Chapter 1

One

Kyleigh

"That's totally him." Alara elbows me, causing my wine to slosh over the glass's rim.

"And?" I down what's left in my glass, then set it on the now-soaked ivory linen tablecloth.

"Come on. You act like I don't know you. He's the it hockey player right now." She stares at Rowan Landry, the Chicago Falcons's new center, who's standing at the open bar.

Sure, I know of him. He's been all over the news since his trade to Chicago. And Alara isn't wrong. I love hockey players.

Thank you, Conor.

That button was installed early since I was carted around to hockey games starting at the age of four. I practically grew up in ice rinks, watching my older brother Conor play, but it wasn't until I hit twelve years old that I developed crushes on my brother's teammates. How could I not? There's just something so rough and tumble and alpha about hockey players. It's hard to explain, but they're my weakness, plain and simple. And Rowan Landry is the best of the bunch.

Not only is he the best center in the league, but he also has this arrogant, mysterious persona that sucks me in like a riptide in the ocean.

His dark hair is a little longer, wavy, and although it's styled tonight, if you Google him, you'll see it looking unkempt and like he just got thoroughly fucked in most pictures. I can't be the only woman who wants to be the one to give him that hairstyle.

"I see why they call him Magic." Alara rests her chin in her palm, her body slumping forward. "He could have been in the movie Magic Mike ."

"Want a glass for your drool?" I slide my water glass over in front of her. "And they call him Magic because he skates so smooth and flawlessly on the ice."

"He sure is." Her eyes stay trained on Rowan. I don't judge my friend. He's hard to look away from.

"Why is he standing at a bar alone though? Maybe it isn't him. Why aren't people bombarding him?"

I'm totally downplaying my interest. I swore to my brother years ago that I'd never date any of his teammates after he went on and on, insisting that there was too much room for complications, and if things went sour, it could ruin the comradery on the team. But we never clarified that I couldn't sleep with his past teammates. Technically, Rowan was Conor's teammate in college, so I feel like the statute of limitations is up on this one. Still…I think Conor would be pissed if he ever found out.

"Too bad you have Justin or else you could go for him." I nudge Alara.

She rears back, her gaze straying away from Rowan completely. "If only this were last year." Alara laughs, and her gaze travels back to Rowan as he asks for a refill from the bartender, pulling out his money clip and dropping a bill into the tip jar. "I'd never sacrifice what I have with Justin for one night of fun."

"Justin is great." He really is. One day, I'll be at their wedding, I have no doubt. Still single and in the same position I'm in right now, but I doubt a hot hockey player will be only a few feet away from me, getting drunk.

"He is. I should call him. He looked lonely when I left tonight."

"Thanks for being my plus one." I swing my arm around her shoulders.

My mom should have been the one here, not me, but she sent me in her place—again. She always sends me to weddings when she's custom-designed the bride's dress. She and I have worked so closely with them by the time the final fitting comes around, the bride is gushing about how much they want my mom to be there to watch her walk down the aisle. Mom's usually much too busy, so I go in her place. The thought of my mom makes my chest ache, so I push away any thoughts of her.

"I'll always be your plus one."

Except at her wedding, where I'll have to scrounge up someone.

"Do you mind?" Alara grabs her purse hanging off the back of the chair, eyeing the exit.

"Go."

She looks around. The meals haven't come out yet, so I have a while before I can say my goodbyes and sneak out. "I'll only be a few minutes."

Alara and I have been friends since college. We were those lucky freshmen who got paired in the same room, and it was kismet. We were best friends from the start. And I see the look in her eye. Watching someone get married, seeing the bride and groom all lovey dovey, has made her miss Justin. I'm going to bounce soon anyway.

"Seriously, go see Justin."

"No," she says, fighting like the rock star best friend she is.

"Really. I'm fine now. I'm going to slip out soon anyway." I lift my empty glass and realize that if I want another drink, I'll have to go to the bar.

Alara follows my line of vision and giggles. "Go nail the hockey player. You know you want to."

It's tempting, and everything I know about Rowan Landry says he doesn't do serious. Okay, so I read all the hockey blogs and posts. Sue me. It's only to make sure no one is talking shit about my brother, who plays for the Florida Fury. No other reason. Especially not to read about other hockey players and their reputations. Definitely not.

"Nah." I wave off her suggestion.

Her perfect dark eyebrows raise. "Yeah, okay." She chuckles. "Be sure to text me where he takes you when you leave with him." She stands, slinging her purse over her shoulder, smiling.

She really does know me too well.

"I'm not pursuing him. I'm cutting myself off."

There's a secret I haven't told Alara yet because she's in that perfect love bubble with Justin, and if I tell her what I found right before I came here, her faith in monogamy and a perfect marriage would be shattered, just like mine was.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat, willing the vision of my mom and another man to go away. Maybe my dad got a haircut and grew three inches—who am I to say what a plastic surgeon can do in a week's time? There has to be some explanation other than what seems painfully obvious.

"Good luck with that." She leans down and hugs me, squeezing me tightly. She only does that when she thinks something is wrong. Am I that transparent? "If I weren't going home to a great guy, I'd be heading to the bar." She eyes the path right to Rowan.

"Go get laid," I say, shooing her away.

"You too." She laughs, walking toward the exit.

So far, none of the guests seated at my table have sat down, but it's still early and people are gathered in clusters around tables, talking and drinking and enjoying themselves. I'd do the same, but I don't know anyone else here. I scan the room, ending at the bar, which I could have predicted. I shouldn't have to say it again, but hockey players strip me of my self-control every damn time.

Rowan is leaning his back against the bar, his elbows and forearms resting on the bar top, gaze traveling across the room. His baby blues stop on me, and I suck in a breath then divert all attention as if we didn't just lock eyes for a moment. Jesus, that was embarrassing.

Way to play it cool, Kyleigh.

I grab my purse and take a sip from my water glass, then stand, wishing I knew someone here, so I didn't have to sit here by myself looking pathetic.

I head toward the door. Look down. Keep your eyes on the ground .

I glance up only to ensure I don't bump into a waiter and cause a scene. A vision of chicken and beef meals flying races through my mind. Maybe I can sneak out now and email the bride saying I came down with something. She doesn't know I used that excuse twice in the last four months.

As I reach the doors, I take one more glance over my shoulder. I mean, seeing Rowan Landry in the flesh, out in the wild, with no one surrounding him as though he's the latest zoo exhibit is too good not to pass up one last time.

I peek over, and damn it, his gaze is still on me.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I probably look like a stalker. I'm one of those women Conor's always complaining about. The ones who admire creepily from afar but never approach him. Why do I care what Rowan Landry thinks of me? I'm not some puck bunny who wants to have his baby or wants to snap a picture to post on socials or show my friends. I grew up around boys like him who became hot professional hockey players. I'm not intimidated by his fame. I'm only interested in him for the distraction he's sure to give me tonight.

I press my teeth into my bottom lip. He tilts his head as if asking what move I'm about to make. Am I going to run and hide? Or am I going to go over and play?

Yeah, this is a bad idea, but I've had one hell of a shitty day. I deserve a little reward for not crumbling into the fetal position.

So instead of acting like a scared little mouse, I straighten my back, pivot, and saunter over to the bar. Consequences be damned.