Page 26

HUTCH

Lawson: Can’t believe you ditched us for a wedding, Hutch. How lame.

Fox: It was for his sister, you dick. Family over friends.

Lawson: STEPSISTER. Not even blood.

Locke: Leave him be, Lawsy.

Lawson: How about you leave ME be, old man.

Locke: Wait until we’re back out on the ice.

Lawson: What are you going to do? Break a hip in my direction?

Fox: Give it a rest, Lawson.

Lawson: Bite me, Fox.

Me: You’re all fucking annoying.

Keller: Hey, I didn’t say shit.

Lawson: You never do, which is just as annoying.

Locke: I still don’t know why I gave any of you my number.

Lawson: Serpents Singles, baby! That’s why.

Keller: Stupid name.

Fox: It does have a nice ring to it…

Locke: No. Absolutely not.

Lawson: I’ll wear you all down. Don’t worry.

Keller: *out. You’ll wear us all OUT. And don’t worry, you already do.

I set my phone back on the bar top at the airport lounge, shaking my head at the conversation I just read. It continues to buzz, but I ignore it. My teammates will never stop bickering back and forth, so it’s pointless trying to keep up.

Last year, the team I spent so many years with left me unprotected in the expansion draft. I wasn’t too shocked when my name was called, but it still left a bitter taste in my mouth. I gave Nashville everything I had, and they left me out to dry. Sure, my numbers dipped during my last season with them, but I didn’t think it was so bad I wouldn’t be offered another contract. That’s exactly what happened though, and I had to live with it.

So, I pulled myself up by the skate laces and decided to give my all to the Seattle Serpents. I was the first player to sign a multi-year deal with them, sealing my fate with the team for the next six years…probably my last six in the league.

I knew building a new team from scratch was going to be hard, but I didn’t realize we would suck so bad right out of the gate. The only bright spot in the season was befriending these idiots, who, based on the way my phone keeps buzzing, are still bickering.

We didn’t break off into our own little group intentionally. We all just happened to be the only single guys left on the team without interest in settling down. I’d never, ever tell them—because they’d never shut up about it, especially Lawson—but I’m glad I have them to keep me company. Sometimes it can be lonely when you’ve dedicated your entire life to something in hopes of winning the ultimate prize—the Stanley Cup.

I want to lift that Cup more than anything, and I’m willing to do anything to make it happen. That’s why this year, I’m focusing solely on hockey. No distractions, especially not with the captain spot up for grabs. I want to wear the C for this team almost as much as I want the Cup.

The familiar sound of Sports Desk hits my ears and I glance up at the TV hanging over the back of the first-class lounge bar.

“Coming up next, we’ll talk more about Adam Hayes, the young star forward from the Carolina Comets who will be joining the Seattle Serpents for their upcoming season.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” A low groan leaves me as I slink farther into my chair as they go on and on. I’m thoroughly annoyed by the idea of being on the same team as this jackass. Sure, I’ve known about it for a while now, but that doesn’t mean I want to be reminded of it. I guess with the new season approaching, they’re ramping up and recycling their old coverage.

We played Carolina a few times last year, and they were a good team—hell, they just won the Cup—but there is no way this kid is good enough to fill the skates of our guy who retired at the end of the season. Yes, he was getting old and slow, but this kid? After all the shit I’ve heard about him? All the times I’ve been told he’s nothing but a troublemaker? No fucking thanks. I have zero interest in babysitting. I’m focused on a deep Cup run, not worrying about some young little shit who will likely cause the team much more trouble than he’s worth.

“I take it you’re not a Carolina fan.”

I look up to find the bartender watching me with curious eyes. They’ve got a glass in one hand and a rag in the other.

I pinch my brows together in a silent question.

They nod toward where my hands are turning white around the glass of whiskey I’m holding. “You’re squeezing that glass extra hard and glaring at the television, so I assumed it had something to do with that. By the way, you break that glass, you pay for it.”

