1. Hudson

1

HUDSON

“You do realize staring at it isn’t going to make her text back, right?” I say, nodding toward the phone in Chaney’s hand, which he’s been staring at for the past fifteen minutes while everyone around us is celebrating our hard-earned Stanley Cup win.

The win I should also be celebrating, but instead, I’ve been at this table with the rookie, nursing the same beer for far too long.

He hesitates before dragging his eyes to meet mine. “I believe in manifestation, okay? Power of the mind.” Tapping his finger along his temple, he smirks, then glances back down at his phone. “Fuck, you’re right. She is ghosting me. How the fuck does this keep happening to me?”

“I dunno, maybe you’re trying too hard? Too clingy? You know, you really are like a younger version of Adams,” I say, mentioning my best friend, Graham, who once was the rookie but is now retired and living in Tennessee. “Of course, I get stuck babysitting the rookie. Not once, but twice. History repeating itself,” I groan, then take another pull of my lukewarm beer.

“Yeah, well, we’re the last men standing, so it’s me or daddy daycare. Take your pick, Rome.”

Annoying as he is, and surprisingly charming too… he’s also right. Even if I won’t ever be admitting that to him. I glance around the crowded room and find my friends and teammates throughout the swarm of people.

Reed and Briggs are gleefully chasing the youngest kids around the room while Holland, Reed’s wife, watches and sips her sparkling water with a small smirk on her red lips. Maddison, Briggs’ wife, clinks her glass against Holland’s, and they both laugh while watching the fiasco unfold. Asher and Auden are in deep conversation with Coach Evans while their son, Alex, has his head bent with Evan, Reed’s nephew, looking at the glowing game held between them.

Man, everything has changed. Shit is so different now, and I think there’s a little part of me that wishes that things stayed the same. We used to spend our nights in the bar, getting into whatever trouble we could find. Young, freshly drafted to one of the best hockey teams in the country with the world at our fingertips—Chicago was our playground.

Now, we spend our days at a literal playground, keeping their kids out of trouble instead of making our own. The guys joke all the time that when everyone retires from hockey, they’ll just open a daddy daycare since these fuckers have enough kids to fill their own.

I mean, honestly, what the fuck is my life?

Reed, Briggs, and Asher are my best friends and my teammates on the Avalanches, Chicago’s reigning Stanley Cup champions. But they’re more than that—they’re family. My brothers. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them, but as much as I love my nieces and nephews, I’d rather not be stuck home on a Saturday night changing diapers and spoon-feeding toddlers. I’m the cool uncle that lets them stay up way past their bedtime and then sends them back home on a sugar overload for their parents to deal with. Other than that, I’m out.

So, Chaney’s right. It’s just us left. The only two of our crew that don’t have a ball and chain in the form of wives and children. We’re the last standing bachelors.

He’s the rookie of the team, the last to join our tight-knit circle, and even though I give him shit, I actually do like the kid. But I wasn’t just saying that when I said he is a mini version of Adams. He might be worse, and none of us can handle not one but two of those dramatic fuckers. Not that Graham is really around anyway right now. He went and fell in love with Reed’s younger sister, Emery, and they had twin girls. Now they live in his hometown, and we only see them on holidays.

“What’s your deal tonight, anyway?” Chaney asks, his brows bunching together as he finally glances up from his phone again. “We’re supposed to be celebrating. We won the fucking Stanley Cup, and you’re being grumpy as fuck, ruining my vibe.”

I narrow my eyes at him, starting to feel slightly claustrophobic in the bow tie and tux I have on. The truth is, I don’t know what my deal is.

Hell, he’s right.

We won the Stanley fucking Cup.

Some people wait their entire lives to be able to say that. Most never even get to hold that cup above their head. And we did it.

I played the best season of my entire career, and yet… I don’t know. Something still feels off. Maybe I’m just in a mood tonight, and I don’t feel like being in a room full of people, plastering on a fake smile for the cameras. But it seems like I’ve been in a mood for a while now, if I’m being honest.

