Page 3

TWO

Jason stood back as Bellamy Jordan—fucking Bellamy fucking Jordan, as Ryland would say—set his beer aside and removed his coat. He looked around for somewhere to put it for a moment, then shrugged and laid it over the arm of a nearby couch. The person sitting on the end barely spared it a glance.

What the hell was Bellamy Jordan doing in Maplewood of all places? Did this have to do with Ryland? Was he looking for ammunition for their rivalry?

Jason glared at the back of Bellamy’s head and crossed his arms over his chest. Bellamy could stuff his ammunition where the sun didn’t shine. Everybody in this town would have Ryland’s back before they had Bellamy’s.

“Stand here,” Sam said, pointing at the line on the floor with their own dart. “You’ve got to stand behind the line—that’s one of the rules we do know.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy said.

Jason was tempted to grab his cousin by the shoulders and give them a shake. Didn’t Sam recognize the guy who’d been giving Ryland hell for a decade?

Either Sam didn’t, or they did and they didn’t care.

By that same vein... was it possible Bellamy hadn’t recognized Jason? They’d only met the one time, way back in Ryland and Bellamy’s freshman year at the University of Maine. Unless Bellamy scrolled through Ryland’s socials on the regular—where Jason was featured often enough to be recognized by avid Ryland Zervudachi fans—he probably had no idea of Jason’s connection to Ryland.

Or maybe he did and he was playing a long game, buying time until he found something he could use against Ryland later?

He didn’t seem that devious, but neither had he seemed like he’d been going to pounce on Ryland during their first NHL matchup until he’d done so.

Bellamy threw the dart. It went wide, hitting the wall and falling to the ground.

“That could’ve gone better,” Sam commented.

Bellamy’s brow creased as he stared at the fallen dart. “Huh. I thought I’d be better at this,” he muttered, which was not cute, not at all . He threw a shy smile at Jason, an echo of the one he’d given him earlier when he’d been all, um... hi , that definitely hadn’t made Jason’s heart skip a beat.

He wasn’t allowed to find Bellamy Jordan attractive. Surely there was some kind of sibling rule against it.

But Jason couldn’t deny Bellamy did something for him. He never had before—not when they’d met a decade ago, and not when Jason caught one of his games or interviews. He’d just been Bellamy Jordan, Ryland’s rival.

Here? In the flesh? In a baggy gray hoodie and worn jeans as he readied his second shot? With floppy dark blond hair, hooded cornflower-blue eyes, an angular jawline with a couple of days’ worth of scruff, and pouty lips Jason certainly wasn’t struggling to tear his gaze from? Something about him pulled at Jason, and it had all started with that shy smile that had tugged those pouty lips upward. Jason would’ve expected cockiness, an air of look at me, I’m the shit .

Instead, he’d gotten a timid smile and a grip that was white-knuckled around a glass of Guinness.

What the hell did Bellamy Jordan have to be nervous about?

And why did Jason want to soothe those nerves and help put the man at ease?

Alex MacDougall, Jason’s longtime friend, nudged a lock of brown hair off his forehead and leaned in close to Jason. “Do we know this guy?”

Jason didn’t get a chance to answer. Bellamy let the dart fly, and it hit the outer ring of the board.

“Whoop!” crowed Mickey, another childhood friend. He toasted Bellamy with his beer. “My man.”

Bellamy gave an awkward bow, his hair flopping onto his forehead.

“That’s Mickey,” Jason told him. “He works at one of the diners. And this—” He tipped his head to the left. “—is Alex. He’s Maplewood’s resident photographer and social media coordinator. And that’s my cousin, Sam. They’re fairly useless.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sam said, laughing.

“I’m Bellamy,” Bellamy said, leaving it at that, foregoing his surname.

Why, though? Bellamy was a fairly well-known NHL player. Introducing himself as Bellamy Jordan would make his name more recognizable, give him status. Jason’s friends might recognize his name even if they didn’t recognize his face.

Maybe he was trying to fly under the radar?

Seriously though, what was he doing in Maplewood?

“Well, Bellamy.” Sam brandished a third dart his way. “Last one. Make it count.”

“I thought we only got two throws each?” Alex grumbled.

“I’m changing the rules.”

“Of course you are.”

Once Bellamy had thrown his third dart—it went as wide as the first—he looked at Jason with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Come here often?”

Jason raised an eyebrow. Was Bellamy flirting with him?

“Sorry.” Another chuckle, this one tinged with embarrassment. Bellamy’s ears turned pink. “I only heard how that sounded once I’d said it. I meant, do you come here often as a group? Is this the place to be on a Saturday night?”

“Pretty much.” Alex grabbed his empty glass off the floor. “There’s not much nightlife in Maplewood. I’m getting a refill. Anyone want anything?”

Mickey and Sam shouted their orders at him, and he turned toward the bar with a wave over his shoulder in acknowledgment.

“You new in town?” Mickey asked Bellamy. “You’re welcome to join our D&D group. We always need new members.”

