Chapter 1

"It's soooo early."

"Babe," Blake Wright drawled unapologetically. "I told you last night. I've got a bunch of errands to run this morning before practice."

Mindy gave him what he assumed was supposed to be a cute pouty face, but it fell short. Probably because her blouse was wrinkled, her blonde hair was frizzy on one side of her head, plastered flat to the other, and last night's mascara was smeared around her eyes, making her look like a raccoon.

They'd engaged in one hell of a celebration dance, he thought with pride. Mindy had even enlivened things, entertaining him with what she called her private party trick. The woman could actually tie herself up in bed.

Last night, he'd thought it was funny because he was high on life and the win. This morning, as he recalled her special skill, he wasn't sure if he was impressed or horrified…because number one, why? And number two…

No, no number two.

Just why?

He gave her a quick kiss, one that she attempted to prolong by wrapping her arms around his neck, but Blake pried them off, trying not to let it annoy him.

They always had a good time in the sack, but the last few times Mindy had stayed over, he'd found her dragging out the morning-after goodbyes. The two of them weren't in a relationship because he'd made it very clear, right from the beginning, that he wasn't looking for a girlfriend. Mindy, one of the Baltimore Stingrays' most loyal puck bunnies, had assured him she was cool with the occasional "victory" hookup.

"Let's go back to bed," she purred.

He shook his head. "No can do."

"I'll make it worth your while," she added, drawing a long hot-pink fingernail down the center of his chest. He hadn't bothered to put on a shirt before walking her to the door, just tugging on a pair of lounge pants instead.

"Mindy," he said, hoping she heard the tone of warning in his voice. Back at the beginning, she'd been the perfect hookup—hot sex, followed by a sound sleep and quick goodbye in the morning, then Blake didn't see her again until the next time the Stingrays won.

Before Mindy could persist—and he could tell she was going to—he was saved by a new voice.

"Looks like the Rays won last night."

Blake grinned, looking up just as his neighbor, Dr. Erika Nelson, hit the top stair to their shared floor. He and Erika lived across the hall from each other in a luxury apartment building near Charm City, in Southeast Baltimore. While they lived on the fourth floor, and there was an elevator, Erika insisted on using the stairs more often than not.

She was obviously returning from her morning jog, her chestnut-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her skin shimmering with a slight sheen of sweat.

"You didn't watch the game?" he asked in surprise. One of the first things he'd done after Erika moved in was convert her not only to hockey but to the Stingrays specifically. She was now one of their team's biggest fans.

Erika grimaced. "Worked the late shift in the ER. I'll have to catch the highlights on TV at some point today."

He crossed his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. "Spoiler alert. We kicked Carolina's ass."

"Poor Carolina," Erika joked. "What did she ever do to you?"

Mindy's brows furrowed. "He means the hockey team."

Erika bit her lip—probably to keep herself from laughing—then said, "Oh, right. Of course. How silly of me." She unzipped a pocket in her jacket, digging around for her apartment key.

"Hopping night in the ER?" he asked.

Erika blew out a tired sigh. "Always."

"Anything interesting?" Blake had become a bit obsessed with hearing Erika's work stories. As an ER doctor at Hopkins, God knew the woman had treated some interesting—and hilarious—cases.

Like the woman who'd broken her foot putting on skinny jeans by jumping up and down, or the couple who'd lost a condom during sex that Erika had to fish out of the mortified woman, or the guy who'd hooked his own eyelid while practicing casting in his living room.

"Nope. Last night was a potpourri of the classics—chest pain, skin infections, and dehydration from the flu. I did have to put ten stitches in a kid's forehead after he fell off his bunkbed. The kid was fine, but the poor dad was not okay with the blood. He vomited all over himself while driving his son to the hospital. The smell was ungodly. Apparently, they'd had jambalaya for dinner."

Blake laughed, but Mindy made a face and started to gag.

"That's disgusting," she said.

Blake pushed off the door, ready for Mindy to leave. Erika didn't need any more ammo when it came to Mindy's lacking sense of humor or intelligence. He'd pointed out on countless occasions that he wasn't fucking her because of her brains, but that didn't stop Erika from doing a dead-on impersonation of the dim-witted woman just to give him a hard time.

"Well, thanks for a great evening, Mindy," he said, moving her away from his apartment, ready to send her on her merry way.

Mindy turned like she was going to go for one more kiss, but he dodged it, placing his hand on her back to guide her toward the stairs.

