1. Olivia

1

OLIVIA

May

I’ve played out this moment—the moment we come face to face again—in my mind so many times over the years that I can barely keep track of my own fantasies anymore.

In one iteration of my deliciously spite-laden daydreams, I have supremely shiny, unfrizzy hair and perfect glass skin, while he, in turn, is sporting a huge new facial wart.

In another, I swan back into his life on the arm of some nameless, faceless NFL player—he’s not a football fan, is a hockey freak through and through—who’s both taller and broader than he is, and who subsequently challenges him to an arm wrestling competition. Which he loses, obviously.

He was always a sore loser.

One of my personal favorites is the one where he gets on his knees and grovels for me to pay him a lick of attention, but in doing so, slips and faceplants into some readily waiting dirt. Or dog poop. I’m not too picky.

All of them are good, if a little (lot) childish and petty.

But in not a single one of my daydreams about seeing Aaron Marino in the flesh again do I have a massive wedgie.

Clearly, reality can be much crueler than fiction. Because here I am, finally living in this moment, and all I can think is…

Wow, I really should have worn a thong tonight .

Well, that and the very unwelcome—yet very undeniable—observation that those luminous green eyes of his would be ever so pretty if they weren’t lodged in the skull of my ex-high school nemesis who’s now known as Atlanta’s biggest playboy. Well, second biggest, if I’m being accurate. Even I can’t deny that Aaron’s teammate, Dallas Cooper, wears that particular crown. I’ve never even met the guy, but his reputation precedes him.

Clearly, hockey players are all cut from the same cloth. And said cloth is a nasty poly-blend that’s entirely sweaty and unbreathable and bound to give you a rash. Likely in your nether regions.

My fantasies of seeing Aaron again never made it past my initial moment of retribution. They were mostly just a way to pass time when I was jet lagged and lying wide awake in bed after a long flight. And honestly, my mental vitriol aside, a part of me really did believe that time was a healer. Believed so many years had passed that, when I actually saw him again, my hatred towards the cocky Aaron Marino of my high school days might have dampened into more of a mild distaste for the pro athlete he is today.

But now that we’re here and we’ve locked eyes, the telltale glint in his makes me doubt that very much.

As much as I know I shouldn’t stare, I can’t help but continue to soak in the sight of Aaron, casually perched on a barstool across the club’s VIP area. He’s filled out over the years and is more solid and brawny than the teenage version of himself, all lingering traces of boyhood vanished and replaced with one hundred percent man . He’s grown into his facial features, his strong nose and angular chin annoyingly chiseled, like he’s some kind of Greek-god-adjacent scoundrel.

He’s hot, dammit . Even hotter than I remember.

So much for my dreams of facial warts.

Right now, he’s talking to a very pretty brunette in a black dress, but his eyes stay fixed on me. I keep my gaze on him, not wanting to be the one to break first.

We hold our stare for a second.

Two.

Three.

Twenty-seven.

Who even knows?

Time slips away until, finally, he turns towards the brunette and says something to her. She then turns to look at me.

My mouth goes dry as I try to appear cool, confident, casual. Act like I am totally used to frequenting uber-cool nightclubs with teams of professional athletes, and like the slinky silver mini dress I picked out for tonight doesn’t suddenly feel gaudy and obnoxious in comparison to the sleek black one Aaron’s female companion is wearing.

Bet she had the foresight to wear appropriately sexy and non-butt-munching underwear.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress and remind myself that I don’t have to be this nervous, because I don’t have to talk to the man. We can coexist in the same nightclub without crossing paths. He’s probably totally indifferent to me being here tonight—which is exactly how I should feel, too.

I look away from Aaron and his date to see the infamous Dallas Cooper knock my brother Jake’s elbow before flashing me a flirtatious grin. “So, this is the legendary little sister, huh, Griz?”

“Legendary?” I peer up at Jake, wondering what on earth he could have said about me. My brother is notoriously tight-lipped about, well, everything. “What, did you tell them about the time I won that chili-dog eating contest?”

“No,” Dallas says, his dark eyes wide beneath thick lashes. “He did not. No idea why, because that is a very intriguing intro.”

Jake rolls his eyes at his teammate. “Don’t even think about it, Cooper. She’s off-limits.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“Excuse me,” I interject with a wave of my hand. “I am an adult woman who makes her own decisions.”

My older brother was always protective of me, but we’re not in high school anymore. I’m twenty-six now for goodness sake. Moreover, we’ve lived apart for most of the past decade, and I’ve done just fine on my own.

Yet Jake’s lips press in a familiar thin line as he raises one skeptical brow at me. “Says the woman who once decided to eat sixteen foot-long chili dogs and then proceeded to get sick on every available surface—including inside my brand new Camaro.”

“That was a very long time ago,” I protest.

