2

Milo

There. I said it.

Puck's in her possession now.

I take another half step back, being respectful and not wanting to crowd her in—when a woman asks for space, you give it, no questions asked—and study Beth's face as she formulates a response.

It'll probably be some sharp, witty barb designed to cut me down, which I should not find as much of a turn on as I do, because what is wrong with me?

The answer to that question is a lot, but since I don't have time to unpack all of that right now, I focus on what's right in front of me—making some progress on the Beth Moore front.

Assuming she bites.

She stamps her foot, her cheeks puffing out in frustration.

"What do you mean, why don't I like you?"

She bit…

I play with the puck for a moment before passing it back to her.

"You completely iced me when we met at karaoke," I say, referring to the group karaoke Culver invited me along to a few weeks back. Beth and I barely exchanged a few words the whole night, and whenever our eyes met, she'd look away so fast it's a wonder she didn't get a crick in her neck.

"I did not ice you," she says the word with disdain, like even the faintest hockey reference is too much for her to stomach. "I…don't know you, that's all."

"Well, you could try talking and getting to know me."

"Oh. That's what you want, is it?" She comes in nice and close to me, eliminating the gap I'd created between us. "For me to fawn all over the big, burly hockey player? To bat my eyelashes and hope against hope that you pick me over all the other desperate puck bunnies clamoring for a little bit of your…" She backs off a fraction, and her eyes roam slowly down my body. "…little bit?"

I blink.

Did she just insult my manhood?

Right.

That's it.

My feelings for this woman have torpedoed from liking her to…to full-blown infatuation.

Who is she, and why haven't I been able to get her out of my mind since the night we met?

I wish I knew more about her than the few scraps of information I've managed to scrounge together.

All I know is that she's friends with Fraser's girlfriend Evie and Culver's best friend and soon-to-be girlfriend—because come on, it's so obvious—Hannah. She works in a bookstore and is a total bookworm. Big surprise. She's feisty, smart, and not afraid to serve it to anyone, least of all me.

And she's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on.

The sleek shine of her jet-black bob perfectly frames her pale, flawless face, accentuating her large, expressive hazel eyes, and her full red lips look so soft, so inviting, so irresistibly kissable. When they're not otherwise occupied firing quips at me, that is.

She's wearing teal-green athletic shorts, a fitted, charcoal-gray hoodie over a white T-shirt, and running shoes. An outfit that's meant to be sporty, but wearing it, Beth looks nothing short of mesmerizing. The material clings to her curves in all the right ways and seeing the smooth skin of her legs does something to me.

"Cat got your tongue, hey?" Beth guesses with a self-satisfied smirk, but my silence has nothing to do with being unable to come up with a reply—contrary to what she probably thinks, I actually do have some brain cells—and everything to do with being completely and utterly captivated by her.

And, okay, checking her out slightly.

The sad truth is, she's right.

Not about my manhood. She's very wrong about that.

But her comment about the puck bunnies.

I'm not saying that all women are looking to hook up with hockey players so they can tick them off like items on a grocery list, but I am saying that I've attracted more than my fair share of those who have.

I don't know why.

I'm naturally a quiet person. I only open up to people once I feel comfortable around them. That usually takes me some time. Even around my teammates who are the closest people I have in my life, I still come across a little…gruff. Guarded. Scowly, but that's just my face.

I would've thought my grumpy, less-than-inviting demeanor would be a warning sign to women, some sort of red flag for them to stay away. But nope, it seems the grouchier and more aloof I appear, the more the media incorrectly depicts me as a player, the more some women are drawn to it.

Well, apart from one woman who's currently glaring at me, waiting for me to talk.

"I don't want you to fawn all over me, Beth." I speak in a lower tone than I normally do. "But I would like a chance for you to…get to know me."

Her large eyes narrow into a squint. "And why would I want to get to know you?"

"Because, well, isn't that what people do? Get to know each other and maybe become friends?"

"I have enough friends." She shoots the puck back a tad more aggressively than needed.

"You can never have too many friends, though, right?"

I attempt a smile, but it's been a while since I've cracked one, and my cheek muscles have no idea what to do. There's a good-to-high probability I currently look like a confused chipmunk.

Beth scrunches her nose. "What are you doing?"

"Smiling," I answer, then without moving my lips too much, add, "Is it working?"

"I'll just say it's a good thing there are no kids here, or they'd be running away in fear."

My attempt at a smile is replaced by a genuine laugh.

For a second—for less than a second—Beth's demeanor shifts and she softens, but then she zips her hoodie all the way up and is back to frowning at me.

"What's wrong now?" I ask. "I've stopped smiling."

"Nothing." Her eyes narrow even more, and I swear it's like she's got X-ray vision and is peering into my soul. "You're just…nothing."

"I'm nothing?"

"No. I paused between the words just and nothing. On the page, it would have been written as just ellipsis nothing."