"Okay, then," she grumbled, unhappy at his hasty dismissal. He was going to have to reconsider their standing arrangement and start calling someone else for his post-game celebratory booty calls. Mindy's goals for their association clearly no longer matched his.

"Bye, Mindy," Erika said cheerfully.

"Bye, Eileen."

Blake stifled a groan. Erika had introduced herself several times, but Mindy seemed utterly incapable of remembering her name.

Mindy headed down the stairs as Blake continued toward Erika, who started singing "Come On Eileen," as she opened her apartment door and walked inside.

"Toora loora toora loo-rye-aye," Erika belted out.

"Smart-ass," he muttered, even as the tune starting playing in his head. Great. Nothing like an earworm. He knew what he was going to be singing all day.

Blake followed her, heading straight for her fancy Nespresso machine. Grabbing a cup from the cupboard and a pod from the container on the counter, he fired it up as she toed off her tennis shoes.

"I'm going to have to start a coffee fund if you keep coming over here and helping yourself," she said, the threat nowhere near new. "Those pods aren't cheap. It's why I limit myself to one cup a day."

"Bill me," he teased, opening the refrigerator to grab the creamer. "And how many times do I have to tell you? Life is too short to put limits on yourself. You like fancy coffee with the foam on top, so you should just have it. Why mess around with the shit you don't enjoy as much?"

Erika grabbed a bottle of water from the counter and took a long swig. "You know what your problem is?"

He didn't bother to prompt her for a response, since past experience told him she was going to tell him anyway.

He and Erika had been neighbors for three years, and during that time, she'd somehow become his best friend, his sometime nemesis, and that nagging voice in the back of his head—some people called it a conscience—all rolled into one.

Erika put the cap back on the water bottle and pointed it at him. "You have no restraint. You see something, you take it."

He waited for her to get to the problem. When she stopped talking, he snorted. "That's not a problem. That's called a happy lifestyle. The opposite would be yours, where you deny yourself pleasure for the sake of self-control. Total waste."

"Yes, but sometimes you grab things that aren't exactly good for you."

"Are you talking about Mindy? Because I can assure you, last night…she was very, very good for me."

She huffed out a breath. "One of these days, you might want to try to start thinking with the head on your shoulders as opposed to the one in your pants."

He didn't bother continuing the argument because at the moment, it didn't feel like one he could win. "So you really didn't watch any of the game last night?"

"Didn't need to," she said with a mischievous grin. "I watch you score enough here without having to tune in."

He laughed and debated denying her claim. While he indulged in the occasional celebratory fuck after home games with Mindy and a couple other women, he wouldn't define himself as an outright playboy. That name more accurately described his best friend and teammate, Zac Phillips, aka Tank. Tank's bedroom door really should be the revolving type, just to save him time.

Like Tank, Blake wasn't interested in a committed relationship, but that didn't mean he was fucking his way through the female population of Baltimore either. Erika wasn't wrong when she said he scored a lot, but the truth was, he limited his booty calls to the same three or four women.

"I wish you could have come last night. We were on fire."

"I turned on the TVs in the waiting room and breakroom to the game," Erika confessed. "I caught snippets during downtimes, but not as much as I would have liked."

Blake offered Erika free tickets to every home game. Unfortunately, his neighbor was in the last year of her residency at Hopkins, something she took very seriously. She was a workaholic, which probably wasn't a bad thing, considering her chosen career path, because there wasn't a more dedicated doctor in the city. And since she was focusing on emergency medicine, her hours weren't limited to nine to five, like family practice physicians. It wasn't unusual for her to work the night shift, and depending on the traffic in the emergency room, there were many times when she worked longer than her scheduled hours.

"Next time," she said, crossing her fingers. "Hopefully."

He pointed at her. "I'm holding you to that." He returned to the refrigerator, opening the door and peering inside. "Because you missed a scorcher last night. I scored twice."

"Wow. Mindy really goes the extra mile, doesn't she?"

He glanced over his shoulder, rolling his eyes, and then decided to hell with it. She was having too much fun at his expense. Time to give some back. "Twice on the ice. Three times in bed. Mindy's the Energizer bunny."

"TMI, hotshot."

"Remind me again, Doc. When was the last time you scored?"

"On the ice? Never."

Blake leaned back into the fridge. "Always denying yourself." He shook his head, tutting in disappointment. "And it's not just sex. Where the hell is your food? Because it looks to me like you're living on condiments."

Erika drifted around the counter until she stood behind him, peering into the refrigerator as well. "There's yogurt in there."

He rose, closing the door and crossing his arms. While Erika liked to give him shit about his casual hookups, Blake tended to return the favor when it came to her complete inability to feed herself properly.

