1. Sage

CHAPTER 1

SAGE

The night is cold and crisp and the last rays of sunset are fading beneath the purple sky stretching over Minneapolis. Shivering in my coat, I hurry along the crowded street, keeping pace with my friends and teammates.

The slap of our shoes on the pavement accompanies the blare of car horns, the rush of heavy traffic, and the frenetic energy pulsing under my skin. This isn't a regular night out with the guys. No matter how hard I try to pretend, I can't trick myself into remaining at ease.

We round the block's corner and the bar where we're due to meet a handful of Minneapolis Metros players comes into view. My heartbeat thuds harder. "We're sure this is okay?"

Morgan, my best friend and line mate, throws his arm over my shoulders and squeezes me to his side, enveloping me in a cloud of the ocean-scented body spray he doused himself with before we walked out of the house. "Relax. We were invited."

"By Remy, not by one of the Metros." Icy wind whips around us, stealing my breath. In the three years I've played hockey for the Saint Paul Slash, Slash players have never been invited to get-togethers with the Metros. Being invited by Remy, a call up from our team, isn't the same as being invited by an actual Metros player. Though he's been playing for them for over a month, he's the first one to say he feels like a temporary piece, a visitor holding space until some of their regulars return to the lineup.

Soren, our goalie and the newest addition to our team, turns around to face me and continues walking, backward. A streetlight casts a blue glow over his blond hair. He raises a brow as he studies my face. "Sage, it'll be fine."

"Will it?" I sidestep a slick patch of ice and knock into Morgan's side.

"Do we need to play what's the worst that can happen ?" Phil links his hands with Gio and the pair slow down so they're walking beside me. Defensive partners on the ice, the husbands came up with this game for me. Talking through my spiraling worries is actually helpful.

"Yeah."

Gio pats me on the shoulder. "Okay, go. What's the worst that can happen tonight?"

My footsteps slowing, I take a deep breath and keep my focus on the bar's sign half a block away. "I spill a drink on one of them. Or I trip, or say something stupid. Or the Metros don't want us there, and Soren gets into a fight with whoever insists we leave, the fight escalates, and we lose our spots on the team for conduct detrimental to the organization."

Soren stops walking and gapes at me. The ends of his green scarf flap in the wind like little flags. "Excuse me? I'd get into the fight?"

"You did with the bouncer who wouldn't let us into that club on New Year's Eve." The incident from nearly four weeks ago is still fresh in my mind.

"That was different. He was a Winnipeg fan and wouldn't let us in for that reason alone." Shaking his head, he takes a step backward, into a small patch of snow that crunches beneath his boot. "I can control myself. No fights tonight, so you can eliminate that from your list of worries. Though I'm pretty impressed you went all the way to us getting suspended, or worse."

"What can I say? I had a lot of time to think between getting the text from Remy after practice this afternoon and us heading over here." Since we all live together, hiding my anxiety is impossible. I know it might annoy them at times, but they talk me through my spiraling thoughts with support and care and never treat me like I'm a pain in the ass. "Being able to actually talk to Remy about it would've been helpful."

Morgan ruffles my hair before releasing his hold on me. "His schedule has conflicted so much with ours, I don't think all of us have been at home at the same time in weeks."

Gio taps Soren's arm and motions for him to face forward. "Turn around so you don't head into a telephone pole. And Sage, take a breath and relax. You're expending too much mental energy on this. Remy would've gotten the okay from someone before he invited us."

"I know." We keep walking. Drawing in a long, slow breath, I count to eight. Hold for eight. And exhale, counting down, as my breath puffs out like steam in front of me.

I wish I wasn't wired this way, but I am what I am, despite my efforts to change. These guys accept me, like me, even love me in spite of it.

Not everyone does.

"And on that note, we're here." Morgan pulls me toward the bar's double doors. "Let's find Remy."

Soren holds the door open for us, and Gio and Phil step inside first. I follow with Morgan. Music and conversations swell around us. The interior is black wood and exposed brick, with dim lighting. Oak and leather scent the warm air. Unzipping my coat, I raise onto my toes, peering over Gio and Phil's shoulders, scanning the room for Remy.

Our friend is seated with a quartet of Metros players at a table near the room's center. My footsteps falter in a flash of recognition, he's sitting with the best players on the team. One captain, two alternate captains, and a defenseman who's caught my attention for far more than his on-ice skills.

Remy looks our way. His eyes light up and he says a few words to his tablemates before standing and waving us over, his smile a mile wide.