"On the page?" I lift my chin. "You really love books, don't you?"

She slow claps. "Well deduced. I work in a bookstore, so yes, I like books. I'll save you the hassle and let you know that Hannah, who works in a flower shop, likes flowers, and Amiel, who works in a bakery, likes pastries."

"Let me see if I'm getting this right, because you know"—I tap my head—"Ape for brain here. But first, you belittle my manhood, and now you're questioning my intelligence?"

"Correct." Beth rocks on her feet. "On both counts."

Ooh, I like this girl.

I really like this girl.

And if this is how she wants to play, then game on!

"All right." I plant my hands on my hips. "What's the plural of cul de sac?"

"Excuse me?"

"Need me to speak slower to help you understand?"

She huffs out another cute sound before responding. "Cul de sacs, duh."

"Errr!" I make the sound a game show buzzer makes for an incorrect answer. "I'm sorry, but you're wrong."

"What? No I'm not."

"You are. The plural of cul de sac is culs de sac."

"But that sounds wrong."

"And yet, it's correct."

As she whips out her phone, I widen my stance to even out our height difference.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"I want to get the close-up view for when you see you're wrong. I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy it. Also…" I point to the sidewalk again, "plenty of space for you to navigate around me with your head bowed in shame for your loser walk."

Her eyes fire up at the insult. "Oh, I am not the one who will be doing a loser walk, my friend."

"Ah, so we're friends?"

Another adorable little noise. "Shut up."

She purses her lips and focuses on her phone. "That can't be right," she mutters, scrolling more and more aggressively. "Give me a minute."

"Take all the time you need, friend."

It's not going to help her.

She may think I'm just another dumb pro athlete, but I actually do like to read—psychological and domestic thrillers are my genres—and English was always my best subject in school.

She finally gives up.

Clearing her throat, she says something that sounds like, "Youwereright," but she says it so quickly I can barely distinguish the words.

I point to my temple again. "Man. Words. Too fast. No understand."

She smiles.

Then catches herself smiling.

Then tries to school her features into a neutral expression as she repeats, slower this time, "You were right."

Now, if it were anyone else, like say, my teammates, I'd use this occasion to gloat and rub it in her face.

But this isn't a goofing off with my teammates in the locker room situation. This is a I'm finally having a conversation with the girl who's inexplicably been on my mind since the second I saw her situation.

The non-neanderthal part of my brain kicks in, and I decide to play it smart.

"You were right, too," I tell her, kicking a few loose stones on the sidewalk. "About the puck bunnies. It happens. Quite a lot. But I'm not that kind of guy. That's not what I'm looking for."

"Really?" There's a battle going on in her eyes, like whether she's trying to decide whether to believe me or not. "Because if you were a hockey bro who traveled from city to city and slept with a different woman at each place, you'd 'fess up to that? Orrr…would you feed me some line about how you're…" She puts on a deep voice, trying to imitate me, 'I'm not that kind of guy. That's not what I'm looking for.'"

"Sheesh. Now my voice is under fire."

"I think you can handle it."

"You don't know that. I could be a real sensitive guy with real sensitive guy feelings."

She chuckles. "I highly doubt you're going to be losing any sleep over this."

I open my mouth but stop myself in the nick of time from blurting out something stupid like I have already lost sleep over her.

Ever since that karaoke night when she completely ignored me, I haven't been able to get her out of my head. It makes no sense. She barely acknowledged me, all the signs point to her not having the slightest interest in me, and yet, I can't stop thinking about her. This has never happened to me before.

I've brought it up with Fraser and Culver at our off-season training, casually checking if Beth has said anything about me. They always say that she hasn't. So, either she hasn't mentioned me at all to her girlfriends, or she has, and the guys simply don't know about it. As much as I don't want it to be, I have a feeling it's the former.

Maybe I really haven't registered on her radar at all?

Which should be fine.

I should be able to walk away from someone I've hardly spoken to and know almost nothing about.

So why am I standing here, scrambling to find ways to prolong my time with her for as long as I can?

I shove my hands into my track pants pockets. "So, what historical figure are you going to Fraser's party next week as?" I ask, since it's the only thing I can come up with.

"Not telling."

"Right. Well, I left ordering my costume too late, so I'm stuck going as?—"

"Milo, hi." I stop talking and spin around to see my realtor, Willow Wilkins, approaching. She's tall, blonde, and I have no idea how she manages to walk on those crazy high stilettos, but somehow she does. "I thought I recognized that strong back of yours."

Another sound comes from Beth. Less cute this time. More grunty.

"Beth, this is?—"

"I know Willow," she cuts me off and directs a glare at Willow that makes me think these two have history. "I really need to get going. Milo, it's been…something. And Willow, I love your shoes. Bye."

And with that, Beth takes off.

"I'll see you at Fraser's party!" I call out after her.

"I'll ignore you there, too," she shouts back without turning around.

I grin to myself.

I wouldn't expect anything else.