1. Lawson

CHAPTER 1

LAWSON

“To me,” I say, holding up my glass filled with the bar’s signature rum cocktail. It’ll be the only alcohol I’ll allow myself tonight. “Because I'll be the one leading us to victory this season. You’re welcome.”

I glance over the array of faces looking at me in disbelief. There’s a decent mixture of newly acquired players—myself included—and Bangor Badgers veterans.

We crowd one of Bangor’s oldest and most popular bars, The Queen’s Rum . The local hotspot is nestled in a historical brick building perched along the Penobscot river, not two miles from the town’s beloved statue of Paul Bunyan. I’ve only lived here a little over a week, just after I got drafted, but I'd be lying if I said the statue didn't freak me out. I blame that terror on Stephen King.

“You really think you’ll be the one to break our losing streak?” Nash Stokehill asks. He’s one of the Badgers’ veterans.

“They drafted me first, didn’t they? Couldn’t resist my college stats, which include eleven goals and thirty-nine assists just last season, pushing me toward playmaker of the year, in case any of you didn’t Google me.”

“Stats don’t mean everything,” Nash fires back. “And neither does vying for having the biggest dick in the locker room.” He rolls his eyes, looking like he’ll say more, but two beautiful brunettes walk past our group, making their way to the indoor miniature golf course set up across the bar, and his entire demeanor changes. He flashes the women a smile and a wink, making them giggle.

Huh, guess the rumors about Stokehill being a legendary fuckboy are true. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but my focus is on winning this season.

“For those of you like me who are new this season,” I continue while I still have the attention of most of the team. “I get where you’re at. We were drafted onto the worst NHL team in the league, and most of us would accept a trade deal to just about any other team in a nanosecond, but that changes now. I don’t know what’s been happening the last few years, but I’m ready to bring in some wins. It’s what I’m used to. So each and every one of you better bring your A game. I’ll be damned if my talent is wasted.”

Several of the new recruits nod and voice their agreement. They all have a hunger in their eyes that matches mine, but a low, gruff laugh sounds to my right, and I cock an eyebrow that direction.

“Already talking like you're the fucking captain when you're not .” Clay Kiplin—the Bangor Badgers’ resident asshole—flashes me a glare that’s enough to make me stand up a little straighter and hope to fuck he doesn't notice.

He is the Badgers’ captain, and I respect that.

But he's been captaining a losing team.

I'm not saying it all falls on him, but I won't know what the fuck is wrong with this team until I get on the ice with them.

“We've had plenty of cocky little shits stumble onto the ice and say they're the key to turning this team around. Seen lots of cocky little shits get traded too. Maybe save your bravado for practice tomorrow.”

“Can you even really call it practice?” I fire back.

We'd all been summoned to Bangor, Maine, weeks ahead of the regular practice schedule. The new owner made it mandatory that we attend a little impromptu training camp before actual practice starts in anticipation for pre-season. The e-mail mentioned something about a new skating coach and drills the owner wants us to master.

“Yeah, I can,” Clay says. He sits rigid in his chair, his back pressed against a wooden pillar, his drink untouched on the little table before him.

The fucker is nothing if not upholding his reputation. Even just sitting there, he looks like an asshole. His black hair is as unkempt as his beard, and it matches the ink curling down his neck and beneath his leather jacket.

I'd bet good money that he came here on a motorcycle, looking like he could fit in more with the Sons of Anarchy rather than an NHL team. But I’ve seen plenty of his gametime footage and I completely understand why he’s captain. Of course, now that I’m here, he may actually get some wins while he wears that title.

“If Coach calls it a practice, it's practice to me,” Pax Ritchford says, nodding toward Clay.

I don’t know much about Pax other than that he’s a three-year veteran left defenseman who apparently is loyal as fuck to his captain and veteran teammates.

“Fine,” I say, finally bringing my drink closer to me. “To winning. Let's just start there.” I quickly take a drink, surprised at how tasty the rum concoction is.