“No, I’m just here visiting my grandparents.” Bellamy sat on the arm of the couch and sipped his Guinness. “They retired here recently. Maybe you know them? Claire and Jeffrey Collins?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Mickey said while Jason studied Bellamy as he spoke, looking for the lie.

Not that he’d be able to tell if Bellamy was lying—he didn’t know him well enough—but there were none of the usual tells.

Was Bellamy’s visit to Maplewood really that innocuous? He wasn’t here for Ryland, just to visit family?

“Where are you from?” Sam asked.

Bellamy shrugged. “Nowhere and everywhere. Grew up just over the border in New Hampshire, but I’ve lived in several places since I was eighteen.” He turned to Jason and gave him a brief once-over, followed by a smile that lacked any of its earlier shyness.

Damn. Bellamy was flirting with him.

If Jason was tempted, no one had to know but him.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Bellamy said, a hint of a purr to his voice. It tugged at Jason’s libido, even over the sound of Kesha screaming through the speakers. “Or what you do.”

Jason caught himself taking a step toward him and planted his feet firmly in place. “My family owns the maple syrup farm in town.”

“No kidding?” Genuine interest entered Bellamy’s voice. “I was at the Maple Syrup Festival this afternoon.”

Sam jerked a thumb at Jason. “That’s his.”

“Yeah? It was great. I liked the giant Jenga.”

“Great?” Jason cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “Not unimaginative?”

“Uh... no? I wanted to do the rock-climbing wall, but my fingers were too frozen.”

“That was Jason’s idea,” Sam piped in again. “It’s new for this year’s festival.”

Bellamy’s gaze settled on Jason with interest. “Jason. That’s you?”

Jason hummed and ripped the Band-Aid off. “Uh-huh. Jason Zervudachi.”

It took less than a second for recognition to settle in, wariness entering Bellamy’s blue eyes. That wariness hit Jason like a punch to the sternum.

He’d thought he’d feel... what? Vindicated? Like the bigger man because he’d recognized Bellamy instantly, while Bellamy hadn’t had a clue who he was?

Mostly he felt terrible for bursting Bellamy’s bubble of happiness. He also felt like a jerk, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Zervu . . . dachi,” Bellamy repeated slowly, his shoulders tensing visibly. “That’s . . . a unique name.”

Jason dropped his arms and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. There aren’t a lot of us.”

“Is one of you Ryland Zervudachi?” Bellamy asked it in a way that told Jason he already knew the answer to that question.

“You know Ryland?” Mickey asked.

Bellamy winced. “You could say that.” He rose slowly, his movements resigned, and put on his coat. “I didn’t realize he’s from here.”

“You went to college with him for four years,” Jason said, his tone dripping disbelief. Mickey and Sam looked on in confusion. “Played on the same team. How could you not know where he’s from?”

Bellamy’s sigh held nothing but fatigue. “Trust me when I tell you, he knows less about me than I do about him.”

“You taking off?” Alex asked, returning with two pints and a beer bottle. He handed off the pints to Mickey and Sam. “Stick around. I’m pretty sure Sam’s about to invent new rules for darts.”

“I’m calling this one Take a Sip of Beer Every Time You Hit an Odd Number,” Sam announced.

“I think it’s best if I go.” Bellamy’s smile for Jason’s friends was thin-lipped but real. “It was nice to meet you.” It slipped off his face when he turned to Jason. He opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to think better of it. He nodded once and stepped away, disappearing into the crowd.

Jason watched him go, regret sticking to his skin like glue.

“What just happened?” Mickey asked.

“Guys.” Sighing, Jason passed a hand down his face. “That was Bellamy Jordan.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “Ryland’s college rival? Can’t believe I didn’t recognize him.”

“College and current rival,” Jason clarified, not that it made any difference.

Mickey peered at him with considerable judgment. “And that means he’s not allowed to hang out with us?”

“Obviously,” Sam piped in as Jason said, “I didn’t say that.”

Mickey’s hard stare made him fidget from foot to foot. “He certainly thinks so,” Mickey said. “And is it just me, or did he seem lonely as hell?”

He had seemed lonely. And sad. Like life had thrown him a curveball—or whatever the hockey equivalent of a curveball was—and he was simply trying to keep his head above water.

He’d also been nice, which was the exact opposite of how Ryland had described him over the years. Now that Jason was thinking about it, Bellamy had been nice when they’d met a decade ago too, shaking his hand with a friendly smile before he’d been called away by some friends.

So who was Bellamy Jordan, really?

Jason wanted to find out—desperately. Wanted to take those sad eyes and fill them with joy.

It was a dumbass thought, and way too romantic to boot, but he couldn’t deny Bellamy lit something up inside him.

And it had all started with that shy smile.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and, grabbing his coat off the coatrack, headed outside, breaking all sorts of sibling rules in the process.

But the street was empty and quiet aside from the thump of the bass from Pitbull’s “Hey Baby” drifting out from the pub.

Bellamy was gone.