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SEVENTEEN

Rowan

Blake didn’t leave until nearly five in the morning and we were both late getting to the airport. Luckily, we arrived separately so it didn’t look weird, but I woke up with the worst case of morning-after regret I’ve ever had.

Not because I was ashamed.

Not because it hadn’t been good.

Not even because I’d hooked up with my ex.

I regretted it because it was the best damn sex of my life, but we’d already agreed that it was a one-and-done kind of thing. A relationship wasn’t in the cards, so it absolutely can’t happen again, but I want it to.

Re-enacting our first time had been oddly romantic and sexy, reminding me of who we’d both been and also what we were when we were together.

Good.

Happy.

Relaxed.

Sex with Blake hadn’t been awkward the first time—beyond the uncertainty of our inexperience—and it wasn’t now, even after so many years apart. In fact, it was the best it had ever been, and it had been pretty damn good once we’d figured out what made us tick.

Now I’m on a plane, sitting in the front with Bristol, who’s busily tapping away on her laptop. I’m a workaholic, but she puts me to shame sometimes. She never stops. I take little breaks to chat with the guys or someone on the coaching staff, eat something, or just breathe. Bristol doesn’t. The only time I’ve ever seen her not actively working is the rare occasion we go out to eat, and I think she’s joined us at the bar on a road trip just once since she got hired.

As a woman, I get that she has something to prove—we all do—but it’s wild how focused she can be.

Today, the tap-tapping of her nails on her keyboard is driving me nuts.

“Do you have to work?” I ask, nudging her in what I hope is a playful manner that belies how annoyed I am. I’m not mad at her, obviously, but it feels like everything is getting on my last nerve.

Bristol freezes and then slides a curious glance my way. “What?”

“Sorry.” I blow out a breath. “I’m agitated. Don’t mind me.”

She snaps her laptop shut and turns to me. “Okay. What do we need to talk about?”

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question?

Not that I can tell her that I just spent the night getting horizontal with my ex-boyfriend. Who happens to be playing for the Phantoms now.

“Do you date?” I blurt instead.

She blinks.

Then understanding dawns.

I don’t know how, or what exactly she knows, but she knows.

Something.

“Well… yes and no. I don’t date within the hockey industry, and since this is all I do right now, I haven’t been meeting guys who aren’t somehow related to hockey.”

“How come you don’t date within the industry?” I ask, even though I probably know the answer.

“Well, first and foremost is the no fraternization clause,” she says matter-of-factly. “But I wouldn’t date a player anyway.” She mock shudders. “They’re not…my type.”

Now I’m curious.

“Not your type? None of them? I mean, they’re all very different. You can’t compare Gabe to Connor—they’re worlds apart in looks, personality, even playing style. Not to mention the age gap.”

That gives her pause and she chews the inside of her cheek. “Okay, that’s fair, but what I mean is, in general, they’re a bunch of insecure, narcissistic man whores who want a—” She drops her voice. “—supermodel on their arm and someone with the patience of the saint the rest of the time, popping out babies and following them wherever they want to go. And that’s not me. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with that.”

“Sure, but don’t you think that’s an unfair stereotype?”

She shakes her head. “Statistics was my minor in college—along with communication—and the numbers don’t lie. The divorce rate in the U.S. is approximately fifty percent. Among pro athletes it’s around seventy percent.”

“Is it that high?” I murmur. For some reason that bothers me.

“There are scientific reasons why. For one thing, almost all of them devote their formative years to developing their physical abilities, so they don’t have the interpersonal skills necessary for a good marriage. In addition, the travel can be brutal, both for the athlete and the spouse left behind. It can be lonely, and there are always willing women. And finally, a lot of these guys start making a ridiculous amount of money at a very young age. It can be hard to manage, and they often get taken advantage of by women who aren’t interested in anything else. So it’s not entirely the athletes’ fault, but seriously, seventy percent. Why would I want to set myself up for those kinds of odds?”

I grimace.

Why, indeed.

“Jesus. I never thought about it like that.”

“Look for a nice, handsome chiropractor. Statistically, they’re a great choice in husband.”

A chiropractor?

I stare at her.

She stares back.

Then we both giggle.