Several of the newbies smack the tables in front of them before taking their own drinks, their eagerness evident on their faces. We may have respect for the veterans on the team, but we’re the fresh blood hungry to take this team further than it's ever gone before.

I'm pretty sure I hear Clay grumble fuck off before he takes a sip of his drink, rising from his chair to follow Nash, who is not surprisingly heading toward the miniature golf course where the two brunettes are.

Pax follows them shortly after with a few other veteran Badgers, including Baylor Torrington, a left wing that looks more like a stacked professional wrestler. Pretty sure that guy lives at the gym, and I’m a little shocked he doesn’t have a pair of dumbbells in his hands right now.

I sit back down, observing the not-so-subtle shift in this mandatory fun meeting. The groups are split between veterans and newbies, and a sense of wariness bubbles in my gut. I may like to talk a lot of shit, but I know a divided team will never win. Is that the reason why Bangor sucks so bad?

A wave of injustice washes over me, and not for the first time. When I heard the Bangor Badgers scored the first-round draft pick, I had hoped to fuck they didn't realize how good I was.

With my skills, I deserve to be on a top-five team—the Seattle Sharks or the Carolina Reapers were my dream teams. Definitely not Bangor fucking Maine. I’ve wanted to be a Shark since I was six years old, and I’d done every visualization practice I could to try and score a spot on their team.

Clearly, that shit didn’t work for me.

But whenever I felt the pity party coming on, I remind myself that I busted my ass for four years in college in order to be irresistible to an NHL team. I passed on two different NHL offers straight out of high school because college was important to my mom, and she sacrificed everything for me to be where I'm at today.

She gifted me my first pair of hand-me-down skates at the age of three—the only kind we could afford at the time. I wouldn’t let her down because I got drafted onto a losing team.

Like I told all the guys a few minutes ago, that would change now.

I chat with a few of the new guys and answer their questions—all the surface-level, get-to-know-you stuff: Where did I come from? When did I start playing? Who’s my favorite team?

I'm in the middle of telling one of the other rookies how much I love the Seattle Sharks when my eyes snag on a pretty blonde sitting at the bar across the room. She’s stirring the ice in her drink, talking to the bartender with an easy smile on her face. Even from here I can tell she's gorgeous. Her long legs are clad in a pair of jeans, and a loose-fitting cream top covers some deliciously toned curves.

I'm already working out the best way to gain her enthusiastic consent for a night full of fun—because the last thing I'm looking for is a relationship when my first love is the ice—when my thoughts are abruptly interrupted as a guy approaches her.

The rookie I was chatting with pushes away from the table, heading to talk to another group of guys at the next one over. I know I should get back to mingling too—bonding with my new teammates will be crucial before the actual season starts—but there's something about this girl. I can't take my eyes off her, even when my hopes are slightly dashed by the guy talking to her. She seems to know him, at least by the way she turns toward him, leaving her back to me. The only thing I can see now are those beautiful long blonde waves.

He's not sitting down though, which means he’s either a stranger trying to do what I was about to do, or he's a familiar person she doesn't want to sit down.

I'm up before I can tell myself not to cross the room. There's just no way that I can let the night go by without at least getting this girl's name. If the dude standing next to her with a scowl on his face is her boyfriend, then I'll leave it be.

But if she's unattached, then I'm all about a little friendly competition.

In fact, I fucking thrive off of it.

I set my empty drink on the end of the bar. The bartender smiles at me and flashes me a silent question if I want another. I shake my head as my spot at the bar puts me in earshot to hear the blonde say, “I told you, you can't keep showing up like this.”

The concern in her voice fires up all my protective instincts.

I've heard that tone several times from my little sister, on the rare occasions we’re in town at the same time and are able to hit the bar scene together.

I hesitate, knowing I really have no fucking place interfering like I would with my little sister. But I can't deny the urge to interfere, especially when she turns away from the guy, the tense set of her body language clearly stating she’s uncomfortable.