Dallas’s eyes gleam. “Damn, girl. Sixteen chili dogs? You have talent.”

“Can it, Cooper,” Jake orders before turning back to me. “You can, and should, decide to date anyone other than these goons, also known as my teammates.”

The “goons” he’s referring to are the players for the Atlanta Cyclones, an NHL team who have a decent shot at winning the Stanley Cup this year, according to Jake.

When he told me that, I wiggled my cherry-red metal water cup at him and informed him that I already had a Stanley cup, which earned me a gargantuan eye roll.

“Hey!” Jimmy Jones-Johnstone—affectionately known as “Triple J” to his teammates and the media—pipes up indignantly. “I take grave offense to that.” He swivels his head to look at me, an endearingly dopey look on his dimpled face. “Jacob means any of his teammates, except for me. I’m the quintessential ‘good guy’ sailing in a sea of hockey-player hooligans.”

Jake smacks him upside the head. “I was definitely including you in the equation, bonehead.”

“But why?” Jimmy sniffs haughtily. “You’d be lucky to have me as a future brother-in-law, Griswold.”

“Sounds more like a waking nightmare,” Jake grumbles darkly, scratching his beard.

Not the most personable of men, my brother.

“Well, nightmare or not, she’s an adult woman who makes her own decisions,” Dallas parrots my words with a lazy smile, then flashes me what I can only describe as bedroom eyes . The guy’s good—too good. I can’t imagine how many women have fallen for that look. “So, you up for the best night of your life, Griz’s baby sister?”

I wrinkle my nose at him. “Ew, no.”

The guys burst out laughing, and Jake flashes a rare grin.

Dallas, apparently unperturbed by my rejection, simply shrugs and winks at me. “Your loss.”

He proceeds to break off from our conversation and approach an attractive blond nearby, that flirty expression of his back in place without missing a beat.

Which just goes to show that I was right all along: Dallas is hot. But I know better than to trust a hot hockey player.

Involuntarily, my eyes travel back to Aaron, who’s staring at me again. I want to be cool. Want to believe that I’m one of those people who rises above it all… but my petulant inner child wins out and I instead flip him off with a sweet smile, trying to ignore the way my heart is nervously galloping in my chest.

“Where are you jetting off to next, Olivia?” asks Colton Perez, another Cyclones teammate who has an impressive head of shiny hair that almost looks like a helmet.

I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Back to London Heathrow tomorrow.”

“Whew,” he whistles through his teeth. “Busy schedule.”

I shrug casually. Like this small talk is totally normal when it’s actually pretty surreal to be standing here with all these guys I’ve seen on TV countless times, playing alongside my brother. “Yeah, it can be pretty tight. Gets even worse when a flight’s delayed.”

It’s not a complete lie.

When I am working as a flight attendant, I’m not officially on the clock until the doors of the plane shut and the aircraft is ready for takeoff. So, in that way, delays suck.

But what I don’t mention is that I flew into Atlanta earlier today as a passenger, because I had a job interview to attend.

“Is that why you missed our game tonight? A delay?” Triple J asks.

“I was really bummed, because I would have loved to have seen Jake play.”

This is entirely avoidant of Jimmy’s question, but not a lie, whatsoever. I’ve never seen Jake play a game for the Cyclones live before. The last game of his that I got to see in person was over three years ago, when he was still playing for the Boston Freeze.

Today, I was hoping to make it through my interview in time to catch the guys’ game, and I was pretty choked when I found out my interview slot clashed with the puck dropping.

“Oh, you missed a good one.” Colton nods appreciatively. “Marino scored the most beautiful goal in the second.”

“With an assist by me,” Jake chimes in. “Dream team strikes again.”

“Damn right.” Colton holds up his hand and my brother high-fives him. “Pity you weren’t there to see it, Olivia,” he adds.

“Mmm,” I say noncommittally, doing everything I can to not look in Aaron’s direction again.

While I’m sad I didn’t get to see Jake in action, I have to admit that I’m a tiny bit relieved I didn’t have to watch Aaron Marino take to the ice to the applause of his adoring fans. He has a literal fan club who call themselves “Aaron’s Army,” and it’s comprised of (presumably braindead) women who wear his jersey and hold up signs that say things like “Future Mrs. Marino” and the slightly more crass “Number 22, I wanna do you!”

Like I said, braindead. There are way better players they could be lusting over.

Although, Jake did mention that the Cyclones’ captain is retiring at the end of this season and Aaron’s being considered to step into the role.

Apparently the Cyclones’ management are braindead, too.

But hey, I’m not responsible for other people’s poor life choices.

“Let’s get a drink,” Jake says, and I nod at my big brother. I’m pretty sure he’s glad I’m here, but like I said, he’s not the most expressive. He’s the strong and silent type, with a touch of grouchy, while I’m more the back-and-forth quips type. Also with a side of grouchy.

