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FORD

“You’re not done! More! More!”

Sweat stings my eyes and my muscles burn.

I hop laterally onto my left leg, bending that knee, and touch my right knee to the mat.

Then the opposite.

One side, then the other.

“Explosive!” Victor yells.

“ Explode up from the mat!”

I push harder.

“Faster!”

“Mother fucker !” I’m dying.

“Two more!”

Hop-bend-explode.

Hop-bend-explode.

“Last one!”

Oh, fuck, yeah.

I finish, my legs trembling like cranberry sauce that just slid out of a can.

I drop onto the floor, flat on my back, arms spread wide.

“You’re trying to kill me,” I gasp.

Victor, the evil fucker, laughs.

“And you’re paying me to do it.”

I huff out a laugh too, staring at the ceiling of the Long Island warehouse that holds Victor’s training facility.

He’s not wrong.

I’m paying him a lot.

“The faster you are, the more coordinated you are, the more conditioned you are, the more shutouts you get.”

“I get lots of shutouts.” I smirk.

“How many last season?”

“Six.”

“What’s the most an NHL goalie has ever gotten in a season?”

Fuck.

He knows I know this.

“George Hainsworth. Twenty-two.”

“Uh huh.” He crosses his arms and grins.

“Something to work towards.”

“That was in 1929!”

“Still. Lots of goalies have gotten more than six in a season.”

“I can do more than six this season.” I was proud of six shutouts last season.

It was the most in the league, and I only played about half the games.

Damn him.

“Cocky bastard.”

I grin.

“Just confident.”

He nudges my leg with the toe of his running shoe.

“Okay, we’re done for today. Go eat some protein and hydrate.”

I’ve been coming here five days a week for the last three months, pretty much the whole off season after our playoffs ended in May.

Victor trains elite hockey players—I’m not the only one here, but I’m the only goalie.

Victor has his own unique philosophy about training.

He watched me play and analyzed my biomechanics and movement patterns, and designed a program specifically for me.

We’ve been working on it all summer and now it’s only a few weeks until training camp starts.

I swear he’s rewired my brain.

In a good way.

I roll over and climb to my feet as a woman walks into the gym.

She’s pretty and blonde and carrying a baby on her hip.

She waves at Xander, one of my training companions, just coming out of the locker room.

He breaks into a big smile at the sight of his wife and baby.

“Hi, Sage.” I’ve met Xander’s wife a couple of times.

“Hi, Ford. Looks like you’ve been working hard.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sweat is dripping off me.

I stop near her and look at the baby.

“How’s the little guy?” Shit, I can’t remember his name.

“Good! He’s getting so big! Want to hold him?”

“No.” I take a quick step back.

“That’s okay. I’m, uh, all sweaty.” I give the baby a fake smile.

“Hey, kid. Do you like sharks?”

The baby gazes back at me with a tiny wrinkle between his eyes.

“Sharks?” Sage laughs.

“What?”

I shrug.

“I like sharks. They’re fascinating. Did you know they can’t swim backwards?” I ask the kid.

“And they don’t usually want to eat humans. They just want a taste to see if it’s anything good.”

The baby’s bottom lip pushes out.

Uh oh.

That doesn’t look good.

Then his mouth opens and his eyes squint up.

“Waaaaah!”

I blink at him.

Wow.

He can really yell loud.

“Oh, no. Leo, shhh.” Sage bounces him and tries to comfort him.

He continues to wail loud enough to pierce eardrums.

“Shhh. It’s okay. There are no sharks here.” She casts me an unhappy look.

“Let’s go.”

Xander frowns at me and follows his wife out of the building.

Yikes.

The kid can’t understand about sharks, can he?

I was just jabbering.

Oh, well.

I shake my head and head to the locker room to change and head home.

Babies never like me.

Kids do, sometimes, because I’m fun.

But it doesn’t matter.

I don’t want kids.

Or a wife.

I don’t need anyone else in my life.

My work is my life.

My condo is in Hoboken, a nice place in a trendy neighborhood.

I park in the underground garage and ride the elevator to the seventh floor.

There are only two units on each floor, which is a bonus.