Soren's hand clamps on my shoulder. "Holy shit. He's sitting with Quinn Cagney, Maxim Durand, Jonas Nygaard, and Rhys Farrell."

"Yeah." My heart starts up the hard-thumping beat again. These are veteran players, well-respected, and well-liked. They've all represented their countries in national competitions, too.

The guys look friendly and two of them drag extra chairs over for us. I follow Morgan through the maze of tables, my nerves buzzing worse than the first time I stepped onto the ice with my team.

Dark hair flopping into his eyes, Remy throws his arms around Morgan and me. "You made it."

His version of the body spray has notes of pine and cedar. Sandwiched with Remy and Morgan, I'm choking on clouds of simulated nature. Drawing away so Remy can hug the others, something subtle, yet rich catches me, a hint of spice that beckons. I turn my head to follow the scent, and it leads me to the man sitting closest to me.

Rhys Farrell. Star defenseman for the Metros. Though he's been out of the lineup since early in their season, thanks to an injured shoulder.

Our gazes collide as he rises from his seat. A zing rushes through me. We're so close, I have to crane my neck to keep holding his gaze. I'm five-foot-seven, the shortest guy on my team, and he has to be at least six-foot-four. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. They're deep set, blue edging toward gray, like a storm at sea.

My breath catches and gets stuck in my lungs. Rhys's presence pulls me in until it feels like he's the only thing in vivid color and detail. The overhead lights tease out bright copper sparks in his thick, auburn hair. A close-cropped beard a few shades darker than his hair surrounds full lips. His white sweater makes him seem even larger, settling over the peaks and dips of his muscles, hinting at the strength and power banked beneath the soft knit.

He extends his hand and envelopes mine in a hot, firm grasp. "Hi, I'm Rhys."

"Sage." My voice is raspy. He looks and smells amazing, and I feel like a wind-swept wreck in Morgan's coat that's too big for me, a shirt that's half-untucked, and boots dotted with remnants of rock salt thanks to our walk to the bar. My ears, nose, lips, and fingers are still thawing out from the cold, yet my cheeks are burning up. Thanks to the wind and Morgan messing with my hair, I worry I've morphed into my mad scientist look, as Soren calls it.

Behind me, Remy makes the introductions. Jonas, Maxim, and Quinn's voices mix with my teammates.

"And this is Sage Murray." Remy thumps my shoulder.

Startled, I drop Rhys's hand. Fresh heat stinging my face, I wave at the group. "Hey."

The three Metros shake my hand. Rhys pushes out the chair beside his and gestures for me to sit. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Uh. You have?" Guard up, I lower myself into the chair. Then shrug off my coat. "Good things, I hope."

"Good things." The twinkle in his eyes is charming. "You're giving Remy guitar lessons?"

"Oh, yeah. Since last summer. He's getting really good." I give Remy an upward nod, accepting the whiskey sour he passes me. "He started teaching me piano first. It helped with rehabbing my wrist after I injured it in the playoffs last year."

Maxim leans over the table, swiping a slider from the platter in the middle. "You play guitar? I do too. But I don't think I'd have the patience to teach someone else."

Seated beside the man, Quinn shoves his hand into Maxim's shoulder, jostling him into dropping his mini-burger. "After your attempt to teach Jonas to play Mario Kart, I think we can all agree on that."

Jonas, on Maxim's other side, tips his beer at them. "You know it's true, Maxie."

Removing the slice of tomato from the slider, Maxim snorts in derision. "I swear, I've never seen anyone, and I include my four-year-old nephew in this, play that bad. It's like you were deliberately screwing up."

Grinning like he's not the least bit repentant, Jonas rocks back in his chair. "I was."

Maxim's eyes go wide and he smacks Jonas in the side. "I spent hours …" As he berates him in a combination of English and French, I hide my laughter behind my glass.

Beside me, Rhys chuckles. His knuckles graze mine as he picks up his half-empty pint of Guinness. "So, you all live together?"

"Yeah." I take a sip of my drink, savoring the warm spice and fruity notes. "Phil and Gio own the house. They live on the first floor. Remy and I have rooms on the second floor. Morgan is above us, in the attic. And Soren has the basement. We've been working on renovations during the summers."

Remy plops down at my other side, snickering at Jonas and Maxim still caught in the Mario Kart argument. "Phil and Gio show us what to do, and we do it. If we have a free day during the season, we might tackle an easy project, but since I've been up with you guys, our schedules haven't meshed. Until tonight."

