Prologue

Luke

ONE YEAR EARLIER

CHARLOTTE MONARCHS VS. NEW JERSEY DEVILS

It only takes a second to change the game.

And we have less than 120 of them left in this one.

Out of habit, I scan the crowd behind the boards as I skate around the face-off circle. A familiar face in a “DANIELS” jersey catches my eye. It’s Jordan, who’s probably a teenager by now, sitting next to his dad, Cody. I’ve talked to them at various season-ticket-holder events. They’ve been at every Monarchs home game for ten years, and Jordan’s sported my jersey for the last three.

Fueled by an extra zap of pride, I skate around the face-off circle before stopping at the hash marks. Aleksandr Varenkov, the wing on my left side, yells two words. I nod.

A quick glance tells me my opponent is a lefty. A longer look confirms that I’m matched up against Derek Clausson, the Devils’ leading scorer. We’re up 5–4 with less than two minutes left in the game. As a right-handed shooter, I have no real advantage against him, so I know why Coach called the play. My job is to lock him up and secure possession so my defensemen can clear the zone.

Sweat rolls off my nose, and my knees shake as I bend over the face-off circle. I widen my stance and crouch low to the ice. The linesman holds the puck between us, and Clausson slides into the circle.

“Back up!” the linesman snaps at him.

Clausson gets back into position, crouching like I am, waiting for the drop. My gaze doesn’t waiver from him. Normally, I’d be watching the puck, but that isn’t the play. All I need to see is the linesman’s hand out of the corner of my eye to know when to move.

When his wrist flicks to release the puck, I slam Clausson’s stick with mine and hold it as I spin into him. Then I sail the puck back to Grandy with my skate.

Exactly as planned.

Clausson hacks me across the back of the legs as I skate away, but it doesn’t matter. I won the face-off, and we have possession.

I trust Grandy, one of our veteran guys, to sail the puck to safety, but instead, he circles the back of the net and starts up the ice. Varenkov and I switch to offense quickly, crossing at center ice to get in position, but Grandy gets checked hard, loses possession, and falls flat on his ass. The puck slides into the corner to the right of our goal.

Varenkov is tied up, so I hustle over, breathing hard and pushing every muscle possible to get to that puck first.

I’ve been playing hockey since I was three years old. In theory, I should have some awareness of the situation and at least glance up while digging to get the puck out of the corner. But I’ve got my head down, engrossed in clearing the zone.

Which means I don’t see anyone coming until it’s too late.

“Fuck!” The sound of crunching bones is louder than the thump of being slammed against the boards. I feel a snap when my head hits the ridge at the bottom of the glass. My legs buckle, and I fall onto my side.

Someone has already come in and swept the puck away, but I need to get back into the play. I roll onto my knees, place one skate on the ice, and heave myself onto both blades. When I bend down to grab my stick, my right arm won’t work. It hangs at my side despite my brain telling it to move.

What the fuck?

I lean over and snatch the twig with my left hand, then hustle to the bench.

Smithy, better known as Geoff Smith, the Monarchs’ athletic trainer, claps my shoulder. “What’s up, Capper?”

Some people think my nickname comes from the fact that I’ve been the captain on every team I’ve ever played for—most recently, our AHL affiliate, the Detroit Aviators—before being called up to Charlotte.

Nope.

The first time I got moved up to the Monarchs, one of the guys mentioned that I look like a young Leonardo DiCaprio with dark hair. Somehow “Capper” came out of that. I don’t think I look like the actor at all, but the comparison could be worse. I’ve called guys some shitty things in my time.

Holding my left glove between my knees, I tug my hand out. Then I tap my right arm in various places, trying to stimulate some life into it. “My fucking arm’s all numb. I can’t even hold my stick.”

Smithy glances at the scoreboard. “I’ll get Doc. Come on back.”

I pause, reluctant to leave the bench with less than a minute left even though my arm tingles like it’s asleep.

“All right, Capper?” Coach Kingston yells to me.

I nod. Instead of following Smithy to the locker room to meet with Dr. Moore, one of our team physicians, I stay planted on the bench and say, “I can wait a minute, Smithy. It’s no big deal.”

No reason to say anything right now. My arm will come back to life in a few minutes.

Nothing to worry about.

* * *

ANN ARBOR, MI

It’s been three weeks since the game against the Devils, when my right arm went numb and tingly, and I still haven’t been able to fully use it. Which is why I’m in Ann Arbor, waiting to meet with Dr. Aziz Patel, the third orthopedic surgeon I’ve met with about the injury.

Dr. Moore told me to meet with the first guy, who works with Carolina Medical Network, which is affiliated with the Monarchs. Because of the nature of my injury, he immediately referred me to Dr. Cammarelli, the Chief of Spine Services at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York. He’s also the spine consultant for the NHL, which is the main reason both the team orthopedic surgeon and my agent urged me to see him.

When his grim prognosis pissed me off, I set an appointment with Dr. Patel at the University of Michigan, who is the surgeon the NHL Players Association recommends. I’m hitting all the big dogs, hoping one of them will give me good news.

No such luck.

Yet.

“Did you hear me, Luke?” Dr. Patel asks.

“It’s not that bad,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time since my injury. I rub the back of my neck out of habit, though it feels good on the swollen muscles underneath.

“A prolapsed cervical disc compressed onto your spinal cord. It’s a very serious injury. You’re going to need surgery.”

I smile and shake my head. A sore neck and some random numbness require rest, not surgery. This isn’t my first injury—or my first interaction with a doctor who needs the money to pay for a secret apartment for his mistress.

“I get that.” I lean back, trying to get comfortable in the stiff, green leather chair across from the surgeon. “But it can wait until after the season ends, right?”

“I would advise you to have the surgery as soon as possible.”

Rolling my eyes and tapping my fingers against my knee, I zone out, thinking about everything I need to do when I get back to Charlotte this afternoon. We leave for a West Coast road trip tomorrow morning, and I didn’t pack for it before I left for this appointment. I haven’t even run by the dry cleaner to pick up my favorite suit yet. Hope it’s open when I get back.

“Luke,” he says in a firm tone that makes me snap to attention. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. This is serious.”

“Worst-case scenario.” Absently, I rub my right bicep with my left hand—an attempt to stimulate life where it’s numb. It doesn’t work, yet I still try.

“Excuse me?”

“Give me the worst-case scenario, Doc. Let’s say I keep playing and don’t get surgery right now. What’s the worst that can happen?” I stretch my legs out and cross them at my ankles. I’ve been skating since I was two, playing hockey since I was three, and training at a high level since before I hit adolescence. I can handle any rehab a physical therapist throws at me. Hard work doesn’t worry me; it motivates me.

“You want the worst-case scenario, Luke?” he asks. “You’ll wake up in a pile of your own shit because you have no feeling below the neck. How does that sound?”

“You’re just trying to scare me,” I say, though the words come out much softer than I intend. Or maybe they don’t seem loud because all I can hear is the sound of my heart thumping hard and fast.

Alarm finally sets in.

Dr. Cammarelli said the same thing—in a less colorful way—then asked me to leave his office after I chucked an empty water bottle across the room.

“You should be scared. The injury you have makes you very vulnerable, even in your everyday life. If you sleep on it wrong, you could wake up paralyzed. Playing hockey is just plain stupid.”

The hair on my arms bristles at the attack on my intelligence. I pause to let his words sink in. The injury is worse than I’d ever admit. I’m used to playing through pain, but I’d never had a stiff neck that makes my right arm so numb I can’t fully grip my stick. This is completely out of my wheelhouse.

“Fine. I’ll have the surgery.” Even before I stepped into Dr. Patel’s office, I’d already resigned myself to the fact that surgery is the first step. “What kind of time frame am I looking at after? A month? Two?” I ask. “Will I be back for the playoffs?”

Dr. Patel’s lips slide from a frustrated scowl to a grim line. “You’ll most likely have to retire, Luke.”

“Fuck that!” The words fly out of my mouth without filter as I jump to my feet. “Doc, I’m only twenty-six.”

Dr. Cammarelli hadn’t mentioned retirement during my appointment. He talked about rehab and keeping a close eye on how the disc healed and how I felt during that time. Dr. Patel’s fearmongering approach is ridiculous.

Retirement is out of the question.

