Page 1 of No Shot (The Toronto Tundra #2)

Penn

It ’ s the start of the new season, which means it ’ s time to ‘ focus up ’ as Jack Brody—my ex-best friend—would say.

I have one year left on my entry-level contract, and I have to work a hundred times harder to secure another deal at the end of the season.

Am I talented? Sure. Constantly developing?

Yes. Ridiculously handsome? Obviously. It ’ s my dedication, though, that keeps coming into question.

Do I have what it takes to stay in the NHL for the long run?

Am I committed enough to make it happen for myself?

Will I ever be more than just the kid with potential?

I ’ ve heard the criticism a million times, and yet my internal answer always stays the same.

I don ’ t know . I sure as hell am going to try, though.

This brings us to why I ’ m here, sitting alone at this chain restaurant on a Friday night, eating a grilled chicken wrap, drinking an iced tea, and trying desperately to write in my new manifestation journal.

Trying being the operative word here because I have no fucking clue what I ’ m doing.

Normally, I ’ d be three beers deep, hanging out at our favorite club, before raiding Jack ’ s pantry for snacks and crashing on his couch.

Those good times are over, though, since his ultimate betrayal, and I ’ ve been giving him the silent treatment ever since.

Yes, I ’ m being petty and maybe a little dramatic, but it ’ s one hundred percent justified.

The guy spends all summer at a cottage with his girlfriend and then decides, out of the blue, that they are going to find a new place together for the season. Not only will I never see him again, but that means I ’ m now going to have some rando as my new neighbor.

So, naturally, I ’ ve decided to shun him.

He did invite me over tonight to see his new place, but we ’ re in a fight—or at least I ’ m in a fight with him—so obviously I ignored his text like the mature adult I am.

I almost caved when I noticed I had forgotten to stock my fridge yet again.

Mia, his girlfriend, would almost certainly have a dozen cookies for me to choose from if I had stopped by, but I stayed strong.

I clearly need to get used to hanging by myself. It ’ s obvious the only one who won ’ t abandon me, is me. So, here I am, sitting like a loner at this oak bartop. At least it ’ s better than sitting alone in a booth.

As always, the thought of cookies, or really snacks of any kind, elicits a low rumble from my stomach.

Taking another bite of my wrap, I reopen my notebook and jot down a new manifestation.

Under ‘ this will be my best year yet ’ , ‘ I will score tons of goals this season ’ , ‘ the Toronto Tundra will re-sign me ’ , and ‘ my body will be free from injury ’ I write ‘ I will stay on top of adulting and keep my apartment stocked with food ’ .

Here ’ s hoping this thing actually works, because I ’ m pretty sure my days of unlimited access to the pantry next door are over.

It ’ s getting busier in here by the second.

I clearly picked the quieter side of the bar because past the glass liquor shelving, I can see around to the other side, where a crowd of guys are starting to get pretty rowdy.

My time of dedicated, quiet, self-reflection looks like it ’ s coming to an end.

Just as I shove the last bite of my wrap into my mouth, someone rounds the corner and catches my eye .

She, most certainly, doesn ’ t look like she belongs in a place like this while looking like that .

My gaze makes its way down her body. Her short, brown hair is in soft curls, and she ’ s wearing a white, long-sleeved turtle neck tucked into a black, flowy skirt.

I linger on the few inches of exposed skin between the hem of her skirt and the sheer thigh-high socks.

Jesus Christ. I swallow hard before forcing myself to take a sip from my glass.

The cool drink provides a welcome reprieve to my gawking, helping me to center my thoughts.

I flip my notebook open again, this time to the page I ’ ve tabbed, and stare down at the date written in the center of the sheet.

August 1st. The day I decided it was time to stop chasing girls around the city and focus on myself.

No more messing around, no more random hookups, and no more pointless distractions.

Letting out a quick breath, I remind myself how far I ’ ve come already. That ’ s what—nearly six weeks of no sex? I ’ m strong, I can do this. Stay focused, Penn.

My returned focus lasts all of ten seconds before the girl takes the spot two seats over, and a whiff of her scent hits me.

It ’ s warm, delicious—almost like a caramel—and I shamelessly take a deep breath in letting it fill my system.

I ’ m supposed to be encouraged by the fact that I ’ ve abstained from sex this long, but instead, I ’ m painfully reminded just how long six weeks really is.

I turn my head ever so slightly and watch as she wraps her fingers around the beer bottle in front of her and slowly raises it to her mouth.

