Page 4 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)

As soon as we walk in, a gorgeous girl with a dark, shampoo-commercial-perfect mane notices us and calls out, “Hey, Mindy! Over here!”

Mindy grabs my hand and leads me to the table. She gives the girl a hug before introducing me by saying, “This is my friend, Bree.”

I scan the group during a chorus of “Hi, Bree!” and finally look at the guy I’m standing next to.

Holy shit! It’s Jon Snow in the flesh.

I’m taken aback by his smooth, youthful face and the amazing wavy, brown hair that hangs just past his ears, which makes him look like Kit Harington when he’s playing his Game of Thrones character, Jon Snow.

Except I’m pretty sure he’s one of the hockey players Mindy mentioned we’d be meeting, not a member of the Night’s Watch.

Once introductions are over, I’ve learned everyone’s names and how they match up. Auden and Aleksandr are married, and Kristen and Pavel “might as well be married,” according to Mindy.

The sexy Jon Snow lookalike’s name is Luke, but I don’t know who he matches up with since there isn’t another girl at the table. Maybe she’s in the bathroom.

Or maybe he and Mindy are a couple?

But then, she would be standing next to him and he would’ve been the one to call out to her, right?

At work, one of my best traits is making quick assessments of a situation. After years of training and honing the craft, it’s hard for me to turn off my brain. It’s annoying when it seeps into everyday life. I remind myself to stop analyzing and have fun with new people.

“We just finished our drinks and were waiting for you to head to the next bar. Is that cool?” Kristen asks.

Mindy and I nod and follow the group outside. The sun beats down on my face, warming my skin, and I can practically feel the freckles popping across my nose and cheeks. The comfort reminds me of home.

We head into The French Quarter. With such a promising name, I expect it to have that unmistakable, funky New Orleans vibe like I just stepped in from Bourbon Street.

No such luck.

“Well, this is a bit disappointing,” I mumble once we’re inside.

“Why?” Luke asks.

His voice startles me though I knew he’d been lagging a few steps behind the group, holding his phone to the sky. I wasn’t sure if he was taking photos of something or trying to get a better signal. Either way, I shouldn’t be so aware of his actions after just meeting him.

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?” I ask.

Luke nods. “Multiple times.”

Our group tries to wiggle through the crowd to get to the bar and gets separated in the chaos. I think it’s Mindy who shouts that someone stepped on her. Hanging back with Luke was definitely the better choice. “Then you know what I mean.”

“Oh!” He looks around the restaurant as if noticing the disappointing decor for the first time, or maybe he’s seeing it from a newbie’s perspective. His head bobs up and down. “Yeah, it’s definitely not authentic.”

Panels of frosted glass adorned with The French Quarter lion logo and classic Greek-drama comedy and tragedy masks hang above the gorgeous oak bar.

The frosted glass is encircled with stained-glass flowers in bright purples, golds, and greens.

It doesn’t look like New Orleans at all, but at least the colors are correct.

“I mean—” I point to the wall across from the bar where there’s a sketch of buildings on Bourbon Street with a random strand of purple beads hanging from one corner of the frame.

“Hey! They have masks,” Luke quips.

He’s right. On the wall next to the sketch are a few random Mardi Gras-themed masks, complete with brightly colored feathers. Other than those types of things scattered about, it’s pretty nondescript.

“It reminds me more of Greece,” I say though there’s no conviction in my voice. “Or maybe a Greek interpretation of New Orleans.”

Maybe I’m psychic. Or exceptionally skilled in recognizing a Greek-owned spot.

Separating the bar area from the restaurant seating is a half wall painted in the colors of the Greek flag: cyan blue with white panel molding.

“Have you ever been to Greece?” Luke asks, mimicking my New Orleans comment to him.

“I have,” I say quietly. I hope my assessment of the restaurant didn’t sound snooty because that’s not what I intended. Maybe I should temper my expectations of Charlotte. I already know it’s no LA or New York.

“Really?” Luke pulls back slightly as if surprised. “That’s a bucket-list trip for me.”

I don’t like to brag about the vacations I’ve taken with my family, but I’m not going to lie about places where I’ve been either.

Before I have a chance to say more about it, he nods to the bar where our friends have found a spot to stand. “Kristen’s been there, too. She’s Greek. Probably why she always drags us here.”

Speaking of Kristen, we both turn when we hear her voice ring through the crowd. “Luke! Bree! Get over here and toast with us!”

