by Kendall Ryan
“Really?” His voice lifts on the question.
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. Of course Madden’s going to want to know more.
“What do you mean by history?”
I pump out fifteen reps, taking my time. I would do more, put off having to answer his question, but my shoulders are screaming at me. They’re still sore from my workout three days ago.
“We met in college. Freshman year, I think. Saw each other off and on after that. Had a couple of classes together.”
“Shit. That’s crazy. At Sutton, right?”
“Yup.” I grab my water bottle and take another long drink.
“She’s hot as hell.”
I clench my teeth. That’s beside the point. “We don’t sleep with clients, Madd. You know that, right?”
My tone is patronizing, but I don’t give a shit. Yes, Eden is gorgeous, but Madden is a known player. I may have to rethink scheduling him to work alongside her. I wonder if calling dibs would work. But Eden is a woman, not the last slice of cake at a birthday party. Or maybe I just won’t take any days off for the next few months . . . that’s always an option.
He grins at me and wiggles his eyebrows. Fucker. “Yeah, yeah. I know that. No sleeping with the clients.”
As the boss, does this rule apply to me too?
It’s a dangerous thought, but Eden’s single. And I’m very single. Shit, painfully so. It’s been a long-ass time since I’ve had any company other than my right hand.
But I can’t think about that right now. Can’t let myself wonder what it might be like to be with the grown-up version of Eden I met in her office. The suit-wearing, confident, badass lady boss calling the shots in a multimillion-dollar organization.
Down, boy.
When I look up, Madden is standing there staring at me.
“You don’t have a thing for her, do you?”
I scoff. “No. I never had a thing for her.”
Madden doesn’t look convinced. After a long silence, he chuckles. “Shit, you so did. Probably still do. As I said, she’s hot as fuck. And she likes hockey.”
“Playing hockey isn’t some great noble profession. You know that, right?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “And security is?”
Shit, I need to stop talking. Next he’s going to see through my disdain for hockey—the very sport Eden’s ex-boyfriend plays for a living. Smooth, dumbass. And don’t even get me started on the way Alex looked at her in the locker room today.
“Forget about it, Madd. I’m over it. Eden and I are ancient history. So, drop it, okay?”
“Whatever you say, boss.” He grins at me again.
There’s something about his playful grin that bothers me. Maybe it’s because Eden seemed so rattled after her locker-room pep talk. I want to make things easier for her, not more difficult.
“I’m about done here. You?” Madden asks, re-racking his weights.
“Yup, but we’re not skipping leg day next week. Your calves are starting to look scrawny.” I toss my damp towel at him.
Once we finish our workout, Madden heads out, opting to shower at home, while I plan to take advantage of the facilities here. It’s probably better that he’s gone. That way he won’t see me order a ginger-and-turmeric shot, and then use it as ammo to make fun of me for the next decade.
This is a nice perk of working at the training facility. Even on my days off, I can come and use the gym here. A fancy-ass gym for the pro athletes. Never thought I’d be here, but I feel lucky to have landed the contract. Even some ribbing from my friend won’t stop me from enjoying it.
Listening to Madden call me out about my crush on Eden was more than a little uncomfortable. It’s scary how close he got to discovering the truth. But I’ll protect our secret to the grave. As far as I know, Eden never told anyone about our night together, about her night slumming it with me.
I certainly never told a soul. But more than that, I got used to hiding that lost, vacant expression on my face whenever I spotted Eden and Braun together on campus. Got used to burying that hurt in my eyes, that look like someone kicked my puppy whenever they appeared together on the news.
That month they moved to Toronto fucking crushed me. It was the spring after she graduated from Sutton. There was a rumor that Braun wanted her to drop out the last few weeks of her senior year. If she had, I would have hunted him down and castrated the bastard. Anyone could see how important Eden’s education was to her. When I heard she graduated with honors, I felt proud. Relieved. It was at least something she wouldn’t compromise for him.
