Chapter 1

Chapter One

Hudson

"I didn't know you read romance novels." I held the elevator door open for my grandfather as he slowly exited, steadying his hunched form with his cane.

"I don't." Gramps shuffled along the hall toward the activities room in his assisted living community. "But maybe I will." He raised his chin, a defiant glint in his eye, as if daring me to argue.

"Why not? Maybe you'll enjoy them." An avid reader, Gramps kept the screen of his Kindle burning day and night.

When he wasn't watching me play goalie for the San Jose Blazers.

"Who's the author reading her work this afternoon?" Not that I really cared, but Gramps was interested. So, I was interested.

"Her name is Whitney St. James. She writes something called Regency romance."

"My neighbor's name is Whitney." I'd seen her name on packages in the mailroom. A vision of the girl-next-door flashed through my mind. Soft-looking, rosy lips curved into a ready hello, warm brown eyes twinkling behind oversized glasses…I shook my head to clear it, and the memory shattered like thin ice.

We entered the activities room, and I halted in my tracks. Two women stood at the front of the room, deep in conversation. One turned her gaze to the doorway, and warm brown eyes met mine. Her eyes widened and rosy lips formed an O .

I sucked in a breath.

"What's wrong?" Gramps's head ping-ponged between Whitney and me. "Do you know her?"

"Yeah, she's my?—"

The other woman clapped her hands and called out, "Take your seats! It's time to get started!"

About a dozen seniors—mostly women—sat in the rows of seats, and Whitney gracefully hopped onto a stool at the front of the room. She crossed trim, denim-clad legs.

"She's a looker." Gramps meant to talk in a whisper, but with his poor hearing the words came out as a shout.

Whitney blushed and ducked her head, sending a cascade of chestnut waves tumbling over her shoulder.

I placed my finger to my lips, suppressing a grin. But she was indeed stunning.

The activities director introduced Whitney St. James, acclaimed author of thirty-two Regency romance novels.

Who knew Regency romance novels were a thing?

"Whitney is going to read an excerpt from her book, The Dangerous Duke and the Wallflower , and afterward will be giving away signed copies!" The director led the audience in applause.

I joined in the clapping, impressed by Whitney's generosity in sharing her time and books with the elderly residents .

"Thank you." Whitney smiled warmly. "Can everyone hear me?" She leaned closer to the microphone standing at her side.

Heads nodded around the room.

"Good. I'm going to read from a scene at a ball. The hero of the book is Arthur Windemere, Eighth Duke of Fairbourne, and the heroine is Lady Penelope Worthington. Lady Penelope is known as a wallflower, an introvert who feels uncomfortable in social situations. Penelope literally stands against the wall instead of mingling. But she catches the duke's eye…" Whitney raised an open book and began reading.

"‘Lady Penelope, may I sign your dance card for the waltz?' the duke asked, his voice low and rumbling.

‘Y-yes, Your Grace. Thank you.' With a trembling hand, Penelope extended the elegant booklet and pencil.

The duke signed her card with a bold flourish and returned it to her. ‘My pleasure,' he said huskily."

Whitney continued reading, describing the scandalized matrons and flustered heroine. The waltz began, and the handsome duke whirled the shy lady around the ballroom in an intimate dance, the two falling into each other's gazes. The waltz ended, and…

I leaned forward, heart thumping, caught up in the drama.

"Penelope fled from the ballroom, a shout from within cut off abruptly by the closing door. Her footsteps were but a whisper on the polished marble floor as she sought refuge from the cruel gossip of the ton .

And the rakish duke ," Whitney finished, her voice low.

I sat back. But…what happened next? I frowned.

As the last words of Whitney's excerpt echoed through the room, a round of applause erupted from the audience. The activities director took over. "Thank you, Whitney. I'm sure we all enjoyed the scene. Ladies and gentlemen, if you want to read more, the books are available on a table in the back."

I'd seen my neighbor in a new light, and I liked what I saw. I stood to make my way to the front of the room to say hello, but Whitney was instantly swarmed by a crowd. Disappointment hit me like a puck to the gut.

Gramps tapped his cane on the floor and nodded. "She's a good writer."

"Yes, she is." I'd been captivated.

"I'm going to get me a book." I helped him to his feet, and we stopped at the table on the way out. Gramps picked up the paperback with the bare-chested, brown-haired, brown-eyed model on the cover. "Humph. Funny. He looks like you."

"Are you trying to kill me?" Gramps huffed. He scowled at me from the living room of his apartment.

I carefully squeezed fresh lemon juice onto the sizzling chicken and vegetables in the pan, the tangy aroma filling the room as I stirred the mixture. "It's a lemon chicken stir-fry. You'll like it," I assured him.

