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CHAPTER 1

Humiliated by Waffles

LUCY

Wednesday, September 11

“ W affles.”

My dog—actually, my ex-fiancé’s dog—tilts his head from where he’s sitting on the floor of my new office in the building that houses the Fort Collins Blizzard NHL team.

Waffles doesn’t look impressed with my most recent attempt at renaming him.

“Let’s try it out for a few days, okay?”

He barks once in agreement.

I clip his leash on, grab my laptop bag, and head down the hallway past my new boss’s office. Lina’s the vice president of public relations and sponsorship and is my manager while I’m here for six months to cover a maternity leave. She insisted I watch a practice to get a feel for Blizzard hockey, so I head to the arena, which is attached to the administrative offices for the team. When I reminded her that Atticus, my little brother—little being a funny word to describe the six-foot-four hulking twenty-nine-year-old man—is a forward on the Blizzard, and I regularly watch his games, she waved a hand in the air and turned back to her laptop and her mug embossed with the words: Sorry. Can’t. Hockey. Bye .

The hallway cement wall is decorated with framed pictures of past Blizzard teams in between the mostly closed doors of the administration. There’s a hallway split into a T shape behind me, and in front of me are more offices and doors I’m not familiar with before the players’ gym on the right. At the end is the entrance to the Blizzard’s arena.

My phone buzzes in my pocket after I push through the doors to the arena, but I ignore it and head to the stands. Waffles might seem docile and calm trotting next to me, but by now I know his tricks. If I let my guard down for one second, he’ll take advantage and escape from my hold to run, bark, jump, and pee in random places.

Which is why he’s with me right now instead of back at my brother’s apartment. Atticus wants no part of a dog destroying his bachelor pad.

I settle into one of the rink side seats closest to the glass. Waffles sits calmly at my feet, the picture of perfect behavior, back straight and head still like a statue of Zeus or some other godly character. Ohhh, maybe I should name him Zeus? I pet his head, and he stretches at my feet and closes his eyes with a soft sigh.

Maybe Zeus is too powerful a name for this little dog—I can’t imagine him wielding a thunderbolt.

Ron, my impulsive, passionate ex-fiancé, came home with the Boston terrier puppy in March, after we’d moved in together post-engagement. There was no warning, no planning, just a spontaneous decision to buy a puppy.

I should’ve known there were far less pleasant surprises to come.

When I discovered he’d been cheating on me for our entire relationship, he begged me to give him another chance. I walked away instead.

And after I moved out, he decided he was allergic to dogs and was going to drop his dog—then Max—off at an animal shelter. We fought over that. I called bullshit. How can a thirty-five-year-old man not know he’s allergic to dogs? Later that weekend, he showed up at my short-term apartment rental with a box of my remaining belongings.

And Max.

I’m not really a dog person, but I couldn’t bear to see the somewhat lovable animal dropped off at the shelter or given to a random person to be fed to a giant snake or something. Colorado sounded like a better place for a dog anyway, so I brought him with me.

It’s not a permanent situation with Waffles, just like I’m not permanent here in Colorado. This is just one little stop on the road to my dream job in England. If things go as planned, I’ll be booking a one-way plane ticket in six months. Waffles will be with a new family. I fully intend on finding him a great one before I leave.

And I’ll be far, far away from my old life. Farther away.

Down on the ice, the Blizzard are doing a fast-moving shooting drill, the forwards trying to put the puck in the back of the net and the goaltender attempting to stop each one.

Despite the fact that Atticus has played professional ice hockey for the past eight years, I still kind of zone out when watching. Soccer has been more my sport as I played from kindergarten through high school. Not that I was exceptionally good. I wasn’t terrible, but I know I only made the teams because my father is part owner of the Washington D.C. Football Club (DC FC), a Major League Soccer team—but I love the sport. I loved working for an MLS team, volunteering for the soccer charities we helped fund, sometimes coaching little kids, and watching games live and on TV.

Ron worked at DC FC, too, his office just down the hall from mine. Deep down, I hadn’t expected my father to fire Ron when everything went down, but it was a bit shocking when he didn’t even pretend to take my side. When I told him what happened, Richard—Dad—just took off his glasses and rubbed his face. He’s used to swooping in to help me. He got me an interview—and almost definitely the job—at DC FC after I struggled working at shitty organizations for a few years after college. How could I say no to a job at an MLS team when it’d been my dream to work in professional sports?

And Ron. Dad loves Ron. They went to the same business school. Well, not really, but they might as well have. Ron knows exactly how to kiss my father’s ass.

