Chapter 1

1

January

The All-Star weekend was usually a blast.

For the fans and the younger players, mostly. This was Dylan Bankowski’s fourth invite and given the way his body was holding up, it would probably be his last.

Thirty-six and feeling it.

He had tried to enjoy the events. He’d gotten a kick out of yelling at the rookies, had acquitted himself well in the one-timer event in the Skills Comp, and managed to get a goal on his former Nashville tender, Jimmy McPherson.

But it had felt like the end. Of his career. Of the most important period in his life. Traded from Nashville to the Chicago Rebels this same weekend was about as ignominious a finish as could be expected. Heading for pasture, his body breaking down slowly.

A first world hockey player problem, to be sure. He’d had a good run. Never won the Cup but he’d come close a couple of times, including a heartbreaker of a Game 7 with the ’Ville a few years back.

The vibe at this dive a couple of blocks off the Las Vegas Strip suited his mood. Real Housewives junk on the TV and the crowd as miserable as he felt. A couple of old timers propped up the bar on one end while a gaggle of girls from a bachelorette party were trying to stump the bartender with tricky cocktail requests ( do you know how to make a Cosmopolitan? ).

A text came in from his mom.

Nice game, sweetheart.

Banks

Thanks. I managed not to fall over.

The phone rang and he answered it. His mom picked up the conversation like they’d been chatting all night.

“Wasn’t expecting the trade.”

“Neither was I. But Chicago’s a good landing place.” His family lived in Apple Falls, Wisconsin, about a three-hour drive from the city. The Rebels, though? Definitely the lesser franchise in Chi-town. They’d won the Cup six years ago and hadn’t come close since. Made it seem like a fluke, and the rivers of young blood running through the team confirmed it.

“Doesn’t matter where you are, we’ll be there for the playoffs.”

It was a family tradition. They always came to visit for the first round, and as there would be fewer of those to come, this one would be special.

“Better find a house then.”

“Bathrooms for everyone! You heading out with the boys later?”

“Probably. Just easing into the night for now.”

She clucked. “Have a good time. Maybe find yourself a nice girl to settle down with.”

A joke, but also not. He had no problem attracting women but connecting on a meaningful level was a whole other story. That he had “the personality of a tree stump,” as one ex-girlfriend had so eloquently put it, didn’t help.

“I’m not exactly husband material, Mom.” It was worth reminding her. His family saw the son and heir’s singledom as a problem to be managed.

“Because some flighty piece couldn’t see what’s right in front of her? Don’t you dare let any woman decide whether you’re good enough.”

He huffed out half a laugh. “Except the ones I’m related to.”

“Damn straight. The Bankowski women determine your worth, and don’t you forget it.”

She always had the capacity to bring him out of himself. Around her and his family he was about 10% more cheerful, but not enough for Stacy, his ex in Nashville. Once in Chicago, he wouldn’t have to worry about running into her. One positive to the trade.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the bachelorettes had detached from the herd, like a stray gazelle in one of those nature docs, and was currently zig-zagging her way over to his side of the bar. He assumed she was heading for the restrooms until she placed a hand on his arm.

“Well, aren’t you a Grizzly-beared hunk of man?” Her voice had a twang to it, Texan probably, though exaggerated by whatever she’d downed so far. “Wanna buy me a drink, sugar?”

He held up his phone and raised an eyebrow, signifying his busyness and her rudeness in one motion.

No joy. The brunette stayed where she was, all spiky-tipsy challenge.

He spoke into his phone. “Got to go. Call you tomorrow?”

“You do that. But not too early. Hopefully you’ll be busy tonight and will need your rest.” On that somewhat inappropriate wish, she clicked off.

Back to the Southern Belle. “Not really looking for company.”

She leaned in, giving him a clear view of nice tits that should have stirred something. Had this trade news broken his dick?

“You sure? You look so lonely down here. My friends bet I couldn’t get you to buy the bride a drink.”

Her T-shirt’s slogan was “Last Rodeo” followed by “Kristin’s Bachelorette, Vegas Baby!”

This must be Kristin, who evidently had more than cocktails on her mind. Her hand still lay on his arm but was now getting a wander on. Down to his forearm, back up to his bicep. It did nothing for him, especially with the added knowledge of her relationship status.

“Best head on back now.”

Annoyance flashed over her face. This chick was used to getting her way. “You want me to look silly in front of my friends?”

Pity for her plight had him rethinking his stance. A drink wouldn’t hurt, maybe a round for the entire bachelorette party. Weddings and Vegas, like PB and J.

Before he could signal to the bartender, another voice cut in.

“Hey, Big Guy, stepping out on me already?”