No one in the Monarchs organization has mentioned retirement. They’ve encouraged my rehab and helped me find the best doctors to treat the injury.

Dr. Patel stands, as well. “Surgery will alleviate the pain and bring back feeling in your limbs.” He glances at my arm as if he knows I haven’t told anyone the entire truth. “But it isn’t a cure. If you reinjure the disc, you could be paralyzed instantly. I’m sorry, Luke. I know it’s not what you expected to hear.”

“Fuck this. Just clear me to play.” Sweat beads on my forehead, and I make a scribbling motion with my hand. “Give me something to sign that says I understand everything you said, and I’ll take full responsibility for the consequences.”

“I can’t clear you to play with your injury,” he says firmly. “I won’t clear you.”

I lean forward and meet his gaze. “Well, if you don’t, then I’ll find another doctor who will,” I threaten. My right arm tingles as my hands tighten into fists. “I’m not gonna sit out for a stiff neck.”

“I know you’ve seen other doctors already, Luke.” Dr. Patel takes a deep breath and walks around his desk, stopping next to me. “And I know how hard this is to hear. As tough as our bodies are, they can also be very fragile. I encourage you to do what’s best for it now so you can live a healthy, active life. Let’s start with surgery and see how it goes, okay?”

He pats my shoulder softly and moves toward the door. I don’t turn around, too angry to face him although I’m not mad at him. I’m mad a routine hit into the boards caused some fucking fluke injury that’s threatening to end my career.

“I’m going to have Lucy bring in some information. Take a look. Talk to whoever you need to on the team. But I suggest getting surgery scheduled as soon as possible.”

When the door closes behind him, I collapse onto the ugly green chair and drop my face into my hands. Comprehension of what he’s actually saying crushes me. According to Dr. Patel, I may have already played my last hockey game. I can’t accept that. I can’t understand that. There’s no way a stupid stiff neck could be that bad. He’s got to be kidding.

I don’t know anything but hockey. I don’t have a Stanley Cup yet. Hell, I don’t even have a college degree.

Focus, Luke. Focus.

Think positive and come up with a solution. I’ll have the surgery, do any kind of physical therapy I need to get healthy and strong again, and get my ass back on the ice. There must be athletes who have come back from this type of injury.

My thoughts flash back to juniors in the WHL when I delivered a wicked check on a kid who was skating up the middle of the ice with his head down. It was clean, but, man, did I rock him. He probably saw constellations for the rest of the night. He had to be taken off the ice on a stretcher, which is never good to see. I followed up with our coach that night to make sure he was okay. Thankfully, their coach said the guy was fine.

For the life of me, I can’t think of the kid’s name or what team he played for—maybe Spokane?

The office door opens behind me. “Hi, Luke. Dr. Patel sent me in here to go over this paperwork with you.”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, flushing out the fear as I exhale. “Let’s do it.”

Taking hold of the clipboard Dr. Patel’s nurse hands me, I start scribbling my information on the papers. I should probably weigh the pros and cons of choosing Dr. Patel over Dr. Cammarelli. They’re both consultants for the NHL, though, so I really can’t go wrong. For me, there’s really no question since Dr. Patel is in Ann Arbor, which is about an hour from Detroit. That’s what seals the deal. After playing in the Detroit Aviators organization for years, I feel better being close to people I know.

Plus, there’s a girl here I used to hook up with who would drop everything to be my “nurse” for a few weeks.

Retirement—the worst-case scenario—swirls around in my head, but I quickly shut those thoughts down. This isn’t the first challenge I’ve faced in my life.

It won’t be the last, either.

Chapter 1

Luke

SIX MONTHS POST-SURGERY

CHARLOTTE, NC

“You wanted to see me?” I ask Mike Kingston, the Monarchs’ head coach, from the doorway of his office. His head is down, and he’s scratching notes on a yellow legal pad feverishly.

He lifts his eyes. “Sit down, Luke.”

His office smells like dirty socks and coffee, but I shuffle in and drop into the chair across from the desk.

“How’re you feeling?” Mike puts his pen down and pushes his notepad to the side, giving me his full attention.

“Great, actually. I’m ahead of where my physical therapist expected me to be, and I have another appointment with Dr. Patel next week. Last time, he said everything is healing well, so I’m pretty confident that I’m close to being back.” I slide the comment in casually, trying not to let desperation seep into my voice. The last six months off the ice—isolated from the team—have had me going crazy.

“But he didn’t clear you yet?” Mike asks.

“Well, no, but—”

“Dr. Cammarelli?”

I shake my head and look out the window behind him. “No, I—”

“Keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll take it day by day and see what Patel says at your next checkup,” he says. His firm tone tells me the case is closed. “I’m glad to hear the update, but that’s not why I called you in today.”

“Oh.”

I know the Monarchs’ team doctors have been in touch with all of the surgeons I’ve seen about my injury. When Mike asked me to come in for a meeting, I admit I thought Dr. Patel might have relayed some information to the team that he hadn’t told me. Hope for good news fueled the speed with which I got to the Monarchs offices. I thought maybe he’d approved my plea to skate with the team. I’m itching to get out there and see how it goes—maybe throw on a noncontact jersey or something.

“The loss of Brandon has hit all of us pretty hard. How are you doing with it, Luke?”

Mike’s question isn’t out of left field, but it hurts like a puck to the face, nonetheless.

My lip quivers involuntarily at the mention of Brandon Dellinger, former Monarchs captain, who took his own life a few months ago. Soon after a concussion sidelined him from the game, he found out Jack, his only child, had lung cancer. For months, everyone in the organization watched him pour his soul into doing everything in his power to help Jack recover.

Brandon was one of my mentors on the team. He and his wife, Ally, even let me stay in one of their guest rooms when I was going back and forth between Charlotte and Detroit frequently.

During that time, I watched Jack grow up, thinking of him as a mix between a little brother and a nephew. When he got sick, I sat with Brandon and Ally during chemo and radiation treatments, or sometimes, I just sat with Jack when they needed a break.

Brandon, already stressed from being forced to leave the game and trying to handle Jack’s illness, snapped when the doctors told them Jack’s tumor was not shrinking from treatment. In fact, it had gotten worse. And to make a horrible situation even worse, it was inoperable. No matter what treatment route they chose, Jack would never recover.

Ally found Brandon dead in their garage the next day.

Swallowing back a lump, I finally squeak out an answer. “Better. But it’s still hard to believe he’s gone.”

“I know. I spoke with Ally a few days ago. She seems to be doing okay. She’s keeping a calm head, if nothing else.”

I nod. “She’s had a lot of family in town helping.”

Mike better get to the point soon, because I can’t handle this conversation much longer. What Brandon did still pisses me off. It saddens me and depresses me. Then pisses me off again. Why didn’t he say something?

“I know it’s been hard for you since your surgery. We don’t want you to feel like you’re on an island. We feel your absence around here, Luke. There’s something missing—an attitude, an ethic, a vibe—I can’t place it exactly. You know the energy you bring to the team, especially the young guys.” He looks up at me. “What do you think about moving into the Director of Player Development role?”

“Until I can play again?” I ask.

I haven’t even been cleared to skate with the team yet, but not one doctor has said my career is over. I don’t count the conversation during my initial meeting with Dr. Patel. In fact, at my last appointment, he made a point to tell me he was impressed with how well I was healing and how strong I’d already gotten with intense physical therapy and workouts. I took that as a positive sign for the future.

“Luke, you are one of the smartest guys I’ve ever coached—ever. I know being on staff instead of in the locker room seems like a demotion. I know you still have the strength and drive and desire to play, but you don’t have the clearance. And from what Smithy is getting from your doctors, the outlook doesn’t look good.”

My jaw clenches and my shoulders tighten, but I work hard to keep my cool. Though I appreciate the obvious ego stroke regarding the attitude I bring to the team, I’m still not ready to accept that I won’t play again. Not until I get the final word from a doctor—or doctors.

“This role is about mentoring our prospects, which we all agree that you’ll be great at. It’s right in your wheelhouse. You are an asset to this organization, Luke. We don’t want you to feel like Brandon. Depressed, forgotten, like you don’t have a place.”

I don’t point out that Brandon had more problems than just the isolation that goes with the loss of his career. He had a kid with terminal cancer. Though my family life isn’t the greatest, I don’t have that stress.

