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One

West

I can’t believe she’s here, asking that .

The locker room is packed, full of reporters and bloggers, all of whom are looking for their next viral moment, and Isabelle—Belle—Harrison is here with her phone shoved close to my face, the screen showing she’s recording our conversation, all while she’s asking that .

I grind my teeth, striving for patience.

For control.

Because I haven’t seen this woman since we were both sixteen and she dumped me right before I got on the bus for my first game in the juniors.

I spent the long ass drive through frozen plains, desperate for a mountain or lake or rolling hill and only seeing dry and white and snow-covered, all while nursing a broken heart.

No. Not broken.

Eviscerated. Shredded. Stomped on.

Then…the anger came.

By the time I hit the ice, I was pissed. An angry motherfucker who wanted to draw blood—probably why I went out and had my best game ever.

And I haven’t seen her since.

Until now.

Until she’s asking a question I don’t want to fucking answer.

The only positive to this shit show is that no one is paying attention to us.

The one reporter who was hovering near her shoulder, closing in, trying to edge her out has given up and moved on to another player, and because I’m not one of the stars on the team, Belle and the male reporter were the only two interested in speaking to me after the game.

Meanwhile, Rome is surrounded, everyone wanting a sound bite from our captain.

King is similarly encircled, his last name, Bang, synonymous with hockey royalty. He and his four brothers all play in the league, and their father before them had made his name in the NHL first.

The Bang Brothers are famous…and infamous .

And King is going to surpass all of them in records and games played and points garnered.

Me? I’m a grinder.

I’m living the dream—I’m doing the job I fantasized about as a little kid. I have a house, a nice car, money in the bank, and I’m secure in my life.

So, of course she’s here now .

Asking that shit.

I glance to the right, see that my teammates are occupied with each other and the rest of the press corps.

Then I glance to the left, seeing a similar scene playing out.

Then I make a split-second decision.

I stand up.

Okay, so that may not seem like much of a decision, but standing isn’t the only thing I do—or plan to do, anyway.

Of course, Belle derails that.

Funny that.

Her derailing my plans.

It’s like she’s born to do it.

Like she’s planned to.

When I stand, I do it quickly, so quickly that she stumbles backward, eyes going wide.

Mine aren’t wide. They’re dragging down the front of her body—noticing that while her face has barely aged over the last decade, her body sure as fuck has grown up.

She’s curved in all the right places. Tits I want to bury my face in. Hips that are perfectly shaped so that I can hold on tight as I plunge deep. God, I bet her ass is fantastic.

I don’t get the chance to appreciate it, though.

Because she’s still skittering backward…toward the Eagles logo on the carpet.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I sway forward, wrapping an arm around her middle, drawing her to a halt.

“Wh—?”

“Don’t step on the logo,” I mutter.

“The what—?” She freezes, eyes going wide again, head jerking to look over her shoulder and down at the eagle emblazoned on the floor. “Oh,” she whispers. “The logo .”

I nod, and I know I have a choice—I can release her, ignore her question, finish getting changed, and go home to my nice house, my nice life, my nice bank account. Or I can do…

What I do next.

Which is to say, I don’t really have a choice.

I’ve already made the decision.

I tighten my arm around her middle, draw her flush against me, enjoying the feel of those lush tits against my side for a moment before she starts protesting and I start moving, bringing her along with me as I slip out of the locker room door and into the hall.

The space is quiet, all the action taking place inside where the guys and press are.

Still, I know it’s a lucky coincidence.

After games are busy times, and it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along.

Which is why I move quickly, dragging her forward, ignoring her sputtered protests, and shoving through one of the doors.

I release her once we’re inside the empty office, flicking on the lights as I close the door behind us.

Then I turn to the woman who broke my heart and ask a question of my own,

“What the fuck are you doing here after all this time, Belle?”