“I'm not gonna quit showing up,” the guy says, leaning over the bar to make sure that she’s looking at his face. “Not until you listen.”

She maneuvers away again, and I've lost all fucks to give about social propriety. She clearly doesn't want this fucker in her face. And if she doesn’t want me to butt in, then I’ll apologize and walk away.

“Not until you realize you're making a mistake?—”

“Babe, I'm sorry I'm late,” I cut the guy off, boldly sliding my arm around her shoulders and looking down at her.

Fuck me, she has the most beautiful blue-gray eyes I've ever seen, out here looking like the sky after an afternoon rainstorm.

She doesn't immediately jerk out of my touch. Instead, she looks up at me and smiles the most breathtaking smile I've ever seen.

“It's okay,” she says effortlessly. “You can make it up to me later.”

Well if that doesn't make heat slice through my veins then I don't know what will.

I grin down at her, cocking a brow. “Which way will it be this time?” I ask.

“Ice cream in bed or a Bridgerton marathon between orgasms?”

Her lips part at my second suggestion, a delightful little flush crossing her cheeks before she purses her full lips.

“This is your new boyfriend?” the guy cuts in between our little back and forth. “A jock fuckboy?”

“You know I can't resist Bridgerton,” the girl says, completely ignoring the other guy and shocking the hell out of me by choosing that scenario. I’m already more than willing to carry through with that offer. She just has to say the word.

“You've got to be kidding me,” the guy grumbles. He smacks the bar, and the move makes her flinch.

I turn my gaze on the guy, fastening him with a glare that sizes him up within two seconds.

He's not a total loser, but he rides that edge for sure. At first glance, he looks like a normal, just-out-of-college bro, likely about to take a job at his daddy's business, his hair clean-cut, his clothes preppy.

“I'm sorry, my guy,” I say, drawing on every ounce of bravado I have, and I've got a shit-ton, really. “I completely forgot you were there. Did you need something? Drink money? Need me to call you a Lyft?”

“Fuck you. We were in the middle of a conversation?—”

The sheer hostility in his voice has me stepping in front of the girl, making it so I'm the only thing he sees. And he has to look up to meet my eyes.

My freshly acquired teammates must notice the move because I hear several of them come stand behind me without a second thought.

Gotta fucking love hockey teams. We've only known each other for about thirty minutes, but they've already got my back. That shows promise for what we'll do this season, but I can't really focus on that now with douchebag puffing his chest every five seconds.

“I'm gonna let that one slide because I realize losing someone as stunning as her has to sting. But you have five seconds to either back the fuck up or keep standing here and have the worst night of your life.”

The guy glares up at me, then glances behind me at whoever has come to have my back. He scoffs and shakes his head, grabbing his drink off the bar and stomping to the other side of it, then up the stairs to where the second level is.

I swear I can feel the tension melt out of the girl as I turn to look down at her, her rigid shoulders relaxing, and a long breath sliding past those luscious lips. I nod at the three guys who had my back, shocked as hell to see Stokehill, Ritchford, and motherfucking Kiplin at the ready. Holy shit, I didn't know the veterans would be the first ones to stand up, but I'm not mad about it.

They nod and head off to what they were previously doing.

I bring my attention back to the girl.

“Who the hell are you?” Her tone is sweet with just a hint of sass, apparently something I find irresistible because I lean in closer as I hold her gaze.

“Your hero?” I ask with a wide smile.

“Sure,” she says. “Does my hero have a name? And how did you know about my weakness for Bridgerton?”

“Not your weakness for orgasms?” I fire back.

She laughs. “Seriously, how did you know that I was uncomfortable? You could have easily been putting your arm around a girl who didn’t want to be touched and gotten smacked.”

She’s not wrong.

I shrug. “I have a younger sister,” I admit. “I know the look. And I took a guess with Bridgerton. My sister can't shut up about it and has made me watch every single season. Not a terrible show, figured it might be something you like. You have to admit, it made the whole boyfriend bit seem more tangible to douchebag up there.” I glance upward where the second-floor balcony overlooks the bar below, catching said douchebag watching us.