“Just not feeling it, I guess. I think I’m going to head out.” I set my beer down on the table beside us, standing straighter to adjust the button of my tux jacket.

Chaney shakes his head, “Don’t be lame, Rome. I know you’re old and shit, but stay, man. Enjoy the party. You more than earned it.”

“I’m only fucking thirty-three, you dick. I’m not old. Not my fault I’ve got hair on my balls older than you.”

He looks offended for a moment before a smug grin spreads on his face, “Yeah, well, you’ve got some wrinkles right there, dude. I know this girl who specializes in Botox…”

“Fuck you.”

The asshole only grins harder, then tosses back the amber liquid in his clear plastic cup, draining it in one quick gulp. “Well, since you’re dipping out because you’re lame and my Tinder date has officially ghosted me, my night’s now wide open, and there are plenty of beauties right here that require my very undivided attention.” He straightens his tie and winks, gesturing to the crowd of women who are staring at us from across the room.

Puck bunnies who want nothing more than one night with any of us, and any other time, I might have been game, but tonight?

I’m not feeling it.

And I don’t blame the rookie for not wanting to stick around to listen to me being a grumpy asshole. Hell, I can hardly stand to be around myself right now. I should be celebrating with my friends, yet all I want to do is head home and sit on my couch with a six-pack and game highlights. Alone.

It’s not like me, but then again, lately, I don’t feel very much like myself.

It feels weird being in the very best physical shape of my life, playing better than I ever have, and mentally not being on the same page. Like my mind is at war with my body. Maybe it’s because, like the rookie said, I am getting older. Logically, I know I’m not old—I’m in my thirties. But mid thirties is practically an expiration date for hockey players. Unless you’re the next Gretzky or Howe, you’re likely retiring before thirty-five. Most people’s bodies can’t handle the grueling gameplay and aggressive hits they receive on the ice, no matter how in shape they are.

I’ve known it since I was a kid and made hockey my dream. That if I ever did make it to the big leagues, there would always be an end date long before most men retire. I guess I just didn’t realize how fast it would go. Hell, what would I even do if I wasn’t playing hockey?

“Alright, catch you later,” I tell him. “Be smart. No more fucking people’s girlfriends.”

He shrugs. “Not my fault they’re not being entirely truthful.”

I don’t even bother with a response to that and instead make my way through the exit. I’ve had enough of Chaney for the night.

The moment the cool night air hits my cheeks, my shoulders dip in relief. I feel like I’m taking my first full breath of the night without my chest tightening in restlessness. I feel less caged in. I pull my phone from my pocket and unlock it, aimlessly scrolling through my notifications as I walk toward the dim, empty courtyard.

More texts from my ex that I swipe away and don’t even bother opening. Definitely not in the mood to deal with that shit. A few emails from sponsors. Most of the notifications are from the family group chat between Mom, Dad, and Hailey, my little sister.

FAMJAM

Hailey: I’m bringing someone to our family dinner this month. Hudson, if you start shit, I’m going to leak your number on twitter. Again.

Mom: Hailey Elizabeth!

Dad: Haha. This is going to be GREAT.

For fuck’s sake.

“Oof.”

Suddenly, my phone flies from my hand and skids across the concrete of the courtyard with a dramatic crunch as I collide with something soft and pliable, taking me by surprise.

Well, fuck.

I drag my gaze up and see what… or more like who I’ve run into. She’s short, her head barely reaching the middle of my chest, with long, golden-blonde hair that falls down her back in loose curls. Her body is wrapped in a tight red dress that has my mouth watering just at the sight. The material is molded to her figure, accentuating her toned thighs and curvy hips. Damn. My eyes move upward, drinking in her supple bust, lingering on how perfectly she fills out the dress clinging to her body like one very lucky glove, until I snap out of it and drag my gaze back to her face.

Her plump, glossy lips are tightened in a scowl as her gaze narrows.

“Shit, are you okay?” I ask, wincing when I realize she’s rubbing the part of her head where she hit me, like it hurts.

