6. No Hard Feelings

6

NO HARD FEELINGS

Asher

I seriously appreciate Maeve playing the role of goalie tonight. But now I’ve got to handle the fallout. She takes off, and as the crowd thins out, I grab my phone from the back pocket of my pants and toggle over to my banking app. I don’t think twice. I tap a few keys, setting up the transfer. Then I cut through the lingering groups and make my way to the front entrance of the Cartwright Mansion, where Beckett’s picking up a pair of jackets from coat check.

Reina’s probably in the ladies’ room, so I stride over, determination in my step. “Hey, Beck. About that bid—thanks, but I can’t let you drop that kind of cash just to save my streak.”

Beckett looks up from tipping the woman behind the counter, one eyebrow quirked. “It wasn’t about the streak.”

“Fine, you were looking out for me, which is awesome.” I clap his shoulder. “I appreciate it, man. But I can’t let you cover that. I’m going to pay you back.”

Well, I already did, but he’ll find out soon enough. Semantics and all.

Beckett laughs, low and easy. “You don’t owe me anything, Ash,” he says, thanking the woman and stepping away from the counter and next to a scalloped mirror that looks like it costs five figures. “And I’m not taking your money.”

I give him a stern look. “You can’t just drop that kind of cash and brush it off. I can cover it.”

“And so can I,” he says. “Look, that situation was going to be messy, and neither one of us needs that right now, but especially you. You’re the face of Total Teamwork, man. Maeve came to me with the situation, and Reina and I made the decision to put up the money. It was for a good cause, and we’re always happy to give to charity. Besides, I didn’t want Miranda Blush anywhere near you. That woman’s trouble.”

“I appreciate that,” I admit, but I can’t let this go. “And yet…I still felt like I owe you something.”

My best friend’s a smart man. He shoots me a searing stare. “No, you don’t. We’re all good. We’re in this together. You hear me?”

He makes a fair point, but sometimes I just like to get my way. Fine, fine. Most of the time. “I do. But sometimes a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

He shoots me a searing stare. “No, you didn’t.”

I flash a big grin. “Yes. I did. Have fun with the wife tonight. Catch you later.”

I don’t even give him the chance to protest. I take off, heading into the cool San Francisco night. Once outside, as the fog curls its arms around me, I open an app to grab a ride home when a hand comes down on my shoulder. I don’t flinch since it’s my job to handle surprises.

I turn around to see…Miranda. Her smile is as sleek as her hair. Her eyes glint with opportunity.

“We could still go out. Maybe it’s even better this way,” she says, her voice a purr, her hand curling tighter around me. I hear a rustle nearby. Someone else, maybe? Who knows?

“Thanks, but I’m busy,” I say coolly. It’s not the first time a woman has sashayed over and put her hands on me without asking. I’d be naive to think it’ll be the last.

“You can’t be busy every night though,” she says, inching closer, hand gripping tighter.

I reach for her hand and peel it off me. And I do mean peel, because holy hell, this woman has claws, and they are digging in. I’m well aware that eyes are always on pro athletes. That rustle could be someone, and someones have cameras. One wrong move can lead to a scandal. So I’m careful as I let Miranda’s hand fall, then step back from her.

“Thanks again for coming tonight. Really appreciate your support,” I say as shoes click toward me on the sidewalk, coming from the other direction.

I turn to the sound.

A vision emerges in the foggy night. A woman sporting a vest, a trench coat, and an attitude.

I fight off a smile.

“Hey, babe,” she says, then flashes a saccharin smile at Miranda. “And hey, no hard feelings about that whole thing in there, right?” Maeve waves a hand airily at the mansion. “I just couldn’t let anyone else get their hands on this man. ”

She slides right up to me, wraps an arm around my neck, the other around my waist, and drops a kiss on my cheek, like the date she won is real.

Right now, with her wedged against me, the date feels real.

That’s my excuse at least. Since this might seem like a bad idea later, but right now, I have zero regrets as I make a game-day decision, turn my face, and impulsively capture her lips with mine.

A soft brush. An almost-chaste touch. But I smell sweet plums, and I taste raspberry lipstick. Most of all, I feel Maeve’s mouth as she kisses me back. Brushing her lips against mine. Parting them the slightest bit.

An invitation, perhaps, for more?

Like I could say no. I coast my lips across hers. In no time, her fingers curl tighter around my neck. Her other hand presses more firmly on my waist. The tiniest gust of breath from her sweet mouth has my chest overheating. I cup her cheek, and my head pings with wild possibilities. What if this kiss became more real? What if it was a prelude to something else entirely?

In a few terribly short seconds, I already want to toss her over my shoulder and take her home. See if she looks as good in my ties, bound to her wrists, as she does in that vest.

But just as quickly as it started, the kiss ends. Over after it barely began. I don’t know if she wrenches apart first or if I do. Maybe we both knew we needed to stop. I swallow roughly. She catches her breath.