“What are we toasting?” Mindy asks as Luke and I join our friends.

“It’s not an occasion,” Luke says. “The Russians toast to everything. Gribsy brushed his teeth this morning! Hey!” He lifts an invisible glass. “Varenkov blinked. Hey!”

I remember the custom well. “Life is meant to be celebrated,” I chirp.

“Bree is exactly right,” Aleksandr says, handing me a shot of clear liquid, which I assume, without trying to sound stereotypical, is vodka, given the present company. “Many people think the toast is always the same. ‘ Za zdaróvye! ’ Which means?—”

“To your health,” I finish, lifting my shot glass.

Aleksandr’s eyes widen and his lips pull into a smile.

“You speak Russian?” he asks in English, thankfully.

“No, but one of my father’s best friends is Russian, so I’ve heard the toast many times.”

No reason to mention my break-up with Arkady Stepurin, the son of Dad’s aforementioned friend. Leaving Arkady behind was a huge catalyst for my decision to become a traveling nurse and get the hell out of California.

Since coming up through the USA hockey system, and playing in the NCAA after that, Dad has friends in every league and every country. He and former Anaheim defenseman (now assistant coach) Igor Stepurin grew close fast.

Igor played with the Ducks his entire career, and Dad knew guys on the team. Those connections, along with their mutual interests in outdoor activities like hiking and water sports, created a friendship that’s still going strong.

As their bromance blossomed, Mom and Anna, Igor’s wife, were thrown together whether they liked it or not. But Mom is an opportunist—in the best way possible—and roped Anna into being the face of multiple advertising campaigns. The business relationship helped seal their friendship.

When we moved to our current house, Igor and Anna bought the place next door the day it went on the market. The Stepurin family and ours are intertwined in so many ways.

Which made leaving town an absolute necessity after finding out Arkady had cheated on me when he traveled to play away games. It’s not like I was head over heels in love—or all that surprised—but having been together for two years, ours had been my longest relationship.

Betrayal is going to hurt no matter what, but—to add another layer to the almost incestuous relationship—Arkady is also my brother’s best friend.

In hindsight, I never should’ve gotten involved with someone so tied to our family. But how could I not?

Falling for the literal boy next door is straight out of a romance novel. Though I’ve used the last few years to focus on my career, I’ll be the first to admit I want a love story someday.

But not with a hockey player. I swore off them after Arkady.

Dad and Mason gave me an insider’s eye into the mindset and priorities of a professional athlete.

His career—and quest for being the best—comes before everything else.

And if a woman wants to be with him, she has to want to be there for the ride.

She has to understand he will be gone most of the time.

He will have complete focus on the game, a borderline cockiness, and the selfishness—maybe even loneliness—that comes with that profession.

That’s not the life I want. I want someone who can have a career but always put our relationship first. A job should be the means to have the kind of life you want, not what you put ahead of everything and everyone.

It may be my own selfishness shining through. I have dreams and don’t want to sacrifice those for someone else. In my ideal relationship, we should be able to grow and pursue our life goals together.

I totally understand why Mom didn’t want to be a hockey wife.

Luke takes a half step closer to me to accept the shot Pavel hands him, which gives me an excuse to check him out again.

His lean, muscular arms are covered in tattoos.

Full sleeves, I’m sure, though I can only see the parts not concealed by his T-shirt.

Bits of ink creep out of his collar, and it’s so hot I want to lick every ink-covered inch of him.

I’m curious to see what else he has under there—maybe piercings?

A shiver ripples through me at the thought of the places Luke might have piercings. With all the crazy things that run through my head, sometimes I think I should’ve been a writer instead of a nurse.

Once everyone has a shot in hand, we raise our glasses and Pasha says, “ Za nashu druzjbu! ”

Translation: To our friendship!

Everyone tries to repeat the phrase except Luke, who says, “Hey!”

“No Russian for you?” I ask him as I lean over and slide my empty shot glass onto the bar. When I straighten, I make sure to brush my arm across Luke’s stomach.

His abs tighten at my touch. His lips curve into a sexy smile as he scans my body. His gaze stops at my chest before coming back up to my eyes. I almost wish I’d taken a pair of scissors to my T-shirt and modified it like Mindy had. I’m not lacking in the boob department.

“I never say it right, so I stopped. I think they appreciate that I quit butchering their native tongue.”