Page 62

Jordan

“ B ougie! Who’s your new girlfriend?”

“Hey, Jordan! Is this one serious?”

“Bougie…you gonna win the cup this year?”

The paparazzi yelling at me as I walk from my limo into the hotel in Vegas, where the team is staying for our upcoming game, is giving me a damn migraine.

One of my favorite things about living in Milwaukee is the lack of paparazzi there.

It’s a big city but it feels like a small town.

The press leave me alone there. Bars like Walt’s don’t call any extra attention to me. It’s fucking amazing.

It’s the away games that get to me. As I step into the elevator, my arm around a girl, I force a literal award-winning smile and press the button for my floor, watching the doors finally close, cutting off the constant barrage of questions and cameras in my face.

I turn to Hannah, giving her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, cuz. I appreciate you playing along, as always.”

“Anytime JJ. You know I love ya. ”

Elbowing her, I slump back against the mirrored wall. “Not to mention it’s your literal job.”

She lets out a laugh. “I mean, true. As your publicist, I guess this does fall under my job description.” Hannah taps on her phone, clicking her tongue as she does. “You want to grab something to eat later?”

“Nah. We have a team dinner in a bit. Plus, I need some time to relax. The photo shoot was a great idea, but I’m wiped out and I need to get some rest today so I’m not dragging for the game tomorrow.”

“You know you don’t have to play hockey. It’s not like you need the income.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I get chirped at enough on the ice about it. I don’t need it from you too.”

“I’m just giving you shit, JJ. I know how much you love it.

” Hannah drops her head on my shoulder. “I don’t need to be running my own PR firm either, but I kind of love it.

So, I get it. Plus, who else is gonna help you keep this playboy image other than your favorite cousin who has a different last name? ”

I smile knowing she’s just as proud of herself as she is of me.

“Well, Hannah Levoise, I appreciate your support.”

The elevator stops. “Alright, this is me. I’ll see you tomorrow! I’ll be watching the game from the family suite if you need me.”

“Gooodnight, Hannah Banana!”

“Night JJ!”

As the doors close and I head up to the team floor, the ache in my body and the mental toll of having to be ‘on’ all day finally hits me.

If the guys found out I’m fucking tired from the photo shoot today, I’d never hear the end of it.

But I am tired. From the travel. From hockey.

But more than all of that, I’m exhausted from the public persona I have to maintain to keep up my image of ‘Jordan Boucher, hockey’s hottest rising star and playboy.

’ Running my fingers through my hair, I cringe at the product coating my fingers.

Always having to be ‘on’. Always having to keep my real personality hidden behind closed doors.

Always putting on a front. If it were up to me, everyone would know the person behind the mask.

Not Bougie, the rich nepo baby everyone claims got into the league because of his family money. No. I want people to see the real me.

Jordan Boucher: Defenseman for the Milwaukee Steel Riders.

Jordan Boucher: Philanthropist.

Jordan Boucher: Businessman and investor.

Jordan Boucher: A fucking good friend.

Jordan Boucher: Hopelessly in love with a woman he can’t have.

That last one is the worst.

Sure, I want people to know me more for hockey than my family money. It’s overshadowed my talent and love for hockey my entire life. I’m used to that. I hate it, but I’m used to it.

Sure, I donate a shit ton of money to charities I love. Have you seen how cute puppies are? I know I’m gonna end up with one at some point.

Sure, I am a businessman always looking to invest in the next big thing. I know hockey doesn’t last forever, and if I’ve learned anything from my parents, it’s to always have options.

And, if I do say so myself, I’m a fucking good friend.

But the tug in my chest hits hard – like maybe I care more than anyone cares back.

I didn’t tell a soul that I gave Walt and Johnny cash to close the bar for a week to go to Larsy’s wedding.

When I found out they couldn’t afford to go, I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing.

They’re Olivia’s family. The Riders’ too, if we’re being honest about it.

And I know those two would never have accepted the money had I offered it.

So, I left it anonymously and they bought it.

Although, I think Johnny suspects something…

that damn bartender is a nosy son of a bitch.

Don’t think I don’t know he ‘accidentally canceled’ Maggie’s room at the resort for the wedding ei ther.

I caught him red-handed on the phone after practice one day at the bar.

Pretending to be Maggie’s dad canceling her reservation?