But then they left for Canada, and I thought that was it. Thought he’d propose, that they’d get married and live happily ever after. I was convinced I’d lost her forever. But I couldn’t admit that to Madden. It was stupid. Young love. But that can’t be right. An infatuation, maybe. It couldn’t be love.
Then Braun fucked up in Canada. Fought with his own team’s goalie during a game and was kicked off the team. He and Eden came back to the US, to Philadelphia briefly, then New York. Somehow Braun still managed to end up with a multimillion-dollar contract. That was a hard pill to swallow.
Although I had no right to, I mourned the loss of Eden, grieved like someone close to me had died. And my chances of ever being with a girl like her did die.
Through that experience, I came to realize what was possible for a guy like me and what wasn’t. And being with a millionaire heiress to the Wynn fortune just wasn’t going to happen. She’d made her choice, and I’d made my peace with it, but that didn’t mean I wanted to fucking rehash it with Madden today.
Keeping memories of Eden in my past is easier said than done. As much as I try to pretend I wasn’t affected, she still gets under my skin. The scent of her shampoo. The way she sucks on her bottom lip when she’s deep in thought. Her bright-eyed determination. I love that she thinks she can run Boston’s hockey empire with her sheer will.
And that’s the thing about Eden. Of course she can, and she will. She’ll prove all her critics wrong, and I guess I’ll be the guy with a front-row seat to it all. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. At least, that’s what I hear.
I head toward the showers and select the one on the end. Thankfully, no one else is here today, so I have the place to myself. Cranking the water to hot, I push down my shorts and boxers and yank off my T-shirt.
Stepping into the spray of hot water, I let out a sigh. I grab my bodywash and lather up, washing my face, armpits, groin . . . all the important parts.
Now that I’m alone, my thoughts return to Eden. Watching her take charge of the guys, giving that speech. Hearing how composed and confident she sounded.
My hand drifts down to my dick, and I give it a slow caress. I’m already half-hard just from thinking about the way Eden looked in that suit, the way she commanded the attention of every guy in that room. She’s a force to be reckoned with.
Forget it.
But it’s not like I can ignore the rush of heat to my groin. I give the base of my cock a warning squeeze.
Now’s not the time, dude.
Later, I promise myself.
If I keep this up, things with Eden are bound to get complicated. I shut the door on my past, but maybe I can open it just a crack. Just long enough to peek inside to see what I missed.
7
* * *
EDEN
“You’re saving me one of those tortillas or I’m stabbing you.”
My eyebrows dart up at the sight of our team captain pointing a plastic knife at one of the rookies. Wow . . . this is officially nothing like the elegant start-of-season banquets my grandfather used to host at his Victorian mansion in Cambridge.
I wanted to keep the well-loved tradition alive by throwing a small dinner party at my condo for all the players and their plus-ones. But this night is quickly turning into a mess. I ordered fajitas for forty-five people from one of my favorite local restaurants. We have twenty players on our roster. Add in the plu
s-ones that a few of the guys brought, and this should have been plenty of food.
I guess I underestimated how much a professional hockey team can eat . . . or how much room these big guys can take up. Luckily, the guys aren’t shy about being practically on top of one another. Personal space is nonexistent in the hockey world, and after a few beers, no one thinks twice about three grown men piling onto a two-person loveseat.
As I wander through the kitchen collecting empty beer bottles, I’m warmed by the sound of comfortable chatter mixing with intermittent deep, rumbling laughs from the living room. For the first time since Grandpa Pete passed away, I feel welcome here among the team. As I should, I suppose, because this is my home, after all. But baby steps.
“Need another beer, Reeves?” I call out to our left wing forward, who’s leaning against my granite kitchen island, gripping a long-necked bottle that looks close to empty.
He tips it toward me before draining what’s left of it. “No, thanks, Miss Wynn. Too many of these, and I’ll be about as useless at drills tomorrow as a donkey on skates.”
