3. Aaron

3

AARON

Talk to me.

Pretty pleaseeeeee.

Come on, Aaron.

I’ll make it up to you, if you know what I mean.

My brows furrow as I stare at the string of texts from an unknown number. Then, I flip my phone facedown on the greasy table—every table at Essy’s is greasy, no matter how much they clean them—but it’s too late. My screen was on full display, meaning that Olivia saw the incoming messages as they blasted in, one-by-one, and jumped to a million conclusions.

And as luck would have it, Sofia happens to be outside taking a phone call, and Jake has chosen this exact moment to stand up, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Gotta take a pi?—”

“Shh,” Olivia cuts him off, “we don’t need to know what you’re doing in the bathroom.”

“Speak for yourself, I was extremely invested,” I tell her, which earns me a fantastic scowl.

Jake rolls his eyes at me, then taps the table. “You two behave while I’m gone, k? Aaron, no flirting with my sister. And Liv, no murdering Marino with a butter knife.”

“Can’t promise anything,” she mutters, shooting a murderous glance at my phone. She then levels that same look on me, which makes me chuckle.

“Such a little savage,” I tease as Jake disappears to the bathroom, leaving me with no backup for the oncoming Olivia Griswold wrath.

Not that I care. I grin at her, and her hazel eyes narrow at me, pouty pink lips pursed.

I always loved how expressive she was. So much about her has changed since high school, but I’m still able to read everything she’s thinking and feeling on her face like she’s a walking billboard.

My phone—still facedown on the table—vibrates with a new message. I don’t turn it over, instead pushing down my unease.

“What’s up, Lil Griz?” I inquire with an innocent smile. I gave her that nickname a million years ago. Mostly because, back in high school, I thought she was insanely hot and it was a good way to constantly remind myself that she was my best buddy’s little sister.

A decade later, the name has stuck.

She’s still hot, too.

I cut a piece of waffle and dunk it in syrup, followed by whipped cream. Some of the guys on the Cyclones follow strict nutrition plans and count their macros during the season, but I’ve always been a bottomless pit where food is concerned. My motto is the more, the better. It doesn’t seem to matter how healthy or unhealthy, calories just function as fuel to me.

“Everything’s peachy with me. Olivia .” Her tone drips with sarcasm. “But there’s clearly something very wrong with you.”

“Nah, I’m good actually,” I reply easily, then enjoy the way she looks even more maddened.

Despite all the years that passed without us seeing each other, it took us no time at all to reestablish this equilibrium—the one where I only ever seem to provoke annoyance from her, and for some reason, chase that reaction like a dog chases a freaking tennis ball.

Because oh yeah, she clearly still hates me for what I did back then. Or, more accurately, what I didn’t do.

“So, I’m not correct in assuming that the texts coming in are from someone offering to make something up to you with sexual favors?” she demands.

She’s cute when she’s mad.

Not that I’d ever tell her that.

“You are correct,” I confirm. Then, I meet her eyes and point down at my phone. “But as you can see, I am not taking her up on said offer. So honestly, I’m worried that you consider that to be something wrong with me. Your moral compass is clearly askew, Grizzy.”

“You are the absolute worst,” she seethes, her eyes flaring.

“So you seem to think.” I shove another bite of syrup-drenched waffle in my mouth.

I’m playing it cool, but those texts have me a little stressed. What I don't tell her is that, at the beginning of this hockey season, a woman who goes by AaronMarinosMistress on social media started sliding into my DMs. It seemed innocent enough until she progressed to lurking around our training facility and even scoped out my house. No idea how she found out where I lived.

I did the only thing I knew to do: ignored it all . Unlike some of the other guys, I’d never had a fan with stalker-esque behavior before, and I wasn’t too worried about it.

I’ve been pretty lucky with my fans. I’m flattered to have a group known as “Aaron’s Army,” and they often turn up to games wearing my jerseys and carrying signs. I’ve never actually dated a fan, but I always blow them a kiss from the ice, which just makes them scream and cheer louder. It’s all in good fun. Tongue in cheek. The media sure seems to love it.

So, yeah. I didn’t think too much about AaronMarinosMistress…

Until she proposed to me.

Outside my house, down on one knee, and surrounded by a million flickering candles which were most certainly a fire hazard on my dry-ass, August-crisped front lawn.

Half of me wanted to turn and run. The other half felt bad for this woman, who I’d never even met—hell, whose name I didn’t even know at the time—on one knee in front of me.

The soft half of my heart won out, and so I approached her, gently helped her to her feet, and explained that, while I was flattered, I couldn’t accept her proposal.

I was trying to be the nice guy, as kind as possible, while still making sure to be honest and clear about why we couldn’t be together. Because never let it be said that I don’t learn from my past mistakes.

She thanked me for being honest, and as she turned to leave, I thought I’d done the decent thing.

The next day, though, the story hit the internet. A story in which Brandi (her name, it turns out) painted herself as the jilted ex-lover, and me as the man who crushed her. It didn’t bug me too much—like I said, I have a pretty good reputation in general, and most people seem to like me. The notable exception being the woman sitting next to me at this very moment.

Luckily, the whole thing died down pretty quickly, and the media found more exciting things to talk about. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure that Brandi is the “Unknown Number” texting me right now. And while I’m baffled that she managed to get my new number, I’m sure as hell not getting dragged back into that mess just to inquire how she got it.

