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“I do.” My eyebrows dipped, trying to figure out where this was going.

“Well, I’ve been going back and forth with the idea that I may want to visit him. I haven’t seen him since before he went away, and he’s actually here in Nevada. A few hours away.”

“If you’re asking if I think it’s a good idea that you go visit him, I don’t know the whole story, but I’m here to support you no matter what,” I answered, still at a loss.

“In that case … would you go with me? Like, you don’t have to go inside or anything. I just figured that a long drive with you by my side and getting to know each other could distract me. Kill two birds with one stone, you know?” she rambled, and it was honestly quite cute to watch her try to articulate her thoughts in real time.

“Are you using me for a distraction, Andi?” My lips curved ever so slightly.

“I’m saying I would like to be stuck in a car with you for a very long time if you’re available next weekend.”

“I’ll drive.” I winked.

It was evident that Andi and I had a lot to unpack, and getting into the details of it all here at the club probably wasn’t the best idea. I’d only been to The Royale Room a few times, but each time was unlike any experience you would expect at a sex club.

But one thing was for certain—Andi was breaking her rules for me one by one, and I was going to do everything in my power to not make her regret it.

After agreeing to our little road trip next weekend, I left the club. It was hard as hell to walk away knowing Andi still had a few hours on the clock, and with me leaving, it meant she had to entertain other members.

I tried my best not to think of her with other men, but deep down, I knew it didn’t mean anything. It was her job, and she’d been doing it since before I even knew who she was.

As much as I wanted to stay, it didn’t feel right. Especially after I dropped the bomb that I was a widower. At the age of thirty-nine, it wasn’t often that other men were in my position. Fuck, most of the people I knew had just gotten married in the last few years.

When I first got signed to the Neon as just a kid out of high school, I was in a serious relationship with the only girl I ever had eyes for. Signing a contract for a professional league also meant I was coming into more money than I knew what to do with at that age.

So, I bought my first condo, moved my longtime girlfriend in, and said, “fuck it, let’s get married.” I had everything I wanted in life—the career, the supportive family, and a girl by my side that I was crazy about.

One day, it all changed in the blink of an eye. Sarah wasn’t here, I couldn’t keep my head on straight enough to focus on the game, my dad passed away due to cancer shortly after Sarah, and my family began pressuring me to take over the team. Grieving was damn near impossible.

Seventeen years later, here I was, a man with more money than I knew what to do with, a team that had won more cups than my dad ever made happen, a big ass house, and a lonely life that I hadn’t let anyone into because it didn’t feel right to share a piece of my heart again.

And then Andi happened.

Fuck.

I turned on the TV as a way to distract myself. The Neon were on the road, playing in Boston. Normally, when my team played at home, you’d find me at the arena. With away games, I could tag along if I wanted to, but something about traveling alone all the time, even with friends and work as a distraction, it still felt lonely.

After a night like tonight—mentioning to another woman for the first time that my wife had passed away—normally, I’d call up Carter. Not many people in my life today were around back then. After everything went down, I was such a mess that only the real ones stuck around; Carter being one of them.

But he was in the middle of coaching a game. One that we were losing just a few moments ago until Jayson Jennings tied it up after scoring on the power play.

As much as I loved hockey—watching it, playing it, being surrounded by it—it still wasn’t enough to get my mind off everything.

Even though Andi had concocted this whole plan for next weekend, that only meant she now had more time to change her mind. She knew the bare minimum about my past, and there was nothing stopping her from deciding I had too much baggage.

As I started to doze off, memories of life in my early twenties invaded my mind.

It was game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals, and as I put my gear on, taped up my stick, put my phone on silent—putting the distraction out of reach—I mentally clocked in to play the best game of my career.

Moments later, my blades hit the ice, and after the national anthem concluded, the lights turned on, and I had a direct line of sight to the owner’s suite. Where I’d spent my entire childhood, now sat my dad, Mom, aunts, uncles, and high school friends. They looked down on me in the way I used to admire every player skating across the ice—with joy and hope.

There was only one problem. Out of all the people here to watch me raise the cup over my head, one person was missing.

My person.

The woman I made my wife just one year ago.

She’d never missed a game before, and there was absolutely no way she’d miss the biggest one in my career.