My brain comes back online, and I reconnect to the fog, the night, the rustle of people, the birds, a car nearby.

And, most of all, the onlooker.

Right…Miranda .

The kiss lasted less than ten seconds. It was a kiss for an audience. A kiss for a cause. But mostly, it was a stolen kiss for me.

Miranda rolls her eyes, then says to me, “You’re not even that hot.”

Maeve scoffs and tugs me harder against her. “My date is the hottest, and you know it.”

“Whatever.” Miranda lifts a dismissive hand, wheels around, and marches back into the mansion.

Maeve looks at me, affection in her eyes. “You’re totally hot. Don’t let her get you down,” she says, patting my chest in a friendly way.

Friendly.

The kiss wasn’t friendly, but we are.

And if I needed a better reason to get this lust for Maeve out of my system, she just gave it to me—the reminder that we’re friends. That the kiss didn’t rattle her. That gust of breath or not, parted lips or not, that stolen kiss is barely a blip on her radar.

Maybe that’s what I really needed tonight—a sign, rather than some luck. And I got it—a sign that we’re just friends.

Still, when I’m home alone that night, I’m stupidly replaying a ten-second kiss.

A couple days later, as I’m tugging on a hoodie so I can head to morning skate with my teammate Max, my phone pings with a notification. It’s a reversal of the transfer I made to Beckett. I roll my eyes. Ever since I met him in a grief support group ten years ago, he’s always been the stubborn one, nearly impossible to sway once his mind’s made up.

But I don’t back down easily either. I take his hundred grand and send it back through the banking channels one more time – this time funneling it to Total Teamwork.

Asher: Have it your way. A hundred thousand dollars to the new charity we’re launching instead.

Beckett: Always have to have the last word, don’t you?

Asher: Yes, I do. I’m stubborn like that.

A note from Maeve pops up too.

Maeve: Evidently, I am a vest thief. Obviously, I wore it home and now it’s trying to move into my apartment. Sneaky little thing. But I should probably, I don’t know, dry clean it? Does anyone use dry cleaning anymore? Does dry cleaning even exist? Does it only exist for lawyers, bankers and athletes who wear suits? What even is dry cleaning?

I chuckle at how very Maeve she is as I head to the door. Max will be here any minute to pick me up. But I dictate a reply.

Asher: No, you don’t need to dry clean it. Also, it looked good on you. You should just keep it. Make vests a thing.

Maeve: I think they’re already a thing.

Asher: Well, then. They’re your thing.

Maeve: Really?

Asher: Yes. Keep it. I mean it.

Truth is, I’d probably sniff it for a hint of her if she returned it. It’s better she doesn’t give it back.

That night, I’m on the ice, determined to demolish Phoenix. The crowd roars as I battle against the boards, trying to shake off a defender who’s hellbent on stripping the puck from me.

Not going to happen. This puck is mine. We’re in the third period, tied up, and every second counts.

I knock my shoulder into him, spinning free. I hoard the puck as I slip behind the net, then fly around it. When I spot an opening I cut across the ice, aiming for the top corner of the posts. I wind up and send the puck flying—but the goalie deflects it.

I curse, but then move the hell on when Falcon nabs the rebound and feeds it right back to me.

I don’t hesitate. I fake left, then snap a shot right, the puck sailing past the goalie’s glove this time, lodging in the twine .

The lamp lights, and everything feels right in the world. Adrenaline surges through me, the rush unmatched by anything else. Hockey has always been the greatest high. Even when it hurts, it feels good. Even when it’s tough, I’m in control. There’s nothing else in the world that gives itself to me the way this sport does.

I hop over the boards and grab some water during the line change, but my thoughts drift back to the night of the auction. To that moment when Maeve wrapped her arms around me and I stole a kiss—one she seemed to sink into.

But I’ve got a charity to launch with my best friend, a hockey season to dominate, and my dads’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary coming up, though I like to tease them that their life together didn’t really start till they adopted me as a newborn. Point being, I’m too busy to get caught up in fantasies that are going exactly nowhere.

I know where I stand. Maeve’s my friend, and I’m not going to mess that up by entertaining more stolen kisses.

The game’s not over yet, but I’ve already made my decision. No matter what happened the other night, Maeve and I are just friends. And that’s how it’s going to stay.

When it’s time for another line shift, I jump over the boards and get back into the game. I’m here to win, on and off the ice, and that means sticking to what I know—friendship with Maeve. Nothing more, nothing less.

I’m all focus and power for the rest of the game as our goalie—Max Lambert—shuts down the other team.

When the final buzzer sounds, signaling our win, I skate off the ice with a clear head and a renewed focus. Maeve and I are going to Vegas next weekend as friends, and that’s how it’s going to stay.

I’m recommitting my mind to only friendly thoughts of Maeve.