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CHAPTER 1

SCARLETT

EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

“ N o means no,” I snap to the man on my left as I push him off me.

Man is generous. Asshole is too nice. There is no appropriate word for this poor excuse for a human who thinks he can kiss me without warning. Is fuckface also too nice? I feel like it is.

Yes, it’s the obligatory kiss cam while we wait for the Zamboni, but I don’t know anything about this man—except he claims he’s the uncle of one of the players—and I’m now regretting coming to this stupid game. It was supposed to be a fun night out for my friend’s birthday, with free tickets my brother reserved for us. I’d rather be anywhere but here; I barely follow hockey, and now have someone trying to make out with me.

“Come on! It’s for the?—“

Slam!

The goalie bangs one on the divider, the loud thud startling everyone. He rips off his helmet as he shouts, “She said no!”

Eyes wide and mouth agape, the makeout king to my left slinks into his seat. Of course, the whole thing makes the jumbotron. Whistles and applause fill the stadium, and the cameramen finally move on to an actual couple. My heart is still stuck in my throat, but Mr. Goalie smirks and offers a wink. I can’t help biting my lip as I watch him skate over to talk to one of the coaches.

Campbell. Number thirty-five. The Train.

“Scar! I saw the whole thing!” Rachel laughs, finally returning from her excursion. The man to my left is too embarrassed to stay, and I couldn’t care less where he’s going, as long as his musk cologne is out of my space.

“ Calisse ,” I mutter under my breath, then clear my throat to ask, “What whole thing?”

“Our hot goalie coming to defend your honor.” She hands me a beer, but I don’t think I can stomach it. “Do you know him?”

“No,” I reply with a quick shake of my head, then brave a quick sip of the beer. It barely touches my lips before I have to set it down—hops and I aren’t friends.

“Then why does he keep looking over here?”

“He’s not.” I glance over again. It has to be a coincidence, but with most of his face covered, it’s hard to tell if he’s looking at me or just in our direction.

From the small glimpses I’ve seen of him tonight, he’s actually quite attractive—for an athlete. It’s a shame my brother is one of the assistant coaches; he’d frown upon me going home with one of his players. I check where I saw my brother last, finding his eyes on me. His gaze is murderous, though he could be pissed at the man who tried to maul me.

“It’s too bad you’re not wearing his number,” she teases. “Could’ve been fate.” We’re both wearing generic Caribou tees I bought from an online fan shop a week ago, a far cry from a numbered jersey. There is no fate here.

As the second period begins, we’re only up one-zero. As a physical therapist for a soccer team, I’m used to low-scoring games, but this is boring . No fights, no injuries, no close calls. I’m only grateful the douchebag from earlier hasn’t returned to his seat.

The next hour is more of the same, except we’re now up two-zero, with Campbell deflecting everything coming his way. There’s only three minutes left; the game is essentially over. I tell Rachel I’m going to use the restroom before the rush and that I’ll meet her at the top when it’s over. After what has to be one of the most underwhelming games I’ve seen, we make our way to the team store—something about her wanting a ‘Beaver’ jersey. I don’t recall anyone with the name Beaver playing tonight, but I’m also not familiar with the team’s roster.

As we’re browsing, a television broadcasts post-game highlights on a few screens. The volume’s off, but I read the captions as Campbell addresses the press.

The woman from the kiss cam—how do you know her?

I don’t, but my parents have always taught me that if you see something, say something. She was uncomfortable, and I would’ve wanted someone to do the same for a friend.

Sources say the woman is Scarlett North, the sister of your assistant coach.

Sources? What sources? How the hell do they know who I am?

Campbell’s eyes widen, and it takes him a moment to respond.

I had no idea. I suppose it’ll get me out of cardio with Coach North at four tomorrow morning.

Rachel slides up beside me and coos, “Oh, look, it’s your new boyfriend.” I roll my eyes, but this Campbell guy is sinfully gorgeous, and my stomach has been doing little flips ever since my kiss cam debacle. “Here. I got you something.”

Rach hands me a bag and it only takes a quick peek to see what she bought me. “Where am I supposed to wear this?” I chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s not as if I can wear it to a game back home.”

“Why not? I’m sure they play Québec City at some point.” She shrugs. “Then again, I doubt there are many Vancouver fans there. They might kick you out.”

“They probably would,” I laugh. “It’s your birthday! I should be buying you a gift, not the other way around.”

She waves me off and we make our way out of the shop. “I showed the man my tits and he gave me a discount.” There’s a fifty-percent chance she’s telling the truth.

“Well, if that’s the case, you should’ve bought two.”

“I did!” Rachel reaches into her other bag, pulling out a jersey. “I wouldn’t dare wear your boyfriend’s number, so I got Beav’s. He’s a defenseman. You do know what a defenseman is, right?”

“Yes,” I lie. While I enjoy watching a game once in a while, I was the girl with her nose in a book when I was growing up, all the way through college. When I do see a game in person or on TV, I watch more for the fights than the game itself. “And he’s not my boyfriend! I’ve never even met him.” I smack her shoulder, and she giggles before putting on the oversized jersey. She gestures for me to do the same; I reluctantly shrug it on. “What do you say we get out of here and have a real dinner, maybe a properly made cocktail? A burger sounds amazing.”

“I know just the place.”