Olivia pushes her fork around her plate so it makes that awful screeching sound like nails on a chalkboard. When she sees me flinch, she smiles and nods down at my phone. “You can’t just discard your dates like used Kleenexes, you know.”

“I never dated her.”

Her, or anyone else, for months.

“So this woman you never dated is randomly sending you suggestive text messages, then?” Olivia’s eyes are full of scorn.

“Yes, actually.”

Her eyes narrow. “Oh, I get it. You’re the wham bam thank you ma’am type. The kind of guy who doesn’t have the decency to take women on dates and woo them first.”

I know I should be bothered by what Olivia’s implying, but I have to chuckle. “ Woo them?”

She folds her arms over her chest. “Am I wrong, Marino?”

“Extremely,” I tell her cheerfully, then take a slug of my coffee.

She couldn’t be more wrong if she tried.

I’ve never ghosted anyone in my life, and always treat the women I date with respect, no matter how short-lived the flirtation. But I’m not dating at all right now.

In fact, the last time I went on a date was back in the spring. I remember the day, the time, the setting, everything. Because it was also the night I saw Olivia again.

We Cyclones all went to a fancy nightclub downtown after a game, and I’d arranged to meet my date for the evening there. But then, Olivia walked into the VIP section with her head held high, lit up beneath the flashing lights like some kind of religious vision.

The woman I was on a date with—while beautiful and funny and charming—was a total nonstarter. She had zero interest in me because she was totally in love with someone else.

And I, in turn, was so in shock from seeing Livvy Griswold after literal years, that I could only sit there, stunned and staring, mouth open like a goldfish as I took in that blaze of red hair and slinky silver dress that hugged every one of her curves.

My date ended up telling me all about the guy she was really into, and I spilled a little of my history with Olivia. How we’d known each other since high school, when I became friends with Jake. How we never got along, bickering back and forth as Jake laughed at our inability to get along.

How, underneath all the banter and sparring, I was always kind of obsessed with the fire in her eyes.

It was a weird conversation for a date, that’s for sure. But all’s well that ends well, because she ended up engaged to the guy she was actually into.

Not long after that, I found out that I was being considered for captain of the Cyclones, and I decided to give that all of my focus. Rearranged all of my priorities and put my dating life on the backburner.

I was officially named captain just as preseason got underway, and ever since, I’ve been dedicated to my new role. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly, and it’s made me realize that I just don't have time for dating at the moment.

More than that, I don’t want even a whiff of another scandal attached to my name. The impromptu proposal news was enough without it even being attached to a real relationship. Part of my duty in leading this team is to set aside all potential distractions and focus on the task at hand: getting my team to the playoffs, at minimum.

But I’m sure if I tried to tell Olivia any of that, she’d laugh. Not believe me for a second.

So, instead of saying a word, I swallow my last bite of waffle, make a mental note to change my phone number—again—and look up to see Jake by the door of the restaurant, signaling that he’ll meet us outside.

I nod at my friend, then nudge my elbow against Olivia’s. “You gonna eat that?”

She blinks at me as I nod towards her breakfast burrito, half of which is sitting untouched on her plate.

Before she can answer, I swipe it, lightning quick, then sink my teeth into it.

“Hey!” she squawks. “I was saving that for lunch!”

I swallow my mouthful of eggs and bacon wrapped in tortilla, raising a brow. “Hours-old soggy scrambled eggs? I don’t think so.”

“Actually, soggy scrambled eggs are exactly what I want for lunch.”

I smile at her sheer ridiculousness. “Well, hey, this one’s on me. That way, you can order another one to go and let it go soggy just in time for lunch. Deal?”

Her eyes are narrowed slits, her cheeks pink. “You are such a jerk.”

“As we have already established.” I polish off the remainder of her burrito.

Olivia sighs tiredly. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere practicing hitting a puck into a net instead of hanging out here annoying me?”

I smirk. “Practice? Baby, I don’t miss.”

When in doubt, act like a jackass, right?

“Try telling that to the six shots you missed last game.” She fingers the silver cutlery next to her plate daintily. “And don’t ever call me ‘baby’ again, or I really will stab you with this butter knife, no matter what Jake says.”

“Look at you, memorizing my stats,” I say with genuine delight. “But you forgot to mention the two I did score.”

“Lucky breaks,” she sniffs, then bites her lip, like she knows what she just said was a lie. They were beautiful goals, if I do say so myself.

“Well, make sure to tune in for our game against Baltimore tomorrow night, Livvy.” I wink at her. “Because I definitely plan on getting lucky again. Maybe I’ll even score one or two for you.”

Her grip tightens on her fork. “Please don’t.”

“You’d be impressed, don’t lie.”

“The word you’re looking for is horrified .”

“Agree to disagree,” I parrot her earlier words back at her as I catch our waitress’s eye and motion for her to put the whole meal on my tab.

“I hate you.”

“You know what they say, don’t you? ‘Hate is much closer to love than indifference.’ Which means you practically love me.”

Her cheeks flare an entirely new, quite pretty, shade of maroon. “In your dreams, Marino!”

And, purely for scientific purposes (AKA to see if I can make those cheeks darken to an even deeper red), I wink at her. “Every night, Lil Griz.”

Like I said, when in doubt, act like a jackass.