1. Chapter 1

I still dreamed of skating.

Frigid air whipping my face, blades cutting into ice, stick soft under sweat-soaked gloves. The roar of the crowd—a mottled cacophony of cheers and boos and swears and taunts. The smell like winter cold and locker room perspiration, anticipation and fear, all rolled into one.

I even felt the tranquility embedded deep in my soul despite the high of adrenaline, the crash of my heart against my ribs, the heave of lungs. All so familiar, so real. So present. That pulsing rhythm of the game. Hockey. Life. Hockey. Life. Play. Win. Play. Win. Play. Win, win, win.

Peace, calm, rightness. This was where I belonged.

And then, I woke up.

To a seventy-pound golden retriever sitting on my chest licking my eyeballs.

"All right, Brady, I'm up." I nudged the wriggling, waggling ball of oversized fluff off my lap. "It's Saturday. Don't I get to sleep in?"

Not that I'd been out partying last night and needed sleep. Not that I was ever out anywhere these days. I pushed myself up—only to realize I was not in my bed. Or anyone else's bed. Nothing that exciting. I was, in fact, sprawled out on my living room couch. Late morning sunlight streamed in through my balcony doors and the floor-to-ceiling windows alongside them.

"Dammit." I swung my legs over the edge of the massive leather couch to rub the ever-present ache from my left knee. Assessed the still-open laptop on the coffee table, the papers sprawled all around it in a tidal wave of disorganized career advancement and life goals and other adult-sounding things I should've tackled earlier than thirty-seven years into my existence.

Brady whined, then thumped her paws on the couch cushion in an attempt to get me fired up and ready for the day—or at least ready to take her for a walk. Instead, I rubbed sleep from my face and woke up my laptop.

Lesson Seven, the screen still read, right where I'd left it at some wee hour of the morning before I'd—evidently—toppled backwards in sheer exhaustion. Or some subconscious acceptance that while a physical therapy doctorate degree was within my ability to obtain, somehow, a basic business certificate was not.

Dr. James Sullivan, DPT—business school dropout.

Such a nice ring.

Brady whined, and when that didn't do the trick, took her game to the next level with a cool jab of her paw to my thigh. Sidewalk-softened pads scraped over my gym shorts, and when I gave in and made eye contact, she commando-crawled herself across the couch and into my lap.

I dug my fingers into her fur and closed the laptop. Business school could wait. Maybe my brain would wrap around profit margins and Maslow's fucking Hierarchy of Needs better after some fresh air and a few hours in the weight room.

Right. Keep lying to yourself, Jamie.

On the table, my phone blinked with a new message I could have replied to without even reading. But I opened it anyway. Sure enough …

Katie: You're coming tonight, right?

There it was.

Katie was my closest friend—in work and outside of it—but sometimes, she didn't know when to lay off.

Me: No.

I stood, displacing the extra seventy pounds of golden retriever from my lap so I could more effectively hobble into the open kitchen, bypassing the formal—rarely used—dining table. The chef's kitchen was all granite, stainless steel, slick tile, and a whole bunch of other fancy things I didn't need. Instead, I hauled the blender out of the drying rack.

Katie called while I was pulverizing protein powder, banana, and peanut butter into something that might have been lunch or breakfast, but was ultimately another bachelor meal.

"I told you I'm not going." I shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear to drink and tie my sneakers at the same time. I couldn't pass business school, but I could multitask like a motherfucker.

"Stop being an old man." Katie huffed on the other end of the line, probably in from a long run through the city, or up north at one of the trails around Moosehead Lake. Off season, she did a lot of running.

"I resent that." I reached for the leash hanging on the coat hook by the door. Brady spun four circles, sat, then spun two more, in case I'd missed the first batch. "I have to study."

"Study, shmudy." Katie's eye-roll was almost visible in her voice. "That's an excuse to avoid fun and team spirit and hockey all at once, and you know it."

"Bullshit." I opened the door in small increments so Brady didn't barrel through like a horse from the gates and followed her out into the hall. "I do actually want to pass this class."

The class, the certificate, all of it. Starting my own practice would be a lot harder than getting a job with the Bobcats, since the team was owned by the friend of an ex-teammate.