“I don’t feel that way at all. I know I have a place. I’ll be back on the ice with the boys soon.”

“We have to be realistic, though, Luke. You get hit or even whip your head around to see the puck, and boom!” He slams both hands on his desk. “You’re a vegetable. That’s the reality of what could happen.”

“Come on, Mike,” I plead. “That’s a worst-case scenario. You know the surgeon has to say that to cover his ass.”

The fact that he threw in the vegetable line straight from the doctor’s playbook makes me think this proposed “desk job” might be long-term.

He looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re still Luke Daniels, the Monarchs’ rising star. The injury doesn’t change that. It just puts your career with the team on a different path. The guys love you. The staff love you. Hell, even the ladies still love you.”

I roll my eyes. Not many girls will choose to screw someone on the Monarchs staff over an actual player. That’s the hot puck bunny’s less-attractive-friend territory.

Fuck if I’m going there.

“I’m worried about you.” Coach’s voice holds a hint of concern.

After three years of playing for Kingston, the man knows exactly how to read my mood swings. It’s his superpower. He gets to know every single guy on a personal level. I swear that’s what makes him so damn good. He knows exactly what buttons to push to open the door to an even bigger issue.

“I feel great, Mike. The surgery repaired the disc. It’s healing well. I’m working my ass off in the gym. If I could reinjure my neck turning my head the wrong way, shouldn’t I be padded in bubble wrap? If anything takes me down, I want it to be hockey, not looking both ways before crossing a damn street.”

“Do you really want to go down either way?”

When I don’t answer, Mike continues, “Take the player-development position. Start working with the young guys, and we’ll see what your doctors say. Deal?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I’ll take it.”

“Good. Go home and pack. I need you in Peterborough tomorrow.”

“Really?” I ask. Not that I’m upset about jumping right into my new job. I just don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

“Yeah. I’ll have Eddie call you with the details.” Mike gets up and follows me to the door. He claps a hand on my shoulder in a way that feels paternal. Maybe I’m just a sucker for any fatherly connection since my dad died. “I know it’s hard when you’re disconnected, but you need to remember that you are a valuable member of this organization, Luke. And if you need anything, or anyone to talk to, let me know.”

“Thanks, Mike.” I glance at my watch, a silver TAG Heuer my agent bought me when I scored my first hat trick in the NHL. It was a natural hat trick—three goals in one period. “You plan on being here late?”

“Not if I can help it, but I’ve got a call with Peter. I don’t even know what time it is for him in Finland.” Mike glances back at his desk, then at me as if I have the answer.

“Fuck if I know. I failed International Time Zones 101,” I quip. “All right, I’m headed out. Should I bring you back some poutine?”

Teasing Mike about poutine—French fries covered in light brown gravy and cheese curds—never gets old. Last time we were in Toronto, he ate three huge helpings and got sick. The next day, he wouldn’t stop bitching about his stomachache, questioning the cleanliness of the roadside wagon near the arena we ate at rather than how much food he shoveled down.

“Asshole,” he grunts, then places his hands on the waist of his running pants. “Sarah says I need to stop eating shit.”

“You’re only saying no because it isn’t as good reheated.” I wink at him before heading down the hallway to the exit.

Despite being slightly disappointed about what my new role might mean, I focus on how lucky I am to be part of the Monarchs organization. Brandon’s suicide rocked all of us.

I appreciate that Mike took my mental state into consideration and how isolated being injured makes me feel. It’s a classy move to actively look for a way to get me involved with the team even if I’m not in the locker room or joining them on road trips.

I’m not saying I’m letting go of my playing career just yet, but I know enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. A position with the organization gives me a purpose. It allows me to be back in the community. I’ll kick ass at this Director of Player Development shit for a few months and bust my balls to get back on the ice where I belong.

Chapter 2

Bree

My first assignment as a traveling nurse brought me to Charlotte, North Carolina, a place I’d never been before. I’ve been so consumed by learning the intricacies of the hospital that I haven’t had much time to explore the city. Which sucks because I’m used to spending my free time outdoors.

Ocean, beach, mountains—California has it all.

“Hey, Bree!” Mindy, one of the CNAs I work with at Charlotte Children’s Hospital, greets me when I open the door for her.

“Hey!”

She thrusts a kelly-green T-shirt at me as she slides by.

“Ummmm…is this a youth small?” I ask, holding it up for inspection. Though it’s technically the size I told her when she asked, it looks like it would fit a toddler. Had I known how tiny it would be, I would have opted for a medium or even a large.

How am I supposed to drink all day if I have to worry about sucking in my gut?

I glance at Mindy, who’s wearing an identical shirt, though she’s made some modifications to hers. The crew neck has been cut into a low, jagged vee, and the sides are laced together with shoestring, allowing skin to show from under her armpits to the top of her low-slung jeans.

She looks hot—and like she’ll be cool all day. I wasn’t expecting Charlotte, North Carolina, to be in the eighties in mid-March.

“You told me you didn’t have anything green at the last minute on St. Patrick’s Day weekend. You get what you get, and you don’t pitch a fit,” she says.

I almost burst out laughing at the unique Southern phrase. Every day I learn something new.

“Fair.” I head toward my bedroom. “I’m gonna throw this on. Be right back.”

“No worries,” she says. “Can I grab a beer?”

I stop and turn around, watching as she opens my fridge and peers in. “Aren’t we going bar hopping?” I ask.

Pregaming for a day of drinking we’re starting at noon seems aggressive. Maybe I should’ve thought twice before agreeing to hang out with Mindy and her friends. Outside of the few conversations we’ve had at work, I don’t know anything about her. She may be way wilder than I have patience for anymore.

I grew up around spoiled trust-fund kids who’d been drinking and doing drugs since middle school. The lifestyle got old for me quickly.

“It’s cheaper here,” she answers.

And just like that, I feel like a judgy jackass. Even with holiday specials, drinks are expensive. It makes sense to get started here and save a few bucks.

“In the fridge,” I say as I leave her in the kitchen then add, “Grab me one, too, please.”

I rush into my bedroom and replace my white T-shirt with the tiny green one Mindy brought me. Before I leave, I stop to fluff my hair and glance in the full-length mirror hanging behind my door. It takes a few double-palm pushes against the inside of the shirt near the middle, but I finally stretch it enough to give me a little extra room in the tummy area. I slide my palms over the wrinkles, and I’m ready to go.

When I enter my living room again, Mindy is at the sliding glass door checking out the amazing view from my balcony. From there, you can see into BB&T Ballpark, where the Knights, Charlotte’s minor league baseball team, play their home games.

“You’ve got a view of the entire field,” she says, craning her neck to the left.

“I know. It would be awesome if I liked baseball.”

“You don’t need to like baseball to think the players are hot,” she says, handing me a beer. She swallows hard after taking a sip, which tells me she may not be a fan of the craft brew I picked up from the grocery store a few blocks from my house.

I laugh. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Do you like any sports?”

“I like hockey. And sometimes soccer. Who doesn’t love Ronaldo?”

I’m not the world’s biggest soccer fan. I can’t tell you the names of many guys or what clubs they play for. But international hotties like Cristiano Ronaldo and Jude Bellingham are definitely on my radar. And all over my Instagram feed.

“You like hockey?” Mindy asks, leaning her backside against the balcony. “Have you been to a Monarchs game?”

“I haven’t had a chance yet. Do you go to them?”

“I’ve been to a few. A girl I work with at the radio station is dating one of the players, so I’ve gone with her a few times. That’s who we’re meeting up with today.”

My heart speeds up. While I won’t go as far as to say hockey players are my weakness, I will admit to being extremely attracted to them. In fact, except for one person, I’ve only ever dated guys who play hockey. It’s not like I seek them out. They’re who I’ve always been around.

As a former collegiate hockey player himself, most of my dad’s friends are now retired players. And Mason, my twin brother, played up until a few years ago.

Being around so many good-looking, athletic guys made my dating life pretty easy—despite how pissed Mason would get every time I went out with one of his friends or teammates.

Mindy slips back into the condo and slides the door shut behind her, draining her beer as she walks to the kitchen.

“Ready to drink, eat, and dance with thousands of new best friends?” she asks, setting the empty bottle on the counter near the sink.