Creepy much?

“I am sorry about the non-consenting touch,” I continue, drawing my focus back to her. I nod to her shoulder where I touched her, doing my best not to think of all the other places I'd like to touch her, especially after how well she’d reacted to me earlier during our little ruse.

“I appreciate the apology,” she says, her eyes shifting over me in a more curious way, like she's trying to figure me out. “But it's all good. Trust me, if I hadn't wanted you to touch me, you wouldn't have been able to.” She casually glances behind me. “I appreciate the save,” she says, looking at me again. She grabs her drink and pushes away from the bar. “I need to walk, too many eyes on us here. Stroll with me, hero?”

The fucking flirty look she gives me has me standing at attention and offering her my arm like I’ve seen those Bridgerton dudes do.

Who the fuck is this girl? And how does she have me smitten already? I'm the leader, not the other way around, but this girl has me following her around the bar like a lost puppy.

“So does my hero have a name?” she asks as we make our way past my team and toward the now vacant indoor miniature golf course. She grabs a club and a ball, and I immediately follow her lead.

“Lawson,” I say, watching her line up her ball and expertly evade every obstacle in her way before it sinks into the hole. “Shit, are you a golfer?”

She laughs and shakes her head, stepping out of the way so I can make my shot. “No, but this is the best bar in Bangor, so I've spent my fair share of time here.”

I nod, taking a shot. I get close to the hole but miss it by an inch.

“Ouch,” she teases.

“I'm used to people standing in front of my goal,” I say as we move on to the next hole. “Not oversized solo cups.”

“I see,” she says, lining up her shot and sinking it in again, completely avoiding all the decorative wooden pieces in her way.

Her triumphant smile does something to my insides, and I barely even remember to try to aim for the hole when I take my shot. I miss, but for some reason I don't give a shit.

“Does my damsel have a name?”

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, nodding. “I wouldn't normally appreciate being called a damsel , but I guess the shoe fits in this situation.” We move on to the next hole, and she takes her shot, finally missing one and proving she's human. “Blakely,” she says.

I take a step closer to her, looking down and resisting the urge to run my fingers through her long hair.

“Blakely,” I say, testing her name out on my tongue. There are quite a few other places on her I'd like to test out, but I'm not sure if this one would be a casual hookup. Everything about her screams elegance, adventure, and commitment. And if that lingering douchebag is any indication, then I'm sure they just got out of a very long relationship. That's usually a messy business, something I don't mind being a tool for—like a nice rebound or a distraction—but if it gets too serious... I'm out. And really, it's the only fair thing to do, since I have no time to properly give someone attention outside the ice.

“Are you from here?” I ask as we move on to the next shot.

“No,” she answers, finishing up another rare second shot for her as she sinks the ball into the hole. “I'm originally from Virginia, Norfolk area. But I just graduated college from the University of Maine.”

“So college is what brought you out here?”

Blakely gives a little shrug, and I can sense something like hesitation on the lines of her face before she smooths it away. “Not exactly. My father got a job out here a few years ago, and I was ready for a change. The University of Maine seemed like a good place to go.”

I nod, waiting the appropriate amount of time for her to ask me where I’m from. When she doesn’t, I tilt my head. “Don't you want to know where I'm from, damsel?”

She smiles, fiddling with the club in her hand. “Of course I do,” she says. “You can't give a girl ten seconds to form a question? Are you so used to having people dying to know all about you?”

My lips part, a thrill bolting through me. Her mouth . She definitely has me pegged, and I don't mind playing right into it. I give her a casual shrug, stepping up to take my shot. “Is it that easy to tell?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “If your rescuing antics weren't indication enough, the more than confident way you carry yourself tells me that you’re used to being the center of attention and you like it.”

“I love it. Is that such a bad thing? At least I'm honest about it.”

“Not a bad thing at all,” Blakely says. “It's refreshing. So many times, people like to put on a mask of what they think you want to see, or say the things you want to hear, without any trace of their real self in it.” Blakely glances around the bar, her eyes slightly wary as if she's looking for her ex.

