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Chapter one

Liam

Somenightsyou’relookingfor trouble. Other nights, trouble finds you dressed in designer masks and offering to wreck you six ways from Sunday.

This rinky-dink Florida town’s got more surprises than a playoff overtime—like finding a members-only sex club tucked behind Canyon Bay’s shiny new downtown development—and apparently I’m on the guest list.

But here I am, about to discover what happens when small-town money tries to buy big-city sins.

Lipstick on a goddamn pig.

Even more pathetic? It’s a perfectly good Saturday night, and I could’ve been anywhere else. But curiosity’s a persistent little bitch, and tonight I didn’t have it in me to ignore it.

The invite said masks. Mine’s black. Plain. Doing the bare minimum while everyone else looks like a damn costume shop exploded. All that glitter and gold, like they think that it makes this classy instead of desperate.

A few guys keep it simple, like me. Low effort, no shine. Just here for one thing, and it isn’t small talk.

I haven’t been laid in months. Not for lack of options—hell, I could crook a finger and have someone on their knees within the hour. But hockey’s a demanding wench who owns everything. My time. My body. My fucking soul. Between getting my face rearranged, back-to-backs, reporters circling like vultures, and the constant threat of getting benched, sex is just another sacrifice. Right next to sleep, sanity, and the fantasy that I’m more than just a weapon on skates.

And, honestly, that kind of easy doesn’t do it…Not anymore.

That’s why I’m here…something simple. Masked, No names. No strings.

So why the fuck am I three minutes in and already counting the ways out?

I heard about this place from someone on the team. Figured it might shake something loose. But so far, it’s just smoke andmirrors—shiny masks, fake laughs, bodies orbiting like no one wants to make the first real move.

As for me, I’m just here trying not to fuck up the only chance I’ve got left.

Got traded—again. Just a chess piece moved around until my position serves someone else. Not me, but the team. The owners. I know the drill. From a decent lineup with the Reapers to this Fucked up Florida franchise nobody cares about unless they’re winning, which they’re not. But this…this is it. My last shot to prove I’m more than just a liability with a bad rep, before my reputation completely fucks me over.

“Your mask is crooked,” a melodic voice cuts through my thoughts.

I turn to find its source and immediately forget why I was bored. With her mask hiding most of her face, all I can see are soft lips I know would feel fucking incredible against mine and a slender neck practically begging for my teeth. Dirty blonde sun-kissed hair cascades down her shoulders. The shadow of her mask conceals her eyes, but I’m already hooked.

“Surprised you didn’t try to sneak a peek, to see more of me.” I say, adjusting my mask. “Finding someone who can handle what I have to offer, all covered up like this, is like hunting for buried treasure blindfolded.”

Her lips curl into a smirk. “What makes you think I want to see more of you?”

Her teasing tone hits something primal in me. So far, I’ve been here an hour, and it’s been a fucking snoozefest. But this woman—she’s trouble.

“So,” she continues. “Are you here with anyone? Friends? Girlfriend?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “If you want my undivided attention, just say so. I’m excellent at multitasking.”

She lets out this sharp little laugh—and hell if it doesn’t get under my skin in the best fucking way. Most women I deal with play nice, nod along, eager to please. It’s too easy. Too much control. And yeah, I’ve abused that more than once. But these masks? They mess with the usual game. Strip away the edge.

Maybe that’s why the guys thought I needed this. Because on or off the ice, I don’t back down from a challenge—and this woman? She’s pressing all the right buttons.

“Is that so?” she asks, her eyes dropping before slowly sliding up my body.

I smirk at her obvious appraisal, fighting the urge to puff out my chest like some Neanderthal. I know I’m in great shape—I wouldn’t last on the ice otherwise. But it’s one thing to know you look good and another to have someone confirm it. I let my own gaze wander, taking in every curve.

She’s not tall, but she doesn’t need to be. My eyes drop and stay put—tits straining against fabric like they’re begging to be freed. I want my hands on them. Want those legs wrapped aroundme while I fuck her senseless. When I look up, gray eyes are watching me watch her. I don’t look away.

“Are you interested?” I gesture toward the chatter I came from. “Or should I escort you back to the party?”

We both know exactly what we’re here for. And neither of us is apologizing for it.