Chapter One

Brent

"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be closing the door to the aircraft momentarily. We have one last passenger making their way down the gangway to board," the flight attendant announces over the intercom, her Santa Claus hat swaying back and forth as she speaks.

I glance at my watch, my jaw clenching. Three days until Christmas, and I need to get back to San Diego tonight. This is the last non-stop flight today, and tomorrow's flights are already overbooked. If I don't make it tonight, I'll miss Gran's birthday party tomorrow. That's not an option. I promised her, and she'd never let me hear the end of it.

I hate flying.

I mean, I really hate it.

I guess that's to be expected since my parents died my senior year of high school in a private plane piloted by my dad. It's a miracle I'm even willing to get on one of these things at all. The only reason I'm not on a private flight right now is because that everything else was booked solid for the holidays, and now I'm stuck on this cramped commercial flight, counting down the minutes.

There's really nothing to like about commercial flights.

For starters, the seats are too small for someone my size. They cram us into these tiny spaces, shoulder-to-shoulder with other people while we all inhale recycled farts. And turbulence? It's like God handed the controls over to a sadistic toddler, shaking the plane like a snow globe while grown men cry inside.

I let out an audible sigh, glancing over at the last open middle seat between me and another guy who's about as big as I am. Earlier, we shared a knowing smile, thinking we were the lucky bastards who might get some extra room, but with this delay, it's clear that hope's dead. There's no way that seat's staying empty.

We should have known better.

"As soon as this passenger is seated, we'll be on our way. Thank you for your patience," she concludes, then hangs up the receiver.

I resist the urge to groan. If there's one thing that pisses me off more than anything, it's people being late for their flights. It's like the rest of us are being held hostage by someone else's inability to manage their life. And now, I'm sitting here, stewing, knowing that my chance of getting home on time is in the hands of whoever this person is that's dragging their feet.

The Christmas music the pilot is streaming over the speakers only adds to my irritation. The jingling, the tinsel, the giant tree in the terminal—it all feels like a mockery of how things should be. Christmas is supposed to be about family, not getting stuck in an airport because someone can't show up on time.

I rub a hand over my face, trying to calm myself. The last thing I need is to lose my cool, but it's hard to keep it together when everything is so damn packed. I spent thirty extra minutes weaving through the chaos of the airport, stopping for selfies and signing autographs for Hawkeyes fans in Christmas sweaters. And I still made it on time.

Whoever's late has no excuse.

Not that I mind the fans. They're the reason I get to live out my childhood dream of playing professional hockey. I love them for it. But what I don't love is arriving at the airport only to be told that the plane originally scheduled for this flight had issues with the lavatory and was out of commission. So now I'm stuck in coach because the replacement aircraft cut first-class seating in half. I've been bumped, and my oversized frame is jammed into this aisle seat.

I sigh again, glancing at the window as the seconds tick by, my anxiety bubbling under the surface. If this person doesn't show up soon, I'm going to lose it.

As if this packed weekend wasn't enough, I've also got the Hawkeyes' big game against San Diego coming up right after Christmas. That's where my head really needs to be. It's a rivalry game, and the stakes are high. We've been preparing for weeks, and I can't let my guard down for even a second. This isn't just another regular season game—it's San Diego, and we all have to be playing at our best for this one.

If we lose this game, we might not recover from it.

It could cost us the season.

It could cost us the Stanley Cup.

My phone rings in my pocket as I wait impatiently for the inconsiderate passenger who still hasn't walked through the airplane door.

Grandma calling…

"Hi, Gran," I say.

I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable in my pleather chair with zero lumbar support.

"Hello, my favorite grandson. Are you on your flight?" she asks in a chipper tone.

I chuckle at the way I can already tell that my grandmother is working to butter me up for something she wants.

The last time she called for a favor, she asked me to fly out for the retirement center's annual Summer's Night Ball to take her best friend Trixie to the event. Trixie was too shy to ask any of the men in their retirement community.

Turns out that men of that age in retirement communities tend to get a little territorial of the single woman they have at their disposal. They don't like younger men coming in and taking the available stock.

"I'm your only grandson…and yes, I'm on my flight, but some asshole is holding up the plane," I say. "What are you about to ask for now?"