I bite my tongue, holding back the very real truth that, based on what I saw on the ice the other day, a donkey on skates might prove to be an asset to the team. But Wild assured me that yesterday’s scrimmage ran way smoother than the on-ice practices leading up to it, which is a much-needed sliver of reassurance.
“Well, if you change your mind, the fridge is stocked. And call me Eden,” I remind him with a soft smile.
But while beer is in no short supply, I can’t say as much for the food. After a quick sweep through the kitchen to stack the empty trays, I sneak off down the hall to place an emergency pizza order. If I’m going to avoid any accusations of trying to starve the team, we’ll be needing some reinforcements.
Just as I press the COMPLETE ORDER button, my phone buzzes with an alert from the front desk, notifying me that I have more guests on their way up.
When I tug the door open, standing outside is Price St. James, one of the defensemen, who, like most of the players tonight, arrived with a six-pack of craft beer hanging in his grip. He hands it off to me, and I admire the colorful geometric design on the cans before thanking him with a polite smile. He’s tall and broad-shouldered like all hockey players, but he’s also got a quick smile and sparkling blue eyes. Everyone calls him Saint. I’m still getting used to the nickname thing. They all have one.
He steps inside, shaking his head at me when I go to close the door behind him. “Hang on now, my plus-one is just a few steps behind me.”
I arch one curious brow, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Saint.”
Most of the guys on the team are single, a bit of information that the media loves to dwell on. Of all the players to be tied down, Price St. James seems like the least likely. When the tabloids aren’t speculating which of the players I’ll end up falling into bed with, they’re posting pictures of Saint at the hottest Boston bars, surrounded by a new group of puck bunnies each weekend. And I guess those pictures aren’t doctored, because my mere suggestion of his significant other makes him snicker into his fist, and a familiar chuckle agrees from down the hall.
My fingernails instinctually dig into the soft skin of my palms. I know that laugh all too well. It’s Alex, the only member of the team I was hoping would pass on the invite to this dinner.
Anxiety builds in my throat. I should have known that the two biggest players on the team would buddy up, but just knowing that my ex has made a friend on the team leaves me feeling uneasy. It’s a catch-22.
On one hand, I want everyone to think of Alex as poorly as I do. On the other hand, if they don’t rally around their newest teammate, we’re doomed for the season. Either way, my stomach starts churning the second he steps up to the door.
I instantly recognize the six-pack tucked beneath his arm. It’s the same hoppy sour we used to keep our fridge stocked with. His favorite. Personally, just the smell always nauseated me. Of course that’s what he chose to bring.
“The day Saint’s got a girlfriend will be a cold day in hell,” Alex says, shooting me a wink that gives me an instant wave of nerves.
Based on the way these two are laughing like old friends, I’d say the team is starting to accept Alex as one of their own. Now if I can just get them to do the same for me.
“Or maybe a hot day on the rink.” Saint claps Alex on the back. “Whichever comes first.”
“Hey, eez not so bad, Saint,” Lucian Bisset, our goalie, hollers from the couch in his thick French accent. He has one muscular arm wrapped around his slender blond wife, who smiles as she sips daintily from a can of sparkling lemon water. “When you have a wife, zere eez always someone to be, how you call, Didi?”
Saint frowns, his dark brows scrunching together as he tries to interpret. “Didi? I thought your wife’s name was Camille.”
Lucian mimes turning an invisible steering wheel, then motions toward his half-empty beer resting on the glass coffee table. “You know. Tonight, she is my Didi.”
Saint’s blue eyes brighten with a flicker of recognition. “Oh, you mean DD. The designated driver.” He doubles over with laughter, then crosses over to the couch to slap his hand against Lucian’s. “Damn, I was gonna say, man. Whoever this Didi girl is, can I have her number? She sounds fuckin’ hot.”
“Language, Saint,” Camille says, frowning.
“My bad, my bad.” Saint laughs, lifting his hands in surrender. “What I meant to say is she sounds fuckin’ pretty. Is that better?”