I bring the whiskey to my lips and guzzle down what’s left before setting it back down and pushing it toward the bartender. “Can I get one more?”

They let out a low laugh, probably at my non-answer. “Sure thing.”

They turn to grab me another whiskey with precisely two ice cubes—the perfect number to open the flavor while not watering down the booze—and I turn my attention back to the television.

“Hayes was part of the incredible history-making Stanley Cup run the Comets had last season.” The commentator turns to the man next to him. “So, what do you think, Jonesy? Think he’ll add something to the Seattle Serpents that they’re missing?”

Jonesy laughs obnoxiously. “Well, Chuck, the addition of him certainly couldn’t hurt. They have these big stars on the team, you know? And I don’t want to mention any names, but they know who they are. They aren’t showing up like they need to, so maybe a younger guy is just what they need.”

I gnash my teeth.

Fuck Jonesy. Fuck him and fuck Chuck and fuck all of them sitting at that desk with those smug smiles, but especially Jonesy because I know— I know —it’s me he’s referring to. Have I been up to par out on the ice lately? No. This was my worst season in the NHL by far. That said, do I need it constantly thrown in my face, especially during the off-season? Fuck no.

The bartender slides a new whiskey in front of me at the right moment, and I waste no time snapping it up and tossing it to the back of my throat.

I use two fingers to shove the empty glass back their way. “Another.”

They look down at the glass, then at me, brows furrowed tightly. I raise one of my own, begging them to challenge me. I’m not drunk—not even fucking close. I’m well within my rights for another drink, and right now, I could really use another drink.

Finally, after several beats, they nod and turn to grab the bottle. This time when they push the glass back my way, I take my time sipping on it, trying my best to tune out the bullshit being spewed on the television.

“Right, Jonesy, but even though things didn’t pan out for them last season, they still have some incredible veteran players on their team. That’s got to count for something.”

All right. I take back all the bad things I said about Chuck. He can stay.

“It does, but only if those guys step up. If their veteran guys or Vezina-finalist goalie aren’t doing what they’re usually pretty dang good at to close out games, it doesn’t matter, Chuck. Especially not when you have Vegas, who went all the way to the Final their first year. It just looks bad all around.”

Yep, fuck Jonesy .

My phone buzzes against the counter, and I glance down at the screen.

“Wow. You really aren’t a Carolina fan, huh?”

I peer to my right where the voice came from. There’s a woman who looks at least a few years younger than me sitting two chairs down. She swirls the wine in her glass, and her other arm is slung across the back of her chair, her body angled my way. Her eyes flick between my face and my hand wrapped around my whiskey.

I loosen my grip, not missing how the corner of her plump pink lips twitches like she’s trying to hold back her laughter at my clear discomfort.

Tugging my hat down lower just in case, I rest my forearms on the bar top and tell her, “Don’t have much of an opinion on Carolina.”

She snorts out a laugh. It’s loud and pulls the attention of several people, especially since the bar is quiet, but if the new eyes on her bother her, she doesn’t show it.

“Strike one,” she mutters.

“Strike one?”

She shoves her shoulders back and sits up straight, tipping her chin up. “You lied. You look like you’re about to Hulk out every time someone says something about Carolina. That proves you have an opinion about the team, even though you claim otherwise. So…” She lifts a shoulder. “Strike one.”

She’s not wrong, but I sure as hell don’t appreciate being called out on it. I don’t want to talk about it, but she’s either not picking up on that or doesn’t care.

“And you’re keeping score because…?”

Ever so slowly, she drags her eyes from my own where they’re hidden beneath the brim of my hat, down my face, throat, chest, body, and all the way to my feet tangled up with the barstool I’m sitting on. Her stare isn’t intrusive and there’s nothing overtly sexual about it, but it still has me shifting in my seat. I just can’t decide why.

When she shifts her eyes back to mine, there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. It’s unsettling, but only because I liked how she looked me over. I swear I could feel her touching me…and I didn’t hate it.