I might sound annoyed, but in reality, I'm looking forward to her answer. My gran is full of surprises that usually have me laughing my ass off after we hang up the phone.

And when The Hawkeyes endure a soul-crushing loss, her calls are the comedic relief I need to pull me out of my funk. Sometimes, I put her on speaker in the locker room after a loss so the guys can hear her curse about the referee's bad calls or to give us her unique play-by-play of the game as if she's a wacky sportscaster.

The guys love her crazy antics, but not more than I do.

"It's nothing big, you know… just that you need to grant a dying woman her last wish."

I roll my eyes and smirk.

Great… here we go.

"You're not dying, Gran," I say dryly.

She's been using this line since I was eight years old, and it used to scare me shitless at the thought of losing my grandmother, but now I'm at the realization that this woman is probably going to outlive me.

Considering what I do for a living, I'm definitely closer to death than she is.

"Don't be so sure. I might die with all these STDs floating around this retirement home. It's near impossible to get men to wear condoms at this age."

"Gran… please," I say, trying to get her to change the subject.

"I'm just telling you. There are more used condoms floating around this place than in a packed frat house. The plumber is on a regular rotation to unclog the toilets every few months because some idiots forget you can't flush them down the toilet."

I slap my hand to my forehead.

Why in the hell am I having this conversation with my grandmother? My sister Tessa should be handling this conversation. She's practically my Gran's mini-me and those two can go rounds about this stuff.

I refrain from using the word "gross" out loud. I used it once when Gran told me about her next-door neighbor's boyfriend getting Viagra and keeping Gran up all night with their headboard banging against the wall until dawn.

Evidently, using the word "gross" when referring to elderly people boning at all hours of the night and putting holes in the drywall is extremely offensive to my grandmother.

Once, she called me an ageist.

She was kidding… I think.

So now I just say it in my head…

…gross.

"Alright, I'll bite. What do you want as your last dying wish, Gran?" I ask with a dramatic sigh.

At this point, I'll discuss anything she wants to ask as long as it has nothing to do with the sagging ball dilemma of the St. Clair Retirement Community.

"I want you to settle down with a nice girl. Have a couple of kids… spread those Tomlin genes around a little, and give me some great-grandchildren. You're the last to keep the Tomlin name going, and Grandpa would be proud to see you pass it on."

My grandfather died of a heart attack when I was a baby, and my parents died when I was in high school. My grandmother, my great uncle, and Tessa are the last blood I have left. With Tessa getting married next summer to Lake Powers, the Hawkeyes left wing and one of my best friends, she'll no longer be a Tomlin. Which means that the Tomlin name dies with me if I don't have a son.

Still, I don't need the pressure.

"Tessa is giving you great grandkids. In fact, she's cooking you one right now."

Tessa's pregnancy is still new. She just found out last week, and I was her first call since she and I keep very little from each other—a product of only having each other to rely on at a young age. Gran knows, too.

I thought the idea that Tessa having a baby would get her off my back, but I guess not.

"It's time for you to settle down just like your sister. Plant some roots. Find someone to love that pug-nose face of yours."

She likes to tell me that I'm only one more broken nose away from having the sinuses of a short-snout dog. She's not wrong, I snore like a freight train after a long game. When I get sick and stuffed up, my nose makes a high-pitched whistle.

It's the curse of a hockey player's life.

My grandmother hates seeing me get hurt out on the ice, and I appreciate her concern, but hockey runs in my veins. I think sometimes she forgets that professional hockey also pays for that fancy retirement facility that she lives in.

Not that I mind paying for it.

It was my idea to put her up somewhere nicer than my grandfather's pension and retirement funds could afford.

The place is more like an all-inclusive resort than an old folk's home, and I'll continue to pay for it for as long as she wants to stay.

"It's not as hard as you might think for me to find someone to love this pug-nose face, Gran. Just come out to a home game this season and see all the women who show up wearing my jersey," I tell her.

I hear my grandmother make a tsk noise as if she doesn't appreciate my cocky yet true statements.

Finding a woman to like my face isn't a problem.

Finding a woman who can compete with the only girl I've ever wanted? Now that has proven to be a losing proposition.