"Humph. It's probably low sodium," he muttered.

"Of course it is. You know what the doctor said after you had your heart attack." The memory of the scare he'd given me last summer sent shivers down my spine.

"Well," he grumbled, "at least your food tastes better than the meals they serve here."

I checked the pot of brown rice—almost finished. "You don't like the meals in the dining room? This is supposed to be the best assisted living community in the area." And I paid a premium for it .

"They don't salt anything." He frowned.

I chuckled and shook my head at our recurring argument. I plated our food. "Dinner's ready."

Leaning heavily on his cane, Gramps hauled himself off his recliner and shuffled to the table. "Smells good," he conceded.

I pulled out his chair, he sat with a grunt, and I seated myself across from him. "Dig in."

He forked a piece of chicken, sniffed it, and tentatively placed it in his mouth. He raised his eyebrows and stabbed a broccoli floret. I bit back a grin. That was as good a compliment as I was going to get. I tucked into my meal.

"How was your practice this morning?" He poked at his rice like a picky child.

A long sigh escaped me. "Wobbly." Since the starting goalie was injured and I'd moved into his position, I hadn't found my footing. I was stiff in the net, my five-hole leaked like a sieve, and my opponents took advantage. My record was four wins and three losses, which wasn't good enough. We were close to clinching a berth in the playoffs, as long as I didn't let the Blazers down.

Gramps scooped rice and chicken onto his fork. Willingly. Yes! "You need to get out of your own head."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Those gears in your mind are always turning." He tapped his temple. "You're sabotaging yourself by overthinking everything."

Gramps had been watching me play for thirty years, ever since he tied on my skates at age five. When he spoke, I paid attention.

"Are you still listening to music before games?" He shoveled the rice and chicken into his mouth, chewed, and grimaced .

I made a mental note to scratch brown rice from the menu. I had to choose my battles.

"Yeah. Hard rock." I shook a fist. "Pumps me up."

"What if you listened to something that relaxed you? Put you in a different frame of mind. Classical music."

I shrugged. "I guess I could try it."

"You do that. Tomorrow's game," he ordered. "You know what else you need?"

I rolled my eyes. "Here we go again."

"A girlfriend," he grumped.

I clenched my jaw. "I don't want a girlfriend."

"You can't let Juliana ruin your life, Hudson." He pointed his fork at me, scolding. "You have to move on." Gramps placed his fork on his plate and pinned me with his steely gaze. The one that would make me obey when I was a boy. "I'm eighty-seven, Hudson. Not going to be around much longer. I want to die knowing that you're settled." He swallowed hard. "Your grandmother and I had sixty-two wonderful years together, and I want that for you."

"How do I move on from Juliana's betrayal?" My stomach churned.

Gramps's eyes narrowed. "Well, you sure don't move on by getting shit-faced drunk, going to bed with two women, and having pictures of you three plastered all over Instant Book."

"Instagram," I mumbled. But my behavior was inexcusable, and four months later I was still trying to live it down. The incident had been a PR nightmare for the team, and I'd been fined. More than that, I'd let myself down. The out-of-control playboy pictured in the photo wasn't me. I'd always been an upstanding role model to young hockey players, and I was mortified by the scandal.

My agent, Richard, had been livid. He was pressuring me into a public relationship with a nice, respectable woman in order to repair my image.

Whitney's sweet smile and her generosity came to mind. Richard would have a field day if he knew about my attraction to her.

He could never find out.

No more relationships. If I opened my heart again, it would just be crushed.

The locker room buzzed with energy as my teammates geared up for the game against Detroit, but I'd already dressed and had even meticulously taped my stick. I sat on the bench in front of my cubby, my head down and AirPods in my ears. Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 20 in D Minor played as I practiced deep breathing. The fast-paced hustle around me faded into a distant hum as the soothing notes calmed my nerves and relaxed my muscles.

When I took to the rink, my mind was calm. I was loose-limbed and focused. My butterfly was flexible and my movements fluid. I shut everything out but the action on the ice, easily anticipating and reacting to shots on goal.

After my fifty-first save—a quick catch in my glove—the clock ticked down and the horn sounded to end the game. We won two to zero.

I'd scored a shut-out game, and played one of my best games yet.

The cheering, clapping, and stomping in the arena deafened me. My teammates formed a line and tapped my helmet with theirs or their gloves in congratulations. My chest swelled like an over-inflated balloon in danger of popping.

I raised my gaze to the stands and found Gramps in my comp seat, shaking his cane in the air with a wide smile splitting his leathery face.

Alone.

In that moment, I couldn't help feeling a tinge of regret for not having someone special for him to share this incredible moment with.

Despite the win, my heart sank.