Or who I assume is her ex.

“That sounds pretty specific,” I say as we finish the last hole and return our clubs and balls. We linger in a quieter corner near the putt-putt area. “Does it have to do with that guy I saved you from?”

Blakely smirks. “You're really playing up this hero angle, aren't you?”

“I'll play every angle I get if it keeps you smiling at me like that.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You really just said that, didn't you?”

“Pretty sure you heard me.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” she says. “But the way you're spinning it, it's like you saved me from a burning building.” She takes a casual lean against the wall, and I boldly take a step closer to her, leaning one arm on the other side of her head so I can look down at her.

“If it wasn't that big of a deal, then why are you here still talking with me, and not up there working things out with him?”

A wave of seriousness sweeps over her delicate features, washing away the fiery banter we've been playing with.

Regret twists my gut, but only for a moment.

“Fair point,” she admits, her eyes flickering up to the balcony above and behind me.

I spare a glance, following her line of sight, and shake my head when I see the douchebag is still there. I turn back around, silent and patient. If she wants to tell me her story, she will. I'm not going anywhere.

“He’s my ex,” she finally says. “Brian,” she heaves a heavy sigh as if just saying his name has a weight to it. “I thought things ended amicably. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“How long ago?”

“A month.”

“Shit, and he's still bothering you?”

That teasing smile is back. “Are you saying I'm not worth chasing?”

“Of course not,” I say. “But if you ended things, that should be it. Someone who doesn't respect those boundaries is an asshole.”

“You're not wrong,” she says. “And I was kidding. I don't want to be chased. I keep telling him that.”

“But he still wants to get back together?”

She sighs again. “I'm not sure if it's me he really wants, or if it's what I can offer him. Either way, he's gotten more intense lately, like he thinks he still has a chance even though I've said no a dozen times. I keep trying to be nice since we were together for four years in college, but the more he pushes...” Her voice trails off, and I get a glimpse of the stress that this is causing her in the way her eyes crinkle.

“Maybe now that he thinks I have a new boyfriend, he'll back off,” she finally says, grinning up at me. “The fact that he's still watching us isn’t really giving me too much hope. It’s definitely not your problem, though, and I'm sure this kind of conversation wasn't what you were looking for when you came here.”

“You have no idea what I came here looking for,” I fire back.

“You want to tell me?”

“Originally, I came here because I had to. But now? Feels like I came here to meet you.”

Blakely laughs again, shaking her head. “You really do have all the lines don't you, hero?”

“You have no idea. But I am having a thought.”

“I can't wait to hear it,” she says before I can continue. And I swear I'm ready to drop down on my knees for this girl. I can't remember a time I've had so much fun just throwing banter back and forth, but goddamn, she's really good at it.

“If we really want to sell this, to make Brian up there believe that you're really off the market, I feel like there's a surefire way to do that.”

She has to read the intent in my eyes, because that flush is back just like when I brought up Bridgerton and orgasms earlier. I'm dying to brush my thumb over her cheek, just to see if her skin is as soft as it looks, but I keep my hands where they are.

“And what is that surefire way?” Her voice hitches just slightly, which means she knows exactly what I'm about to say.

“A kiss.”

“A kiss?”

“Yes,” I say, my heart pounding against my chest at the prospect of getting my mouth on hers. “If I kiss you right now, trust me, he'll know that you're off the market.”

She wets her lips, almost like she doesn't realize she's doing it, then tilts her head. “I'm sorry, I should have mentioned that I'm not looking for an actual relationship. Almost four years with him was a long time, I'm not ready for anything serious. As much as I appreciate you offering to help.”

I dip my head down just to bring myself a little closer. Damn, she smells like honeysuckle and citrus, and I immediately want that scent drenching my sheets tonight.

“Do I look like someone who wants something serious? Even douchebag-Brian pegged me for a fuckboy.”