Maybe even by dating his daughter.

And Dad wants me to take Ron back. Return to my old job. My old life. But Dad’s on his fourth wife, and I think he doesn’t understand why women make such a big deal out of cheating partners. So I’m not really into taking relationship advice from him.

I shift on the uncomfortable seat and set Waffles’s leash on my lap. My shoulders are tight, and I will the muscles to relax by pushing thoughts of my father away.

I pull my bag onto my lap and slide my phone out to check new texts, which are unsurprisingly all in a group chat with my best friends. It’s been over a decade since the three of us left James Madison University in Virginia, but we’re still close, even though we’re scattered all over.

January

How’s your revenge plan going, babes? Show your dad what’s what yet?

Raleigh

I can’t believe you really left DC. I never thought that would happen! How’s Max?

Me

Who’s Max?

Raleigh

…Ron’s dog? Er, your dog?

Raleigh

Also, shouldn’t we really want revenge on Ron since he’s the one who cheated on you?

Me

We hate him too, sis, but I have thirty-three years of resentment for my father overshadowing a two-year relationship with Ron

Me

Also, he goes by Waffles now. Or Zeus

January

You’re going to give that animal trauma by changing its name every other day

Me

Here’s Waffles/Zeus

I snap a quick photo of Waffles/Zeus and send it to my friends, biting back a grin and glancing up briefly to watch the hockey players gather around the coach on the ice.

Me

How unoriginal was Ron to name his dog Max? I mean, no wonder he’s a miscreant

January

This is a case of nurture, not nature

The coach claps his hands five times in quick succession and the noise echoes in the quiet arena, startling me.

And apparently my dog.

Waffles/Zeus leaps into the air and sprints along the glass barrier, pulling the leash right off my lap.

“No! Hey!” I stand and lunge, my phone clattering to the ground along with my bag, which spills my laptop, a notebook, various pens, a stack of tissues, and god knows what else onto the ground .

Waffles/Zeus doesn’t just run, he also barks like a freaking mad man. Mad dog?

“Waffles! Hey! Shit!” I push my wayward red curls from my eyes as I stumble over my belongings and after him.

As if in slow motion, I watch the players turn around to find the source of the barking and swearing.

Does that damn dog think there’s a squirrel in here? A car to chase? Something besides me running after him?

I remind myself to sign Waffles up for behavior lessons so I can actually leave that menace of an animal behind while I go to work, even though my boss insisted it’s fine to bring him in. Lots of people bring their dogs to work in Fort Collins. Weird.

I will my feet to move faster, but I have no hope of catching Waffles before he… oh god.

He’s zipping toward an entrance to the rink. Thankfully, it’s closed, as it should be during hockey practice.

But—oh no.

It’s cracked open just wide enough for a Boston terrier to squeeze through.

“Waffles! No! Zeus! MAX!”

But it’s too late. He squeezes through the opening and leaps onto the ice, heading straight for the Blizzard players. I take in Atticus, a wide smile on his face as he shakes his head dramatically, and at least two other players bending down to try to intercept the running dog.

Waffles attempts to stop a few feet away from one of the squatting men, but it’s literally ice so he slips and spins and hurtles toward the wall. He kind of looks like me trying to ice skate.

I finally make it to the entrance to the rink but stop there. No use in me slipping all over the ice as well, embarrassing myself further, if that’s possible.

“Nooooo,” I whisper-scream and bury my hands in my hair.

Atticus calls for my dog, and for a second I think it’ll work, but then Waffles, now sprawled against the rink wall, manages to get his feet under him and complete an ill-fated lap around the laughing players. Even the coach is grinning at the chaos with his arms crossed.

Okay. This might be okay. Maybe it’ll soften them up to me. No problem. Atticus will grab him and?—

Oh no.

Waffles makes it back to the side of the rink.

I know exactly what’s going to happen next.

“No, no, no!” I half step onto the ice, but it’s far too late.

Waffles lifts one of his hind legs and pees, the yellow liquid spilling down the wall and onto the frozen surface.

That’s it, then.

I guess I’m done here.

With the Blizzard. This job. Fort Collins. Colorado. The entire universe. I resign from life.

Atticus is laughing too hard to move, and I glare at him, throwing my hands in the air in the universal can you help gesture.

Another tall, broad player slowly skates toward Waffles—who’s sitting innocently two feet away from his yellow puddle—and manages to swoop him up in one pass as if it’s no problem at all.