"You're coming out tonight." Katie's tone brooked no argument. "That's final. Everyone will give you shit if you don't."

"I'm not part of the team," I protested, but she'd already hung up. She knew all my arguments, and most of the time, she tired of them before I'd even put them into words.

Which left me to sigh dramatically as I bundled my overenthusiastic dog into the elevator alongside my elderly and ever-disapproving neighbor, whose gaze lingered a little too long on my exposed arms. Luckily, the doors dinged before she came up with anything nasty to say.

Still, as I stepped out into the over-air conditioned two-story marble lobby, I couldn't help but think how fucking out of place I was here. I'd lived in this high-end rich-folks condo community for six years. Yet somehow, I still felt like the Boston-bred jock, too rough and messy for a place this nice.

I slid through the automatic doors and into the muggy, heavy heat of a mid-August Maine summer. Downtown Bringham soared up around me: glass and stainless steel; wide white sidewalks fluttering with tourists and business folks alike; cars jam-packed onto the four-lane boulevard; sticky humidity and city smog all rolled together.

This, at least, felt like home, even if my luxury condo did not. I'd been here since I'd left Boston for grad school nine years ago, and the city had grown on me. It had a feel. A character. A personality comprising, and yet outside of, the people who shaped it.

As we walked, the ache in my knee subsided. It was an old injury, and ultimately the inspiration for my current career—I'd learned enough through years of surgeries and therapies to get my then-lame ass through graduate school. Networking and knowing people in the hockey world had gotten me the rest of the way.

But it was time to forge a new path, away from the rink. Hence … the business certificate, obsessive studying … The complete and utter lack of life outside of work, my dog, the gym, and hikes—with said dog—in the vast Maine wilderness surrounding the city.

Hell, maybe Katie was right. Maybe I did need a night out. A night not spent studying until I literally passed out on the couch at three in the morning. A couple of hours wouldn't hurt. A last hurrah before I left the hockey world behind.

I slid my phone out.

Me: All right, I'm in.

The Lounge nestled between a hipstery wine loft and a run-down but undeniably delicious Mexican food joint about a quarter mile from Downtown Bringham. Laid-back atmosphere, good music, and cheap beer made it an easy team favorite during the off season.

Soft classic rock—Lynyrd Skynyrd, if my ears didn't deceive me—hummed in the background behind a murmur of voices as I entered the yellowy glow of the bar. Cool air conditioning softened the heat of summer lurking outside, heightening the scents of stale beer and greasy nachos. The place was about half full—still early for a Bringham Saturday—so I easily spotted Katie at the long counter in the back.

"How was the gym?" Katie grinned as I slid onto the stool beside her. Question was rhetorical; she knew I wouldn't be here if I hadn't made it to the weight room first. "Don't you look snazzy?"

"This is how I dress." I rolled my eyes and resisted the urge to pluck at the sleeve of my button-down shirt. Not sure why I'd worn it except that the team always saw me dressed professionally, and it felt weird to be otherwise. I shifted my gaze past her to the rest of the bar—the pool tables, the couches in the lounge beyond. "Where's everybody else?"

"Not here yet." She nudged a glass in front of me. "I think they went to open hockey."

I stuck my nose into the glass—seltzer water, no alcohol—to save myself having to respond. Or to analyze my own mixed feelings. I would hate to give any of those feelings ugly names like longing or jealousy.

"Breaking in the new guy, I think," Katie continued. "You heard about him, right?"

I almost snorted out seltzer. Course I'd heard. Everybody had heard of Archie Bowman. "Yeah. Rising hotshot everybody wants a piece of."

On and off the ice, if the photos plastered over every hockey-touting social media account were accurate. If I was being perfectly objective, the man was drop-dead gorgeous. And young.

"He's in town already." Katie tilted her Blue Moon bottle to her lip. "Obviously, the guys would be curious."

"Obviously." I spun my glass in the gathering puddle of condensation under it.

"Oh c'mon, J." Katie nudged me with an unfairly sharp elbow. "Aren't you curious?"

"Kinda curious how the Bobcat management wrestled him out of the Cavs' claws." Wonder what kind of ammo they put into that trade.

"He's British."