"Trixie's granddaughter is single. She's not much of a looker but she's a damn good cook." My grandmother offers.

It always cracks me up when she curses.

"Not much of a looker is a deal breaker, I'm afraid, no matter how good of a cook she is. And I think you should work on your pitch… that was a bit rusty."

"Then I guess I'll let her do it herself because I invited her to my birthday tomorrow morning."

Saggy retirement balls… of course, she did.

"Gran-"

"Don't you Gran me Brent. Tessa is getting married, your great uncle Larry and I won't be alive forever, and God rest their souls; your parents aren't here either. If you don't find a partner to live this life with, you will end up alone."

My gran has never been one to hold anything back, but her last remarks hit me a little harder than I'd like to admit.

"Don't sugarcoat it on my account," I say sarcastically, glancing down the aisle for the missing passenger who still hasn't shown up.

The pretty brunette flight attendant who greeted me this morning smiles back at me from the front of the plane, almost like she's been waiting for our eyes to connect again.

I give her a quick smile and nod and then glance back out the window of the aircraft. I watch as another plane begins to taxi out of their spot next to us.

With the sun lowering over the mountains, I'm reminded of just how tight my schedule will be this weekend. By the time we land in San Diego, I'll barely have an hour to grab my luggage, pick up the rental car, and check into my hotel before heading over to the wedding venue for welcome drinks with David and Phoebe, where everyone else is staying.

"I never do," she says. "Now, as for my birthday gift, you can take Trixie's granddaughter out on a date while you're in town for David's wedding."

Back the hell up.

Did she just say "date"?

"Whoa, what the fuck?!"

"Brent Timothy Tomlin! Don't you dare use that kind of language with me," she barks.

She took me off guard. She's used to my foul mouth. She's practically the one who taught me all my first curse words.

"Sorry, Gran," I say under my breath.

"I want to see you on your way to happiness, even if I have to do it myself."

I am happy.

She has nothing to worry about.

And at twenty-nine years old, I still have years to go before marriage should even be on my mind.

"Gran, I can't go out with her."

I hear her huff on the other end and the sound of other cheery women's voices like she just walked into an event at the center.

"Why the hell not?" she demands.

Come on, Brent, you're the king of come-backs, and now your ninety-year-old grandmother has you tongue-tied? Jesus, you'd better up your game before your grandmother agrees to a betrothal between you and her neighbor's dog-face granddaughter for a dowry of dissolvable condoms and a year's supply of the little blue pill.

"Because I already have a girlfriend," I blurt out. "I was planning to surprise you at your party tomorrow, and now you've just ruined everything."

It's a bold face lie but I don't feel bad about it. She brought this upon herself.

"You're bringing a girlfriend to my party?" she asks, the excitement in voice making me feel a little bad for my lie. "Oh, Brent! This makes me so happy. I can't remember the last time you brought home a young lady."

Me neither.

I don't think I have since before my parents passed. My focus became taking care of my younger sister Tessa as her legal guardian, making sure my grandmother is looked after, and getting picked up as a rookie for a pro hockey team to provide a better life for both of them.

It feels like I've been running to keep up ever since.

Now that Tessa is finally settled with Lake, I have one less thing occupying my thoughts. Only to be replaced with this new lie I fed my grandmother.

I have no idea how I'm going to pull this off, considering I don't have a girlfriend and I'm not bringing a plus one to David's wedding.

A real girlfriend isn't an option since I'm not seeing anyone seriously. And finding someone to fake it in a matter of hours seems unlikely.

If this was all happening in Seattle, I wouldn't have any trouble finding a temporary girlfriend to get my grandmother off my case but I'm too short on time to ask any of the women I've dated casually, and I'm not as well connected in San Diego as I was when I grew up there.

Besides, asking a woman that I'm not dating seriously if she wants to fly to San Diego on a whim to meet my grandmother and attend a wedding over the Christmas break is a bad idea. Not unless I'm ready to get tagged in the Pinterest board of nursery ideas for our unborn children that I have no intention of having with her.

That's a rookie mistake and not one I'm desperate enough to make.

Still, I need to come up with a solution… and fast.

All the women I know in San Diego are married… mostly to my friends and my grandmother has attended all of their weddings. She'd know if I tried to pass one of them off as my fake girlfriend.