The girl laughs again, and warmth shoots beneath my skin at the sound of it. A sound I’m more than prideful about making happen.

“No, I guess you don't. Especially with those lines you keep dishing out.”

“So,” I say. “The offer stands.”

She worries that plump bottom lip between her teeth again, and it takes everything in me not to span the small distance between our mouths and suck it between my lips.

“No strings? No numbers?”

“If that's what makes you comfortable,” I say, knowing for sure I'll regret not getting this girl's number, but if that's what she needs to help her get rid of her ex, I'm all for it. Especially because he's giving me the fucking creeps and I'm not that easily creeped out.

How the hell had he landed a girl like her anyway? I've only known her a few minutes, and I can tell she's a fucking dream. A dream for somebody else who has the time and energy to worship a girl like her, but a dream, nonetheless.

“Okay,” she finally says. “Let's do it.”

A rush of nervous energy blasts between us, but it's quickly quelled. I may not be good with emotional intimacy, but physical intimacy is what I do best, just after making plays on the ice.

“How do we?—”

I cut off her question by smoothing my free hand along her cheek, relishing the softness of her skin beneath my fingers as I shift closer.

Her breath catches as I lean down, grazing my lips over hers in the barest of touches. I'm all for the tease, the anticipation, but the minute she arches off the wall, her body reaching for mine on instinct, all bets are off.

I glide my hand around to cradle the back of her head, gently tugging the strands of her hair to tip her head so I can properly kiss her. Our lips collide as I bring our bodies flush, my other hand lowering to her hip to secure her against me.

Her hands slide up my chest, gently gripping the fabric of my T-shirt as she holds me close, her lips parting beneath mine in the sweetest form of consent.

I gently back her against the wall as I lick into her mouth, teasing my tongue against hers.

Fuck, she tastes like sugar and limes from whatever drink she had before, and it makes an explosive blaze of heat blast through me. She shifts against me, kissing me back as intently as I am kissing her.

I pull back, just enough to catch her gaze and find her blue eyes as hazy with lust as I'm sure mine are. My chest heaves, my heart racing, every instinct in my body begging for more.

I'm about to ask her where she's at with all this, but she grips my shirt and brings my mouth back to hers.

Fully taking the reins, she licks into my mouth, clinging to me like she needs me more than she needs her next breath.

And I give it to her. Whatever she wants. I get so lost in the kiss, in the sensation of her mouth hungrily seeking out mine as her hands roam over my body to draw me closer, that I don't even remember why the fuck I'm here in the first place.

This is explosive. This is fire. And I sure as hell don't want it to stop.

I shift against her, roaming my hands over her luscious curves as I slip my thigh between hers to bring us closer. The sexiest little whimper escapes her throat from the contact, and fuck me, she arches against my thigh, her body responding to me as she seeks out more pressure.

Goddamn, I'm hard as a rock from a kiss. It's like high school all over again, but I don't dare question it, not when her mouth is on mine and my tongue is against hers and those sexy little sounds keep coming from her with each pass of my hand along her body.

Fuck, I wonder what sound she’d make if I got her back to my apartment? If I had the time and space to explore every glorious inch of her. I wonder what she would sound like with my cock sunk deep inside her?—

“Wolfe!” I immediately jerk out of the kiss, the sound of my captain’s very impatient voice shouting my last name across the bar doing everything to kill the mood.

Well, maybe not everything.

I'm still very much rock hard, and my thigh is still between Blakely’s, the beautiful woman still in my arms looking up at me with swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

Damn I've never seen anyone more beautiful.

“I—”

“Wolfe! Now!”

Blakely blinks out of the heated stare we've been holding since Kiplin called my name, and slowly cranes her head around my shoulder, eyes flaring when she spots my captain.

I get the reaction. He's an intimidating motherfucker, especially if you're not used to him, which I’m definitely not yet.

Blakely gives Kiplin a second look before she gently backs away in the little amount of space she has to do so. “Looks like you're needed, hero,” she says, and I swear there's a hint of regret in her voice.