"Yeah, and I don't like your tone." I gave her a pointed look. "You need to mind your business and stop trying to play wingman. Remember who you tried to set me up with last time?"

"Forgive me for being so invested in the grumpy and reclusive Dr. Sullivan's quest for a soul mate."

I rewarded that clever quip with a half-chuckle, half-groan."You're the worst."

"You mean best."

"Well, you got my drink right, at least."

"You should order a real drink." But her words were more of an exasperated, if fond, sentiment than a push to unwind me. She knew I'd given up the wild days of drinking long ago. Along with my pro hockey career.

"Yo, Jamie!" The big voice boomed out across the bar, preceding the current of muggy summer air that swooped in with the door's opening.

I turned on my stool to greet the Bobcats' defenseman. "Good to see you back in town, JJ."

Off season should've seen Jesse Johnson on vacation with his wife and kids. But … "Can't stay off the ice, you know?"

Such a carefree, throwaway comment. One that shouldn't have meant anything. But it still stuck like a barb. Can't stay off the ice. Oh, I fucking knew it. Can't stay off, and when you can't physically get back on, you lurk around the edges like a ghost.

Watching other dreams made and broken.

Made and broken.

And when you tried to find a new path, one away from the ice, from the game that would own your soul 'til your last breath, you fell asleep at your computer and dreamed of hockey instead of marketing strategies for your to-be PT practice.

Fortunately, before I spiraled too far, the door opened again, and another Bobcat strolled in. Stormed might have been an apter verb, since everything defenseman Rowan MacKenzie did was … stormy.

He grinned as he slammed up next to the counter, the expression a little too sharp, too feral, to be described as a smile. "Sullivan. Katie."

The hands that slapped down onto the bar caught my eye, and not because of the aggressive gesture.

"Fighting again, MacKenzie?" I bobbed my head towards the telltale bruises and scabs across his knuckles. An ever-present testament to his short fuse, but they looked fresh today. "Preseason hasn't even started yet. Who the fuck're you fighting?"

"Who's he not fighting?" JJ growled, nudging Rowan back from the bar. "Kid can't keep his fucking head out of his ass. Or his fists off anybody's face."

"Asshat had it coming." Rowan shrugged, didn't even bother with any you should see the other guy bullshit. We'd all seen the other guys. They always looked a helluva lot worse.

"Yeah, and one day you'll have it coming." I lifted a brow at him, but he waved me off and gathered his beer from the counter.

"Anyone want to play pool?" Rowan didn't wait for a response before he started for the back of the bar, where the team's starting goalie leaned over a table in the corner.

JJ trailed behind him with a slight head-shake. Partly because, despite their difference in temperaments, JJ and Rowan were close, and partly because—

"I'm pretty sure"—Katie swiveled to face the pool table—"JJ doesn't trust Rowan to take a piss without starting a fight."

I chuckled. "Fair. I don't either."

I settled back against the counter as the bar door opened again. Two men marched in, and I knew without looking who they were; team captain Aaron Tyler and his left wing Ryan Isaacs went everywhere together, each other's shadows.

"Cap!" JJ waved from the corner. "Zac!"

The two waved back but lingered by the door, waiting. It swung open once more, gusting in the scents of the city, the summer, and … shaving cream?

Someone else slipped inside.

So quiet, shoulders hunched, head down, I almost looked away, assumed him a stranger.

But it was just a moment, like the flit of a butterfly's wing. A flash of smallness and uncertainty so brief I might have imagined it. Because I blinked, and the newcomer stood with his broad shoulders square, head up. Beneath a mop of golden hair, a cocky smile cracked his face.

His very, very beautiful face.

Holy

Fucking

Shit.

I nearly let my glass slip from my fingers as recognition struck. Struck hard.

Photos had not done Archie Bowman justice.

At all.

The Internet had him looking cute and charming, like he might still ask your dad if he could take you out on a date. This man …

"I'm guessing you know who that is?" Katie purred in my ear.

"Sure do." I turned to set my glass on my counter, remove the risk of dropping it should any more shockingly beautiful men march through the bar door. And remove the temptation of staring at the previous one. "He's practically a teenager."

"He's twenty-five, and he's gorgeous." Katie kicked at me with her sneaker. Clearly my anti-wingman rebuffs earlier had really hit home. "G-o-orgeous."