“Let’s do it!” I grab my new Kate Spade crossbody from the kitchen table, maneuver the strap over my head and across my chest, and let the bag sit at my hip.

Mindy waits as I lock the door, then we head to the elevator.

“I love that bag.” She reaches out and touches my crossbody. “Kate Spade. Fancy.”

Though I chose a career in human services, I learned to love the finer things in life from my parents, who created their wealth by building multiple companies from the ground up. Growing up around the hard work and excessive hours they put into their businesses instilled a work ethic in me I didn’t see in my peers.

I went to school with kids who were living off the fortune their great-grandparents made. I’m not knocking it, but while many of them were getting kicked out of school and being sent to rehab or facilities for emotionally troubled youth, I was watching my parents create their empire.

When I chose nursing as a profession, I didn’t want to be “a nurse.” I wanted to be a pediatric oncology nurse. The best pediatric oncology nurse in the country. Not that there’s a solid measurement for that. It was more about working my ass off to get to the top instead of living off Mom and Dad.

Being the daughter of driven entrepreneurs has its perks, but it also comes with the pressure and expectations of people who “want the best for me” even if our definitions of what’s best are completely different. Marrying one of the party-boy, trust-fund kids in my parents’ social circle is not my image of an ideal match. I saw more things snorted before I started high school than during my entire time in college.

That was never my life. I always wanted to be outside hiking and surfing rather than on the beach drinking and sunbathing.

Once Mindy and I are on the street outside my apartment complex, I grab her hand and pull her across the street to walk through Romare Bearden Park.

If cutting through the park is an option, I always do it. I love a patch of nature in the middle of a city.

Out of the options offered by the temporary agency that placed me, I chose an apartment in Charlotte’s city center. For all I knew about Charlotte, it could have been a few buildings surrounded by farmland. I figured having a place in the heart of the downtown area, within walking distance of restaurants and grocery shopping, would be my best bet.

CCH is only a five-minute drive, which is much better than the hour-long commute to get from my parents’ house in Carona del Mar to the children’s hospital I worked at just outside of Anaheim. Based on mileage, it should only take about twenty minutes to get from house to hospital, but traffic is absolutely brutal.

“At the risk of sounding super lame, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hang very long if I’m drinking all day,” I say, jumping onto the bricks of a raised flower bed. Years of gymnastics as a kid kick in, and I step heel-to-toe across the bricks as if I’m walking a beam.

“There’s a strategy, my dear,” Mindy says, letting go of my hand so I can focus on my balance. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint. You have a drink, maybe a few waters in between, walk around until you’re hungry, then duck into a place to grab some food.”

“I’m glad I have an experienced guide for my first St. Patrick’s Day celebration.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never been out for St. Patty’s Day. It’s un-American.”

I laugh. “Well, I’m not Irish, and I’m not a huge drinker, so it’s never been a big deal for me.”

“Last year, I got so sloppy drunk I was passed out in the Alley before five.”

I laugh and shake my head before dismounting, completing a half spin before landing on my feet.

“But don’t worry, Bree. I’ve matured since then.”

“God, I hope so. I take care of enough people at work. I don’t need to do it on my days off, too,” I tease, though I’m only half-joking. After years of administering to the sickest of sick children, holding back a drunk girl’s hair doesn’t bring out my sympathetic side.

At the end of the park, we cross over Church Street and enter a small bar called Valhalla. I’ve been here once before because it’s so close to my apartment. Normally, I’m not a junk food person, but I did try the Loaded Loki Fries last week when I stopped in after my first day of work. I hadn’t eaten anything during a full day of training and meeting patients and needed a carb fest.

Who knew waffle fries topped with Jarlsberg cheese, sweetcorn, pineapple, and jalapeños would be the most amazing flavors ever put together? The dish normally comes with ham and bacon as well, but I nixed those, and it was still amazing. The extra time at the gym in my apartment building the next day was well worth it.

As soon as we walk in, a gorgeous girl with a dark, shampoo-commercial-perfect mane notices us and calls out, “Hey, Mindy! Over here!”

Mindy grabs my hand and leads me to the table. She gives the girl a hug before introducing me by saying, “This is my friend, Bree.”

I scan the group during a chorus of “Hi, Bree!” and finally look at the guy I’m standing next to.

Holy shit! It’s Jon Snow in the flesh.

I’m taken aback by his smooth, youthful face and the amazing wavy, brown hair that hangs just past his ears, which makes him look like Kit Harington when he’s playing his Game of Thrones character, Jon Snow. Except I’m pretty sure he’s one of the hockey players Mindy mentioned we’d be meeting, not a member of the Night’s Watch.

Once introductions are over, I’ve learned everyone’s names and how they match up. Auden and Aleksandr are married, and Kristen and Pavel “might as well be married,” according to Mindy.

The sexy Jon Snow lookalike’s name is Luke, but I don’t know who he matches up with since there isn’t another girl at the table. Maybe she’s in the bathroom.

Or maybe he and Mindy are a couple?

But then, she would be standing next to him and he would’ve been the one to call out to her, right?

At work, one of my best traits is making quick assessments of a situation. After years of training and honing the craft, it’s hard for me to turn off my brain. It’s annoying when it seeps into everyday life. I remind myself to stop analyzing and have fun with new people.

“We just finished our drinks and were waiting for you to head to the next bar. Is that cool?” Kristen asks.

Mindy and I nod and follow the group outside. The sun beats down on my face, warming my skin, and I can practically feel the freckles popping across my nose and cheeks. The comfort reminds me of home.

We head into The French Quarter. With such a promising name, I expect it to have that unmistakable, funky New Orleans vibe like I just stepped in from Bourbon Street.

No such luck.

“Well, this is a bit disappointing,” I mumble once we’re inside.

“Why?” Luke asks.

His voice startles me though I knew he’d been lagging a few steps behind the group, holding his phone to the sky. I wasn’t sure if he was taking photos of something or trying to get a better signal. Either way, I shouldn’t be so aware of his actions after just meeting him.

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?” I ask.

Luke nods. “Multiple times.”

Our group tries to wiggle through the crowd to get to the bar and gets separated in the chaos. I think it’s Mindy who shouts that someone stepped on her. Hanging back with Luke was definitely the better choice. “Then you know what I mean.”

“Oh!” He looks around the restaurant as if noticing the disappointing decor for the first time, or maybe he’s seeing it from a newbie’s perspective. His head bobs up and down. “Yeah, it’s definitely not authentic.”

Panels of frosted glass adorned with The French Quarter lion logo and classic Greek-drama comedy and tragedy masks hang above the gorgeous oak bar. The frosted glass is encircled with stained-glass flowers in bright purples, golds, and greens. It doesn’t look like New Orleans at all, but at least the colors are correct.

“I mean—” I point to the wall across from the bar where there’s a sketch of buildings on Bourbon Street with a random strand of purple beads hanging from one corner of the frame.

“Hey! They have masks,” Luke quips.

He’s right. On the wall next to the sketch are a few random Mardi Gras-themed masks, complete with brightly colored feathers. Other than those types of things scattered about, it’s pretty nondescript.

“It reminds me more of Greece,” I say though there’s no conviction in my voice. “Or maybe a Greek interpretation of New Orleans.”

Maybe I’m psychic. Or exceptionally skilled in recognizing a Greek-owned spot.

Separating the bar area from the restaurant seating is a half wall painted in the colors of the Greek flag: cyan blue with white panel molding.

“Have you ever been to Greece?” Luke asks, mimicking my New Orleans comment to him.

“I have,” I say quietly. I hope my assessment of the restaurant didn’t sound snooty because that’s not what I intended. Maybe I should temper my expectations of Charlotte. I already know it’s no LA or New York.

“Really?” Luke pulls back slightly as if surprised. “That’s a bucket-list trip for me.”

I don’t like to brag about the vacations I’ve taken with my family, but I’m not going to lie about places where I’ve been either.

Before I have a chance to say more about it, he nods to the bar where our friends have found a spot to stand. “Kristen’s been there, too. She’s Greek. Probably why she always drags us here.”

Speaking of Kristen, we both turn when we hear her voice ring through the crowd. “Luke! Bree! Get over here and toast with us!”

