2. Dakota

Noah skates hard across the ice. He pulls back and lets a slapstick fly.

No. That wasn't right.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Noah glides against the smooth ice surface. He reaches back with his stick and swings at the puck with a smack shot.

No. That didn't sound right, either.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Noah is racing to the puck. Another player tackles him to the wall, forcing the air from his lungs.

Jesus. That was even worse.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

The blinking cursor on my computer screen was taunting me. As if it knew I was a complete and total fraud.

I knew absolutely nothing about ice hockey. Yet, here I was, wasting my time on a venture doomed to fail from the start. My knowledge of the sport was derived from childhood movies. And it wasn't like I could throw out terms like "triple deke" and "knuckle puck" without knowing what they meant or if they were even real things.

Why did I let Bristol convince me to write a hockey romance again?

Oh, that's right. Because it was the hottest thing since sliced bread to hit the romance market, women couldn't get enough of it, and I needed to keep the lights on.

That wasn't to say my other books weren't selling—they were—but I was looking for my big break. The one that would go viral and start trending, putting my pen name, D.D. Morgan, on the map.

I just didn't get why it was so popular.

Did these women not care about the reality that professional athletes were pigs? Using their celebrity status to get laid, not caring about the collateral damage?

Apparently not.

It was all too easy to brush that aside when you wanted to relax and slip into a fantasy, leaving the real world behind and getting lost for a few hours between the pages.

I envied that they would never get a peek behind the curtain of professional sports.

Resting both elbows on the desk, I dropped my head into my hands and let out a groan.

This was a terrible idea. I was better off scrapping it and going back to what I wrote best. I could bide my time, let my readership grow organically, and maintain my integrity in the writing world. The last thing I wanted to do was throw out a half-baked hockey romance and have the readers tear me to shreds. Some of them liked the idea of a handsome, muscular athlete taking them to Pound Town more than they liked the actual sport, but my pride would take a hit if I weren't giving them an accurate portrayal.

"How's it going in here?" Bristol's voice permeated through the weight of despair settling over my brain.

Peeking through my fingers, I asked, "What do you think?"

Entering my bedroom/office, she stood behind me, taking in the blank document. Sighing, she remarked, "I think you're psyching yourself out and making this harder than it has to be."

Spinning in my desk chair, I scowled at her. "That's easy for you to say. I'm not the one who has been going to hockey games since she was a kid."

Cocking a hip, she peered down at me. "And whose fault is that? I invite you to come with me to watch the Comets play all the time. My dad can't go to every game. You know I have a free seat next to me."

No way in hell was I attending a game with her, and she knew why.

"Why can't you just tell me what to write?" I whined. "I'll give you a really nice credit in the acknowledgments."

Bristol smirked. "Aw, come on, Dakota. If I did that, it wouldn't feel like you earned it."

Narrowing my eyes, I grumbled, "How do I go about ‘earning' a new roommate?"

My beautiful redheaded friend threw her head back and laughed. "We both know you'd miss me too much."

She was right. Bristol was my best friend. We'd met freshman year at Connecticut Central University, sitting beside each other in creative writing. She went nuts over the first piece I shared in class and had been my biggest supporter ever since. Without her, I wasn't sure I would have fifteen novels under my belt at twenty-one. It felt nice to have someone in my corner, supporting me. Even if, right now, she was the biggest pain in my ass, demanding I write something that went against the very fabric of my being.

"If you won't come to a game with me . . . Maybe I have a better idea," she offered.

"Oh, Lord," I breathed out. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"So dramatic," Bristol chided. "But I guess that comes with the territory when you have to plot ways to twist and turn relationships upside down before setting them to rights. I'm thankful every day that my writing comes from facts."

Bristol and I had taken very different tracks regarding our writing careers. I veered away from college, throwing my focus into independently publishing romance novels while she was at the start of senior year, gaining a degree in journalism, hoping to someday report about the sport she loved so much.

We both had a long way to go before we became household names.

"And your idea . . ." I prompted.

Clapping her hands together, Bristol bounced on the balls of her feet. "Oh yes! Tonight, Nix is hosting a party at his house. It would be the perfect opportunity for you to research hockey players' lives off the ice."

Nix—known to most as Levi Nixon—was one of the star players of the Connecticut Comets.

It took every ounce of effort not to curl my lip at the mention of his name. I was not his biggest fan, and it had nothing to do with team loyalties.

Nix was a playboy, plain and simple. He lived up to the stereotype of professional athletes thinking they could have anyone they wanted and treating them poorly because they could. If a girl complained, they would simply threaten to move on to the next—if they hadn't already.

Case in point: Bristol.

She was over the moon in love with the guy and knowingly put up with his bullshit. I hated it for her. But she was happy—or at least, she claimed to be—and voicing my opinion would only drive a wedge between us. Bristol was all I had left in this world, without any remaining family, and I didn't want to lose her from my life.

"House party full of hockey players? Sounds like my worst nightmare."

"Oh, come on. We're celebrating, and you can do some research while enjoying free drinks." She brought her clasped hands to her chest in a pleading gesture.

Raising an eyebrow, I asked, "What are you celebrating?"

A smile lit up her face. "The championship, of course!"

I might not follow sports, but it was hard to ignore when one of the city's teams won a league championship.

"That was in June. It's September," I pointed out the obvious.

Bristol rolled her eyes. "I know that. But they're getting their rings tonight. Fancy ceremony downtown, then Nix is throwing an afterparty."