"Like I'd be interested in a kid like that." But somehow, my gaze had drifted to the corner, where Archie Bowman was bestowing his grin upon the guys around the pool table. They all grinned right back. Delighted at the prospect of sharing the spotlight with a star.

"Not interested?" Katie leaned her face in front of mine so I wouldn't miss her very dramatic eye roll. "Sure you're not, Grandpa. Did I mention he's British?"

As if on cue, a roar of laughter—JJ—ballooned up over the bar. "Shit. You as good at pool as you are at hockey, Bowie?"

And the response was, indeed, very British. "Of course. I'm bloody brilliant."

Fuck.

He had a voice to go along with that face. Soft and smooth and, well, British. Damn it. That accent was my kryptonite. And Katie knew it, too. From the way she was grinning, I'd never live down whatever smitten expression I'd made.

"Told you." Katie polished off her beer, and the bartender zoomed over with another. "British and hot. Maybe you should buy him a drink."

I let my eyes return to the pool table for one more glance. But even that one glance was enough to tell me what I needed to know. The way he stood. Threw his head back to laugh. The way they all laughed with him. Turned towards him. Mimicked his posture. He was the center of attention, and he knew it.

That was the problem with stars: they had the ego to go with the talent. Hot, yeah. Talented, no way to deny that. "He seems like a major dick."

Katie scoffed. "Doesn't stop you from staring at him."

"Not saying he's not attractive." I pried my eyes away to meet hers. Which, I might add, sparkled with mischief. "But I'm not interested. There's a reason I don't date hockey players."

Katie's face lost some of its amusement—for a second—as she read something between those lines. But then her smile popped back quickly. "So, if I said they were coming over, you'd be cool about it?"

"Fuck." I turned in time to see the crew ambling up to the bar.

Rowan crashed in next to me in his typical stormy manner, giving me another good look at those knuckles.

"That asshat center still playing for the Cavs?" Rowan leaned past Aaron and Zac towards the lithe blond figure who'd propped his elbows on the counter. Naturally, Bowman was the middle of the group.

"Who, L?vgren?" Bowman asked as the bartender slid six shot glasses onto the bar. For another crack in time, I thought I saw the boy at the door again, shoulders hunched, head down, tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip. Not that I would fixate on something like that.

Then he tilted his gaze towards Rowan—and by proxy, me—and that big, cocky grin washed over his perfect face. Fuck, he had green eyes. "You're Five-Donuts, aren't you? Oh, man he loves you."

JJ tipped his head back in a whole-body laugh as Rowan's hands clenched into such tight fists one of his knuckles split under the pressure. I opted not to point out that he was now dripping blood onto the bar top. Felt like something he might try to hit me for, the mood he was in.

Not that I'd let him.

"Just for that," JJ said, "I think you're taking my shot."

JJ slid his glass in front of Bowman, and Zac slapped him on the shoulder. "Hell yeah. We're fuckin' celebrating tonight!"

"Shit." Bowman's grin went crooked, and my insides definitely didn't do any funky swooping or diving. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

"I hope so." Aaron raised his glass. "You ready, Bowie?"

I turned back to my beverage as they lifted their shots. Felt like an intrusion to be so close, yet not part of their crew. Another reminder that as much as Katie and I were part of the staff, we weren't part of the team. Not players. Not family.

No shared drinks or arms around shoulders. Which is exactly what Zac was doing as Bowman choked back his second shot. "Fuck, this is disgusting. It's fine, fellas. Pretty sure I don't actually need an esophagus."

"Everclear 151." Aaron nodded, made no effort to bite down on a wide, devious smirk. "Tastes like rubbing alcohol. Gets you fucked up real quick."

"Oh, shit," Katie groaned under her breath next to me. "He just did two shots of that."

Yeah, that wasn't gonna end well for the kid. I shrugged anyway. "He's a party boy. Sure he'll be fine."

"All right, I need a rematch," JJ said, probably in an attempt to steer the about-to-be-fucked-up drinking crew away from the bar before they got any more wild ideas about shots of high-proof alcohol. Maybe it was having kids of his own that made him the unofficial team dad.