“No reason.” The words come out sing-songy as she continues swirling her wine, never looking away from me once.

I narrow my eyes. “Strike one.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me.”

“I did. I’m just unsure why you’re keeping score.”

I lift one corner of my mouth and tell her, “No reason.”

Now it’s her turn to narrow her eyes at me, and the gesture sends a short rumble of laughter through my chest. It’s unexpected, and based on how the woman’s eyes widen, I’m not the only one surprised by it.

While she’s busy being stunned, it’s my turn to get a good look at her. Her chestnut hair is thrown into a chaotic bun that’s sitting atop her head. I can’t tell if the look is intentional or if she really doesn’t care. Either way, it matches her relaxed look—black leggings and an oversized gray sweater that reads Crazy Cat Lady and keeps slipping down on one side, exposing a pale shoulder that looks soft to the touch.

She doesn’t belong here.

It’s the only thought running through my head as I examine her appearance. We’re sitting in the first-class lounge, for fuck’s sake. There’s no way this is where she’s supposed to be, not dressed like that.

“See something you like?”

I lift my eyes from the pair of plain white sneakers on her feet to her face. Two dark brows are raised high, and a slight smirk plays on her lips.

“Nice outfit,” I tell her, giving her my shoulder and lifting my whiskey back to my lips. I take a sip, holding the biting alcohol in my mouth for several seconds before swallowing.

Fuck me. Nothing like a glass of good whiskey to help me ease my nerves before a flight. You’d think being a pro hockey player who flies a good chunk of the year, I wouldn’t be bothered by flying, but that’s not my luck. I loathe being cooped up in a plane where I have no control over what will happen to me. If there’s one thing I like, it’s having control.

“Thanks!” she retorts with false cheerfulness. “Picked it out myself and everything.”

I hate the way my lips twitch at her sarcasm. I hate even more the way my hands shake as I lower my emptied glass.

“Nervous flyer?” she guesses. She’s clearly in the mood to chat and doesn’t seem to care that I’m not.

“Yup.” The word is clipped, and I hope it’s enough to make her realize I don’t want to be bothered.

It’s not.

“You know, adding alcohol to the mix can actually exacerbate your flight anxiety.”

I peek over at her. She’s not looking my way. Her attention is on her drink sitting in front of her. “Is that your daily word?”

“Hmm?”

“Exacerbate? Is that your daily word or something?”

She giggles. “No. I just have this weird habit of busting out the big words when I drink too much.” She takes a healthy sip of her white wine. “Nervous flyer,” she tells me, setting the empty glass on the counter just as a voice comes over the intercom.

“ Flight 1027 for Seattle will begin boarding in five minutes. Please make your way to the gate. ”

I reach into my back pocket and pull my wallet out. I pluck two twenties from inside and toss them on the counter, nodding to the bartender who kept my drink refilled the entire hour I’ve been sitting here.

“You know,” I say to the woman as I push to my feet. She turns toward me, those damn brows arched high once more. “Adding alcohol to the mix can actually exacerbate your flight anxiety.”

Her lips inch upward in a gleeful grin. “That so?”

“Yep. Heard it firsthand from some crazy cat lady at an airport lounge.”

“She sounds smart.”

“She sounds drunk.”

“Buzzed,” she clarifies. “And only barely.”

I don’t know her well enough to argue that fact, so I let it go, instead grabbing my backpack from the floor next to the chair I just vacated.

“Have a good flight, Mr. Grumbles,” she mutters as I walk by.

I laugh, shaking my head as I make my way from the lounge to my gate. She’s right—I am grouchy today. I’m grouchy because I had to spend the last two weeks with my family, who, at times, can be wonderful, but this latest trip? It was nothing but one painful event after the next since it was my evil stepsister’s wedding. She married a man who is basically the male equivalent of her, which equaled two long weeks of them being the most dramatic humans on the planet and calling off the wedding three separate times, including on the wedding day thirty minutes before the bride was set to walk down the aisle because she hated the first look photos—whatever the fuck those even are.

