Chapter 6

Kate

I'll be at your place in an hour. Prepare for questions!

Me

I have no idea what you're talking about.

Of course not. It's almost like a tall, dark, handsome, and super famous NHL star, swooning over a fan happens every day of the week.

He wasn't swooning. He wished Jack a happy birthday.

Uh-huh. I'll be there soon. Oh, and wear that black figure-hugging dress. You look so hot in that.

I'm starting to think you have ulterior motives for inviting me out tonight…

You'd be right :) XOXO

I close out the text conversation with Kate but quickly divert to Instagram. Jon's profile to be precise. He doesn't post much on there, and when he does, it"s rarely personal, mostly roundups of games and thanking fans. But when I search for Jon Morgan via Explore, there's plenty more revealed.

Photos of him with a different woman each time, and they could all be supermodels. Mostly they're brunettes with big boobs, amazing figures, and legs at least twice as long as mine. They say comparison is the thief of all joy, and this is without a doubt stealing mine.

I knew he had a reputation as a playboy, but seeing it in the flesh, or through a screen, brings me back down to reality with a thud. He clearly doesn't take women seriously and besides, I have no interest in being another one of his "puck bunnies" as the comments underneath each photo keep repeating.

Jon Morgan is bad news for women. Plain and simple.

I finish the last sip of my Pinot Grigio, just as my door buzzes, and I press the speaker.

"Hey! I'm downstairs, and I've managed to flag a taxi. You ready?"

"Yep, coming down now!"

On first sight of me, Kate low whistles. "Damn, girl, you're giving me a toothache," she croons.

"Oh, this old thing?" I point to my dress. "Yeah, some bossy bitch told me to wear it tonight." I playfully wink back at her.

"Love the shoes—they look like Jimmy Choo."

I scoff, "Yeah, because my excessive salary and monthly clothing budget definitely stretch to high-end designer shoes."

Kate looks stunning in a red halter dress and black ankle strap heels; her blonde hair is wavy and falls around her shoulders.

The ride to our first bar is a short five-minute drive, but I can already feel the weight of Kate's intrigue. I brace for impact.

"Okay, I can't wait any longer. Spill."

I turn to her in the back seat. "Spill what?"

"Don't deny me the tea, babe, tell me!"

I chew nervously on the side of my thumb. "Honestly, there's nothing to tell. He saw the birthday message on the jumbotron, and when they came out for the third period, he skated over to wish Jack a happy birthday. It was sweet."

"Except even from the angle on the TV, I could tell he wasn't looking at Jack. He was one hundred percent eye-fucking you."

I puff out a disbelieving breath. "I find that very hard to believe."

"Well, yeah, you wouldn't have noticed, since you kept your head down the entire time."

I'm not surprised Kate saw the footage. She's an avid Scorpions fan. What she doesn't know about the team and players you could write on the back of a postage stamp.

"Yeah, well, he's a playboy. I'm sure he does that with every fan."

"Yes, he's the biggest man-whore ever. But I've never seen him, or any other player, do that. Like, ever."

I wave a dismissive hand in front of my face. "You're making something out of nothing."

We pull up outside the new cocktail bar Kate wanted to try. It's packed with barely any space at the bar, but we find a gap in the bodies and squeeze our way in. I order my number one cocktail, a Cosmo, and Kate tries the mojito.

"Oh my god, that's sooo good." My best friend throws her head back. "I needed this after the week at work I've had."

"Tell me about it," I agree.

We find a spare high-top table surrounded by stools and take a seat.

"He's supposed to be amazing in bed, you know."

I almost spray my cocktail across the table. "I'm sure he is. Sounds like he's had enough practice."

"Oh, he definitely has." She wiggles her eyebrows.

"Wait, you know someone who's been with him?"

She eyes me over the rim of her glass. "Not exactly, no. But there are plenty of women who have, and they say he goes all night."

"Does he, really?" I reply in a semi-sarcastic tone.

"I can't believe you're not even the least bit curious."

Oh, I'm curious. But I'm not about to have my face plastered across social media and labeled as a puck bunny.

"We bumped into each other when I went to collect Jack's tickets. We sent each other flying across the corridor, and I almost broke my phone. I think he kind of feels bad about it."

"Ohmygod. So, you didn't think to tell me that you've had physical contact with him?"

"No, Kate, I didn't. It was like a three-minute interaction."

"Three minutes! What did you say?"

"Let's just change the subject," I say, knowing this whole conversation is utterly pointless. I'll likely never see or speak to him again beyond watching his games.