"Drinks first." Aaron waved down the bartender—poor guy was getting his cardio in—to order rum and cokes. Rowan snatched his off the counter and stormed into the back corner, Aaron and Zac trailing after him.

Bowman turned to follow. Turned—towards me.

For one moment, we locked eyes. And for that single instant, the rest of the world disappeared: the guys behind Bowman, Katie behind me, the crowd murmuring and chattering, the music, the stale scents of AC and alcohol, the rush of the city outside. All of it: gone.

The world was green eyes and blond hair.

His brows shot so high they vanished into that charmingly ruffled hockey mop—I refused to think of it as sex hair—and his little crooked smile stole back over his face. It was almost the cute one, from the pictures, the ask your dad if he can date you one.

And then that grin turned full-on sinful smirk. He slid off the bar stool, gaze locked on me as he sauntered forward: shoulders square and head up. The smell of his soap and shaving cream brushed against my senses like a caress, and I resisted inhaling deeper.

His eyes drifted across my shoulders and arms, down my chest, slid along my abdomen in a way that left a trail of burning heat in their wake. For an instant, I thought he might lean in. Whisper something in my ear, just to make me shiver. But his gaze flicked past me, shattering our shared moment.

He didn't stop.

Kept moving in that same cool saunter, his hard shoulder brushing mine as he passed, the faintest touch. He didn't pause, didn't turn, didn't look to see if I'd noticed.

He knew I'd noticed.

He just didn't care. I spun to bury my face in my glass as the universe crashed back in—hard. Music and voices and car horns and JJ following Bowman like nothing Earth-shattering and world-stopping had happened.

Because it hadn't. Because I'd been the only one who'd noticed. I almost wished my drink was something strong enough to make me forget that I'd lost myself over a silly boy. In the words of Rowan, what an asshat.

"See," I choked out to nobody in particular. "He's a dick."

So why was my heart suddenly beating so hard I couldn't hear past the sound of my pulse? Why were my damn palms clammy? Why did his clean, fresh-shower scent still flit over my senses, even though the smells had long since vanished?

Get the fuck ahold of yourself, Sullivan. Jesus H.

"Aw, he's cute!" Katie gave me another one of those sharp elbows and did an eyebrow-wiggling thing I should tell her to never do again. I'd say the Blue Moons were hitting home, but it was too in-character for me to be sure. "He totally checked you out."

I groaned. So she'd seen that. Naturally. Hopefully she hadn't noticed me getting all hot and bothered like I'd never been eye-fucked by a sexy twenty-something before. Once upon a time, an occular-drag like that would have ended very—very—differently.

"Didn't notice." I tossed back the rest of my drink, going for an indifference I wasn't feeling. "I don't do cocky assholes."

"Does that really matter when you're doing them?" Katie cracked a grin my way, and I couldn't blame the booze. She was more dangerous sober.

"I'm not gonna do him."

"Yeah, or anyone." Katie slid her empty bottle away. "When was the last time you got laid?"

"I think I'm gonna leave," I said. "Because my love life is not anyone's business and because I have to—"

"Study. Yeah." Katie sighed. "You're gonna spend the rest of your youth studying and then what, Jamie? Realize you're fifty and running some fancy physical therapy practice, raking in the money and … alone?"

The glass in my hands was empty, buoyed on a puddle of condensation, so it slid sideways between my fingers. Like a puck on the ice. Fluid and free.

Like me, once.

Not anymore.

"Yeah, I slept like shit last night. I should—"

"Rum and coke, please?" The slurred British voice cut off everything else in my head. A lithe body slipped onto the bar stool beside me, and a set of strong, tanned arms leaned atop the counter. I definitely didn't notice the way his fitted black T-shirt hugged his rounded shoulders. Or the way it accented the V-taper of his narrow waist.

"I'm gonna run to the bathroom," Katie murmured in my ear as she hopped off her stool. "I'll be back … Sometime."

Which left nothing to distract me from the man now seated beside me. I kept my eyes averted as the bartender slid him another drink. I probably looked like a hunched old man, like a lonely local nursing drinks and pretending to watch the baseball game on the TVs behind the bar.

Archie Bowman still turned towards me.

Propped an elbow on to the counter as he shifted his shoulders in my direction. "Hey, gorge. Can I buy you a drink?"