"Erik. I thought you were going to start using Instacart, since you hate going to the grocery store."

She sighed, no longer calling him to task over his nickname for her. The first few hundred times he'd called her Erik, she'd attempted to correct him. Nowadays, he got the sense she liked the name, though God knew she'd never admit it.

"I have a cart half built," she said. "Just haven't managed to finish it and place the order."

"What are you eating for dinner?" he asked.

"I've been on nights this week. So I grab something from the vending machine or takeout from one of the restaurants in the hospital."

Blake shook his head but didn't bother issuing his standard lecture. It would be wasted breath. "I've got bacon and eggs at my place. I can make us some breakfast."

Erika perked up at the sound of bacon. "Awesome. Let me grab a shower real quick and I'll meet you back at your place in ten. I'll bring the yogurt over to contribute to the meal."

He grinned. "Great, but I get the blueberry."

"That's my fav—" She stopped, then sighed. "Fine. I'll eat the peach," she grumbled.

Blake left her apartment, crossed the hall to his place, and started to tidy. He wasn't a messy guy, per se, but he also had a tendency to treat his living room like an extension of his closet.

He grabbed a jacket off the floor and hung it up, then grabbed the two pairs of shoes from the living room floor and tossed them into his bedroom. He'd strip the sheets after breakfast and get a load of laundry going.

Blake wouldn't call himself a neat freak, but he also wasn't a slob like Tank. He kept his apartment tidy, and he paid a woman to come in once a week to clean. It was the same housekeeper Erika used because, like him, she liked a clean house but didn't have the time—or the desire—to do it herself.

Grabbing a frying pan from the cabinet, he pulled the ingredients he needed from the refrigerator, scrambling half a dozen eggs while the bacon cooked. He checked his messages once the eggs were in another pan. There were a couple texts from Tank, asking if he wanted to go out for a drink after practice today, and one from the assistant coach with some general information regarding their next road trip. They were flying to the West Coast the day after tomorrow for three nights.

The regular season had just begun, last night the first regulation game following two weeks of preseason. Winning the first game felt like a good omen to him, especially since they'd gotten knocked out of playoffs at the end of last season. He was looking forward to getting back into the swing of things.

He'd been playing for the Baltimore Stingrays the past four years, traded to his hometown team after six years with San Jose. While he'd enjoyed his time in California, there was nothing like coming home and playing for his dream team. He'd grown up worshiping the Rays, swearing to anyone who would listen that one day, he was going to be playing in the Baltimore arena and wearing the blue-and-white jersey.

There's nothing like a dream come true, and that was what he'd been living the past four years. Initially, he'd shared an apartment with Tank, his new teammate offering the room vacated by another player who'd been traded to Vegas. While he and Tank were truly the best of friends, it hadn't taken them long to figure out that friendship wasn't going to survive if they remained roommates.

So three years ago, he'd moved into this apartment, and a month after he'd settled in, Erika took up residence in the place across the hall. He'd flirted with her pretty hot and heavy the first few months because, one, flirting was second nature to him, and two, Erika was a natural beauty. However, she'd rebuffed every single one of his advances.

Blake didn't consider himself a cocky guy, but her continued refusals had started to sting, simply because he wasn't used to being rejected.

Finally, he'd point-blank asked her why she wouldn't go out with him, and Erika—who always shot straight—told him she wasn't about to shit where she ate. She'd asked what he was looking for, and when he confessed he wasn't interested in a serious relationship, she'd informed him that was exactly what she wanted…someday. Casual sex wasn't her thing, so when she was ready to hop back into the dating pool—after her residency was over—she'd be looking for a prospective husband, not a one-night stand.

Since the H word gave him hives, he backed off on the flirting.

Erika successfully convinced him the two of them would be better off as friends, since they both loved their apartments and planned to stay there for the foreseeable future. When she pointed out how awkward it would be to run into each other after hooking up, he realized she was right.

Since then, they hadn't just become friends. They'd become best friends, and he was glad he hadn't pushed her for a hookup. She was an important part of his life, and their current relationship was perfect.

Blake had just finished plating the food when the door to his apartment opened and Erika walked in. Knocking was a thing of the past for the two of them.

"Smells delicious," she said, as she placed the two yogurt cups on the counter next to the plates. They each claimed a tall stool, digging into their breakfasts with gusto.

Once they'd eaten, Erika leaned back and sighed contentedly. "That was so good. Thanks, Blake. I was this close," she pressed her forefinger and thumb together, "to stopping on the way back from my run for a donut."