Is that because she wanted this to continue? Because I sure as hell do too?—

“Wolfe, you have two seconds.” Kiplin's voice leaves no room for argument, and even though I don't know what kind of captain he is yet, I certainly don't want to be punished on my first day of practice tomorrow.

Still, the urge to stay and learn more about Blakely is strong.

“Go,” she says. “I'm going to leave too. I just have to settle my tab. In case you were worried.” Her eyes flicker up to the balcony again, and I gently step away, putting a good foot of space between us as I follow her line of sight.

Brian is gone, hopefully for good after he saw me kissing Blakely.

Fuck, I forgot it was all for show for a minute. And I think she did too, if the way she's looking at my mouth is any indication.

“Blakely, I’m?—"

“It's okay, hero,” she cuts me off, gently nudging me toward my captain. “Go. You don't want to upset him.”

I furrow my brow, but I'm already taking a few steps backward, unable to take my eyes off her.

“We need to revisit this,” I say giving her my best smile and showing her the full intention of what I mean as I wag my finger between us.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Bangor isn't that big,” she says. “I'm sure I'll see you around.”

Something like sadness sweeps over her face as she turns, heading to say something to the bartender as I finally reach Kiplin who all but drags me out of the bar.

“I was coming,” I say as we move through the doors and head toward our cars parked in the lot.

“I was making sure you weren't,” he snaps, jerking his car door open so hard I'm afraid it might tear off.

“The fuck is your problem?”

“You'll find out soon enough,” he says. “Don't be fucking late tomorrow.” He slams his door and drives off without another word.

“ Don't be fucking late tomorrow ,” I say in a mocking tone as I get behind the wheel of my car and head toward my apartment that is in no way fully set up yet.

Luckily, I have a mattress on the floor. I crash against it, desperate for sleep, but it stays just out of reach.

I can't get Blakely out of my head, her scent out of my nose, or the feel of her mouth off of mine.

Fuck, I haven't been this juiced up over a kiss in years. And I know I've got a new camp practice thing to go to tomorrow and I need to focus, but it’s hard to get her out of my head. Logically, I know it’s for the best we didn’t swap numbers. The last thing I need is a distraction when I have a losing team to bring back to life, but she’d certainly be a fun distraction. And who knows, if I’m meant to see her again, maybe we’ll run into each other again at The Queen’s Rum . If not? Then it’s for the best anyway.

I focus on that certainty and force myself to get to sleep so my captain doesn't murder me tomorrow.

The Bangor Badgers practice facility is located just a few miles away from our home arena. The building is equipped with a rink, the best workout facilities a guy could ask for, and the standard locker rooms and showers. There are only a few bleachers that surround the rink, allowing for small audiences when it comes to practice. We're all suited up and lingering on the ice as the new owner—dressed in a suit more expensive than my car—introduces himself from where he stands next to our other coaches on the opposite side of the rink.

“I'm Crossland McClaren,” he says. “I’m sure you're all wondering why I've asked you to come out two weeks earlier than we would for normal practice?—”

“We're not wondering,” I cut the owner off. What? I've always struggled with my filter. “We need it. Whatever it is you're about to throw at us has to be because you want to not lose this year, am I wrong?”

McClaren smirks narrows his gaze and shifts his immaculate suit jacket.

Coach Hardin whispers something to McClaren, answering some question, no doubt about the asshole who cut him off.

McClaren smiles, understanding flashing in his eyes as he returns his focus to me. “So you're our number one draft pick,” he says to me.

I nod and puff my chest out proudly.

“I'm the one who's going to turn this team around,” I answer, and a few grumbles from the team sound next to me. It doesn't bother me; I may talk a lot of shit, but I can back it up on the ice.

“Interesting,” McClaren says. “I'll let your performance tell me that, but first let’s get back to basics. This preemptive practice camp isn’t just because I want to win this season, which I do. Badly. It's because I’ve run a successful team out of Calgary for almost a decade. I know how to earn wins. I know what they taste like. I know they take more than one player that was drafted first, no matter how talented their stats out of Denver are.” He cocks a brow at me, and I purse my lips.