Goddammit, why didn’t I think that? We all knew Maggie and Vladi just needed a little push.

And Johnny was the only one to figure out a way to help nudge them over the cliff.

He is a meddling son of a bitch and God, do I love him for it.

When Larsy needed a cool gift for Vladi, who stepped in?

None other than Jordan Joseph Boucher. I overheard him and Zack talking in the locker room about what to get Vladi for a best man gift and how he’d always wanted this crazy expensive bottle of vodka.

My dad happens to have connections with the company that makes it, so I told my agent to call Larsy’s agent with a whole story about how they were giving it away to some professional athletes in exchange for some photos with it. He bought it.

And then there’s Vladi, who I have finally broken down enough to have him accept me as a friend.

I honestly don’t have a lot of true friends.

Everyone wants to hang with me because my family has money.

But Vladi doesn’t give a shit about that.

And that’s why I gave him some ideas for Larsy’s bachelor party.

He didn’t really know what a bachelor party was, and I know that damn goalie would be way too prideful to ask for help, so I offered some suggestions to guide him.

He’ll never admit it, but even though he acts like he hates me, I know my sweet goalie BFF doesn’t.

Hell, even Tay and EJ have their secrets. And I’ve never told a soul.

The elevator dings and I stumble into the hall toward my room, trying to leave the negative thoughts behind me. But they stick in my brain like it’s goddamn maple syrup.

The worst of all, the absolute worst thing about my life, is the woman I can never have.

Kennedy Kramer.

One of the team pilots for the Milwaukee Steel Riders, and apparently, the one person on this planet who doesn’t seem to know I exist. But I know she exists.

And she is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

Sure, she’s beautiful. But she’s more than that.

She’s smart. Successful. And she doesn’t give a shit about my family’s money either, as evident by the fact that she doesn’t give me the time of day.

But she’s in her thirties. I’m twenty-two.

She’s tied to the team. I’m a player.

She probably also thinks I am a player …as in the manwhore sense of the word.

If she’s ever seen a tabloid, she probably thinks I’m out on the town with a new girl every night.

No one knows most of those girls are my family and it’s all for show.

The himbo image is the farthest thing from the truth.

I trip over my feet, thinking back to how this all started, the series of events that changed everything.

I’m honestly extremely picky. I’m not a virgin, but…

I can count on one hand the number of women I’ve been with.

And when I say one hand I mean one finger.

It’s not that I don’t like sex. I like it very much, in fact.

I just…I want it to be more than just a hookup.

I’m in it for the feelings more than the physical side of things.

Sure, being in the NHL affords me a lot of women throwing themselves at me.

But no one, especially not since the day I first saw Kennedy, has had my interest. When I saw her walking out of the cockpit as I was getting off the team plane, I was fucking done for.

Talk about Hotty McPilot . Her long, wavy blonde hair flowed down past her shoulders.

Her uniform hugged her in all the right places with that damn sexy blue scarf tied around her neck.

The glimmer off her pilot wings pinned to her chest was glowing like she descended from heaven.

Dammit, that’s a sexy-as-hell uniform. What I would give to have her in my bed with only that scarf around her neck.

The things I could be doing to her. Even more so, the things she could be doing to me .

But she’s out of my reach.

Right now, there’s nothing I can do but love her from afar.

How do you love a woman who doesn’t know you exist?

How do you tell her you like her? I could pull a Larsy and just marry her…

I drag my hand down my face. That’s ridiculous, Jordan.

She doesn’t even acknowledge you exist. Come on, man, be smarter.

I already send her gifts, including a poem I wrote with every one.

Yeah dammit, I’m sensitive. I’m creative. Hockey isn’t my only talent.

Finally arriving at my room, I head inside and flop on the bed like a fish to get a nap in before dinner. I close my eyes, trying to count sheep, in English, in French, anything to help me fall asleep. Just as I almost hit a good REM cycle, my phone buzzes next to me.

Dammit, I should have turned it on do not disturb.

It’s an unknown number calling me.

No thanks, telemarketer. Decline.

I lay back down and the phone buzzes again. Noooo. Decline.

The number pops up on my screen, again , but this time it’s a text. My eyes go wide. My heart races like a fucking freight train in my chest before dropping into the pit of my stomach as I read it. There’s no way. I’ve been so careful to keep this hidden. Holy shit.

Stay the fuck away from Kennedy Kramer.