"I just think it's strange how he looked at you, that's all." Kate shrugs a shoulder.

"Well, whether it was strange or not, I know what his terms are when it comes to women, and they aren't going to fly with me."

But I might as well be talking to myself because Kate has clearly tuned out and is now staring right past me and over my shoulder toward the bar. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is agape.

Her gaze eventually returns to mine, but it's now replaced with a hint of smugness. "Tell me again how I'm making something out of nothing." She brings her glass to her lips as she nods in the direction she was staring as if inviting me to turn around and see the source of her satisfaction for myself.

I freeze, not daring to turn around, and in all honesty, I don't need to. I know what's behind me—no, who's behind me—because I feel him. Right down to my toes. It"s unmistakable. The same zing of electricity that's only zapped through me when he's been in my presence. I clench my thighs together as my body betrays me, an aching throb deep in my core begins to build, and I haven't even laid eyes on him yet.

"Jesus, Felicity, he can't take his eyes off you." I hear Kate's voice just above the heavy pulsing of my heart rate.

I down the rest of my drink in one gulp and set my glass on the table before slowly turning to look at him.

Despite our strong start to the season, I haven't been any more inclined to go out with the boys. If anything, I've been less concerned with nights out and more interested in relaxing in my apartment with a beer and feeding my Breaking Bad habit because, man, that's a good show.

Tonight though, I've been forced to come out by Jensen as he practically ripped me from my apartment, insisting we "try that new cocktail bar attracting all the hot pussy."

All night I've been pissy and grumpy as hell. Convinced my days of going out post-game and practices are way behind me.

But as of around three minutes ago, my annoyance has completely dissipated, replaced with the need to kiss Jensen full-on and in public for dragging my sorry ass out. Because sitting about twenty feet away from me, in a figure-hugging, hot-as-hell, little black dress, with come-to-bed silver strappy heels wrapped around dainty ankles, is my angel.

Fucking hell.She is other-worldly.

There's got to be a hundred other females in here, yet she's the only woman I see, want to see. At first sight of her, I crossed my ankles and leaned back on the bar, if only to disguise the tent setting up residence in the front of my pants. Sure, I've been aroused by other women before, and I've fucked nearly all of them too. But this, this isn't arousal—this is feral need.

"Take a picture; it'll last longer." Jensen sidles up to me, handing me a beer. We've only just gotten here and immediately when I walked through the door, I felt her presence dance across my skin.

"Huh?" It's all I can manage; I'm tongue-tied like a pre-teen.

"That's her, right, the girl you freaked out with your intense staring through the jumbotron last home game?" Jensen points to her.

"Don't fucking point to her. Christ, I'm trying to act cool about this. I wasn't expecting to see her."

His shoulders start to shake and then the bastard doubles over in laughter, "Cool? You must be joking, Jon. Cool left the building the moment you stared at her through the jumbotron for like an hour. Add to that, you haven't been interested in any other females. Don't think we haven't noticed. Usually, if it has brown hair, big boobs, and a pulse, you're leaving with it, but since you laid eyes on her?" He fucking points again. "You've become all pussywhipped."

I scoff, "Pussywhipped?! I haven't even formally met her; how can I possibly be pussywhipped?"

Jensen's laughter returns with vengeance, "No, no, you're right, you're not pussywhipped; you're absolutely fucked."

"It's true, Jon—you are fucked." I hadn't noticed Kyle Johnson make an appearance, but here he is, putting his two cents in, a rookie forward getting a little too comfortable at his captain's expense if you ask me.

But I am fucked. I barely recognize myself right now. Jon of old would be sitting in one of those big booths at the back with a lady of his choice sucking at his neck while considering which is closer, her place or a hotel room. My privacy is golden, and aside from my teammates, agent, and close family, no one knows where I live. I've even managed to keep my place secret from the press.

However, this Jon, he can't stop staring, borderline pining for a girl he barely knows.

"Oh, wait, bro, she's turning around! Shit, that is one fine piece of a—" My glare bitch slaps Kyle into submission.

But if he's thinking it, then every single guy in this bar is too, and I can't have that. I'm tempted to rip off my jacket, stride across, and cover her over, so no one will ever lay eyes on her again. For my eyes only. And yet I am striding over, but not to cover her with my jacket. That"s too much, for now. Instead, I'm flanked by Jensen, and for all his annoyances, he makes an awesome wingman, ready to entertain and distract her blonde friend. I've been desperate for a chance to make my move, and tonight is too good an opportunity to pass up.