Something wasn't adding up. "Why can't you two enjoy a nice night out? Sounds so grown up compared to a house party."

Chewing her lower lip, she explained, "I'm not going to the ceremony."

There it was.

"Bristol," I sighed.

Bristol was pretty, intelligent, confident, and kind. I couldn't understand why she was content to let Levi keep her hidden in the shadows. She deserved so much more than he had to offer.

"Dakota, don't." Her head dropped back so she was looking at the ceiling, knowing what I was about to say—or some version of it.

But I couldn't help myself. I wanted better for her.

"Doesn't it bother you that he isn't taking you as his date to the ceremony?" I asked.

Blowing out a breath, she lowered her chin to meet my eye. "We have an . . . understanding. You know that."

Oh, I knew about it, all right. Their arrangement was loosely termed an "open relationship," but one in which Nix fucked around all he wanted while Bristol sat home by the phone, waiting for him to call. He was the only one benefiting by agreeing not to be exclusive.

When I looked at my best friend, I saw so much of my mom in her that it scared me—pining for a man who would never love her back, letting that love blind her to his faults.

Then, a thought struck me like lightning, piercing my heart with terror.

"You're being careful, right?" I blurted.

"Yes, Mom," Bristol said, annoyance coloring her words.

"I just . . ." I let out a heavy exhale. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Bristol's blue eyes softened. "I know. But I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

I wasn't so sure but let it drop.

"Anyway . . . I think you should come. I'm spending the night, so you can bring your own car and leave whenever you want."

She had a good point, as much as I hated to admit it. I wasn't going to get anywhere with this book if I didn't figure out what made these guys tick. And if that meant parking my butt in the middle of one of their house parties, then so be it. But just this once.

"I'll think about it," I replied.

Throwing her arms around me, Bristol squealed in my ear, and I winced. "Yes! It'll be great, you'll see!"

Her definition of great and mine were not the same.

Bouncing out of the room, she called over her shoulder, "I've gotta go get ready, but I'll text you the address!"

Hearing her bedroom door slam down the hall, I sagged in my desk chair.

I loved Bristol and only wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap, to protect her from the train coming down the tracks on a collision course with her heart. It was only a matter of time.

I'd seen firsthand how a life could be ruined by falling in love with an athlete.

My mom, like Bristol, had been sucked into the orbit of a handsome athlete. But instead of hockey, his sport was football.

Hank Danielson, star edge rusher, met my mom while playing college ball at Austin University in Texas. She was one of his many conquests but the only one he managed to get pregnant.

Hank was my dad.

Down south, he hadn't much choice but to marry her. Not only that, with all eyes on him as one of the top defensive recruits in the draft that year, he couldn't afford the bad press affecting his pick placement and how much he would make on a professional contract.

It had seemingly done the trick because the Hartford Hawks picked Hank number three overall, and that's how we came to live in Connecticut.

Of course, I didn't know much about any of that until later on in life. Not until he left, blowing up our lives.

Mom was the completely ignorant, blissfully happy football wife. Not to mention, trusting. That one had come back to bite her in the ass.

She'd believed everything my dad told her. Whether it was long training stints in other states or not wanting us to sit in the family box at games because of the "toxic" culture, she never once questioned him.

The reality was that he had a whole second family. That's who was sitting in the family box on game days. That's who he was with when he said he was "training."

One day, when I was ten, he came home and told my mom he couldn't do it anymore. He came clean about everything—his mistress, their three kids, and the life they'd been living behind Mom's back. He placed signed divorce papers on the kitchen island and left, never once looking back. He didn't even bother to say goodbye to me.

That's how much we meant to him. We weren't his "real" family, just the one he'd gotten stuck with.

The divorce had changed our lives. Hank gave us the house in the settlement, but that was it. No child support, no alimony. We were entirely on our own from that day forward.

My mom had dropped out of college when they got married, electing to become a stay-at-home mom. She had no marketable skills and was left with no choice but to wait tables while I was at school. Since the lunch crowd didn't bring in much money, there were many times when I put myself to bed so she could work a double and cash in on tips during the dinner rush.

Even after all that, she wouldn't hear a negative word about my father. She was still in love with him, convinced he would come to his senses and return home.

She held onto that hope until the day she died.

I would never forget the day halfway through my freshman year when I received a call from the diner where she worked. Her manager told me Mom had collapsed in the middle of her shift and been taken by ambulance to the hospital.

Bursting into the room, I remember the relief that stole over me. She seemed fine. Weak, but fine.

Then, the doctors asked me to step into the hallway for a moment. That's when they told me that she had advanced cervical cancer that had spread to most of her vital organs, and she didn't have much time left. Perhaps, if they'd caught it sooner, they could have done something to save her, but it was too late now. All that was left to do was make her comfortable in her final days.

When I walked back into that hospital room, having learned the truth that my mom was going to die, I broke down in tears. Beckoning me to her side, she allowed me to crawl into the bed as she whispered against my hair that it would be okay.

Nothing would ever be "okay" again.

Three days later, she was gone, and in every way that mattered, I became an orphan.

So why would I choose to write romance after witnessing such a tragic "love" story for my mother?

The answer was simple: I wanted to honor her memory by giving my characters the happy ending she never got.

My pen name was even an homage to her. I took my initials—D.D. for Dakota Danielson—and added my mom's first name, Morgan, for the last name. Her legacy and belief in love, no matter how misguided, would live on through my work.

I wanted to make her proud, so if that meant putting on my big-girl panties and walking straight into the lion's den, then so be it.

Hockey house party, here I come.