Chapter 2

I barely notice when Theo Young—the annoying fuck from the Breakers (and consequently not from my team, the Sierra, who are clearly superior)—follows Lake across the room, trailing after the asshole in the red hat who's trying to steal the woman's phone, leaving his half-drunk beer and unworn pair of Air Jordans on the table.

Long story.

Suffice to say Lake, my teammate and no doubt the face of the team (not to mention quite a few other products) did good shit talk.

It's why we're all here with the enemy.

Sharing a pitcher of beer.

But right now, that's the least of my concerns, especially with tears clinging to the lashes of the woman in front of me, her pale gray eyes swimming with pain, her color all wrong—too pink in some places, too pale in others.

I take her arm—narrowing my eyes at the group of teammates who'd remained, silently telling them to mind their own fucking business and to not drink all of my beer. Something I knew they would ignore, just to fuck with me.

They are the only ones aside from Lake on the roster who I can actually stand (but that's a story for another time). Still, this is hockey.

Giving each other a hard time is a prerequisite.

Which is why I know my beer will be gone by the time I get back.

Normally, something I avoid at all costs.

Beer. Hockey. Food.

Priorities.

But this woman?—

"I should go," she says so quietly that I have to strain to hear it. "I should?—"

This woman, with those damp eyes and tears now sliding down her cheeks isn't a priority, but I can't ignore her, can't ignore the urge that I need to do something to make the hurt on her face go away. Can't ignore that I want to pull her close and hug her until she feels better.

Maybe it's the dark circles I can see in the flashing lights.

Maybe it's that wrong mix of pink and white on her face, like she's a dried-out leaf and just one false move away from crumpling.

Maybe it's the fact that she looks like she's willing to walk right out of this bar right now and never look back.

Never look back at me.

My throat tightens, and I take her arm and guide her out of the bar, out into the hallway, where it's quieter, where the light is steadier.

Drawing us to a halt, stepping close, and looking into those gorgeous gray eyes.

"Your boyfriend and your best friend?" I ask.

Her eyes close and she looks away, pain wracking her features, and I'm flooded with competing urges—to walk back across the dance floor and pound my fist in the fucker who had been (because that was order of business number one) this woman's boyfriend; to haul her close and give her that hug she clearly needs; and the one I give in to.

"Come on," I say softly, taking her hand this time and?—

She cries out.

I freeze, the sound slicing through me.

The way she clutches her hand against her chest, cradling it carefully in the other kills.

Ignoring the guilt—for hurting her—and the worry—because these are big fucking feelings for a woman I met all of two minutes ago—I carefully wrap my arm around her shoulders and draw her forward.

Giving in to my final urge.

The one to take her out onto the back patio of the restaurant, the one that's closed because there's tons of snow on the ground from the winter's record-breaking snowfall. It's empty.

Private.

She shivers against me the moment the first blast of cool winter air hits.

Cold.

I drop my arm, hate that she shivers again, but I make it quick, peeling my jacket off my arms, wrapping it around her and tugging her close again, guiding her to a table that had been cleared of snow, nudging her down so she sits on one of the attached wooden benches.

"Let me see," I order gently, picking up her hand and angling it so I can study the bruise already blooming on the back of it, the way her fingers are swelling up.

Damn.

I wince. "You might need to get that X-rayed."

She jerks, hand yanking from mine as she makes another pained sound that grates at my soul. "No." A shake of her head pairs with tentative flexing of her hand, her jaw clenching as she tries to hide that it's clearly hurting. "See? It's fine."

I snort. "Yeah, sweetheart, that's not fine."

She can barely move her fingers.

She shakes her head again. "I have to work tomorrow."

Yeah, that isn't happening.

But I don't argue with her, just move a little closer. "What's your name?"

She freezes, dark brown hair sliding forward to cover her face.

And she has great fucking hair, shining in the moonlight, thick and full of curls that I want drifting over my naked skin.

Something else that isn't going to happen considering the fact that she's just caught her boyfriend and best friend kissing.

Kissing like they've been fucking.

Trust me, I know.

No man kisses a woman like that without?—

She flexes her hand again and grimaces, and I stop thinking about the boyfriend and fucking and wanting to plow my hand into his face.

"What's your name?" I ask again.

Her head comes up. "Jolie."

Fucking perfect, that name for her. It sounds like it should belong to a rockstar, and paired with the kickass jeans, the necklaces, the fuck-me hair, and the curves for days, and Jolie is giving me rocker vibes.

Her brows flick up, the fragile disappearing, a bit of fire coming out.

And fuck, this isn't good.

For me.

For my head.

For…my heart.

"What?" I ask genuinely curious.

"You gonna tell me your name?" Her question is tart.

Nope. Definitely not good, but I still say, "I'm Leo."

"Huh." She keeps tentatively moving her fingers, her hand, my jacket still around her shoulders, still dwarfing her, but her gaze slides from mine, focuses to the side.

To the lake.

Moonlight glimmers over the soft waves as they break against the shore, darkening the beige sand, highlighting the snow piled up on the beach.

And she falls quiet.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says after a moment, gaze still in the distance. "Just that your name fits you." She exhales, glances back up at me, lips parting?—

Just as the back door of the bar swings open.

Lake walks out, phone in his hand. "Here you go, sweetheart."

Jolie scowls, just for a second, and I can't lie. That makes a tiny blip of joy settle in my cold, dead heart. Every woman melts for Lake. Always.

Except…apparently, not Jolie.

Then her scowl smooths an instant later, and she takes it, holding it in her uninjured hand like it's the key to humanity. "Thank you," she says.

"No problem."

"Really"—she holds it closer—"you don't know how much this means to me. My whole life is on here."

Lake nods, bends a little to catch her eyes. "It's not a problem. Red Hat decided that it was easier to just give it to me rather than waiting for the sheriff."

"Thank you," she whispers again. "So, so much."

Lake squeezes her arm. "It's really okay. Hope your night gets better, yeah?"

She nods, and Lake turns away, slanting a glance at me as he walks back inside.

I know what that look means.

And I'm not looking forward to it.

"I need to go." Standing, Jolie starts to shrug my jacket off, that thread of fragile reappearing, drawing me toward her like a cat to a mouse.

I catch her…and the jacket, wrapping the latter around her before she can shiver again.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Fragile disappears, and her chin comes up. "I'm going home," she snaps.

"Home?" My brows tick up, irritation making the word terse.

Pink on her cheeks. "Is that okay with you?"

My temper flares, and I step closer. "Going home where? With that asshole?"

Her eyebrows drag together, and I watch as she deflates slightly. "No. He and—" Here she falters, throat working. "Toby and Colleen came together," she whispers. "I met them after work." A sigh. "Makes sense why now." Another exhale. "I need to go home—by myself—because I have work in the morning."

Work.

Yeah, that isn't?—

She's still clutching her phone. "Thanks for your help."

I watch her shoulders rise and fall again.

Slender. Fragile.

But there is steel beneath.

Beautiful, tempered steel.

She moves, slipping from the coat, and shoving it into my hands in one smooth movement. "Have a nice life, Leo."

Then she turns and walks away.