She closes her eyes as she takes a long swig.

The hum of satisfaction that leaves her pouty, pink lips causes my balls to ache, and I have to clear my throat to cover the groan that threatens to slip out.

I ’ m acting like a deprived, horny teenager. I force my head forward, but my attention is pulled back to her again when she lets out an irritated huff.

“ Go on, let ’ s hear it.”

I ’ m surprised to see her staring back at me.

I can tell she ’ s trying to look tough with her jaw clenched and brows pinched together.

She has a baby face, though, with full cheeks and round eyes that, even in this dull lighting, are the most captivating shade of blue.

Honestly, it ’ s like looking at an angry chipmunk. Just plain adorable.

“ Pardon me?” I say, trying to make sense of how I ’ ve managed to tick her off in the thirty seconds of being in her vicinity.

The eye roll my reply garners has me holding back a smirk.

“ I said, let ’ s hear it. Just give me your line so I can shut you down already, and I can enjoy my beer in peace.

” She ’ s feisty, the bite in her reply instantly lifting my mood.

Looks like this night won ’ t be so bad, after all.

My new mission for the evening? Seeing how riled I can get this little chipmunk.

This is going to be fun.

“ A bit presumptuous of you, don ’ t you think?” I try my best to give a fake offended look.

“ Oh, please, you ’ ve been eye-fucking me since I sat down. Just get it over with. I ’ m waiting.” I ’ ve gotta say, I was not expecting the mouth of a sailor, but damn does it ever make this more entertaining.

“ Uh, pass.” I make a point to pivot my chair forward again, fully pleased with myself.

I ’ m waiting for her retort, but when it doesn ’ t come, I sneak a glance back at her.

The disappointment hits my gut when I realize she didn ’ t take the bait.

I spot her scrolling on her phone, holding her nearly empty beer in her other hand.

“ So, uh,” I start.

A sarcastic chuckle slips from her lips. “ Knew it,” she mumbles to herself before turning to me with an expectant stare.

“ What do you know, smart-guy?”

She huffs again, clearly not about to grace me with any sort of reply. That ’ s fine.

“ All I was going to say before you decided to interrupt me, chatty, was—”

“ Oh, please. You—” The corner of my mouth turns up as I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow at her. Oh, little chipmunk, I didn ’ t think you ’ d fall for it that easily.

She narrows her eyes in response, biting her tongue as she takes the final sip from her drink.

“ As I was saying, grumpy…” I wait a moment, assessing her reaction to the apt nickname. Her eyes flare. She ’ s easily riled, as I expected. Staring at her like this, it hits me even harder how fucking beautiful she is. No wonder guys have been clawing at her all night.

This is fun as hell, but spending the rest of the night flirting may not bode well for my new manifestation goals. I almost consider leaving her be and going about my evening, almost.

“ Let me get this straight. You came to a bar, on a Friday night, by yourself and didn ’ t expect guys to hit on you? You know, for a sexy librarian, that doesn ’ t sound very smart.”

It looks like she ’ s getting ready to quip back, painted fingernails drumming against the bartop. For a split second, though, her expression changes, and I question if she ’ ll actually rise above my goading… I hope not.

“ God, does this insulting thing really work for you?”

“ Insulting? I just called you sexy. I thought you ’ d be wooed.”

“ Wooed? Do I look fucking wooed to you, Shakespeare? Who even says stuff like that anyway?”

“ I do.” I stretch my arm out to shake her hand. “ Penn. And you are?”

“ Grumpy. Thought we already established that, try to keep up.” Damn, her snark gets me going.

Something I should definitely dig a little deeper into, but what can I say, a little bullying keeps things exciting.

“ Can we stay on track here, Crayon? Give me your line already so I can rip it to shreds.”

Her tone is wholly annoyed, and it takes me a second to process what she just said. As the realization hits, I can ’ t even try to conceal my smirk. Crayon—that ’ s a good one.

“ Mmm, a little weak with that one, Grumps. I much prefer Marker, if you ’ re taking requests.” That elicits the tiniest crack of a smile from her and it lights up my whole fucking body.

“ Damn, you ’ re really trying to avoid giving me your go-to line…”

“ You don ’ t need a line with a face like mine.” I make a point to brush my fingers through my hair before giving her an exaggerated wink. “ I have all the ladies lining up for a shot to be Mrs. Crayola.”