That's fair.

“Now,” he continues as if that settled the matter. “This practice is about sharpening skills that you no doubt let get rusty because you're comfortable with them. We have a ton of new faces on the team this year—mine included—and there will be new things we're doing this year—adding flexibility, mindfulness practices, and team exercises into our regular regime. I expect you to meet every requirement with enthusiasm. Whatever your coaches ask of you while you're here in this facility you better meet and exceed, or you'll be traded faster than we can get to our first game. I know the previous owner was a prick, but that's not me. I'm about teamwork because I know that leads us to wins. If you have an issue that's going to get in the way of your performance, come talk to me. I won't be a dick to you like the last owner was. I actually give a shit.”

Coach Hardin nods, something like hope shaping his features as he looks out to the team around me as McClaren gives him the floor.

“I'm going to divide you into groups,” Coach says. “There will be four sections with four focuses, and each one comes with its own expert. One will be strength training, one will be recovery, one will be game strategy, and one will be skate skills.”

Confused chatter erupts among the rookies, several of them voicing what I'm thinking.

“Skate skills?” a rookie named Sanson asks to my left. “Like running drills?”

“Not exactly,” Coach answers before he divides us into groups.

I end up being shifted into the skate skills group, along with a few other rookies, and Clay Kiplin and Nash Stokehill. He's the only one who doesn't seem bothered to be in this group, but the other rookies aren't shy about wearing their attitude on their faces.

“Coach?” I ask, raising my gloved hand after he's done sorting all the players.

We all stand in four groups on the ice, the other coaches and the owner having moved off to the side where the bleachers are.

“I'm all for running drills, but the last thing I need is a brush-up class on how to skate.”

Coach smiles and casually slides his hands into his pockets. He's wearing a Bangor Badger tracksuit, and for some reason he can pull the look off where other people would look like a clown. He's got a real approachable air about him, but of course I haven't seen what he looks like pissed off yet. Knowing me, I'll see it soon.

“You think you're a good skater?” he asks, no maliciousness in his tone.

“I know I am,” I answer. “I was faster than half the guys in Denver.”

Coach’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, his mustache twitching as he holds back a smile. “Better than half the guys?” he asks, humor lacing his tone. He nods to Kiplin, who stands behind me in the skating group. “You hear that, Clay? Half .”

A few chuckles sound around me, and I roll my eyes but keep my mouth shut.

“While I'm sure that being faster than half the guys in Denver is a perk that we’ll appreciate, I guarantee that none of you guys can skate like your new skate coach can. She's a decorated figure skater and is lightning quick on the ice.” Coach’s voice rises as murmurs and questions rumble at his mention of a figure skater being our new expert skate coach. “And she is an integral part of this team now,” he continues, finally getting everyone to quiet down. “Trust me, she knows more than you, and if any of you so much as disrespect her, you’re gone. Treat her like your sister—no, like your grandmother . Treat her like you would a member of this team. Listen to her, and I guarantee you're going to be faster on the ice than you’ve ever been.”

Silence falls as he continues to explain what the other groups will be doing.

After a few moments, he finally tells us to break. The other three groups shuffle off to their designated spaces, leaving my group on the ice.

“All right everyone, Coach Wren is going to take it from here.”

We all turn our heads to watch as Coach Wren takes the ice. I'm expecting at least an over-fifty woman based on the grandma comment Coach made, but that couldn't be further from the truth.

Coach Wren, who can't be over twenty-three, glides onto the ice like she was born wearing skates.

Fuck. Me.

Not that I have any reason to, but I would recognize those long legs tucked into a pair of figure skates anywhere. She propels herself on the open ice before us, doing several spins and a leap that has my jaw dropping.

And when she stops showing off, she skids to a halt so quickly she shreds ice onto my skates.

“Blakely?”

She smirks. “Wolfe.”