Page 1

One

Wolf

I slam my stick down on the ice in frustration as the wrist shot I fire at the net goes wide, bouncing off the boards with a loud clack that reverberates across the ice. I’ve missed the net.

Again.

I’m having the worst practice of my life. Which seems just about right, given how much I’ve struggled this season.

The Toronto Thunder’s captain, Kincaid Campbell, skates over to me, patting me on the shoulder with a gloved hand. “You good?”

“Fuck if I know,” I growl, digging at the ice with the blade of my skate.

Kincaid tilts his head, considering. “You want to know what I think?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to share anyway.”

He grins. “Cute.” He glances to where everyone else on the team is still running drills while Coach Ferguson occasionally blows his whistle or shouts instructions from his spot near center ice. “I think you’re too in your head, for whatever reason. You’re struggling, so then you start to analyze why you’re struggling, and it snowballs into a thing .”

I look at him, one eyebrow raised. “You a shrink now?”

Kincaid rolls his eyes. “Don’t think about blinking.”

“What?”

“Don’t think about blinking.” He waits a beat. “What are you thinking about right now?”

I blink my eyes once, twice, and then wonder if I’ve always been this aware of blinking. Should I blink now? Or is it too soon? How…do I do this? “Blinking, obviously.”

“Exactly. Blinking, something you do thousands of times a day, now feels weird and strange because you’re too focused on it. You’re in your head about it.”

I suck in a deep breath of cold, dry air, absorbing Kincaid’s words. There’s a reason he’s the assistant captain of the team, and it’s not just because he’s one of the best players. He’s a leader, through and through.

Me? I’m just the muscle. I’m the guy who slams other players into the boards and starts fights to get the guys amped up. I’m not under any illusions that I’ve played professional hockey for the past ten years because of my hockey skills. I’m a mediocre player on my best day.

But I’m really good at rearranging faces and intimidating the fuck out of other teams, so, here I am, a thirty-two-year-old defenseman with a shit wrister.

“Loosen your grip,” says Kincaid, pulling me out of my head. “And stop thinking about it so much.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the net. “Try again.”

I take a deep breath and then pull another puck from the little pile beside me onto my stick. I loosen my grip and fire off the puck before I have a chance to think about it. It still goes wide, but by far less this time.

Kincaid eyes me with an assessing glance. “Maybe you need to blow off some steam. Relieve some stress.”

“I’m not exactly a yoga and meditation kind of guy.”

Kincaid laughs. “There are other ways to blow off stress,” he says, adding a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

“No offense, but you’re not my type, Campbell,” I joke, and he laughs. Kincaid’s happily engaged to our coach’s daughter, a situation you couldn’t pay me to find myself in.

“So who is your type? When was the last time you got laid? Went out and had some fun?”

I shrug. It’s been…years, honestly. It’s been so long that I have to think for several moments before I can even remember the name of the last woman I was with. I’ve had relationships and girlfriends in the past, but nothing recent. I got tired of the puck bunnies, never knowing if they were interested in me or the fact that I’m a pro athlete. Got tired of the games and drama of the dating scene.

And now, the idea of meaningless sex just feels hollow. No thanks.

Coach calls us back to center ice to go over some final notes in preparation for tonight’s game, and I try to shake the shitty feeling following me. It’s not just about my crappy shot, or the fact that I’m having the most challenging season of my career. It’s the worry that my best days are behind me. That I’ve peaked. That it’s all downhill from here.

Fuck. Have I lost my passion for the game?

That thought ricochets through my brain like a loose puck before settling in my stomach.

Coach Ferguson rattles off a few more talking points and then dismisses us with a clap of his hands. It’s still early in the day, not quite lunchtime, but I don’t feel like heading home yet. Instead, I decide to take Kincaid’s advice and blow off a little steam in the gym. Guys around me shoot the shit and give each other a hard time as we all get out of our sweaty gear. Some head to the showers, while others hang around and talk about ordering lunch in. I feel like I’m on the fringes of it all. I’m not a talker. I’m not what you would call a friendly guy. I prefer to keep to myself.

My name suits me, I guess. I’m a lone wolf.

I change into fresh workout gear and then head to the gym, where a couple of other guys are cooling down on stationary bikes. Large TVs cover one of the walls, playing highlights from previous games. I jam my air pods in my ears, blast some angry rock music, and then tape up my hands.

Punching things usually makes me feel better. And even if it doesn’t, it’s a hell of a good workout.