Aside from Remy, a few of our Slash teammates have been called up this season, but Remy's the only one playing with the Metros now. I want to get a call up more than anything, though I don't like the idea of someone else having to get sick or injured or be playing poorly for that to happen.

Tingles of attraction sparking through me, I focus on Rhys. "Have to say, I'm a big fan. I love watching you play."

"Thanks." He smiles, but his gaze drops to his glass and he rolls his injured shoulder. I wonder if it's an unconscious movement.

Remy elbows my side. Beneath the table, he subtly points to Rhys and me then gives a thumbs up. With a smile and nod, he twists in his seat to talk to Phil and Gio, leaving Rhys and me to each other.

What the… Is this a set up? Warm fire flares through my body at the thought. Remy's a romantic, so I wouldn't be surprised if this was the motive behind tonight's invite. He probably knew how nervous and freaked out I'd be if he'd told me beforehand.

My heart beating faster, I set my glass down, turning it so the facets catch the light. "Can I ask, how's your recovery coming?"

Rhys's smile is beaming. "Today, I got the green light to resume playing."

"That's great. Congratulations. Bet you can't wait to get back."

Some of the light leaves his eyes. "The team's break starts today, so I won't be back on the ice with them for over a week." He drums his fingers on the side of his glass. "Management wants me to play a few games with the Slash in the interim, so I'll be joining you guys this week."

The thrill I'll have him as a teammate zips through my chest, lightning-fast, then fizzles at the frustration fraying the edges of his smile. "That's exciting news for us, but for you, I'm guessing, not so much?"

"The timing of everything's just annoying. I've been part of full contact practices for the last few days. Now, having to wait longer for an actual game with them sucks. I get what management's thinking, sending me to you guys." His gaze leaves mine to roam over the teammates sitting at our table. "But if they'd cleared me to return two weeks ago, like I wanted and thought I was ready for, I could've contributed to my team. We need to win games. Being held back and unable to help them is the worst."

Empathy washes over me. I rest my fingers on the chunky knit covering his forearm. "I know it is. With that wrist injury, I couldn't play the last two games of our playoff series. Hated every second of it. I felt so useless."

He tips his drink toward me. "Exactly."

I take another sip of my whiskey sour. "I know we're not the Metros, but we're a fun group. You'll like us."

The right corner of his lip lifts in a half smile. "I'm sure I will."

"We have two away games against Henderson at the end of the week. Since it's so far, we get to fly. So maybe your timing isn't so bad. You get to avoid countless hours cramped in a bus." There. I've found a bright spot.

"It's been almost seven years since I played in the minors, and I definitely don't miss the long bus rides." His smile turns full blown. "Remy said you're a good guy."

"Remy says that about everyone. He's an optimist."

Rhys leans in, his gaze roaming my face, his subtle scent of spice so good I want to roll around in it. "So, it isn't true?"

"I didn't say that." My pulse beats faster. Drawing in a breath, I lick dry lips. My cock jumps when Rhys's gaze focuses on my mouth. "I like to think I'm a good guy. I try to be."

"So do I." The sincerity in his tone wraps around me like a warm blanket.

The sound of a glass hitting the table jars me out of the cocoon of Rhys's presence.

At the opposite end of the cluttered table, Morgan, Soren, and Quinn stand, rattling the glasses and plates in their wake. Quinn leads them to another group of Metros, playing pool in the back of the room.

I grin at Rhys. "Morgan's a shark. They better watch out."

"So's Quinn." He smirks at their backs. "I'm half-tempted to head over and watch them battle it out."

My stomach rumbles. Dinner wasn't that long ago, but since I was so anxious, I didn't eat much. "I'm going to order some food. Anyone want anything?"

Remy and my friends wave me off. Maxim and Jonas are still in conversation. Rhys pushes his empty glass to the table's center and stands. "I'll come too. I was going to grab another drink."

We make our way to the bar, Rhys stopping to introduce me to his teammates along the way. There's more variety in ages than we have on my team. I count two guys with crutches, another in an arm cast, and one with a nasty gash across his chin, sewn together with several stitches.

Along with my whiskey sour, I put in a double order for nachos because Remy and Morgan will help themselves to whatever I get. Rhys orders another Guinness and sliders for himself.

The bartender passes me the drinks. Rhys is a few feet away, tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. Damn, he's attractive.

I take a step toward him, and my boot catches on something hard. Pitching forward fast, I jerk my arms up, sharp panic slicing through me. The whiskey sour sloshes out of the glass, soaking my hand. I slam into Rhys's chest. His Guinness erupts out of the pint glass like a volcano spewing lava.