“What are we toasting?” Mindy asks as Luke and I join our friends.

“It’s not an occasion,” Luke says. “The Russians toast to everything. Gribsy brushed his teeth this morning! Hey!” He lifts an invisible glass. “Varenkov blinked. Hey!”

I remember the custom well. “Life is meant to be celebrated,” I chirp.

“Bree is exactly right,” Aleksandr says, handing me a shot of clear liquid, which I assume, without trying to sound stereotypical, is vodka, given the present company. “Many people think the toast is always the same. ‘Za zdaróvye!’ Which means—”

“To your health,” I finish, lifting my shot glass.

Aleksandr’s eyes widen and his lips pull into a smile.

“You speak Russian?” he asks in English, thankfully.

“No, but one of my father’s best friends is Russian, so I’ve heard the toast many times.”

No reason to mention my break-up with Arkady Stepurin, the son of Dad’s aforementioned friend. Leaving Arkady behind was a huge catalyst for my decision to become a traveling nurse and get the hell out of California.

Since coming up through the USA hockey system, and playing in the NCAA after that, Dad has friends in every league and every country. He and former Anaheim defenseman (now assistant coach) Igor Stepurin grew close fast.

Igor played with the Ducks his entire career, and Dad knew guys on the team. Those connections, along with their mutual interests in outdoor activities like hiking and water sports, created a friendship that’s still going strong.

As their bromance blossomed, Mom and Anna, Igor’s wife, were thrown together whether they liked it or not. But Mom is an opportunist—in the best way possible—and roped Anna into being the face of multiple advertising campaigns. The business relationship helped seal their friendship.

When we moved to our current house, Igor and Anna bought the place next door the day it went on the market. The Stepurin family and ours are intertwined in so many ways.

Which made leaving town an absolute necessity after finding out Arkady had cheated on me when he traveled to play away games. It’s not like I was head over heels in love—or all that surprised—but having been together for two years, ours had been my longest relationship.

Betrayal is going to hurt no matter what, but—to add another layer to the almost incestuous relationship—Arkady is also my brother’s best friend.

In hindsight, I never should’ve gotten involved with someone so tied to our family. But how could I not?

Falling for the literal boy next door is straight out of a romance novel. Though I’ve used the last few years to focus on my career, I’ll be the first to admit I want a love story someday.

But not with a hockey player. I swore off them after Arkady.

Dad and Mason gave me an insider’s eye into the mindset and priorities of a professional athlete. His career—and quest for being the best—comes before everything else. And if a woman wants to be with him, she has to want to be there for the ride. She has to understand he will be gone most of the time. He will have complete focus on the game, a borderline cockiness, and the selfishness—maybe even loneliness—that comes with that profession.

That’s not the life I want. I want someone who can have a career but always put our relationship first. A job should be the means to have the kind of life you want, not what you put ahead of everything and everyone.

It may be my own selfishness shining through. I have dreams and don’t want to sacrifice those for someone else. In my ideal relationship, we should be able to grow and pursue our life goals together.

I totally understand why Mom didn’t want to be a hockey wife.

Luke takes a half step closer to me to accept the shot Pavel hands him, which gives me an excuse to check him out again. His lean, muscular arms are covered in tattoos. Full sleeves, I’m sure, though I can only see the parts not concealed by his T-shirt. Bits of ink creep out of his collar, and it’s so hot I want to lick every ink-covered inch of him. I’m curious to see what else he has under there—maybe piercings?

A shiver ripples through me at the thought of the places Luke might have piercings. With all the crazy things that run through my head, sometimes I think I should’ve been a writer instead of a nurse.

Once everyone has a shot in hand, we raise our glasses and Pasha says, “Za nashu druzjbu!”

Translation: To our friendship!

Everyone tries to repeat the phrase except Luke, who says, “Hey!”

“No Russian for you?” I ask him as I lean over and slide my empty shot glass onto the bar. When I straighten, I make sure to brush my arm across Luke’s stomach.

His abs tighten at my touch. His lips curve into a sexy smile as he scans my body. His gaze stops at my chest before coming back up to my eyes. I almost wish I’d taken a pair of scissors to my T-shirt and modified it like Mindy had. I’m not lacking in the boob department.

“I never say it right, so I stopped. I think they appreciate that I quit butchering their native tongue.”

Lust swirls in my belly. After being the object of his wicked appraisal, I’d let Luke butcher me with his tongue. Whatever the hell that means.

We hit two more bars after The French Quarter, both of which are located in the same courtyard. After drinks at both places, I’m feeling a bit of a buzz. As we stumble out of Hooligan’s, a small soccer bar, Mindy insists we head to Queen City Quarter, a large complex with restaurants and entertainment like a bowling alley. I’m interested to check it out since I haven’t gotten to that part of the city yet.

When she invited me out, Mindy explained Charlotte’s massive St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. I thought being among thousands of people would be overwhelming. Popping in and out of bars with a small group is a perfect way to enjoy the day. It allows me to get a glimpse of multiple places in a short time and decide which ones I want to visit again.

The guys lead the way, cutting through Latta Arcade, the indoor shopping area reminiscent of arcades in England, to get to Tryon, the main street running through downtown Charlotte—or “Uptown” Charlotte—which is what locals call the downtown area.

As we walk, I scan the area, reading the names of buildings and taking in the vibe of the city. The streets are a sea of green ebbing and flowing with each traffic light. People who aren’t wearing the color are few and far between.

When I think about St. Patrick’s Day destination cities, Chicago, Boston, and Savannah come to mind. I never would have guessed this growing Southern city was a hotspot.

“Let’s do karaoke,” Kristen proposes.

“No!” Auden quickly vetoes.

“When do you ever not want to sing?” Aleksandr asks her.

“I never said I didn’t want to sing,” Auden explains. “But the bars are so packed, they probably don’t even have it today. If they do, we’ll never get called. We’d have to go to Lucky Lou’s to have a chance.”

Kristen leans toward Mindy and me and explains, “Auden was in a band.”

“So was I,” Aleksandr says.

“For one song,” Auden responds, lifting her index finger in the air.

“It was an important song.” He kisses her forehead, and Auden snuggles under his arm.

Their interaction is sweet, but I’m completely confused by the exchange.

Suddenly, I hear a deep scratchy voice in my ear. “They’re talking about Aleksandr’s grand gesture to win her over,” Luke explains.

Every time Luke speaks, a shiver ripples down my spine. His voice is pure sex. And there’s no question the alcohol I’ve consumed is loosening my morals because I can’t think of anything except taking this dude I just met home, which is totally crazy. A quick romp might help me heal from Arkady’s betrayal.

“It was back when we were in college,” Kristen explains.

“All of you went to college together?” I ask. It doesn’t seem likely, but who knows?

“Auden and I did. We met Aleks at a bar during a winter break,” Kristen tells me. “The hockey team in Detroit hired Auden to be his translator.”

“Oh! Okay.” I nod as I connect the dots. “Mindy told me Pavel was a hockey player. I didn’t realize Aleksandr played, too.”

“We’re all hockey players,” Pavel explains. “We play in Detroit and come to Charlotte.”

That tiny tidbit of information explains so much.

“So you met Kristen through Aleks?” I ask him.

Kristen bursts out laughing, which replaces my short-lived sense of understanding with more confusion. “How I met Pavel is a story for another time. We’ll get dinner soon, and I’ll tell you the entire thing.”

“Jesus,” Pavel hisses. “We need to find a place to go.”

“Good idea,” I agree, though I’m completely lost as to why he’s so annoyed with Kristen telling me the story of how they met.

Maybe he doesn’t like it when she talks about their relationship. Some people are super private about personal details.

“Is the other karaoke place around here?” I ask. I’ve never heard of it, but I’ve only been in town a few days.

“Lucky Lou’s?” Auden asks. “No, it’s on Park Road, close to all the Montford bars.”

Being in a group of people who know each other and the city definitely has its upside, but it also has the I-have-no-clue-what’s-going-on side, too. The confusion must show on my face because Kristen answers my question before I even ask.

“Montford is a neighborhood in Charlotte with bars and restaurants,” Kristen explains.

I appreciate that she takes the time to fill in the gaps. She’s very personable and easy to be around. Not that the others aren’t—everyone has made me feel welcome. There’s something special about people who take the extra step to make others feel included.

