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I point toward the ice with my thumb. “I’m sure you know that Hoffman is hardly the committal type. Not like Akira is. If I were you, I’d be more worried if you have the capability of nailing Bodhi down to more than just the bed. I’m thinkingnot. After all, you’re not Bailey Hennessey. You may be pretty, but your personality is hideous. Not even Hoffman is blinded enough by looks to want to settle down with somebody who enjoys tearing down others for fun. He’s a brute, but he’s got a big heart.”

Her lips part in shock at my rash comment. Ironically, I’m almost certain the shade of red painted across them is called Two Faced by a celebrity trying to make it in the cosmetic industry. Bold in a demands-attention sort of way. Sultry with confidence, whether fake or not. It’s fitting for her. I’d know. Makeup is my thing. Most people probably don’t know that because I prefer leggings and jeans and oversized tops like the big jersey I’m in now. I’m a tom boy with an affinity for pretty things, but I know my shit when it comes to makeup.

Typically, I’d try bonding with people who obviously know a thing or two about it too. But not people like her.

Ugly on the inside.

Jealous.

Petty.

Pass.

I’m the exact opposite of this girl. My hair is a dirtier version of her blonde—so ashy it’s almost brown. I’ve grown it out over the past few years, so the ends finally kiss my shoulders, but I still don’t know the best way to style the natural waves that frizz more than I want them to. I have a round face to her narrow one, but I’ve got some killer lips that I’d wager to guess aren’t fillers like hers are. They’re all natural. My makeup gives me more cheekbone than I have, and my mascara offers me the kinds of lashes that always frame my round, minty eyes perfectly.

The girl in front of me is probably the type of person bogged down by traditional attractiveness. It’s not totally her fault. Society likes the paint pictures of what womenshouldlook like, and the media runs with wildly unobtainable expectations wherewomen should have flat stomachs, big butts, a nice rack, and accomplish that with no stretch marks or cellulite in sight. It’s exhausting being us.

The difference is, I can accept that we’re all pretty in our own ways. I’m as unique as my name, and I own that shit.

I give my back to everybody trapped in the tense room and focus on the game. The crowd breaks into loud boos when the Flyers score the winning goal, officially ending the Ranger’s last game of the season.

“Damn,” I breathe under my breath, dropping my shoulders at the anticipation of a victory drains from my limbs.

Sebastian is going to be in a bad mood.

I hear Barbie murmur, “Bitch,” under her breath when then noise from the crowd dies down, but it slides right off me.

Takes one to know one.

*

An arm hooksaround my shoulders, tugging me into the side of a warm, hard body that smells like fresh soap, leather, and wood. “Hey, O-Dawg.”

Bodhi Hoffman.

I smile at the right-winger as he pecks my cheek before letting go. His long sandy blond hair goes to his shoulders, his bright blue eyes always have mischief dancing in them, and that tan skin covering bulging muscles graces his body year-round. The first time I saw him I thought he looked like a Californian version of Thor. “Hey, Hoffman.”

It’s rare I call any of my brother’s teammates by their first names. Maybe because the public doesn’t either. Whenever I hear Henderson featured on news clips, I instantly picture my big brother’s face. Sebastian will always be Seb to me, mostlybecause it’s all I could pronounce when I first started talking. But the rest of his fans know him as “Henderson”, “Bash”, or “The Rangers Best Defenseman in Years” which is a title he’s definitely earned in his short time with New York’s team.

Hoffman playfully bumps my shoulder as we look around the pizzeria that was rented out for the Rangers post-game celebration. “Sorry about Mel. She can be a lot.” I assume he means his puck bunny since the name doesn’t sound familiar. “Heard you tore her a new asshole. Sad I missed that.”

I snort unattractively as I glance at the shit eating grin on his face. “I wouldn’t go that far.” My eyes scan the room quickly. “Where is she, anyway? I didn’t see her come in.”

“As if I’d let her come when she was talking shit,” he scoffs, resting his arm back around my shoulders. I hook my arm around his tapered waist and squeeze once. “I told her it wouldn’t work if that’s how she was going to treat people. She was good in bed, but that’s about it. So, I guess it’s just you and me, little Henderson. What are we going to do about that?”

From somewhere behind us, I hear Sebastian grumble, “Hands off my sister, jackass.”

Hoffman winks at me playfully before throwing taunts at my brother. “What if she wants my hands on her? I’m here alone. She’s here alone. Seems like fate, Henderson. We’re both consenting adults, after all.”

Sebastian physically removes his teammate’s arm from me and pushes him away to take his spot by my side. “We all know your rep, Hoff. I told you to keep your hands and herpes to yourself. My sister isn’t going to be your next lay.”

I roll my eyes at his exhausted warning, hearing it far too many times by now. “Would you quit it? I’m not interested in any of your teammates. Your threats are pointless.”

Hoffman’s palm flies to his chest. “You wound me. What’s not to be interested in? Is there somebody else in your life vyingfor your attention? That can be the only reason you wouldn’t want this.”

He gestures toward his tall, muscular body, making me roll my eyes. He is hot, sure, but my eyes and mind have always been on somebody else.

Sebastian’s attention quickly darts to me, no longer interested in the people scattered around the room that smells like marinara sauce and garlic. “Isthere somebody? You’ve never said anything before.”