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ONE

LEXI

If the man next to me doesn’t get his goddamn hands away from my ass, I’m going to break his fingers.

He’s trying to be sly. Every few seconds he’ll move closer to me. He’ll lean to his left and shift his feet. The last time he did, his pinky grazed against my leather skirt.

The fucking nerve .

I turn and face him, not surprised to find a blond-haired guy looking at me.

The worst ones are always blond.

I am surprised by the polo he’s wearing. It’s striped, the collar is popped, and I thought we left that horrendous style behind in the early 2000s.

There’s a silver chain attached to his belt loop, for god’s sake, and I’m half expecting to hear the dialup tone from AOL replace the EDM song playing from the club’s speakers.

What’s next? Is someone going to ask for my screen name rather than my phone number?

“Hey!” he yells over the loud music, grinning when our eyes meet.

He steps toward me, and I wrinkle my nose. He smells like stale beer and rotten cheese, and it’s impossible not to gag. I need to get laid, but I’m not that desperate.

“Do you always touch random women without their permission?” I ask. “Or am I just lucky?”

“You’re hot.”

“I know I am.”

“Thought I might introduce myself.”

“I can’t wait to hear what your name is.” I roll my eyes. “Let me guess. Is it Brayden? Braxton? Some other combination with letters tacked on the end that don’t belong?”

“Close.” His grin stretches wider. There’s a piece of food stuck between his teeth, and I’m noticing he has a very punchable face. “It’s Bryce.”

“Of course it is.” I sigh and curse myself for having done something in another life to piss off the meet-cute gods. There are dozens of attractive men here, and this is the one I end up talking to? It’s not fair. “Did you need something?”

“Want to go somewhere quiet? We can get to know each other. Or we can go back to my place. I have stuff to eat. Food, ya know? Do you cook?”

I wish I had the balls of a mediocre white man who thinks he’s hot shit. I’d be unstoppable.

“I know all I need to know about you. Next time, use your words to get my attention, not your hairy fingers, douchebag.” I smile at the bartender bringing me a drink. I drop a ten in the tip jar and spin on my heel. “And blonds aren’t my type.”

“I bet I could be your type,” he says in some last-ditch effort to keep me hanging around.

“And I bet you couldn’t find my clit even if I pointed it out to you,” I say sweetly, and the bartender snorts. “It’s never going to happen, buddy.”

I disappear into the crowd to escape the creep and make my way to the VIP section of the club the DC Stars, the newly crowned Stanley Cup champions, reserved to celebrate their big win earlier tonight. I smile when I spot my girlfriends sitting in the booth we claimed when we got here and beeline it for them. Grant Everett, a second line forward on the Stars, waves at me when I pass. He’s still wearing the victory goggles he donned in the locker room three hours ago when someone popped a bottle of victory champagne.

“Lexi!” he screams, holding up a handle of whiskey. “We’re the best of the best!”

“I know you are G-Money.” He drinks straight from the bottle and I laugh, jealous of how easily his early-twenties body is going to recover from the alcohol consumption. My ass is going to be in bed until noon tomorrow. “No driving tonight, okay?”

“More like no sleeping. We’re raging till the break of dawn, baby!”

He takes off for some of the other players, stumbling as he goes.

They deserve to let loose after repeating as champions and being the ninth team in NHL history to accomplish the back-to-back feat. They fought like hell in the postseason, overcoming a shitty Eastern Conference Finals series and going on to beat the Los Angeles Bulls in an electric game seven.

“There you are!” Piper Mitchell, the Stars’ rinkside reporter, tugs on my arm. I take a seat in the booth next to her and smile. “What took you so long?”

“I had to give this dude at the bar an earful. He kept trying to touch my ass.” I take a sip of my gin and tonic and feel my shoulders relax as the alcohol works its way into my bloodstream. “Fucking men.”

“Fucking men is right.” Emerson—Emmy—Hartwell, the first female to play in the NHL and another one of my best friends, smirks. “Please look at what they’re doing.”

I shake my head at the conga line some of the guys have started. Half of them have ditched their shirts, and they’re taking turns passing the Cup around.

Maverick Miller, the team’s captain and Emmy’s husband, screams when one of the rookies drops the trophy. He dives to the floor and catches it before it can fall, then lifts it over his head a second later to a round of applause.

“I like seeing them happy.” Piper scans the overpacked room, giggling when her eyes land on Liam Sullivan. The goalie and grumpy asshole extraordinaire—and Piper’s accidental husband after a drunken night in Vegas but very real boyfriend—is standing in the corner with a scowl on his face. “I told him he has to socialize for an hour before he’s allowed to leave.”

“He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here,” Maven Lansfield, the Stars’ team photographer, says. “That’s a cute crown he’s wearing.”

“Isn’t it? I’m going to make him keep it on when we get home later.”

“Thatta girl.” I pat her thigh. “It’s nice everyone is having a good time. The guys worked hard this year. I wonder if they’ll be able to go for the three-peat next season. If anyone can do it, it’s this group.”

“You helped with that, Ms. Head Athletic Trainer,” Maven says to me, and I smile at one of my best friends. “Keeping them healthy isn’t easy.”

“It’s not, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“They’re the greatest team of all time.” Emmy sighs when Maverick grabs the DJ’s microphone and yells world champions! and fuck LA and their overpriced grocery stores! “You can’t help but love them.”