I walk into my place and hang my keys on the hook near the door where I always hang them, then head to the kitchen.

I left my planner on the counter there and I sit on a stool and look it over.

I still have to meditate and do my eye exercises.

And eat dinner.

This morning I did a load of laundry before I left, but I have to put it all away and I’ve scheduled cleaning the fridge for today.

I decide what order I’ll do things in and then get busy.

Dinner is leftover tahini-lemon chicken that I grilled yesterday, along with a salad.

No cucumbers.

Half an avocado.

I guzzle down water while I prepare it.

I like meditating on the rooftop deck of the building when the weather cooperates.

It’s a nice late summer day so I go up there with my yoga mat, dressed in my white taekwondo Dobak—pants only.

It’s warm up here.

This is a nice spot with lots of shrubs and plants in natural wood planters.

Peaceful.

There’s a gas barbecue and patio furniture, but I’m usually the only one up here.

I roll out my mat onto the wooden deck and get myself comfortably seated.

First, I focus on my breath.

Then I do a body scan.

Yeah, I’m sore.

But it feels good.

It feels like I accomplished something.

Like I’m getting stronger.

Better.

Breathe.

I think about my goals.

To be the best goaltender.

To be the number one goaltender for the New Jersey Storm.

I’ve been part of a goaltending tandem for the last three seasons, but this year I want to be the number one goalie.

Everyone knows I’m better than Pavel Bendik.

I should be getting most of the starts.

This past summer, I worked my perfectly shaped ass off to make myself even better.

Breathe.

How do I feel about my goals?

Pressure?

Excitement?

Right now…

I feel positive.

Challenged.

I can do it.

I will do it.

After my meditation I do some eye-strengthening exercises that help me track the puck—looking side to side, up, down, diagonal, without moving my head.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Standing off to the side is Andi Marsh, my next-door neighbor, the woman who lives in the other condo on my floor.

She’s watching me with wide-eyed amusement, on the verge of outright laughter.

There was a time in my life when that would have stung me.

Now I just go with it.

If you’re going to be weird, do it with confidence.

“I didn’t hear you come out here.” I push up to stand.

“Clearly.” Now she dissolves into giggles, almost doubling over.

“That looked so weird!”

“I don’t care.” I smile back at her.

“I’m strengthening my eye muscles.”

“Oooookay.”

She looks good.

Better than she did a year ago after her dickwad of a husband cheated on her and left her.

I run my gaze over her, taking in her messy dark blonde hair, brown eyes dancing with mirth behind big tortoiseshell glasses, and wide, inviting smile.

She’s wearing a loose white shirt and cut-off denim shorts.

Yes, my eyes might linger on her long, smooth legs.

“You must have had Lucky Charms for breakfast today.”

She blinks.

“What? Why?”

“Because you look magically delicious.”

Her lips quirk but she rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“That is so bad.”

I grin.

“But true. So, what’s up?”

“I need a favor.”

I groan with exaggerated dismay.

“Another one?”

I’m just razzing her.

She doesn’t ask me for many favors, and when she does I always agree.

I’ve never been able to say no to her.

That makes it sound like she takes advantage of me, and she totally does not.

I know it bugs her when she needs help with something.

Sometimes I step in and offer to help before she asks because I know she’ll break her brain trying to put IKEA furniture together before she’ll admit she needs help.

After her divorce, she bought a new bed and built it herself.

The next morning, it collapsed with her on it.

I teased her about headboard-banging sex, but I knew she was alone.

And I grabbed an Allen wrench and got to work so the slats were in right side up.

While definitely not thinking about how I was making her bed safe for headboard-banging sex.

I’m a selfish asshole focused on one thing and one thing only—my career.

Especially this year.

But even a selfish asshole like me has some compassion.

There’s something about Andi that makes me want to keep an eye out for her.

It was hard seeing how low she was after her marriage ended, when she’s usually so cheerful and spirited.

And she’s a single woman used to having a man around.

Is that sexist?

Probably.

I don’t give a shit.

I’ll watch out for her since Trevor the Tool screwed her over.

I can’t believe I was friends with that guy.

Fuck him.

I am still friends with Andi, however.

