1. Brady

1

Brady

" W ho the fuck is making all that noise?"

I mute the TV, but don't wait for a response to that question. That would be a little ludicrous, even for a jokester like me, considering I'm all alone inside this luxurious suite my buddy Noah offered up to me last month. Yeah, I couldn't spend one more night in the same house as Theo Wagner. Sure, Theo is great on the ice, but a total asshole in real life and I'm pretty sure—unlike him—I've outgrown the bunnies and the parties. Not that I'd let anyone know that. Being the loudest and most outgoing is what's expected of me, but dammit, I'm so fucking tired of it.

The noise sounds again. Are drawers slamming? I push off the sofa and walk to the window. It's late, and Noah, his wife Brighton and their daughter Camryn are at their summer house just outside the city of Boston. No way would they be coming home this late at night. Besides, their car isn't in the driveway. The only vehicle out there is mine, which means it's conceivable that someone is breaking into their wing of the house, which is just across the hall from me.

I walk to my door and pull it open. Light seeps out from the door across the hall and I listen for sounds. I take a few steps and look over the handcrafted guardrail that showcases a grand entranceway downstairs. The house is old and huge, located in Sparrow Springs, and nestled in behind White Beach Resort. Creaking sounds aren't uncommon, but this was more of a bang. The downstairs door is shut tight, and as far as I know, outside of Noah and his family, I'm the only one with a key.

I walk to the other door, put my hand on the doorknob and listen for a moment. This time, my ears are met with silence and I consider going back to my place to rewatch last season's final game, and possibly beat myself up a little more for not stopping Pittsburgh's winning goal. A thrilling Saturday night, I know.

I'm about to turn, but think better of it. I should probably check to make sure no one is stealing from my buddy. He didn't hesitate to offer up the empty wing inside his house, and keeping the place protected is the least I can do in exchange for his kindness. It's not like I can't afford my own house. I just don't want the commitment.

I turn the knob and push the door open, glancing around the empty living room. A lamp on the side table glows yellow. Did Noah leave that on when he left yesterday? Maybe, and maybe I didn't notice the glow.

"Hello," I call out, and go still. This time, I do wait for an answer. When none comes, I carefully walk farther into the room. I stop to check the den, guest bathroom, kitchen, and the latch on the door leading out to the wide wrap-around patio. Locked. A good sign. After finding half the place untouched, I relax my shoulders and shake out my fists. I head back to the living room and that's when I notice light coming from one of the rooms down the long hall.

Shit.

I glance around and the first thing I see is a fireplace poker. I snatch it up and slowly make my way down the hall. A bang reverberates off the walls in one of the rooms. I don't know which one. I've been in Noah's place numerous times. I've just never ventured into their sleeping space.

Walking quietly, until I come to the lit room, I hold the poker out, ready to call out to the burglar invading my buddy's place. But the door swings open and I come face to face—or rather, face to naked body—with none other than Melanie Clark, the bartender at the White Beach resort. She hates me.

"What the…"

She gasps, covers her body with her hands—not that she's doing a great job of hiding all her sweet curves—and jumps back when her gaze lands on the poker.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly and hold my hand up palm out. "I thought someone was breaking in." I shake my head. "I nearly hit you with the poker."

Her gaze drops. "You were going to poke me with that thing?"

I shift my stance, her nakedness doing the craziest things to me. Wait, is she referring to the steel rod in my hand…or in my pants? Shit. "Sorry…there was a bang, and a poke. I mean, there wasn't a poke. I grabbed a poker." I run agitated hands through my hair. "Dammit, I could have poked you."

Jesus, dude, stop saying bang and poke.

"I'm glad you didn't."

Yeah, okay, I get it. She hates me and I'm sure there is underlying meaning to her words.

"Do you always walk around naked?" I ask.

She backs up some more, and when she does, I spot a big fluffy towel on the hook. I jerk my hand out and she jumps back. "What are you doing?"

I tug the towel from the hook and avert my gaze as I hold it out to her. "Getting you a towel. What did you think I was doing?"

"I…" She takes the towel from me.

Saving her the trouble of explaining, I say, "I wasn't going to touch you."

From her reaction, clearly that would have been awful for her. But I don't touch women who don't want to be touched—or any woman who despises me.

A rustling sound fills the silence of the room as she covers her body. "I'm decent."

I turn back to her and try not to let my gaze drop to the knot on the towel, or admire the way it squeezes her breasts together.

"To answer your question, no, I don't always walk around naked. I forgot my pajamas in the bedroom, and it's hot in here. I thought I was alone, so I was just going to cross the hall and get them."

"Sorry about all this." I back up and angle my body, so she can get to her room. "I didn't know you were here."

She takes a step and hesitates. "Brighton didn't text you to let you know I'd be staying here for the weekend?"

I scratch my head. "No."