I finish off my drink and stand, tugging on the hem of my miniskirt. “I’m going to run to the bathroom. Does anyone need anything while I’m up?”

“No, but we’re dancing when you get back. Hoes before bros tonight,” Piper declares.

“Bring me another drink,” Maven calls out, and I give her a wink over my shoulder as I saunter away.

The music is loud. The lights are low. To my right, people are grinding against each other on the dance floor and running their hands up and down sweat-soaked bodies. I manage to dodge a waitress carrying a tray of bottles going to one of the players’ tables, but I stumble on a discarded lime.

“ Shit .”

Before I can face plant on the hardwood floor stained with god knows what, an arm loops around my waist. A palm settles on my hip. I turn and find Riley Mitchell, our star defenseman, looking down at me.

“Hey, Mitchy,” I say, relieved it’s not the loser from earlier.

“Lexi.” He smiles, and I can make out the hint of a blush on his cheeks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just lost my footing. I love adding limes to my drinks, but I never thought a half-eaten one would be my downfall.” I gesture to the piece of citrus in question. “All is well. Thank you for saving me.”

He unravels his arm and takes a step back, pushing his thick framed glasses up his nose. “Happy to help.”

“How’s your night?” I ask.

“Good. Are you having fun?”

“Oh, yeah. Everyone’s rowdy, but it’s allowed. Are you having fun?”

“You didn’t see me dancing earlier?” he asks.

“Shoot. I missed it. Will you show me?”

“It’s not nearly as impressive without music. I’d probably look like a gyrating robot.”

“Sounds like a sex move,” I say.

Riley chuckles. “I hope no one breaks an ankle trying to climb on the bar. Wouldn’t want you to spend your summer having to heal our dumb asses.”

I laugh and lean against the wall. I’m warm. My insides are a fuzzy from the alcohol I’ve been sipping, but I’m not drunk. I’m pleasantly buzzed, teetering on the edge of tipsy, and having a good time. I’m enjoying standing here and talking with him. It’s a nice break from the loud noise and celebratory chants.

I’m not supposed to have a favorite player on the team—and I love all the guys I work with—but Riley takes the top spot.

He’s nice, courteous, and cute. Quiet in an easygoing way, and unbelievably sweet. He’s bashful, almost, whenever he talks to me. There’s always a hint of shyness in his tone, and no matter how many times I shrug off my friends when they say he has a crush on me, it’s pretty obvious he does.

He’s younger than me, and I’m betting he’s a relationship guy when all I want to do with a man is have fun for a few hours before I go on my way. I doubt we’d be compatible, and I’d never get involved with anyone I work with.

There’s nothing wrong with flirting with him for a minute though, and that’s what I intend to do.

“Make sure everyone is on their best behavior, will ya?” I joke.

“Please. You know the guys. That’s impossible. Pretty sure Ethan tried to roll a hot dog cart in here.”

“God. So predictable. World peace would be easier to accomplish than keeping you all under control.” I brush a piece of hair away from my face, and his eyes follow my hand. “What are you doing over the offseason? Any fun plans?”

“Nah. My parents are in Chicago. I’ll go visit them for a week or two. Some of the boys are planning a trip to the Bahamas. I might learn how to golf.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “The possibilities are endless.”

“And what are you going to do with the Cup on the day you get it? Please don’t tell me you’re going to eat something out of it.”

“That’s why we’re all so big and tough, Lex. Because we eat and drink out of a trophy that hasn’t been cleaned in years.”

“That’s revolting.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Riley laughs and mimics my pose against the wall across from me. “I think I’ll do cheese curds this time. Last year, I ate the world’s largest ice cream sundae.”

“Now we’re talking.” A group of women walk between us. One of them eyes Riley with an appreciative glance, but he doesn’t look at her. He keeps his focus on me, and the heat of his attention makes me shift my feet. “I should get back to the girls. I don’t want them to think I’m being harassed by another man wearing a polo.”

He peers down at the plain white T-shirt stretching across his chest. It’s more casual than the suit and tie he wore when he walked into the arena earlier tonight, and when he lifts an arm to survey his outfit, his biceps flex. The constellation tattoo he has on his left arm peeks out from under his sleeve, and I wonder what stars make up the cluster.

“I’m not that drunk, am I?” he asks. “This isn’t a polo.”

“Not you, knucklehead.” I laugh. He’s cute all the time, but he’s even cuter with a confused look on his face. With glasses falling down his nose again and jeans that sit low on his hips. “There was a guy at the bar earlier who tried to touch my ass. He was wearing a polo.”

Riley’s gaze flicks to my thighs. He hums. Scratches his jaw and nods. “Right,” he says to my knees before bringing his eyes up to meet mine. “If another polo-wearing prick tries to bother you, let me know. The trophy weighs thirty-five pounds. I’m happy to lob it at someone.”

“My hero.” I pat his chest when I scoot past him for the bathroom. “Have fun, Mitchy,” I add, biting my lip to fight a smile when I catch him staring at my ass. He’s not doing a very good job of hiding his crush tonight, and I like it. “Don’t party too hard.”

“I’m a good boy, Lex,” he tosses back. “You don’t have to worry about me.”