"Why didn't you?" he asked. "Next time that urge hits, bring me back a Boston creme."

She shook her head. "Nope. No point in running if I just shove all the calories I burned right back in."

Blake rolled his eyes. "More denying yourself happiness."

He didn't bother to add that a donut wasn't going to hurt her. Erika was health-conscious, and there weren't too many days when she didn't manage to work in some form of exercise—either in the form of a jog or on the nautilus equipment in their building's gym. Blake joined her to work out on occasion—more often during the off-season—and she always gave him a run for his money.

"Pizza night here next Monday. You in?" Blake had invited a bunch of his teammates over, and every single one had asked if Erika would be there. The guys were as fond of his neighbor as he was.

For some reason, his apartment had become the "dinner" gathering place, and Erika likened their group to the Big Bang Theory friends, as they avoided sitting around a proper table, opting instead to gather around the coffee table with their plates on their laps.

"Do you even have to ask?"

He frowned when he spied dark circles under her eyes that he hadn't noticed earlier. "You look tired."

She shrugged. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Mindy, but I treated two gunshot wounds last night."

Unfortunately, Erika was no stranger to violence. Baltimore, while not quite the crime capital it had been a decade ago, still saw way too much violence in terms of gang activity.

"Did they make it?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but one guy is facing a long road to recovery. I swear I'll never understand why people feel the need to unalive other people. And it's always over something stupid."

Blake felt the same way. "What were these guys fighting about? Drugs or gang pride?"

"Drugs. Lately, it's always drugs," she replied, glancing toward his fridge. He kept each month's game schedule tacked there. "Heading to the West Coast this week, huh?"

"Yeah. I'll be gone three nights, so pull out your phone, Doc."

She gave him a curious look but did as he asked. "Why?"

"Because I'm not going to be here to feed you. Pull up the Instacart app." It wasn't unusual for them to have dinner, either alone or with some of his teammates, three or four nights a week. During the season, it was less; off-season, it was more.

Usually they did takeout or delivery, but sometimes he cooked. Blake enjoyed cooking, while Erika viewed it with the same disdain some people felt for a trip to the dentist.

She grinned as she clicked on the Instacart app. He leaned close to her, pointing out a few things she should add to her cart. Because Erika wasn't much of a cook—though that had less to do with skill and more to do with lack of desire—he watched as she added simple fare, like cans of soup and premade salads.

"Get a loaf of bread, some cheese, and turkey too," he suggested. "Sandwiches are easy to make. You can take them to work. I'm sure they're probably healthier than anything you're getting out of that vending machine."

She nodded, adding the items to her cart. "That's a good idea."

Even though she was agreeing, Blake was eighty percent positive the meat would go bad before she ever remembered to make a sandwich. Erika was a total enigma. The woman was incredibly intelligent and extremely empathetic. He didn't doubt for a second that she had a great bedside manner. However, her ability to take care of others didn't translate when it came to taking care of herself, which was why Blake found himself in the position of reminding her to eat more often than not.

"Okay," he said, once he was satisfied she'd added enough food to her cart to get her through the next few days. "Now, check out."

It seemed like a no-brainer, but he'd helped her build carts before only to discover she'd never placed the damn order.

She snickered, then checked out, flashing the screen when she was finished to show him she'd done as he asked. "Happy?"

He nodded. "Yep. But I'd be even happier if you remembered to eat the food without me here to tell you."

Erika winked playfully. "I like to give your life meaning."

He snorted. "I have a very full life, thank you very much. Think about it, Erik. We've both got it made. Great apartments, friends, dream jobs. What the hell else could we want?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. You don't wonder sometimes if something is missing?"

He could tell it was a serious question, but he wasn't sure how to answer it. The truth was, he didn't think anything was missing, but something about her tone told him she did. "What could be missing?"

Erika fell silent long enough that he didn't think she was going to answer. "I don't know."

She did know, but she wasn't saying. So he said what she wasn't. "You mean a relationship, don't you?"

She shrugged one shoulder, then nodded. "Yeah. I guess I do. Sometimes, I feel…lonely."

Her confession took Blake by surprise because he would have thought Erika was as happy with her life as he was with his. "Really?"

"You don't ever feel that way?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. I mean, I'm always surrounded by people—fans, friends, teammates. When the hell would I get lonely?"

She sighed, then shrugged off the conversation. "True."

"Besides, I thought you were putting romance on the back burner until your residency was over."