She nods. "It was pretty last minute, and it probably just slipped her mind. She's been busy getting the baby's room ready, here and at their summer home."

"Right." It was just last week that Brighton announced to us all that she was pregnant. We'd all been at their summer home for a barbecue when she shared the news. It was also at that barbecue when Melanie shot me down after I asked her out. That was pretty embarrassing. When I said I was going to talk to her, my buddies Conner and Gunther warned me that she wouldn't have anything to do with a guy like me and I stupidly put a bet on it—and lost.

Melanie isn't the kind of woman who is into quick hook-ups, and that's all I can give her. Hell, she's a couple of years older than me and is working on her Master's of Psychology. Right there…that's another reason not to get close. I don't need her in my brain, discovering and dissecting the shit I keep bottled up. No fucking way.

Emotions are weakness, Brady. You're the man of the house now so grow a set.

As my mother's warm, encouraging words ping around inside my brain, Melanie walks past me, the freshly showered scent of her skin teasing my senses.

"I should go."

"Okay," she calls out from her room.

Poker still in hand, I take one step down the hall and hesitate. "Is everything okay?"

The sound of a zipper peeling open fills the hall. "Yeah, why?"

"I just mean, it's late and you're staying here for the night." My muscles tense again, every worst possible scenario playing out in my brain. I haven't seen her with any men, but if she's here late at night maybe… "Are you hurt?" Silence. I suck in a breath and wait for her to answer. She remains silent so I take a step toward her room, and find her dressed in pajama shorts, her back to the door. "Melanie, if someone hurt you…"

She pulls a T-shirt from a duffle bag full of clothes on the bed and slips into it. Angling her head, her gaze meets mine and for the first time since I've known her, she directs a smile my way. I nearly drop to my knees. Jesus Christ, she is so fucking beautiful. So different from the flighty bunnies who swarm us before and after games. Maturity looks good on this woman.

I'd look good on this woman.

Better yet, she'd look good on me.

I swallow hard at those thoughts because that's never going to happen.

"What are you going to do, Brady?" She plants one hand on her hip, and juts it out, a challenging gleam in her eyes. "Go fight him?"

"Damn right. No one hurts those I care about."

She arches a brow. "You're saying you care about me?"

"You're good friends with my friends, so yeah, by proxy, I care about you." I shrug, and pretend her dislike of me doesn't hurt. "Even though you don't like me."

Her eyes soften. "I never said that, Brady."

I snort out a laugh. "Not in words, no."

"I just…don't date."

She's leaving off…guys like you. That's okay. I get it. I do have a reputation, and she's a serious woman, a bartender here at the resort, working toward a better life. I totally respect that, and I know the work that goes into achieving a successful career.

"No one hurt you?" I ask.

"No. My roommate recently got engaged, and her guy is over a lot. I like him. He's not giving me trouble, but our thin walls sure as heck are." She grins, and I laugh at that.

"Gotcha, and I'm here because of my roommate. While our walls aren't thin, there's just a lot of partying going on. Got me drove."

She angles her head, her gaze moving over my face, a careful assessment, and I try not to squirm. I'm not much into being evaluated—off the ice. Her brow lifts. "Is the player played out?"

I open my mouth, wanting to tell the truth, but instead say, "Not in this lifetime, babe."

And this is why you could never get with a woman like Melanie, you ass.

But emotions are for pussies right, Mom? Jesus I've been taught to keep them buried for so long, it'd take the jaws of life to break them open.

"I should go." Before she says anything else, I head down the hall, put the poker back and make a beeline for the door.

"Brady," she calls out and I come to an abrupt halt. "Got me drove?"

I chuckle. "It means, something is annoying me. Newfoundland saying."

"It's kind of funny."

"Yes, b'y."

She smiles at me again, and breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. "Do they call you Coddy, because your last name is Fisher, and you're a Newfoundlander and Newfoundland is known for its cod fishing?"

"No."

"No?" One brow arches up, clearly surprised by my one-word answer. "Care to explain then?"

Since she seems rather amused by my Newfie language, I say, "I'll put da ol' slut on. Put da wood in da ‘ole an we'll ‘ave a yarn."

"Ol' slut? You better not be talking about me." I laugh and she folds her arms, waiting for an explanation.

"It means, I'll put the kettle on." I point to the open door and continue to translate. "Close the door and we'll have a chat."

"Then you'll tell me how you got the nickname Coddy."

"Yes, b'y!" I give her a mischievous grin, full of promise. "It's a Newfoundland thing, and if you're up to it, I can screech you in and you can become an honorary Newfoundlander."

A mixture of curiosity and suspicion moves into her big blue eyes. "Screech me in?" A grin flirts with the corner of her mouth, and dammit, it's all I can do not to drag her to me and cover her lips with mine. "Do I dare ask?"