“Someone clean that up,” the coach yells, then points toward one of the younger-looking players. “You. Get a skate and a shovel from the equipment manager. Scrape that pee off the ice and get rid of it. Go!” The player heads out another exit. “And that door should be shut at all times.” The coach turns to look at all the players. “At all times! It’s a major safety issue.”

The man holding Waffles gracefully skates toward me, stopping when he’s a foot away and holding my dog in the crook of his arm.

“This guy yours?” The player is sweaty and wearing a helmet. But his lips are plump, his exposed neck smooth, and dark hair falls onto his forehead above blue eyes.

And I know exactly who he is .

A forward and captain of the Blizzard. A star player. One of Atticus’s close friends.

Gorgeous.

And I’ve just absolutely humiliated myself in front of him.

My heart thumps loudly in my chest and a squeak escapes my throat. I remind myself I’m not into hockey players. Really. I’ve been around enough pro athletes to know they’re way too messy to date.

Waffles looks at me with his scrunched-up face, tongue hanging out of his mouth, perfectly happy in the player’s arms.

“Max—Zeus—Waffles, whatever your name is, bad dog.” I shake my head and plant my hands on my hips. He clearly doesn’t understand what I’m saying as he practically smiles at me.

“You don’t know your dog’s name?” the man asks. He’s not smiling, but his face has a hint of amusement.

“Yeah. I mean, he’s not really my dog. Well, he is now , for a bit. I hated his name—so did he, by the way—so I’m testing out a few new ones.” I know I’m giving too much information, but I can’t stop myself. My cheeks are warm and must be as red as my hair.

I grab Max/Waffles/Zeus and press him against my chest. He turns his head and licks my neck with his disturbingly long tongue.

“Ugh. Gross.”

At that, the man laughs.

“I’m Kellen Bassey.” Behind him, the players are skating around into their positions for the next drill.

I know.

“Hi. I’m Lucy. Lucy Knox. Nice to meet you. Atticus… has mentioned you.”

“And Atticus has mentioned you .” He blinks slowly at me, like a judgmental cat, his eyes holding onto mine like a vise.

How much has my brother talked about me to his teammates? He’s probably told them all the worst parts of me. Isn’t that what siblings do ?

I swallow and pull at the neckline of my sleeveless blue top, which I paired with casual jeans for my first day of work.

In one swift movement, Kellen pulls off his helmet and runs his hand through sweat-damp hair. Does my jaw drop, with my tongue lolling out like a cartoon character? Probably. How is it fair that he looks so good when he’s this sweaty? I’m not one to swoon over athletes, but Kellen Bassey is something else.

And somehow, that makes my humiliation even worse.

“You alright?” Kellen settles his helmet back on his head.

“Yeah, of course.” I make an effort to close my mouth, so I don’t look like a gaping goldfish. “My dog, just, you know. He’s kind of crazy. Anyway. I’m the new PR person, covering Fiona while she’s out on mat leave. So if you need anything to do with PR, I’m your girl.” I make a weird swooping gesture with my hand.

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

Kellen lets out a noncommittal murmur and raises his eyebrows.

“Kellie!” A player calls from the ice. “Come on!”

“Well, welcome to Fort Collins.” Kellen taps the glass panel and gently pulls the door in between us shut until it clicks securely, then skates away with confident, smooth strides.

I groan. If you need anything to do with PR? I didn’t really say that, did I? And… I’m your girl? Oh my god. Way to sound professional. But I guess that ship sailed when my dog peed on the ice.

Good first day.

At least I’m here for just one season. If all goes as planned, at the end of my temporary contract, I’ll be packing up to head to my dream job.

So it doesn’t matter what this man thinks of me.

I’m not trying to find a new fiancé, or a boyfriend, or anybody like that. What I am trying to get is my dream job with a big soccer club in England: Winchester Football Club.

Farther away from my father. And my ex .

Back to working for a professional soccer team, except this time getting the job all on my own.

I’ve got a phone interview coming up in a few weeks. If I pass the phone interview, I’ll do a video interview… And if I pass that stage, I get to fly to England for a final, in-person interview in January.

I need to kick ass at this temporary PR job because I’m determined not to use my father as a reference. And my work might involve Kellen Bassey, so I’ll have to hope and pray that he forgets and/or forgives this unfortunate incident.

The best thing about Fort Collins is it’s 1500 miles from D.C., my father, my ex, my old job, my former life entirely.

Do I already need to get away from Colorado?

Good thing that England is—I do a quick calculation in my head—4500 miles from here.

And the sooner I get there, the better.