His arms clamp around me, hugging me to him. The thump of us banging into the iron and wooden bar vibrates through him and into me. A grunt huffs past Rhys's lips. He protected me when he didn't have to. If he hadn't caught me, my head probably would've connected with one of the barstools or the floor.

My heartbeat pounding, breath heaving, I'm overwhelmed by the scent of Guinness. I lean back, peeling away from him. A huge brown splotch covers Rhys's chest and shoulder, spreading across the white knit. The remains of the stout are on my hand and seeping into my sleeve.

Horror rocketing through me, I set the glasses on the bar. The closest patrons have gone quiet, their attention focused on us. A few of Rhys's teammates come over, but he waves them away.

"I'm sorry. I tripped." I move forward, shame and then fear clawing out of my skin. If he was injured in our tumble… "Are you okay? You didn't hurt your shoulder, did you?"

He rolls it and twists his torso. "I'm fine. Are you?"

"I think so. I can…" Adrenaline is pumping too fast for me to feel anything. I snag a bar towel, and press it over the soaked material on his chest. His heart's pumping fast. Stammering more apologies, I continue dabbing it over various spots. My face heats like it's on fire and my pulse is thundering in my ears. "I'll pay to have your sweater cleaned. Or replaced. I'm sorry. So sorry."

His hand wraps around my wrist, holding it in place against his pec. "Sage."

"Send me the bill. Or I can take it somewhere to have it cleaned for you. Or tell me where you got it and I'll get you a new one." My stomach clutches into a ball of dread and worry. I don't know what I'll do if it's a one of a kind, or an heirloom.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Sage," he repeats, his voice gentle. He lays his other hand on my shoulder. "Look at me."

"Yeah?" Sucking in a breath, I look up from the ruined sweater.

No signs of agitation mar his face. No anger or disappointment. He's calm. His expression is as it was before I doused him in Guinness. He dips his head and holds my gaze, the warmth of his palm seeping through my shirt. "Everything's okay."

I flex my fingers in the towel. His hand stays around my wrist like a soft cuff, anchoring me. I can't believe I'm standing here, in full view of his teammates, mine, and the rest of the patrons, dabbing at his shirt, while he's wearing it , like I'm some kind of… I don't know what. "Shit. I'm sorry."

The pad of his thumb strokes the side of my wrist. Up and down, tiny movements, over and over. "I'm not. Maybe it's the best thing to happen to the sweater."

A chuckle surprises its way out of me. We both smile at each other. "Really? Why?"

"Every time I wear it, the guys ask me what time we're going fishing, or where I've docked my boat. Or they call me Cap'n. Quinn was whistling sea shanties at me before you got here tonight."

Laughing, my shoulders inch down and my fingers loosen their death grip on the towel. "I think it looks good on you."

"In that case, I'll have to see if I can save it." He's smiling again and that twinkle in his eyes is back.

"If you get soap and cold water on it right now?—"

"I'll take care of it." He releases his hold on my wrist and brushes the knuckle of his index finger over my lips, its heat as soft as a whisper and gone in a flash. "No worries, okay?"

If only it were that easy. I always have worries. It's exhausting.

But he doesn't need to know that. So I nod, leave the bar towel on his shoulder, and take a step back. The hand he'd had on my shoulder slips away. My stomach aches like something kicked it. "I owe you another drink."

I turn back to the bar and signal for the bartender. And see the long metal legs of the red barstool I tripped over. I'm sure my face is the same shade.

Rhys stays beside me while I order the drinks, leaning his forearm on the bar like everything's fine. If I weren't the cause of a disaster, I could relax too.

The scent of Guinness wafts from him like he showered in it. I can't look at him without picturing the mess beneath the towel. "Maybe you should go put some soap on that."

"I will." His hand grazes the center of my back. "I just want to make sure you're okay first."

That he's more concerned about me than anything else is a balm. But him witnessing my anxiety on full display shrivels something in my chest. I need a minute to myself. "I'd feel better if I wasn't imagining that stain setting in."

Huffing a laugh, he clasps my shoulder. "Okay. I'll go take care of it. You get the drinks, then we'll watch Morgan and Quinn battle it out at pool?"

"Deal."

He squeezes me once before walking toward the restrooms.

Elbows on the bar, head in my hands, I blow out a breath. I wanted to make a good impression, and instead, two of my worries from earlier have come to life. What's the worst that can happen? Those worries combining in one massive mess.

Way to go me.