Her bright pink nails rub at the spot, and she shakes her head slightly. “Um, yes? I guess, considering I just got plowed into by a giant.”

I bite back a smirk from the innuendo. Even with the mask of frustration resting upon her face, she’s still one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Long, dark, thick lashes frame her blue eyes. Her nose has a slender, delicate slope that makes her look even more… soft? Dainty? Feminine.

Fuck me. She’s stunning. And I quite literally ran into her, nearly knocking her down like an asshole.

Even with heels on, she’s so much shorter than me that I’m looking down my nose at her. She’s fun-sized, but curvy where it counts.

“I’m so sorry. I was texting and not paying attention to where I was going.”

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” Pulling her hand away, she peers up at me with wide eyes. “I think your chest might actually be made of concrete or something. Jesus.”

I laugh. “I’ve taken a few hits in my life. My ego thanks you.” I squat down and pick up my phone, and of course, the screen is fucking shattered. Pieces of glass are chipped and falling out. I groan. “Shit.”

“Oh god, well, now I’m the one who feels bad,” she says as she gawks at my destroyed phone. She rolls her plump, glossy lip between her teeth, and I’m not even going to pretend that my eyes aren’t glued to that simple yet sexy-as-fuck motion.

“Nah, it’s just a phone. It can be replaced.” I tuck it into my pocket and lift my eyes back to hers, trying like fuck to ignore the fact that she’s so beautiful. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Only an asshole texts and walks. Let me make it up to you.”

The words are out of my mouth in a rush before I can even think about how it could sound. Because I’m obviously not. Thinking, that is.

Her eyebrows raise in question, the corner of her lips turning up slightly. “Are you… propositioning me?”

“What? No. Shit.” I try to gauge her reaction. “I mean, maybe? If you’re going to say yes, then definitely. Absolutely.”

Mystery girl throws her head back and laughs, the soft, sweet sound floating around the empty courtyard around us. “That might be the best or… maybe the worst way I’ve ever been hit on in my life. Not sure just yet.”

I shrug. “Guess I need to make it the best, then, huh? Why are you out here anyway and not inside enjoying the party?”

“Mmm… not really my kind of party,” she says simply, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Needed some fresh air.”

“Hockey not your thing?”

“Not really. More of a baseball kind of girl, and it’s my first time here, so I’ve kind of just been people-watching.”

Hm. So not a puck bunny and never been to the practice arena?

“How about a grand tour, then?” I ask. I know the last thing I should be doing is picking up a stranger at the Stanley Cup party, yet there’s something about her, something that I can’t put my finger on, that has me desperate for even a few more minutes to get to know her. “Once-in-a-lifetime kinda tour. Maybe by the end, you’ll be a hockey fan.”

For a second, I think she might say no as she shuffles from one foot to the other and hoists the purse higher on her shoulder, but then a wide smile spreads on her face, and she gestures toward the entrance. “Lead the way, then, Mr.…”

She trails off, and that’s when I realize through the entire conversation neither of us offered up our names.

Maybe she really doesn’t know a thing about hockey, and if that’s true, then she has no clue who I am.

And that sounds more appealing than it should.

Anonymity.

Being whoever I want to be. Not Hudson Rome the hockey player or the Playboy Playmaker, who gets plastered all over the tabloids. No pressure to be anyone but… me.

Maybe it’s wrong, but I offer up the first thing that comes to my mind.

“You can call me… Romeo.”

I see the understanding in her eyes, but she just shakes her head and laughs lightly. “Okay… then you can just call me Juliet.”

* * *

“Champagne tastes so much fucking betterwhen it’s the good shit,” I say, taking another sip from the bottle we’ve been sharing for the last hour. I swiped it from a server’s tray before we started the behind-the-scenes tour of the arena.

I pass the bottle to her, and she takes a hefty sip, draining the rest of the bottle. I didn’t realize how quickly we’d gone through it until the last drop hit her tongue. I lost track of time as we walked, exchanging random things about ourselves and her laughing at my lame jokes, or at least pretending to.