Deep inhale, Sullivan. Play it cool, cause you're not trying to start something. I allowed myself the briefest glance. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks."

Great first words. Classic. You'll be rolling between the sheets in no time—stop. Jesus.

"You sure?" He lifted his glass to tilt back half of whatever garbage well-booze was roiling around in there. Winced, as if to affirm my suspicions. "You're way too hot to be sober at a bar."

Shit, he wasn't making this easy for me. "I've got to work in the morning."

"Ah, me too, but that doesn't mean we can't live a little." His eyes danced past me to Katie's vacated stool. "Are you here alone? Where's your girlfriend?"

"Not my girlfriend." I grimaced. Why had I led with that? Should've gone with something more, Nope, not alone, so please leave.

"Oh, good. I was hoping you'd say that." He winked. Sloppy, adorable. Off-limits. "Please tell me you're gay?"

He set the glass down a little too hard; brownish booze sloshed over the edge. It explained some things.

"Yeah," I said, "I am. And I think your 151 is hitting?"

"Oh, mate, that shit is minging." He grinned again, and it wasn't the soft, cute grin or even the cocky grin. This one was all intoxication. "Is that what you Americans drink all the time?"

Weirdly, his blatant sloppiness made me feel a little better about my own lack of suave. "Nope. Your friends are assholes. It's team initiation."

"Fuck, yeah, I know how that works." For a moment, his drunken smile softened into something almost boy-at-the-door uncertainty again. "Been the rookie enough times."

"Yeah, me too." The words slipped out of my mouth, unbidden. "It sucks."

His brows furrowed as he fought through the booze-haze. "You're a hockey player? No wonder you're so hot."

"No, not anymore." I tried for an off-hand chuckle, but it came out sounding jaded and bitter. I guess that was kind of my M.O. these days, wasn't it? "Just the PT."

"So, let me buy you a drink." He leaned closer, and I breathed in his soft scent, now shot through with the sweet tang of booze. Flecks of marble darkened the green of his eyes, and his hair shone white gold as it fell across his forehead. "Or you could take me home."

His fingers trailed along the outside edge of my thigh, and I'd be lying if I said every fucking nerve in my body didn't sit up and take note of that brush of fingertips. It would be nothing to close the space between us. Find out what his perfect, bowed lips felt like under mine. Taste the soft caress of his tongue. See if his lean, honed muscles were as hard under my hands as they were beneath my gaze.

And from there, there'd only be more to uncover—

I leaned back.

Plucked his hand off my leg. Electricity burned under my fingertips at the skin on skin contact, so shocking I almost gasped from the unexpected pleasure-pain of it.

"Sorry, kid. Think you've had too many drinks for that." Fuck, I really did sound like someone's grandpa. I couldn't have gone with—you seem like an asshole, or maybe, I don't screw hockey douchebags, or even, what are you, sixteen?

But, nope. I go with the elderly gentleman response.

"But officer, I've only had two drinks." Bowman's grin slipped back over his face again, the cocky one. "I'd still be a good shag. Really good."

I bet he would.

But I had to be the better man. And not find out.

Fortunately, Aaron chose that moment to realize his new linemate was propped up on the bar trying to flirt his way into the pants of a crotchety old guy. "Bowie! There you are."

"He probably doesn't need to drink anymore," I noted as Aaron and Zac engulfed Bowman in a two-sided hug and forcibly dragged him off his stool. They kept hold of him, which was good, since I was starting to doubt Bowman's ability to support himself. His legs looked suspiciously … sloshy.

"Yeah, if he's trying to pick you up." Zac grinned over his shoulder as they led their inebriated new friend away. "He can do better."

I needed to not stick around to see if those words came true. Bowman could do better than me—with any number of men at this bar. No, it was time for me to go.

I reached for my wallet, flicked a few bills onto the table. Had Bowman even paid for his drink? Wasn't my place to ask.

I turned away from the counter—and ran headfirst into Katie. "C'mon, J. Stay."

"Nope. Got work to do." I was already in go-mode, bee-lining for the door, and she knew it. Didn't try to stop me this time.

No, I stopped me. "Watch out for the newbie, will you? He's in rough shape."

Then I walked out into the clammy night.