Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Alex

Skate, skate, slide, slide, skate, skate, slide, slide.

I slide to the goal and then skate around it twice before hauling ass down the length of the ice to do it again. My warm-up might seem a bit neurotic, but I've been doing it since I was a kid. To me, it's as easy as breathing, and I don't know another way. I feel off if I don't do it this way, even if it means I hit the ice earlier than my teammates. I'm always the first on the ice—well…not since coming to the Nashville Assassins. Here, I fight for ice time with Dimitri Titov and Boon Hoenes. It's always a toss-up as to which one of them will be out here with me, but they give me my space and allow me to get things done.

As I skate, though, I notice no one is out here today. Not that I'm surprised. The Assassins missed the play-offs by two points. After endless injuries plagued them, this is the first time in years the team hasn't made it to the postseason. It sucks, but it is what it is. Unlike my teammates, I'm unable to miss ice time. I don't have a spot with the team. I'm a fill-in for the starter who developed a nasty infection in his hip. I've done well in his spot and have been sharp, but I want to be better. I want to stay with the Assassins.

I like it here. Nashville, that is. Lots to do, lots to see, and I love the family feel of the team. I grew up in a big family, all boys and my mom, so being invited to dinners with the Adlers and hangouts with my teammates has been like being home. I'm not saying I didn't feel like I was at home in Knoxville, but the team isn't established like the Assassins are. They have traditions and events that have been going on for years. Every holiday is spent together, and Elli Adler, the owner, goes out of her way to make everyone feel a bit of home. For Easter, she made me churros and flan. From scratch. It was incredible and overwhelmed me with love. So much so, that when I told my mom, she wrote Mrs. Adler a thank-you note. It was kind of her, and it only makes me want to stay here with the Assassins.

Even if my heart is in Knoxville.

Nope. No. Not gonna happen.

Skate, skate, slide, slide, skate, skate, slide, slide.

Nope, not allowing myself to think of that.

Of her .

I round the goal once more and then roll my shoulders, shaking out my limbs. About forty minutes after I came out on the ice, my buddy Ciaran Carter joins me. We grew up together in the junior league as kids, and then we drafted to the Assassins together. We used to live together, but then he met his fiancée, and now he's a signed player with the Assassins. Meanwhile, I'm single and not signed.

I'm in limbo.

Neither of us says a word to each other. I go into the goal, my happy place, and tap the goal post on either side of me three times each before I drop down in my stance, telling Ciaran I'm ready. He has a puck on his blade as he skates toward me, and he tries for over my shoulder. I catch it with my glove, throwing it away as we go again. He goes for my blocker side, but I bat it away with ease. He goes for five-hole, but I'll be damned if I let a puck in that way. I feel like such a loser when someone scores like that. We go through a bucket of pucks before we're both panting, and I grab my water bottle, following him to the bench where his water bottle is.

Ciaran leans into the boards as he squirts water into his mouth, and I do the same, but mine is blue Powerade. I hate Gatorade, and water is boring. After I swallow a mouthful, I ask, "How'd Lou's appointment go?"

He nods, and that little gooey-eyed look of love comes over his face. "Good. Her ankle is still giving her some problems, so they scheduled another MRI. We go back next week to see if she needs another surgery."

"Damn, that truck did a number on her."

He nods solemnly, and it's almost as if I can see the grief on his face from the memory of Louisa getting run over by a truck. She never saw it coming, and it got her good. Ciaran almost blew off his chance at the NHL to be by her side. Not that I'm surprised… Fuck, I would do the same thing for the right girl.

"Yeah. We're wanting to get all this fixed before we try for a baby."

I grin at my buddy, completely caught off guard. "Well, hot damn. You're ready to be a daddy?"

Ciaran's bashful expression makes me laugh. He's the most confident dude I know, but becoming a dad has him shy? That's hilarious. "I never thought I'd want kids, but she makes me want them."

I smack his shin with my stick. "You'll be a great dad, bro."

"Thanks, man," he says softly.

But then something occurs to me. "Wait, when are you getting married?"

He laughs at that, his eyes bright. "You don't need to be married to have a baby," he scolds, and I snort.

"I know that, but Dan Davenport will want you two married."

Ciaran nods. "Yeah, not that we care, but we are planning a small little thing this summer."

I feign hurt. "And I wasn't invited?"

He scoffs. "We haven't invited anyone yet. We aren't even sure if it'll be more than family."

I gawk at him. "I am family, asshole."

His laughter is annoying. "I know, and you'll be there."

I give him a sidelong glance, but I'm just messing with him. "Sure."

His laughter echoes through the rink, and I can't help but join in. This is how we were before Louisa McDavid came along and stole my friend away. Not that I mind anymore. We all need to grow, and I want him to be happy. Louisa makes him happy. More than happy, if I'm honest. Those McDavid girls are a rare gift. I physically shake my head of that thought. It's been six months; I need to stop with this hang-up I have for a certain hazel-eyed beauty. She didn't want me, and there are plenty of women in the world who do.

Not that I've been putting myself out there.

Which doesn't make any fucking sense. I love women. I love the curves of them and the feel of those curves in my hands. I love the taste of a woman and how they come undone under my tongue. Fucking a sweet mouth and making her gag sends me into fits. The feel of a tight pussy around my cock is my favorite thing after completing a shutout. But when I get a woman to scream my name as she comes apart, God take me, I'm done for. I love all the pleasure a woman can give me, but while getting my fill of a certain McDavid, I also fell for the intimacy.

Fuck me. Intimacy? I sound like fucking Ciaran. Or one of his romance books' heroes.

But no matter how I sound, I know it's true.

My favorite part of sex with her was the afterglow.

Her fingers trailing along my chest, tracing the tattoo on my neck and shoulders.

Her legs tangled with mine.

Her dripping center making a mess of my thigh.

My hand squeezing her sweet ass.

Her lips.

Her eyes.

Fuck me, I need to go fuck someone else.

I roll my eyes as I carry my water bottle back to the goal and throw it on top of the net. I want to ask Ciaran how she is. She hasn't been posting much on her social media, only photos of the Knoxville Bears players and things going on at the arena. I only have her past photos to look at and enjoy. I've wanted to reach out, but I refuse to be rejected again. She didn't even stop me when I left on our last night together.

She just whispered, "Good luck."

That's it. I don't know what has her so closed off to wanting anything more, but I wish I could hurt the person who hurt her. It has to be that. She's a vibrant, gorgeous, smart girl, and I'm a stud, so she should want me without question.

I'm a damn good time.

In and out of the sheets.

But she didn't want anything more than my cock. Not that I blame her—it is a great cock—but still… I miss her with my whole heart. I miss the way she smiles and how she wrinkles her nose before she sneezes. I miss how she said my name and how she reacted when I called her mami . I miss the feel of her in my arms and how she laughed when we watched Friends . I miss how pissed she'd get when I stole a fry or a pepperoni off her pizza.

But most of all, I miss her lips and the feel of her ass in my hands.

Why do I do this to myself? Why do I care? She didn't want me. So why am I still hung up on her?

She was the one who got away.

Fuck me. Why did I just think that?

"Cruz."

I look over my shoulder at the sound of the voice of the Assassins' coach.

River Moore stands in the door of the boards, and he fills it with ease. He is a massive man and fit at his mature age. He has been a great mentor, but the look on his weathered face has me pausing. "Come on. We need to talk."

Ciaran glances over at me, and I can tell he's thinking what I am.

Well…fuck.