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I grab my squeeze bottle and squirt water over my face. “Just giving him some pointers on how to stop pucks.” Some of the guys overhear and laugh, which makes me chuckle even more.

One guy—the one seated beside Durby—takes the happy out of my moment. He’s the owner of the sharp tongue and the guy who decides whether I get to stay. Donovan Harper—or Harps—is a few years younger and wears the alternate captain’s A—which should stand for “Attitude.” This is the only team he’s ever played for or ever will because management will do whatever it takes to keep him. He’s that good. A franchise player. The face of the team. And one of the most arrogant pricks on the planet.

Did I mention he hates my guts?

He glares at me as if he’s trying to decide whether to burn a hole through my head or slam his fist into my face. He might be a dick of epic proportion, but on the ice, the dude’s next-level, one of our elite playmakers. I may not like him, but I respect the hell out of him for what he means to our team.

Off the ice, his shit doesn’t stink. He’ll tell you all about how sweet it smells. I’m not sure what I did to piss him off—besides breathing—but he’s sported a hatred hard-on for me since day one, and he doesn’t mind letting me and the entire team know it. Hence the team’s “chemistry problem” Coach is constantly badgering me about. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Harper’s not going to extend the olive branch, and he’s rejected every one I’ve offered, which makes for some kind of awkward in the dressing room because we’re right next to each other. Coach had this harebrained idea that sticking our stalls side by side would help us overcome our “personal differences.” So far, the experiment hasn’t worked. Harper uses our proximity as an opportunity to tell me what a fuck-up I am and how it’s only a matter of time before I’m gone.

What a twatwaffle.

And right now he’s showing his courteous side by growling, “You know how big an asshole you are, right?”

Know what I really want to say? “No, douchebag. Why don’t you tell me?” Instead, I school my expression as I glance at him. “I’ve heard rumors.”

His eyes narrow—which gives him the appearance of a rat. “Wait until the game’s over before firing your fucking mouth off and getting them worked up, jerkoff. We’re a long way from being done here, and if we lose, it’s on you.”

I bite my tongue to keep my thoughts from spilling out. What I want to tell him is if we lose, it’s on him and the other goal-scorers who get paid the big bucks to put the biscuit in the basket. My fourth-line mates and I have done our part, and we’ll continue grinding until the horn sounds.

“We got this,” I say instead, faking confidence I haven’t earned yet.

He scoffs and looks away, his mouth a grimace shaped by disgust. Coach darts a look my way, but his face is unreadable. Meanwhile, our captain, Cam Blue, leans in and says something in Harper’s ear that causes that grimace to harden.

I’m not sure what Blue thinks of me yet. He’s on the gruff side and intense, but who at this level isn’t? What I care about is that he’s fair and leads by example. Takes time with the rookies and gives the veterans the space they’ve earned. Us in-betweeners? He gives us shit when we’ve earned it and attaboys when we’ve done a good job. The guys respect the hell out of him, including me.

After another nail-biting five minutes, we win the game, and we celebrate as though we’ve just won the conference final. Finally, we have as many wins as losses on the year. It’s a big fucking deal. It’s also the perfect way to wind up this part of the season and kick off the All-Star break. Hitting late January with ten glorious days of downtime—when you’re not an All-Star yourself—is the ultimate mid-season gift. That’s ten days to kick back on a tropical beach or visit family or enjoy simple pleasures like sleeping in while our bodies heal before the real grind begins.

Me, I’m champing at the bit to hop into my truck and drive three hours to the coast, where I’ll finally get to spend alone time with my lady love, and God, I can’t wait. I need time with her like I need my next breath.

Damn if Durby doesn’t single-handedly throw a wrench into those plans.

Chapter 2

Prick Vibes and Gray Eyes

Jackie

I sit quietly in the passenger seat while my brother drones on about the win. I get it. His team sucks, and this victory is huge for them. Normally, I’d be cheering right along with him—I am prouder of my little bro than he’ll ever know—but then, I’m not even supposed to be here. The fact that I am is another layer of humiliation heaped on a pile so high it obliterates the sky.

I’m the kind of girl who’s usually down for a celebration, but honestly? I’m dreading tagging along to this impromptu after-party at his captain’s house. Sitting through the team dinner was agony enough. I’ll have to keep my fake smile plastered on while I deflect more of the usual questions that come up in polite conversation, like, “What profession are you in?” I’m not. “A director of finance? Bet you have all kinds of offers coming your way, right?” Not with my toxic track record. Or, “How long will you be staying with Donovan?” Until I get back on my feet again. In other words, for the foreseeable future.

I’m lost in a wrestling match with the ball of barbed-wire thoughts in my brain when my brother prods. “Jack, are you listening?”

Um, no. “Yeah, sorry. Just tired after the long drive and all the excitement of the game, I guess.”

We’re stopped at a red light, and he slides me a sympathetic look, which I hate. I don’t want his sympathy, even if I’ve earned it, which I haven’t—not after the act of stupidity that brought me here. Right now what I want most is his forgiveness, his shoulder to cry on, his guest room to hide away in. I want him to stop being so nice and to start yelling at me. I want … Hell, I don’t know what I want.

Actually, I do know. I want my old life back. I want to go back to the woman I was before Royal crushed me. Seriously, shouldn’t his name have been a dead giveaway? Why didn’t my warning systems go on high alert? Low alert? Any alert at all? No, my antennae were nonfunctional the day he charmed his way into my life, and I’ll pay the price for that blunder the rest of my days.

“Hey,” Donovan says softly, “we don’t have to stay long.”

“No, it’s okay. I want to be there and celebrate with you.” And I do. He deserves this, and I don’t want to take that away from him. I want to repay my baby brother any way I can for coming to my rescue, for all he’s done for me when no one else would, and if it means sucking it up and wearing a happy face at his party, I’ll do it.

He knows I’m hurting, though, so to ease his conscience and keep him from worrying about me, I add, “I don’t want to be a drag on your evening. I can always order a rideshare if I want to leave before you. Or maybe one of your teammates will be willing to drop me off on his way home if he leaves before you’re ready.”

His eyebrows hit his hairline. “No rideshares. And I don’t want you accepting rides from any of my teammates.”