Some real fun genetics we have, clearly.

The two of us sidle off, leaving Colton and Triple J to chat with a pair of beautiful, raven-haired identical twins who recently appeared in the VIP area.

“Singers,” Jake tells me as he follows my gaze.

“Thought they looked familiar,” I say, now placing them as the hot, new R&B act who have that one song on the radio all the time. I smack my brother on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Look at you, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.” I frown. “Although, I guess you’re technically included in that bracket now.”

Jake huffs a short laugh, scratching at his dark brown beard. “Hardly. I leave the fan clubs to Marino and Sebastian Slater—pair of pretty-boy bastards. I never come to places like this after games. I only came tonight ‘coz I thought you’d want to.”

I blink, but quickly hide my surprise.

I have to say, I’m touched. Jake always had a particular loathing for places like this, and his coming here for me—coupled with his (albeit misplaced) protectiveness earlier—are how I know he actually cares.

It also reassures me that I’ve made a good decision, coming here for an interview.

After eight years living in the UK, I’ve chosen not to renew my work visa and instead look for a job that’s based in the States. When the opportunity to interview with AmeriJet and potentially base myself in Atlanta came up, I jumped on it.

So long London, hello putting down some roots after years of spreading my wings.

Plus, given that Jake is perpetually single, and with our mom and dad both remarried with new families, I really want to make the effort to be closer with my brother.

Blood runs thicker than water. And while I know that Jake has a solid support system here (literally—his teammates are all built like brick walls), I like the idea of us being in the same city again. Besides, Jake’s closest friend is Aaron Marino, and I really shouldn’t allow that idiot to be the main person Jake depends on in Atlanta. Because if Aaron is anything, he’s undependable.

I learned that little fact a long time ago.

“Hey, Jake,” I hedge as we approach the bar. “What if I had the opportunity to be around more? Spend more time with you?”

“Like, in Atlanta?” he asks, but before I can answer he adds, “What’re you drinking?”

“Beer, please.”

He looks at the bartender. “Two Dos Equis.”

I frown, momentarily losing my train of thought. “Since when do you drink Mexican beer?”

As far as I was aware, Jake’s beer of choice was always Miller.

“Since always,” Jake answers, almost defensively.

I drop the subject—my brother is one of those people who clams up the more you pry. As I accept my beer from the bartender, there’s a tug on my arm and I find Triple J at my side, smiling eagerly. “Everyone went to dance. I ran back to check if you wanted to come, too?”

Jake scowls. “I don’t dance.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Duh, I know. Which is why I didn’t ask you .” He turns to me with the most sincere expression, like he can’t imagine having fun without me. I met the guy about eight minutes ago and he’s already talking to me like we’re BFFs. “I thought you might want to join us. You look more like the dancing type than your big bro.”

I laugh, because he’s right. Unlike my brother, I love to dance—it’s the perfect way to let off a little steam and de-stress. But right now, I’m trying to tell Jake something important.

“It’s a compliment,” Jimmy adds gravely.

“Well, thank you. I do love to dance, but I, um, think I’ll hang out with my brother for a bit.” I look over at Jake, who’s pulling his phone out of his pocket. “We don’t get to see each other much.”

“Nah, go ahead and have fun for a bit,” Jake says as he peers at his phone screen. “I need to send a text, anyhow.”

“If you’re sure.” Then I tilt my head. And it might be because things have clearly changed and there’s a lot I don’t know about my brother’s life these days, but I have to ask, “Is it anyone special?”

My nosy question is met with resounding silence, Jake’s lips locked shut on any possible juicy detail.

Guess some things don’t change then.

“Come onnnn,” Jimmy cuts in, and I get a sudden, vivid mental image of a fluffy golden retriever wagging its tail.

Jake nods at me, eyes still glued to his phone. “Go for it.”

Triple J doesn’t need to be told twice. I giggle as I let myself get tugged towards the dance floor, taking a few sips of my Dos Equis along the way for liquid courage. Just in case a certain annoyingly handsome hockey player happens to glance my way while I’m out there doing my thing.

Not because I care what he thinks of me, but because the last thing I need is to make a total fool of myself in front of him. Again.

I tip my beer to my lips, taking a huge glug as I’m blindly led into the crowd. But Jimmy loses his grip on my arm as we get into the throng. In the span of a millisecond, not looking where I’m going, I manage to trip over what is most likely my own feet—I’ve never been the best multitasker—and lose my balance.

I stumble forward, arms flailing wildly, as I teeter dangerously on my heels.

“Oof!” I let out a grunt, which, unfortunately, results in my mouthful of beer exiting my lips in a veritable fountain of spray.

Which, rather fortunately, ends up all over none other than Aaron Marino.