As the players laugh, Camille rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t bother pushing the argument any further. It’s not worth it, especially with Saint. Despite his nickname, everything about this man screams sinner.
“What about you, Wild? How’s the single life treating you?” Saint asks, tilting his chin toward Coach.
Wild winces at the question, slowly shaking his head as he gulps what’s left of his beer. From what I understand, he and his ex-wife finalized their divorce in the spring, right around the time Alex and I broke things off. There must have been something in the air.
“I’m not taking questions on the subject,” he finally says gruffly. “Why don’t you bug the rookie about it instead? He’s the one who’s been glued to the dating apps half the night.”
Tate nearly leaps out of his own skin at that comment, shoving his phone into his back pocket before he can be caught in the act.
“Attaboy, rookie.” Saint cackles, clapping Tate on the shoulder. “Get yourself some action.”
Tate rolls his eyes, then his gaze bounces between Wild and me. “I—I’m just swiping,” he mutters, his cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “I’ll get off my phone, I promise.”
“This isn’t math class, Tate.” Wild laughs. “Do what you want. Just don’t come crying to me when you catch something that you need a prescription for.”
“Camille, how are you and Lucian enjoying Boston?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation back into safe territory. Because, wow. Seriously, do these guys have no boundaries?
Camille leans forward, placing her fingers on her chin. “Well, good. Is nice. But we’re still learning American culture.”
“Has there been anything that’s surprised you?” I ask. I know that she and Lucian have lived in the US for about eighteen months now.
Camille considers my question. “The people here . . . Americans, you are very friendly. Very open,” she says in her elegant accent. “Oh, and the portion size . . . It’s way too much food.”
This gets a chuckle out of a few of us, but Lucian only shakes his head. “Is fantastic.”
“I have a new friend. We meet at dog park. She is dating and says the singles scene here is horrible.”
A few heads nod around me.
No comment.
Camille continues, having captured an audience now. “She says American men are . . .” She waves one hand in a dismissive manner. “No matter, I am happy I ha
ve my mate.”
“Just say it,” Tate says.
“Well, she says American men . . . Why don’t you moan during sex?”
My cheeks begin to burn, probably turning a bright red. Well, grab some popcorn because things are about to get salty.
Camille’s question pulls a deep chuckle out of Tate. “Um . . . I don’t know. Years of silently masturbating so my parents wouldn’t hear me?”
The guys laugh.
“That, and because I’m usually out of breath from doing all the work,” Saint says.
Okay, so they’re going there. I try not to squirm with embarrassment.
Reeves nods. “So many reasons. Trying not to come. Focusing on getting my partner there because I’ll finish regardless . . .”
Camille leans forward in interest.
“I just yodel. I figure it’s way sexier,” Saint says with a wink.
The guys laugh, and someone slaps the back of Saint’s head.
Alex doesn’t contribute to the conversation, and I’m very grateful for that. The last thing I want to do is remember what he was like in bed. Though those last few months, we really had more of a roommates situation going on.
“I think it’s bold of you to assume hockey players are having frequent sex,” Wild says with a smirk.
This pulls a chuckle out of Alex, who has otherwise been a bit surly tonight.
As the conversation takes a crude turn, I duck back into the kitchen, rearranging the fridge to try to accommodate the six-pack Saint left on my counter. It’s moments like these that make me wonder if hanging tight to my role as team owner was smart after all.
I’m sure that Grandpa Pete had no problem being one of the guys in situations like this, joining in on their conversations about women and dating. Although he’d been married for fifty happy years, he had plenty of wild stories from before he met Grandma, and the man was never one to miss a chance to tell a dirty joke.
Meanwhile, I’ll never be able to chime in on a conversation like that without being accused of hitting on the players. And that’s not a path I’m ever willing to go down again. Not just because it would be wildly unprofessional, but because I have almost five years’ worth of proof that dating a hockey player isn’t good for my mental health.