"Yep. She's really excited to meet you," I say, sucking in my lower lip to wet it.

I glance back up and see the undeniable look of interest in the pretty flight attendant's eyes.

Maybe asking the flight attendant to be my girlfriend for a few days would work. But what are the chances that she has the weekend off in San Diego?

"You just made my birthday!" she giggles, "Hey love, I have to get going. I can't wait to see you. Have a safe flight, sweetie, and I'll see you tomorrow for my birthday party," she says.

Saying "Have a safe flight" means a lot more to us than I think it does for most, and it squeezes at my chest.

"Yeah, see you soon," I tell her.

As I hang up with my grandmother, I look back up at the flight attendant. She might be my only hope.

This time, her eyes don't meet mine as she's staring out of the aircraft's open door.

Oh, right… the missing passenger.

I almost forgot about the late passenger between all the disturbing information that my grandmother filled me in on about retirement community living.

Finally, I see someone enter the plane, and the flight attendant welcomes them onto the aircraft with a smile. If I were her, I'd tell the passenger to kick rocks, but that's probably why I'm not in the hospitality industry. Instead, I spend my career tripping up opposing players or checking them against the plexiglass of a hockey rink.

They can hospitably kiss my ass.

I keep my eyes on the newly emerged passenger as she turns and heads down the aisle. The moment I see her face, I know I'm fucked.

A knot tightens in my stomach, and a low grumble escapes my lips.

Not her.

Jesus, not her.

Zoey Kloss.

A woman I went to high school with back in San Diego. She's also the bride's sister and a woman who hates my guts for… well, something I deserve.

I ditched her on the night of our senior prom.

But I had a good reason. I just couldn't tell her what it was, so naturally, she's hated me ever since.

We have the same group of friends, which means that the last ten-plus years of Friendsgivings, weddings for classmates and our ten-year reunion all amount to the same thing between us; she avoids me at all costs.

I don't think she's said more than a few words to me since cursing me out over the phone when I told her I wouldn't be picking her up that night for prom and instead planned to go to the ice rink and practice my slap shot.

At the time, I thought I had done the right thing.

But the past is behind us, and at the time, I had more responsibilities on my plate than most eighteen-year-olds.

Between trying to win over the courts to become Tessa's guardian, to making sure Gran was taken care of, and making sure I played at the top of my ability to secure a NHL contract, Zoey was the distraction I always wanted but couldn't afford.

No sense in re-living any of it now.

What's done is done.

It won't change anything.

No matter how many years have passed, she hates me just as much as before.

I gave up trying years ago to break through her icy stare. Her heated honey-brown-eyed glare, reserved only for me. I've since accepted my fate, which means this flight is about to get all kinds of awkward in this row. Unless I'm the luckiest asshole in the world, and I'm wrong about this being the only seat left on the aircraft.

Her chestnut hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and she's dressed like we're headed for a snowstorm, even though we're headed to San Diego.

Last time I checked, the highs for today should be a comfortable sixty-eight degrees and sunny.

When she steps out of the San Diego International Airport wearing that parka, which looks more like a sleeping bag designed for Antarctic exploration, the weather will melt her from the inside out.

I've lived in Seattle long enough now that cold Christmases don't throw me off anymore. I like the cool nip in the air during this time of the year and the occasional snow. Besides, Christmases in San Diego only bring back painful memories of my parents and the number of Christmases they've missed since the accident.

I want to be here for my best friend David, and his fiancée Phoebe, on the biggest day of their lives, and I'm honored to get to be a part of it.

This trip will be quick, and then I'll take the red eye on Christmas Eve in order to be back to spend Christmas morning with Tessa and Lake, who are planning to come over to my house to have breakfast and open gifts. Then it's back to training our asses off for our game against the Blue Devils.

Zoey moves down the aircraft aisle toward me, and suddenly, the seats feel more claustrophobic than usual. I've faced hundreds of opponents on the ice over my long career, but this... seeing her walk towards me, I have a feeling this flight will redefine the meaning of a face-off.

Her eyes finally connect with mine, and I see the moment that familiarity and horror flash in her pupils as her posture stiffens.

Shit… this is going to be a long-ass flight.