In rather comical unison, Banks and the bride turned to the questioner. She was petite, not more than a couple of inches above five feet, and his first thought was Princess Peach, what are you doing here? The dress was rose pink, the hair was cornsilk blonde, the eyes … a stunning blue with flecks of green. But it was her mouth that really set her apart. Sin and sweetness rolled into one, it was now shaped in a wicked curve. Like she knew all his secrets, and if he was good, she might tell him, one kiss at a time.

“You’re here,” he said, because it seemed like the right thing, the only thing, to say.

A raised eyebrow, almost approving. “Now, what have I told you about talking to strange women?” She delivered a withering look to the competition that made Banks pleased to not be on her wrong side.

“Uh, don’t?”

“Can’t leave ya alone for a second.” To the bride, she said, “Best go fishing in more available waters, honey.” She curled a finger around his pinkie and gave a little tug. “I got us a booth over here.”

He didn’t need rescuing. He could have easily repelled the bride with his usual, unstinting rudeness, but something about this woman’s command of the situation piqued his interest. Sliding off his bar stool, he grabbed his IPA and nodded at the bride. “Good luck with your wedding.”

She hmphed, not liking the reminder, he guessed.

He slid into the booth, his finger still looped by his rescuer. Once seated, she let it go, and now they stared at each other, wondering where to go from here.

He went first. “Thanks, honey .”

There was that saucy smile again. “It’s not every day I see a prince in distress. Figured you could do with the assist.”

“I had it covered.”

She tilted her head. “Did you? From where I was sitting, you were about to be on the hook for a round of Appletinis and a whole heap of trouble.”

“Maybe I’m looking for trouble.”

“Not with a woman about to get married!” She lowered her voice, which made him lean in. The bodice of her strapless dress showed cleavage and the upper swells of small tits, a very pleasant place to rest his eyes. “You’re too nice a guy for that.”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“You were chatting to your mom while sitting in a Vegas bar. Only a nice guy would do that.”

She’d heard that? Sitting behind him, in this booth, he supposed it was possible.

“What else did you hear about your new boyfriend?”

“Something about you not being husband material, which is good because I’m nowhere near ready for that kind of commitment. I assume Mom told you to get over yourself.”

He repressed a smile. “She did. But then she’s duty-bound to say nice things to me.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What made you say that?”

“Just a hunch I have.”

“So you don’t want to go deep. I get it. I’m only your fake fiancée after all.”

Graduated from girlfriend mighty quick, but damn, he enjoyed her directness.

“I’ve been told by previous real girlfriends that I’m not suited to marriage. Which is fine because I don’t want to get married.”

“Let me guess.” She raised a finger to her chin in thought. “You’re obsessed with your career or some manly hobby and any girl in your life always comes off as second best.”

“Not any girl.”

“Ah, your momma.”

“She’s the only one who understands me.”

“Poor misunderstood …” She raised her glass, something clear in a lowball.

“Banks. People call me Banks.”

“Even your mom?”

“She calls me other things. All of them deserved.”

Another smile, and his cock stirred. Not broken, after all.

“You sound close.”

“We are. What should I call you?”

“Georgia.”

Princess Peach, a Georgia peach … the universe was trying to tell him something.

“Not from Georgia, I’m guessing.”

“No. Chicago.”

Ding ding ding, signs all over the place.

“I live in Nashville.” Best to keep his upcoming living arrangements to himself. The last thing he needed was some bunny chasing him down in his new city, though a closer look told him that would be wishful thinking. No way would this girl be interested in him beyond a drink and a smile. Christ, he was old enough to be her … older brother.

He should be moving on, or at the very least, encouraging her to. She’d evidently wandered through a portal from a world of sunshine and sweetness. This dank place was not for her, and with his dark mood, neither was he.

He took another long look, readying for it to be his last. Christ, she was a tiny thing, practically swallowed by the booth’s worn leather. He would offer to walk her back to her hotel because he didn’t trust this bar or the streets or anyone in this town, who would take one look at this girl and try to take a bite.

That sinful mouth curved. “You okay?”

“Not really.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nope. You?”

A shadow crossed her face and the green in her blue eyes took on a shade of melancholy. “Oh, you don’t want to go there, Big Guy.”

But he did. He wanted to know why this girl was all alone with her mouth made for sin and her eyes tinged with sadness.

He eyed her glass. “Another?”

She looked up at the bachelorette party, and back at him, wondering if a lug like him was worthy of her time. He wasn’t, but man, he wanted to be. Stay a while …

A quick dart of her pink tongue over her lips sent another tug of desire to his groin. “I suppose we have to keep the illusion alive.”

“Otherwise, it’d look like we lied.”

“Can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t.”

He should have gone with his first instinct.