3. For Puck’s Sake, Is He Mine?

I sign my name to the pro contract addendum with a careful flourish. As the Puckers are the minor affiliate team to the Vipers, this is something I've been working my ass off for over the past few years.

Out of high school, I got signed on at first to a semi-pro team in the east coast league, then bounced around to a few teams over a handful of years before settling in L.A. It's only been since Duke came to our team with his previous professional experience that, under his mentoring, I believe I've developed enough to be an asset to a pro team.

"Tucker R. Bellamy. Nice. What's the R stand for?" Brad asks, giving the papers a final glance.

"Remington. It's a family name," I provide. About the only thing I have in common with my family these days, other than keeping in touch with my brothers, twins, back in New York City.

He jolts, squinting at me. "It is for mine, as well. My nephew's name. Definitely not a name you come across often in Southern California." He chuckles and shuffles the papers into a folder. "Well, congratulations, you're now a Viper."

"Hopefully, not temporary. Although I love the Puckers, I'd hate to get sent back down to the minors after a major show like this." Dang, I'll miss the Puckers guys, but since Storm and I share rent on a condo, I'll still be seeing them around.

"Right. My advice? Leave everything you've got on the ice, kiss ass to the top players, the captains, Coach McNamara, and the team owner, Pete Tate, even if you can't stand any of them. Strive to be the best. You work hard, they'll notice."

Damn, how quickly life can turn, and I can't mess this up. I glance around at the swanky conference room at Bradley Associates in a high-rise in the middle of L.A. My agent's done well for himself, given the modern aesthetic in the room of black leather, rich wood, and gold accessories. But none of this matters now. I have a job to do, taking over as a center on the Vipers' second line.

Brad stands, clapping me on the back. "Good. As long as you play your heart out on the ice, before you know it, sponsors will come knocking, adding to your income. You start to practice with the team this afternoon. I'll check in with you next week."

A crackling noise chimes in from the phone, like an intercom. "Sir? Your sister's here," a woman's voice calls out.

Guess that's my cue to leave. I follow him to the door, my mind spinning, focusing on putting one foot before the other. He stops with a hand up and I almost plow into it.

"Oh, one more thing. I have a strict rule with my clients, something I don't think you and I have discussed before. Don't date my sister."

I scoff. "I don't even know who your sister is."

"Good." He eyes me up and down. "She's off-limits."

I follow him down the hall, Duke's advice echoing in my brain. Just listen to everything Brad tells you to do and do it. Don't question his methods. He's the best.

My head is like a chalkboard at school, where Duke's mentoring words are written there a hundred times. I know one thing for sure, Duke's right, that I don't need distractions. I trust my career to Brad. With my first practice this afternoon, this meeting needs to get behind me so I can focus on what I do best. Play some damn good hockey.

"Nothing against sports players," Brad continues in a low voice as we walk out. "But most of them I've found are indeed players. I'd rather she settle down with someone not involved in the industry, if you get my drift."

"Sure. Understandable." I've known assholes in hockey who use women left and right. I wouldn't consider myself one, but it goes both ways. There are women out there just as cruel to players.

As we round the corner, whatever else Brad's saying fades. My heart pounds against my chest as I catch sight of her. In case I'm hallucinating, I blink a few times, but she's very real, as proven by Brad who gives her a hug.

The woman I met in Montana stands before us, just as stunning as I remember. Her silky brown locks fall full around her shoulders. Her body curves in all the right places, and my hands tingle with the memory of exploring every inch of her soft flesh.

When our eyes meet, it's the familiar crystal in her blues that captures me completely, as if telling my fortune. With any luck, she's mine to keep.

My dream woman is actually here.

I want to run to her and scoop her up and twirl her around in my arms, shouting "Reunited at fucking last!" Then take her to the nearest hotel or my place or anywhere with a bed so I can do what I did with her all over again. Taste her, feel her, come with her.

I remember every second of our night in Montana, especially how she felt in my arms…

I hold her close, swaying to the music, our bodies in motion, in tune with each other. Her eyes have hardly left mine while drinking and playing pool. They're sultry and coy when she's teasing me, crinkling at the corners when she laughs at my goofy jokes, and right now, while dancing to a slow song, they're daring me to make a move.

While we don't know a thing about each other, I know she's flirty, funny, and fucking beautiful to look at. I lean in and brush her ruby lips, sweet and sensual, my heart beating out of my chest. My lips graze down her chin, across her jaw to her earlobe.

"I don't know where you magically appeared from tonight, darling. But I think I'll be thanking my lucky stars in the morning," I whisper in her ear to finish out the song.

By the time the sunlight poked through my hotel window shades, she was gone. Now, here she is and I can't move. Neither does she.

No longer is she a woman in my dreams. She's the sister of my agent.

And off-limits.

All of a sudden, there's a child-like noise at her feet, taking her attention away from me. She bends over and picks something up.

Our eyes lock again, only this time, she holds a baby on her hip.

For fuck's sake, is that kid mine?