“Dr. Feinstein?” I whisper, referring to the team’s middle-aged chiropractor. “Even if he was single…no.”

“You have to find them either in college or right after. They get scooped up quick.” She slowly opens her laptop again. “Forget about athletes, Rowan. It just leads to heartbreak.”

And then she goes back to tap-tapping on her computer.

Great.

Now I feel even worse.

I don’t think she knows anything happened with Blake and me, but she knows he’s the reason I asked her about dating. I saw it in her eyes.

And if she figured it out, other people who know me well will too.

The flight to Alaska is long, and by the time we get to the hotel, I’m tired. A group of guys are going to dinner, and they invite me, but I’m just going to hole up in my room with room service and a movie.

“Hey.” And of course, Blake winds up on the elevator with me.

“Hi.” I try to keep my voice friendly, but I probably sound as stilted and weird as I feel.

“You’re not okay.” It’s not a question, so I don’t bother to answer.

Hell, I don’t even look at him.

“Ro?” He gently turns me by the shoulders. “Why won’t you look at me? Are you upset about last night? Did I do something wrong?”

“Last night was incredible,” I say quietly, “but it can’t happen again.”

“We already talked about that—so why are you acting weird? Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad—I’m worried about my job!” I snap. Then I sigh. “Sorry. It’s just… no one says anything to you about who you can fuck. But my entire career could be on the line because I can’t control my hormones.”

The jerk actually chuckles. “I think you control them just fine. But this thing between us still burns hot. It’s hard to ignore.”

“But we have to,” I protest, my eyes snapping to his.

“I know.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “It’s just hard not to think about how good it was.”

“That’s the problem. That’s exactly why I’m being weird.”

“Babe, this thing between us isn’t going to go away just because you want it to or because we’re focused on the playoffs or any other excuse we come up with.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t risk it. This is my career, how I make a living, and I can’t just throw it away so I can get laid.”

Something flickers in his eyes that makes me regret the words the minute they come out.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. But we agreed to just one night—that’s all it can be, right?”

He hesitates, his eyes searching my face. “That’s what we agreed to, but I really don’t think one night will be enough. For either of us.”

I sigh.

He’s right, but he’s wrong.

It can be enough if we make a mature, rational decision not to do anything stupid.

“Look, I—” I begin.

“What if—” he says at the same time.

We both chuckle.

“Ladies first,” he says graciously.

“I just think we’re playing with fire.”

“For sure, but the playoffs are only going to last for a relatively short period of time. And I have a proposal.”

“O-kay.” I draw the word out because it makes me nervous.

I know he’s going to find a way to lure me in, and I’m already struggling with this insane connection between us.

“If I score… two goals tomorrow night,” he says with a smile. “I get to eat your pussy.”

I groan.

“So not fair,” I mutter.

But scoring two goals in a playoff game like this will be almost impossible.

Almost.

“Come on,” he cajoles as the elevator doors open. “I think that’s a pretty fair trade.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“You drive a very hard bargain, Mr. Rourke.”

“I know. That’s why you love me.” He winks. “Think about it. Text me. All you have to say is yes or no. But you have to decide by morning.”

Then he saunters off in the opposite direction.

Cretin.

I let myself into my room and throw myself on the bed.

Two goals and he gets to go down on me.

I mean, how does a girl say no to that?

He’s really good at it.

He did it twice last night, and I nearly lost my mind the second time when a very naughty finger found its way into a place that normally is off-limits.

The problem is that nothing seems to be off-limits when it comes to Blake.

Except maybe my heart.

That’s one part of me I plan to keep far away from him.

But the chance he’ll score two goals tomorrow night… well, that’s crazy. It’s the playoffs. Guys like Canyon and Connor are far more likely to score than Blake. Two assists? Maybe. But goals?

Nah.

I’m relatively safe.

It’s almost a disappointment.

But I pick up my phone and pull up his name.

I only added it to my contacts yesterday, so it’s weird looking at a blank page since we’ve never texted before. Well, not with these phone numbers.

I stare at the screen for a minute.

Slowly, I type out the word.

Then I stare at it some more.

I’m crazy.

This has disaster written all over it.

But I can’t seem to help myself.

ROWAN: Yes.