Yes, she’s a woman.

Yes, I’d fuck her on the nearest available surface if she gave even a hint she was interested.

Which she has not.

But I don’t have time for romantic crap.

Anything more than hookups leads to plans, obligations, and responsibilities I don’t want.

“And this one’s huge.” She flashes an entreating smile.

“That’s what she said,” I smirk.

She cracks up laughing again.

“Okay. I need a date for the awards dinner next week.”

Right.

She told me she’s been nominated for some award by some business association.

“Are you finally asking me on a date?” I grin.

“ You’re single now. I’m single. Coincidence? I think not.”

I always make jokes like that.

She knows I’m not serious.

We’re just friends.

“It’s not a real date. I just don’t want to go alone. Elodie was going to come with me.” She names her friend.

“But she just got word she has to go to Dallas next week on business.”

“What about all those men you smash and dash?”

She frowns.

“Ew.”

“Hit and run? Screw and shoo?” I pause, thinking.

“Ride and hide?”

“Jesus. You make it sound so sleazy.”

“No judgment here, Marsh.” I shake my head.

“I don’t blame you for getting back on that horse.” No judgment because I’m the same.

Hit it and quit it.

“Like you’re any different.” She lifts an eyebrow.

I shrug.

“I don’t deny it.”

“So… can you come with me?”

Ugh.

I’d do almost anything for her, but it’s getting close to training camp and I’m really trying to stick to my plan.

My schedule.

“What day is the dinner?”

“Thursday. The season hasn’t started,” she adds cajolingly.

It hasn’t, but my work has.

“Thursday is the night I clean my floors.”

She bites her lip in an adorable yet hot way.

“I know.” She gives me an apologetic smile and blinks her long eyelashes at me.

Oh, hell.

“Maybe you could do that a little earlier that day?”

“I don’t know. I have training most of the day.”

“Maybe you could do it Friday?”

I consider that.

At length.

The last thing I want to do is go to an awards dinner where I’ll sit around eating rubber chicken with people I don’t know.

I also despise changing my schedule.

“Maybe. What do I get in return?”

She taps a forefinger to the center of her chin and looks skyward.

Cute.

“Hmmm. How about my special beer meatballs?”

She made these for me once before and I loved them.

The meatballs are cooked for hours in equal parts ketchup and beer.

It sounds gross but it’s really delicious.

Apparently, her mom used to make them.

I sigh.

“More food. When are you going to start trading sexual favors?”

Again, she laughs at my cheesy flirting.

“Fine,” I say.

“I’ll do it.”

Wait, did I just agree to it?

The words somehow popped out of my mouth.

Goddammit.

“Thank you!” She claps her hands together and her relief and glee make my heart trip.

“I really appreciate it.”

“You know I’m here for you.”

“I know.” She beams a smile.

“Do I need to wear a tux?”

“Do you even have a tux?”

“Of course I have a tux. Once a year I wear it for some charity event the team puts on.”

“Oh. Okay, well, no, it’s not that fancy. A suit is fine.”

“Okay.”

“Wait. Do you have a normal suit?”

I give her an offended look.

“What does that mean? My suits aren’t normal?”

“Please. You dress only slightly tamer than A$AP Rocky.”

“That’s an egregious exaggeration. I have never worn a kilt.”

“True. Just please don’t wear that red plaid suit.”

“I love that suit.”

“I know, and it would be great for a Christmas party, but this is an awards dinner.”

“I dunno, Marsh. If you want me to do you a favor, I don’t think you’re in any position to criticize my wardrobe.”

“You’re right.” She nods, abashed.

“Wear whatever you want.”

I can tell she doesn’t mean that.

“The leopard-print jacket is pretty sick. It looks great with black pants.”

She nods, feigning enthusiasm.

I laugh.

“Okay. What time should I pick you up?”

“We live next door to each other. I’ll meet you at the elevator at five-thirty. I’ll call an Uber.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you. Again. Are you done with your, uh, eye-strengthening exercises?”

“Yeah. But I’m going to practice some taekwondo patterns.”

“Okay.” She hesitates, her eyes dipping to my bare chest.

“Okay. I’ll leave you to it.”