Because not only has he witnessed my unbelievably graceful entrance, but he appears to be the owner of the strong set of arms that just saved me from plummeting face-first onto the sticky dance floor.

Fabulous .

He looks down at me, his hands still on my arms, warm and sure, and then he smiles.

And he looks so handsome, so sincere, that I do the unthinkable and smile back at him.

“If you wanted to get my attention, you could have just said hi.” The deep, rich timbre of his voice is unsettlingly familiar, yet completely foreign at the same time.

It punctures my fragile balloon of temporary insanity, and the smile falls off my face. I make absolutely sure that I have my balance before stepping out of his arms, hurriedly wiping away my foam mustache with the back of my hand and shaking off the tingling feeling of his calloused palms on my bare skin.

“Oh, Aaron!” I exclaim sweetly, like I’m suddenly noticing he’s here for the first time. “I can’t believe it’s you! I barely recognized you without your ‘I MILFs’ t-shirt.”

He was given that stupid shirt as part of a hazing prank when he was named captain of the high school hockey team his senior year. He was forced to wear it every game day that season, but I don’t think the guys were expecting him to wear it quite so proudly, with not a hint of shame whatsoever.

Although, in his defense, MILFs loved him, too. I knew this from spending countless hours spectating his and Jake’s hockey games and watching all the moms inappropriately swoon every time Aaron looked up at the crowd.

“Come on now, Grizzy.” Aaron’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he ignores my dig at his former fashion faux pas. Instead, he smirks his stupid face off and makes no attempt to wipe my disgusting mouth-beer off his previously crisp and clean white t-shirt. “You didn’t need to literally throw yourself at me, then make up a story like you haven’t been glaring at me for the past half hour.”

“I was throwing myself at the exit, actually,” I retort, wondering if he was always this damned smug, or I just forgot the extent of it. Seems like the years of pro hockey have made him even more pleased with himself. “Felt a little nauseous being in your vicinity.”

This earns me a lopsided smile. Insufferable man. “And here I was thinking you were in a desperate hurry to come dance with me.”

“Never!” My cheeks burn as I glower at him. I’m 5’9”, and in these heels I probably graze six feet, but I still have to look up to meet his stupid green eyes.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” he drawls as his gaze rakes up and down my body. For a moment, I feel entirely exposed. Naked.

“Wish I could say the same to you,” I snap back, which makes his eyes twinkle.

“What are you doing in Atlanta, Lil Griz?” His expression is no longer playful, instead full of what looks like genuine curiosity.

As if I’m going to tell him that, after living abroad for years, I’ve been feeling more and more isolated as everyone around me settled down with close family and friends, and that now, I’m hoping to move to Atlanta to put down some roots near the only family I have.

“Do we really need to call me that?” I sigh. Jake and I have the last name Griswold, and as he became known as “Griz” with his hockey friends—a nickname which has clearly stuck—Aaron coined me “Lil Griz”. Much to my chagrin, everyone referred to me as such until I got out of our hometown in New Jersey and moved to London.

“We really do,” he replies with an angelic smile that makes me want to smack him.

So much for being all adult and mature about this.

“There you are!” Jimmy pops up next to me, relief dancing over his features as he confirms that I’m still in one piece and not faceplanted on the dance floor. “Oh good, Marino already found you.” He looks at his teammate. “Where’d your date go?”

“Bathroom.” He shrugs, like he couldn’t care less where his beautiful date is right now.

For some reason, this infuriates me.

“Shouldn’t you be with her?” I demand.

“I’m not sure the management of this lovely establishment would take too kindly to a 6’5” hockey player frequenting their women’s restrooms,” Aaron smirks. “Plus, she might not take too kindly to that either.”

I roll my eyes. “If she has any sense at all, she’ll escape through the bathroom window and flee.”

“Is that what you think,” Aaron says, his voice level so it’s a statement, not a question. His eyes glint, like he’s arrogant enough to believe that I was referring to what happened that night, all those years ago.

Which I absolutely was not .

I try not to let it get under my skin. Remind myself that that was then, and this is now.

And now, I’m an adult. An adult with no need to dredge up my teenage petulance, because I have a whole life that has nothing to do with him. A life where my braces are finally off, and I have a career and a straightening iron that actually sort of works.

“You tell me,” I say with a smirk of my own.

Just like I don’t know today’s version of Aaron, he doesn’t know the current me. I’m a strong, independent woman who had a momentary lapse in judgment a very long time ago.

And no matter how good he looks tonight, that fact hasn’t changed.

It’s clearly not the only thing that hasn’t changed. Because he goes on to wink at me, and then walk off without a care in the world… to approach the only other redhead besides me on the dance floor. Who, predictably, practically falls at his feet giggling the second she notices his attention.

What a douche.

Luckily, my impending move is about looking forward, not backward.

It’s just a pity that “moving forward” means relocating to the city this goon lives in.