It’s the first time in a long time I’ve felt no pressure, where I can just be exactly who I am, without worrying about what that really means.

“Not that I have a ton of experience in expensive champagne, but this does taste incredible. So smooth. Like velvet.”

Her eyes are a little glossy, her words a little slow, and her movements match my own. The good shit always does that to you. It sneaks up when you’re least expecting it and hits you right where it should.

She sets the bottle down and reaches into her purse, pulling out a small pack of gum, and pops the piece into her mouth. Her cheeks heat when she catches me staring. “What?”

I shrug. “Nothing. Didn’t strike me as a Hubba Bubba kinda girl.”

Her eyebrows raise. “I’ll have you know that I am supporting a very long addiction to this gum. The strawberry watermelon flavor is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Do you want to try?”

“I take your word for it, Bubblegum.” My tone is laced with amusement.

Tossing her head back, she laughs, her small shoulders shaking. “I think I like that nickname. Definitely more than Juliet.”

This girl is interesting, and fuck, she’s fun.

“Good. And this…” I say, gesturing to the door at the end of the hallway, the last stop on my tour, “is… the broom closet?”

“Oh, is that included as part of this tour? The broom closet?” She laughs, stepping in a breath closer.

The sweet, fruity smell of her bubble gum surrounds me, and fuck, I don’t know if it’s the champagne or the dizzying effect she has on me, but I lean in, murmuring, “Of course. Had to save the best for last. I’m a grand finale kind of guy.”

When she looks up at me, the corner of her lips slants upward into a teasing grin. “Are you going to kiss me or not, Romeo? I’ve been waiting all night, you know.”

Fucking Christ.

I reach for the closet door and wrench it open, tugging her inside behind me. She lets out a surprised yelp, and the door closes behind us, sealing us in darkness.

Suddenly, I feel her hands along my abdomen, and I step forward, reaching for her at the very same time.

My lips hover over hers for only a single moment, the briefest second of hesitation before we collide together inside the tiny closet I’ve crammed us in. It smells a little musty, and it’s hot as shit in here, but I can’t think about anything other than the feel of her lush body pressed against mine. Her lips are soft, and every time she sucks in a breath, a tiny stuttery moan escapes, shooting straight to my dick.

I’m gonna have to admit that it’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone who made my blood race, and right now, my heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my goddamn chest. This girl, she’s fucking gorgeous, and every inch of her fits perfectly in my hands. Like she was made just for me. I squeeze the fabric at her hips, dragging her even closer against me as my tongue slides against the seam of her lips, dipping into her mouth as I swallow another breathy moan.

There’s nothing but chaos between us, a frenzy of hands and lips, fevered caresses, and desperate kisses. My hands drag down her body, pausing over her delicious ass, which I squeeze in my palms before I lift her off her feet. Her sharp heels dig into my back as she wraps her legs around my waist, gripping me with her shapely thighs.

“I live right up the road… with a big bed and an even bigger shower. A huge kitchen counter…” I tear my lips away and stare back at her, panting, “Let.” Kiss. “Me.” Kiss. “Take you.” Kiss. “Home?”

She tugs at the short strands of my hair, bringing my mouth back to hers on a breathless moan. “As much as I am enjoying this, and I am thoroughly enjoying it… I’d rather not complicate this.”

I pull back and gaze back at her. “So, that’s a no?”

“It’s a no. Listen, I really, really want to have sex with you. Can we just like… fuck? Like have incredible, mind-blowing sex, then walk away like it never happened? Two strangers simply getting each other off? Sounds fun, right?”

I mean…

Before I can even respond, I feel her hand brush against my cock, and it jerks at the feel of her. The dirty bastard doesn’t give a shit, and then, well, I just don’t bother responding at all. I claim her lips, walking her backward until her back hits the far side of the wall so hard that cleaning supplies go clattering to the floor around us. Neither of us so much as pauses at the commotion.

She wants to get fucked and skip the small talk? Fine with me.

That just means that if this is the only time I get to blow her mind, I’m going to make every damn second count.