It’s the exact opposite of many of the hockey players’ girlfriends I knew in the Anaheim hockey world.

“There aren’t as many bars as Uptown, but it’s another fun spot to walk around and hit some cool places,” Luke adds.

Every time he chimes in, it feels like he’s my personal tour guide.

Actually, having him as my personal guide sounds like the best idea ever. The cloudier my head gets, the more I think about the first place I want to experience with him—the view from his bed.

“We will skip Queen Quarter,” Pavel suggests. “It will be shit-show.”

Mindy, who has had her head down and is texting furiously throughout the conversation, looks up. “I’m meeting someone at Mortimer’s.”

“Nolan?” Kristen asks.

Mindy’s cheeks flush when she answers. “Yes.” Her gaze immediately drops back to her phone.

Kristen puts her hand on my forearm and says, “That’s her hookup. He’s a drummer in a local metal band and a tattoo artist. I think he works at Common Market, too.”

“Oh, wow,” I say, impressed. I’ve always had a penchant for hardworking rock stars. “Get it, girl.”

“Do you want to head over there with me?” Mindy asks.

I hesitate before answering. I know she’s asking because she doesn’t want to ditch me after inviting me to go with her, but I don’t really want to be the third wheel while she hangs with Nolan.

“Why don’t you hang out with us?” Kristen suggests quickly.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Absolutely! We’re supposed to make random friends today. It’s a St. Patrick’s Day rule,” Kristen says, winking at me.

Less than a week ago, I packed two suitcases and moved to Charlotte for this assignment without ever having set foot in this city before. The whole reason was to meet new people and enjoy new places.

Plus, if the two couples in this group want to get cozy with each other, I’ll get to spend more time with Luke.

Score.

“Go on,” I tell Mindy with a wave. “Have fun with Nolan.”

“Thank you so much, girl!” She leans in, hugs me, and whispers, “Kristen and Auden are awesome. They won’t ditch you.”

As Mindy disappears into the crowd of people, Kristen hooks her arm through mine. “Come on, Bree. We’ll show you a good time.”

“The fun has just begun,” Auden adds, hooking her arm through my other one. “To ‘The Alley,’ boys!”

When we enter “The Alley” from Sixth Street, I’m expecting a typical alley—a dark, narrow walkway between buildings, maybe a few dumpsters—but that’s not what I find.

It’s as wide as a street. One side is the wall of a parking deck, and the other has the back entrances to three different bars. People spill out the doors, crowding the entire alley.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, it looks more like what I’d expect on a Friday or Saturday night. We have a drink in each place before moving on. I’ve adhered to Mindy’s advice, making sure to have water between some of the drinks, but I’m pounding back more than I have since college, and by the time we leave the alley, I’m feeling loopy.

“Where to next?” I ask. My mind is so cloudy that walking straight has become a chore. I never should have tried to keep up with the group.

Luke, who must sense my lack of coordination, wraps an arm around me, guiding me forward. His T-shirt smells like a mix of laundry detergent and a warm, woodsy scent that makes me want to kiss him. I lean forward, brushing my lips across the sleeve of his T-shirt.

“The Roxbury,” Kristen answers, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from Luke. “Time to dance off some of these drinks.”

I glance back, longing to be closer to him but helpless to Kristen’s pull. He lifts his head, raising an eyebrow in a silent question as if he’s asking me if I’m okay. I can’t believe something so small makes my heart flutter, but it does.

“You have the fun now, eh, Capper?” Pavel says, hitting Luke’s stomach with the back of his hand. Luke immediately responds by pushing his shoulder, which sends Pavel off-balance.

Biting my tongue to hold in a laugh, I turn around quickly to pay attention as we weave through bodies.

The Roxbury is a few blocks from The Alley bars. It’s not far from my apartment building, and although I’m having a great time, a part of me wants to slip away and take a nap. Of course, I wouldn’t do that. Not only would it be rude, but I also don’t want to give the impression that I can’t hang.

Besides, slipping away with Luke for a “snap”—the term I coined for sex then a nap—sounds like a much better idea than slipping away by myself.

Maybe I can corner Luke in this next bar and see if he’d be up for it? All these thoughts remind me of why I never really took to the party lifestyle. Once I have an idea in my head, I can’t let go. Mixing alcohol and hormones leads straight to trouble.

There’s a line to get into the Roxbury, but Kristen strides past it and stops in front of a tall, ripped Black man in a tight, blue T-shirt and dark blue jeans sitting on a bar stool.

“Hey, Kevin,” she greets him.

He stands up. “KK! Where you been?”

Kevin wraps his arms around her and hugs her, lifting her off the ground. When he sets her down, he notices the rest of us. “I see you got your girls with you, but where’s your boy?”

Kristen nods behind us. “He’s back there with Luke and Aleks. Can you please let them in when they catch up, please?”

“Anything for you, Mama.” Kevin winks at her and ushers the three of us through the door.

“Do you come here a lot?” I ask.

Kristen laughs. “Yes, but I’ve known Kevin for about a year. He’s the sound engineer at one of the concert venues in town. He barely works here anymore, but he must’ve picked up a shift. It’s a big money-making weekend for the service industry.”

“I can imagine,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

The bar we enter is a dream come true for kids who were too young to get into clubs in the eighties and nineties. Mark Morrison’s “Return of the Mack” blasts through the air, and suddenly, I’m transported back to the kitchen of our old house where Mom and I used to dance around to whatever was on the radio.

A line of pendulum lights with hot-pink globes hangs above the main bar, leading to an oversized replica of a Rubik’s Cube suspended by a long rod, while black-light fluorescent tubes are scattered across the rest of the ceiling. Vintage album jackets and concert posters cover the walls. Behind the bar, multiple sixty-inch flat-screens play the video of the song that’s blasting from the speakers.

Kristen swings her hips to the beat as she walks toward a doorway, away from the long bar across the room from us. I follow her around a corner to a dark, narrow staircase.

“We’re going to another dance floor, not kidnapping you,” Auden says from behind me.

“I wasn’t worried,” I tell her, excited to be having such a great time with new friends. I hope this will be the first of many outings—with Luke, too.

“It’s too crowded and bright upstairs. The basement is appropriately dingy for dancing,” Kristen calls over her shoulder. The music gets louder as we get closer to the bottom. It’s a different song than what’s playing on the main floor.

The stairs lead us to a dimly lit seating area with low ceilings. I’m immediately drawn to the hand chairs, which must’ve been taken straight from an eighties-movie prop sale. They glow neon pink and green under the black-light bulbs above. The palm of the hand is the seat, while the fingers curl upward to make the back.

I need to get a selfie in one of those chairs before we leave. Hell, I may ask someone where I can buy one. It’d look amazing next to Dad’s vintage Pac-Man arcade table in his game room.

“We should take her to Olde Mecklenburg,” Kristen suggests once we’ve all cleared the last step.

“Olde Mecklenburg? Is that another city?” I yell over the Journey song. Which is hard to do because Steve Perry can belt it.

“No,” Kristen answers. “It’s a local brewery. German beer-hall style. Everyone sits around long picnic tables eating German food and drinking beer. They have a huge outdoor area. It’s a fun place. Super casual.”

A local brewery with a German beer-hall vibe is completely my style. I whip out my phone and type a quick note to myself. Usually, I carry a notebook with me since I prefer writing things down, but I switched to a small purse for today. My phone is all I have with me, and I don’t want to forget the places I’ve been to or heard about today.

“Sounds great.” I pause. “But I work tomorrow.”

“And I’m pretty sure the boys play the Flyers tomorrow,” Auden says.

“You would know, hockey girl,” Kristen teases her.

We shimmy our way from the seating area onto the packed dance floor. “Don’t Stop Believin’” blares, and even though I don’t really like the song, it’s a welcome change from the same ten top-forty tunes we’ve heard at all the other bars we stopped into today. I can only stomach so many pop hits.

When I spot a wicked Beastie Boys’ concert poster from 1986 hanging on the wall behind Kristen, I reach for my phone again. I have to tell my friends back home about this place, but I’ve already forgotten the name.

Above the bar, a sign advertising specialty drinks with names like “Purple Rain” and “Long Island Mr. T” makes me smile but doesn’t tell me where I am.