Then, just when I’m coming down from all the bullshit of the trip—including losing my luggage on the way there—I’m reminded that when I hit the ice in two weeks, I’m going to have a new teammate I’d rather not have. So yeah, I am grouchy, and I don’t give a shit if a random woman in the airport lounge thinks I’m an asshole because of it.

I reach the gate just in time to hear them announce that first-class passengers can board, so I scan my ticket with the airport worker, then walk down the narrow and awful-smelling ramp to the plane I am not looking forward to sitting on for the next six hours, especially since I know I have to sit next to someone. I’d much rather have nobody next to me, but the flight I chose didn’t have single-seat options, so I’m stuck trying to avoid conversation the entire ride home.

I grab my tablet from my backpack, then slide my headphones over my ears—the last thing I want is for my seatmate to think I want to talk—and load up Netflix. I connect to the in-flight Wi-Fi and queue up Community to continue my eighth rewatch, then I settle back into my seat, turning my head away from the aisle so I don’t make eye contact with anyone that walks by. I’ve somehow managed to make it this far in the trip without someone recognizing me, and I’d like to keep it that way.

I keep the noise canceling off so I can hear any announcements, but it’s all the same crap it usually is: the flight attendants saying things like full flight and reminding people not to overstuff the bins above them and asking everyone to take their seats quickly.

“Attention passengers: we’re looking for an Auden Sinclair. Auden Sinclair, are you on this flight?”

The attendant repeats the name twice more before shrugging, then announcing they’ll be closing the door for takeoff.

“Wait! Wait! I’m here!”

I’m sitting close to the front of the plane, and even with my headphones over my ears, I can hear the voice coming from the walkway. It’s a woman, so I assume it’s this Auden Sinclair person we’re waiting on. She sounds panicked, and I guess I would be too if I were the idiot holding up the flight for everyone else.

“I’m here!” she repeats as her shoes slap against the airplane floor. “I’m here. So sorry. I had to pee.”

The attendant gives her a tight-lipped smile. “No trouble. Next time, please remember we have lavatories on board that you’re more than welcome to use.”

“Sure, but those dang things are always so tiny, and I swear someone always has to take a massive shi?—”

“Good morning, folks. I’m Captain Archer, and I’ll be your…”

The captain cuts off whatever the woman was going to say next, which is fine by me. I’d rather not listen to her excuses and just get this damn plane off the ground.

Seconds later, a shadow falls over me, then the bin above me is pulled open. Shit , I curse to myself. Because why wouldn’t my seatmate be the late person? Goes with the theme of the rest of my trip, I suppose.

She plops down next to me, her bag hitting the tray table as she clambers into the seat. The table falls, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She just sets her bag on top of it and begins rooting around in it. A familiar scent tickles my nose as she gets settled. I can’t exactly place it, but I could swear I’ve smelled it recently. Today, even. It smells like?—

“Oh, hey! It’s you! Hi, Mr. Grumbles!”

I turn toward the cheerful voice coming from my left.

It’s her. The woman from the lounge. She’s smiling at me like we’re old friends, like she can’t wait to annoy me for the rest of the flight—like she’s going to enjoy annoying me.

She moves her hand around, the one that’s plunged deep inside the oversized black bag, then it reappears with a bag of chips. She shoves the awful-smelling things right under my nose, shaking the bag as if I can’t smell the pungent foot-like stink coming off it.

“Frito?”

I want to roll my eyes or sneer at this woman because what the hell is she thinking? Could she not tell from my demeanor in the lounge that I’m in no mood to talk? If I didn’t want to talk then, I sure as hell don’t want to talk now.

But I don’t say anything like that. I don’t roll my eyes, and I don’t sneer. I simply shake my head once, answering her question.

“Your loss.”

She shrugs, takes the bag back, and shoves a few chips into her mouth, and even with my headphones on, the crunch is loud and obnoxious.

Fucking hell. This is going to be a long flight.