I quickly lose myself in the rhythmic thwack of my hands against the heavy bag, swaying hypnotically on its chain. I jab, I cross, I duck, I weave until sweat slicks my skin and my heart is pounding in my ears. I pour all of the frustration, the doubt, the uncertainty into my movements, as though I can physically transfer it from me to the leather I’m pounding mercilessly.

And for a while, it works. My brain turns off as I settle into my body, and the weight on my chest seems to lift.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when my phone rings, jerking me back to the here and now. I pull my phone out of my pocket, frowning when I see it’s the concierge of my building.

“Hello?” I answer, reaching out with my free hand to halt the swinging of the bag.

“Hello, Mr. Hartley. This is Winston, from the front desk. I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a young woman here saying that you’re expecting her?” His prim and proper voice goes up at the end, turning his statement into a question. “A Miss Emily David?”

“Ah, fuck,” I grind out. “Yeah. Uh, you can let her in to my place. She’ll be staying for the next several weeks.”

“I see. Very good, sir.”

“Thanks, Winston.” I like Winston. He’s the only person on the planet who calls me sir, and I like how it makes me feel. Like I’m a classy guy and not a paid goon.

The call disconnects, and I set about removing my gloves, yanking them off in harried tugs. Fuck me. I’d completely forgotten about Emily. As if I needed something else to be grumpy about.

I quickly head for the showers to soap up, and any lightness I’d been feeling vanishes.

A few weeks ago, my best friend from college, Mike, called and asked if his baby sister could stay with me while in Toronto. She’s apparently an up-and-coming ballet dancer and was selected for a prestigious internship at the National Ballet School. She’s also apparently naive and helpless, as Mike didn’t want her staying alone in the big city, so he wants her to stay with me so that I can keep an eye on her.

Because babysitting some little princess is my favourite.

Not.

Now, as a rule, I don’t like having house guests. Lone wolf, remember? But Mike’s been a close friend for over a decade, and I would’ve felt like a massive asshole if I said no. So I didn’t. I said yes, telling myself that my penthouse is more than big enough for two adults.

I’ve never met Emily, only heard about her through Mike. Given that she’s thirteen years younger than us, she would’ve been a kindergartner when I met Mike in university. Through the years, I’ve heard about her here and there—her recent high school graduation, her burgeoning ballet career, etc. But I can honestly say I’ve never spent more than a second and half thinking about my college buddy’s kid sister. Why would I?

I finish up my shower and make a beeline for the underground parking where my Land Rover is stashed and head home. Even though I don’t really want her there, my parents raised me to have manners, and it’s not cool that I completely forgot about her and wasn’t there to greet her. Plus, if I’m honest, I’m not used to having guests and I don’t want her poking around my shit. Not that I have anything to hide. I’m just very used to being on my own.

Although I guess I’ll need to get used to the idea of her being around for the next six weeks.

“It’s only six weeks,” I tell myself as I pull out into the usual Toronto traffic. It’s January, and the sidewalks are piled with snowbanks, the streets slushy with the remnants of last night’s snow. “Six weeks is nothing. Besides, I’ll be so busy with hockey and she’ll be so busy with her ballet shit or whatever that I’m sure I’ll barely notice she’s there.”

Great. Now I’m talking to myself. We’re off to a fantastic start with this whole hosting thing.

It takes me about twenty minutes to get back to my building, park my car, and make my way to my private elevator in the corner of the lobby.

“Mr. Hartley, sir?” calls Winston from the desk, and I head back in that direction. When I approach, he gives me a thin smile. “How long will your guest be with us, exactly?”

I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “Six weeks. She’s the sister of a friend, in town for an internship.”

“I see. Then I suppose you’ll want to give her this,” he says, handing over a spare key card for the building and my private elevator. I take it and stuff it in my pocket.

“Right. Thanks.”

The key card is like a hot weight in my pocket, a reminder of all the privacy I’m giving up over the next month and a half.

Mike owes me. Big time.

I grump silently all the way up to my penthouse, arms crossed over my chest, my jaw tight. The elevator doors slide open silently and I step into the small foyer that leads to my apartment. Unlocking the door with another tap of my card, I suck in a deep breath and then step inside, ready to plaster a smile on my face.

I don’t think she hears my steps as I move into the main living area. She’s too focused on drinking in the cityscape through the floor to ceiling windows.

Which is fine with me, because I’m focused entirely on her .