“What is this place called again?” I yell to whoever can hear me.

Auden leans close to my ear and yells, “The Roxbury!”

The small crowd on the dance floor screams in unison when the opening notes of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” fill the air. Kristen and Auden each wrap an arm around my waist, and we sway together as we sing, making me feel like I’ve been their friend forever. We belt out the chorus at the top of our lungs with so much flair that Jon Bon Jovi may want us as backup singers.

After bouncing and swaying to a few more eighties hair-band hits, my head is somewhat clearer than it was before we got to this bar. I can’t say dancing helps metabolize the alcohol faster from a scientific standpoint, but it always seems like it does.

“Come dance!” Auden yells, beckoning someone toward us. I follow her gaze to the hand chairs where Luke, Aleksandr, and Pavel look exceptionally comfortable.

Aleksandr smiles at his wife but shakes his head.

Now is my chance to get close to Luke and sit in one of the chairs shaped like a huge hand.

I tap both Auden and Kristen on their shoulders and motion to where the guys are sitting, letting them know I’m going over there, too.

Without giving him warning, I climb onto Luke’s lap and lean back against his chest. It’s a bold move, but I’m fairly confident he won’t shut me down since we’ve been communicating in flirty smiles and touches all day.

“Well, hello,” he greets me.

“Hey,” I respond, unable to contain my silly grin.

The Roxbury is the most fun bar I’ve been to in Charlotte so far. It’s not an every-night kind of place, but it’s certainly my pick for the best music and dancing. Every once in a while, I need to let loose and shake it out.

Being snuggled up to Luke is an odd juxtaposition. It gives me a sense of peace yet fuels me with fire at the same time. I can’t concentrate on the blaring music or anything else when I’m this close to him. The only thing I can think of is straddling him in this crazy, neon-pink hand chair, grabbing his long, thick hair, and covering his lips with mine. Instead, I lean my head back so it rests on his shoulder.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, squinting at me as though he can read the level of intoxication on my face.

“No.”

Luke’s fingers dance along my waist, attempting to tickle me into another answer. I want his fingers to dip lower.

“Fine,” I admit. “I may be a bit tipsy.”

“A bit,” Luke repeats and laughs. His chest shakes under me.

Before I forget, I dig into my purse and retrieve my phone. “Smile,” I tell him, holding it at arm’s length to take a selfie. I shake my hair out and place my cheek close to his.

The photo is completely on point. Luke and I look like we’ve known each other for years rather than hours. And you can see a bit of the amazing chair.

If I don’t go home with Luke tonight, it won’t be for lack of trying since I’ve literally thrown myself into his lap.

Hopefully, my hardcore flirting doesn’t jinx me into waking up with nothing more than a massive hangover. I’ve never really pursued a guy before. My relationships have always happened organically over time. Then again, time is not something I have a lot of in Charlotte.

“Text that to me, would you?” Luke asks.

“Sure.” I press the screen. “What’s your number?”

Luke recites his digits, and I send him the picture.

Luke’s lips touch my ear, and a shiver rushes through me before he even speaks. “You know you’re fucking beautiful, right?”

A smile tugs at my lips as he slips one hand under my shirt and curves the other around my upper thigh. Internally, I curse myself for wearing jeans. If I were in a skirt, he could be hitting a really sweet spot right now.

Now that I’ve confirmed there’s a mutual attraction, I turn my head and catch his eyes. “If you think I’m beautiful now, you should see me naked in your bed.”

“When?” he asks, seemingly unfazed by my bold comment. But I’m sitting on his lap, so it’s easy to tell it affects him.

“Tonight.”

“What are we still doing here, then?” Luke tightens his arms around my waist, hugging me to his chest. He nuzzles his face into my neck and kisses me softly. My eyelids flutter as I enjoy his warm lips against my skin. He slides his hand from my thigh and slips it under my shirt, thumb skimming the bare skin just below my bra.

“Well, well! Look at you two getting cozy,” Kristen teases. When I look up, she’s capturing the moment with a flash.

“I can’t wait to get you to my condo so I can push your face down into my pillow, lift your hips, and fuck you from behind,” Luke whispers in my ear. “Would you like that?”

“Totally,” I say, embracing the vibe of the club as my heartbeat races in anticipation.

“I need to eat,” Pavel announces.

“Must feed the Russian bear,” Kristen says in a robotic accent that sounds more French than Slavic.

“Bears,” Aleksandr echoes. “I’m starving, too.”

I expect Luke to pat or prod me to get up and follow his friends up the stairs, but he doesn’t. He squeezes me closer and kisses my temple.

“I am not hungry for food right now. Wanna skip dinner and head straight to my place?” he asks.

A tingle courses through my body. Suddenly, his touch is more intense than before. I’m sleeping with Luke tonight, there’s no doubt about it. But I really like hanging out with everyone else, too, so I don’t want to walk away from my new friends.

“Ditching would be rude.”

“Tease,” he says with a sly smile.

“Anticipation, baby.” I jump to my feet, then offer Luke my hand to help him up. I know he doesn’t need it; I just like touching him. My stomach flutters every time we make contact.

We trudge single file back up the dark staircase. Thankfully, it brings us out near an exit, so we filter straight out onto the sidewalk.

“Basil?” Kristen asks, stopping in front of a restaurant on the corner of Fifth and Church Streets. “Is everyone cool with Thai?”

“Do you like Thai food?” Luke asks.

“Love it,” I answer honestly, though I’ll go along with whatever place the group picks.

Pavel holds the door to Basil open, ushering Kristen in first before the rest of us follow.

“It smells amazing in here,” I say.

The heavy scent of garlic permeates the air, so thick I can almost taste it. The promising possibility of good Thai food in Charlotte excites me.

Kristen cups her hand over her mouth and says, “I used to like the smell.” Her skin has a green undertone. She’s standing still, fingers covering a slight grimace, and I think she’s going to be sick.

I place my hand on her arm. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I—” Suddenly she lurches forward and runs toward the back of the restaurant where I assume the bathrooms are. Auden follows on her heels.

I’m about to go back with her to see if I can help when Aleksandr punches Pavel’s shoulder and says, “Nice work.”

“She say she craving this place. If I say no, she will yell at me.” Pavel shrugs. “There is no win.”

The word craving strikes me as odd. I glance at Luke, whose raised-eyebrow expression seems just as confused. We both look at Pavel.

“She is pregnant,” he confirms without being asked.

“What?” Luke exclaims. His eyes light up, transforming his confusion into happiness. “Really?”

Pavel nods and breaks into a huge smile.

“Congratulations, man!” Luke leans over, grabs Pavel’s hand, and pulls him in for a bro shoulder-bump hug.

“Congratulations,” I tell him, though I’m thinking of all we’ve had to drink today and how Kristen kept up, doing shots and all. It’s a bit unsettling.

“Thanks,” Pavel says. “We are happy. Really happy.”

“Is everything okay?” Luke asks. His voice has taken on a more serious tone.

“Is good so far. She really early, like ten weeks or something. But, uh, her doctors, they watch her close.”

“I have cystic fibrosis,” Kristen explains. Her voice startles me, and I turn around. “Everything’s good, just extra precautions.”

“Do you want to go somewhere else, KK?” Auden asks.

“I think we should head home. I thought the smell thing was getting better, but evidently, I still have an aversion to garlic.”

“At least you didn’t puke,” Auden offers.

“How were you doing shots?” I blurt out. There’s zero tact in my delivery, but I can’t help myself. My judgment may have just cost me my new friends, but I’m completely okay with that.

“My shots were water. Why do you think I made Pasha do all the ordering?” Kristen winks. Then she adds, “But thanks for calling me out. I appreciate a person who does that.”

A noticeable breath of relief escapes me. “Here.” I dig a piece of candy from my purse and hand it to Kristen.

“What’s this for?” she asks inspecting it.

“It’s lemon-flavored. It should help the nausea,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” Kristen unwraps the candy and pops it into her mouth.

“Congratulations,” I tell her. “Let me know if I can help or answer any questions.”

“Umm, okay,” she says slowly.

“I’m a pediatric nurse,” I explain quickly. I got so comfortable with the group that I completely forgot they don’t know anything about me. “I’m not some creepy lady that offers people candy and says I can answer questions about pregnancy.”

