

“Only the first? What's the matter?” Jordan laughed. “You couldn't stand seeing me waste another five locked up for rearranging Pavel's big n
ose?”

“Jordy.” Ryan's tone twisted through the pit of Jordan's gut. “I'm sorry. I didn't call about your game. I've got some bad n
ews.”

The knot tightened. “How
bad?”

Ryan's silence on the other end of the phone sent a chill up Jordan's back. Behind him the locker room celebration continued to blast at full volume. “Hang on a second. Let me go out into the hall. I can barely hear
you.”

Jordan shoved open the swinging doors and stepped into the much quieter passageway between the locker room and the coach's office. “What's going on?” With five siblings it could be anything. In the past, it often had been. There had been Ethan's close call with a wildfire, the burns Parker received when a skillet of grease blew up, Declan's near fatal crash on a California freeway, and Ryan's bone-­breaking fall from the roof of the winery. Nicole, their baby sister, seemed to be the only one in the family who didn't break body parts on a regular b
asis.

Ryan cleared his throat. “There's been an accid
ent.”

“What kind of accident? Is Riley okay?” Jordan asked, immediately feeling the familiar guilt that he didn't get to see his niece often en
ough.

“She's fine. It's . . . Mom and
Dad.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Are they o
kay?”

“They hired one of those tour helicopters to fly them over Molokai.” Ryan's voice hitched. “It cras
hed.”

“What?” Disbelief sent Jordan's fingers jamming through his hair. Their parents had gone to Hawaii a few days ago to celebrate their thirty-­fifth wedding anniversary. They'd been looking forward to warm sunshine and tropical drinks. “Did they .
 . .”

“They're gone, Jordy. There were no surviv
ors.”

Jordan's throat closed like an iron fist had wrapped around his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't move. For a second he had to bend over and brace his hands on his knees to keep them from buckling. To keep his stomach from rolling like he was fighting titanic ocean waves. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd spoken to either his mom or his dad at length. And now 
. . .

In a distant echo he heard his brother calling his
name.

Agony pounded the breath from his lungs as he returned the phone to his ear. “I'll be on the next flight home,” he told
Ryan.

“Let me get things figured out here a little more. Someone needs to go to Hawaii to claim the bodies and arrange to have them flown home,” Ryan said in an unbelievably calm
tone.

Ryan had always been the strong one, the one with a spine of steel in most any situation. Didn't matter if Jordan was known to be a tough son of a bitch on the ice, Ryan was the one who managed to stay composed in the most stressful situations. Hell, even when his wife had left him high and dry with a little girl to take care of, Ryan's steadiness never cracked. Jordan admired the hell out of
him.

“I'll be on the next flight home,” Jordan repe
ated.

“What about your game sched
ule?”

“Fuck the game schedule. I'll see you tomorrow.” Hands shaking, Jordan disconnected the call and swallowed the nausea pooled in his throat. No doubt his brothers could take care of everything so he could focus on winning the Cup. But that silver trophy wouldn't mean shit if he abandoned them right now. He'd put his family in second place too many times in the
past.

He didn't know if they really needed him, but he sure as hell needed
them.

Beyond the swinging metal doors to the locker room the celebration commotion continued. But for Jordan, life as he knew it had vanished.