"I'm in the last year, and Hopkins has already hired me to continue on. For the first time in a decade, I feel settled. But you're right. I am happy. I'm not sure why I'm in a funk, but it'll pass. Sorry I brought it up." She changed the subject before he could press her for more. "No game tonight?"

He let her get away with dropping the relationship talk. It wasn't like he could offer her any advice, anyway. He avoided relationships like the plague and, unlike her, he didn't feel the pull to seek more than what he already had. "Just an afternoon practice."

"Guess that means no Mindy."

Blake grinned. "You know the rule. Sex is my reward for scoring a goal and winning a game."

"Thought you didn't believe in denying yourself?"

Blake reached out and ruffled her damp hair. "You're batting a thousand today on the smart-ass scale."

Erika ducked out of his reach. "What if the team wins, but you don't score?"

"No sex, because I didn't do my part."

"What if you score a goal, but the team loses?"

"No sex, because I obviously didn't score enough goals."

She tilted her head. "You're weird."

He laughed. "Nope. I just like to feel like I've earned my reward."

"Mindy," she said, crinkling her nose, making it clear she didn't consider that much of a reward.

"Or Paulette or Lara."

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "I don't see them as often as I do Mindy."

Blake considered that, and he knew why. Mindy knew his rules for victory sex, and she appeared to have him on speed dial whenever the parameters were met. He'd had a text from her asking if he wanted to "meet" before he'd even made it back to the locker room after the game last night.

Next time, he'd ignore her texts and give Paulette or Lara a call. Regularly sleeping with Mindy had obviously given the woman the wrong idea.

"What can I say? Mindy's an enthusiastic fan who knows how to celebrate in style," he joked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Erika put her finger in her mouth, pretending to gag.

"At least I'm getting some action, Doc."

"Not this again," she said, throwing her hands up. "You have an unhealthy interest in my sex life."

"You'd have to have one for that to be true."

"Unlike you, Balakay," she said, pronouncing his name like the substitute teacher in the old Key and Peele skit, "I prefer to keep certain aspects of my life private. For all you know, I could have a very active sex life."

"Bullshit," he fake coughed. He had the same bird's-eye view of her front door that she had of his. As such, he knew perfectly well she hadn't hosted a single sleepover since moving in three years ago…at least not when he was in town. She'd gone on a handful of dates, mainly with men she knew from work, but as far as he could tell, none of the guys she'd gone out with had ever made it past the good-night kiss—and he couldn't recall any of them progressing to a second date.

"You know, maybe you wouldn't be so focused on the sex aspect of your relationship if you actually tried to develop something deeper and more meaningful yourself."

Blake frowned, shooting her a horrified look. "Thought you knew better than to use the R word with me, Erik."

Erika snorted. "Thought it was the H word I was supposed to avoid."

He pretended to start scratching like he had a rash. "They're both deadly."

"Idiot," she muttered.

"Listen, Doc. I'm not swearing off the R or H words forever, but you have to think practically. It wouldn't be fair to take myself off the market when I'm still so young and hot."

She quirked one eyebrow, and he braced himself for an insult. "I'm not sure you and I define ‘young and hot' the same way."

He hip-bumped her, a silent kudos for her joke.

"So you might get married someday?" she asked. "I always got the impression that was a hard no for you."

"It's just not in my immediate plans for the future, but somewhere down the line, who knows? Right now, I'm focusing on my career, on setting all the records," he added with a cocky grin.

"Would those records be on the ice or in your bedroom? Because you have to be creeping up on some sort of record for most?—"

"On the ice," he interjected, putting them back on track. "There's plenty of time for boring shit like settling down with the old ball and chain when I'm in my fifties."

Erika laughed. "Thank you so much for reminding me why I was smart to turn down all your invitations to," she finger-quoted several of her next words, "‘date' you when you first moved in. I've since learned ‘dating' to you is actually synonymous for ‘hooking up.'"

"Semantics," he teased.

Erika rose, shaking her head in amusement. "Well, I'm going to head back over to my place. Laundry beckons."

Blake stood too. "Same. Plus, I've got a bunch of errands to run before practice." He walked her to the door.

"Thanks for breakfast," she said, with a wave.

He smiled, then watched as she crossed the hall, disappearing into her own apartment before closing the door. He leaned against the frame for a minute, considering Erika's confession about feeling lonely.

She'd surprised him. Mostly because, try as he may, he couldn't understand or relate.

He had a good life. The life he wanted. He was a lucky guy, and he knew it.

"Not a thing missing," he murmured to himself, smiling as he headed to the bedroom to strip the sheets. "Not a damn thing."