Kristen laughs. “I wasn’t sure where you were coming from with the questions thing, but I didn’t think you were creepy.”

“I did.” Pavel raises his hand.

“Of course, you did.” Kristen rolls her eyes and pushes him toward the door. “Let’s go. I can’t smell this place any longer.”

Once we’re back outside, Kristen takes a deep breath and sighs. “Sorry to do this, guys, but we’re going to bail. I’ve lost my appetite and I’m super tired.” She pulls Auden into her arms first, then proceeds to do the same to everyone.

“It was great meeting you both,” I say when Kristen stops in front of me.

“You, too.” She wraps her arms around me. “I’m sure we’ll see you again.”

When Kristen and Pavel are out of earshot, Luke asks. “You guys still want dinner?”

“I need food ASAP,” Aleksandr says. “We are headed for the street meat.”

“Amen,” Auden agrees.

“You hungry?” Luke asks me.

“Not for food,” I whisper. Eating can wait. I already have a mini beer gut. I don’t need to add a full food baby before getting naked with Luke.

He takes my hand in his and turns back to his friends. “This is where we leave you guys. I’m gonna walk Bree home.”

Auden and Aleksandr share a quick glance and smile because they know what’s up.

After the four of us exchange goodbye hugs and Auden and Aleksandr walk off, Luke shakes his hand from my grasp and places it on my ass, guiding me in the opposite direction.

He ushers me to the entrance of The Avenue condos, which is less than half a block from Basil. “You’re coming up, right?”

“Hell yes.”

I’m practically bouncing on my toes while he places a gray key fob in front of a pad mounted on the wall of the building. The lock clicks, and he opens one of the glass doors, holding it for me as I slide through.

“Hey, Truman!” Luke taps his knuckles on the concierge desk as we walk by, which causes a kid in a dark blue suit sitting behind it to look up. He smiles immediately.

“Hey, Luke! How was your day?”

“Awesome,” he responds but doesn’t stop to exchange any more pleasantries. Instead, he laces his fingers through mine and pulls me toward more glass doors that lead to a bright foyer with elevators.

“Do all of the buildings around here look the same?” I ask, scanning a tranquil stone waterfall wall we pass. The Avenue has the same stark, modern decor as my apartment building. It’s a clean, sleek style, but there’s no character, which is what I expected from a charming Southern city.

“The ones that were built around the same time do. Or maybe it’s the same architect? Same builder? I’m not sure.” Luke chuckles.

News headlines scroll on a TV screen built into the wall next to the elevator. No awkward conversations with neighbors waiting in this place. You can check out sports scores instead of interacting.

Once inside, Luke scans his key fob again and presses the button for the thirty-first floor.

“Wow. It’s maximum security in here.”

“There are a lot of safety features,” Luke agrees. “It’s a far cry from the place I rented when I played in Detroit. My apartment got broken into three times in one season.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope,” he says. “It got so bad I had to move all my stuff into my coach’s garage and sleep on Varenkov’s couch until I found a new place.”

“That’s crazy.”

I can’t say I’ve ever lived in a neighborhood like that, but I did work in a few hospitals in rough parts of town.

The elevator doors open, and we’re greeted by another built-in TV, this time on the wall across from the doors. I’ve only been in this building for a few minutes, and I’m already suffering from technology overload.

“It’s my own fault,” Luke continues, leading me down the hallway to our left. “I should have moved in with one of my teammates, but I was stubborn.” He stops at a door with 3110 on a white plaque next to it. “I’d never lived by myself before, so I was more excited about being able to afford a place than I was about figuring out what area would be safest. I wasn’t bothered by the neighborhood so much. I’d forgotten how quickly the wrong kind of people would figure out how much I traveled.”

“I’ve always lived in pretty safe neighborhoods,” I say as Luke unlocks the door with a regular old key. “With gates and stuff.”

I make it a point to add the “and stuff” so it sounds like the gate might be a feature of the neighborhood rather than something specific to our massive sprawling house in suburban Los Angeles with entry gates at the bottom of our driveway. It probably still sounds pretentious.

Yeah, I grew up in that kind of place. Like I said, being the child of people who started the Healthy Chix health-food empire has its advantages—and disadvantages.

“Gates and stuff?” he asks, extending his arm and allowing me to scoot past him into his place. “Welcome.”

The condo is sleek and modern with light gray walls, concrete ceilings, and stainless-steel appliances. Straight across from the entrance are amazing windows that span the entire back wall. I have the same type in my apartment and love them. Seeing Charlotte lit up at night reminds me that I’m in a real city even if it is so much smaller than what I’m used to.

“This is gorgeous.”

I take another step in, sliding a hand along the gorgeous black granite of the raised countertop to my left which acts as a divider between the walkway into the condo and the kitchen area. My first thought is that he’s completely OCD because every surface is clean. No stacks of mail on the counter or dirty laundry strewn about. No fingerprints on the fridge. Maybe he has a maid service.

“Thanks.” Luke stands a little taller, and the skin wrinkles around his eyes. That’s when I realize there’s no cleaning lady. He takes great pride in his home. “I bought it from Gribov about a year ago. He and Kristen wanted a house. I wanted a condo. It worked out perfectly.”

He hangs his keys on a hook above a light switch in the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. You want a water?” he asks, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle.

“Please.”

A cherry-red couch sticks out in the midst of the neutral grays. I spread my arms and let myself fall backward onto it. Closing my eyes, I rub my cheek against a pillow and sink into the plush, suede-like cushions, letting them envelop me. It feels great to be off my feet after walking, dancing, and drinking all day. But when my head spins, I realize just how drunk I am. “This is the most comfortable piece of furniture I have ever touched.”

“Everyone loves Big Red. I’m gonna write a book about it someday. Seduced by a Couch.”

Opening my eyes to look at him while I answer isn’t even an option. Big Red got me, hook, line, and sinker, within two seconds. “Count me in for a chapter,” I murmur.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re writing that one tonight,” Luke says with complete confidence. His deep, sexy voice makes me open my eyes though my lids feel heavy. Big Red is comfy, but getting on top of Luke sounds more appealing.

He stops to pry his shoes off with his toes before lowering himself onto the couch and curling up beside me. I didn’t think there was any way this couch could be any more comfortable, but I’m wrong. When Luke slides one arm under me and the other around my waist, I feel safe and warm.

He puts his hand on my hip, rests his forehead on mine, and kisses me softly. All I can think of is getting closer to Luke. My hand moves to the back of his head, and I curl my fingers in his long locks. His nose brushes mine when he tilts his head to kiss me again. This time, I don’t let it end quickly. I hold his face to mine with my grip on his hair. His chest rises and falls faster than before, and I know he’s getting as ramped up as I am.

He moves his hand from my waist to the space between us and reaches for the button on my jeans. But we’re mashed up against each other, and he can’t get his hand where it needs to be.

My back is pressed against the couch, and I don’t have anywhere to go, so Luke tilts his hips, creating a small gap between our bodies. It’s just enough for him to pop open the button and crank my zipper down one-handed. I’m pretty impressed with his skills, especially after all the drinks we’ve had today.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he whispers, stopping his pursuit. “You seem really drunk.”

“What?” I ask. “I’m fine.”

“Bree, you can barely keep your eyes open.”

“Please,” I plead against his ear.

I grab his hand and push it into my jeans, sending his fingers closer to finding out how much I want him to continue. I bite my lower lip and hold it with my teeth. My heart throbs, and my breath gets heavier as Luke slides his fingers lower into my jeans.

“Luke,” I moan when he finally reaches the sweet, wet spot between my legs.

“Fuck, Bree.” The words come out in a hiss of air. He pulls his hand out, but I arch toward him. “You’re drunk. I’m drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” I say. It’s a half-truth. I’m inebriated enough to let loose but not so much that I don’t know what I’m doing. I know that I’m about to have this man inside me.

WANT MORE HOCKEY ROMANCE?

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About the Author

USA Today Bestselling Author Sophia Henry fell in love with reading, writing, and hockey all before she became a teenager. When she’s not writing, she’s hanging out with her two high-energy sons, an equally high-energy Plott Hound, and two cats who love to cuddle—sometimes.

Be Kind Love Hard

Sophia donates a portion of her royalties from each book to charity!

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