Page 1

Archer

“H eads up,” Micah Rushing mutters as soon as we step off the elevator into the lobby, his voice strained. “The vultures are descending.”

I whip my head up from my phone just in time to see a group of women in tight leather skirts, cut up Carvers’ jerseys, and heavy makeup rushing across the lobby toward us. Their heels clack against the tiled floor in a familiar, infuriating rhythm that makes my head throb. They’re like a pack of wild ostriches descending…eyes laser focused, heads straight, chests out, terrifying looks that scream “I’m going to devour you” written all over their faces.

Fuck my life.

“Oh my god! Archer Graves! I thought that was you!” the bottle-blonde leading the pack practically squeals, trying to throw herself into my arms like we’re long-lost lovers.

I quickly sidestep her, refusing to be caught up in whatever bullshit game she wants to play tonight. Nope. Nu-uh. Not happening. I don’t know her, and I’m not interested.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl, a hard edge to my voice. I don’t really give a shit if she and her friends think I’m an asshole or not. That’s their prerogative. It won’t be the first time I’ve been called something uncomplimentary by one of our female fans. Hell, I doubt it’ll be the last, either. But I don’t fuck puck bunnies. Ever.

There are only one pair of hands I want anywhere near me…and that won’t ever happen. Wren Erikson is Micah’s baby sister, completely unattainable. Putting my hands on her would violate every rule there is to violate.

That hasn’t stopped my obsession with the curvy little beauty, now, has it?

No. The answer is no.

I’ve been gone for her since the day we met at Micah’s wedding a year ago. She was the only woman in the room not fawning all over his hockey player friends. In fact, she didn’t want a goddamn thing to do with any of us. I fucking loved every bit of that.

I’ve been followed around, cooed at, and fawned over for most of my life. The shit gets old quick. I never wanted to be some guy women wanted to fuck. I just wanted to play hockey. The sport is in my blood. If there was ever a time when I didn’t have skates on my feet and a stick in my hands, I don’t remember it.

I remember exactly what it felt like looking at Wren for the first time, though. She was dressed in this teal and white pinstripe bathing suit, soaking up the sun poolside, beads of sweat trickling between her breasts. Looking like a fucking goddess with those curves on display.

I wanted to put my hands all over her…and she looked at me like she didn’t give a shit who I was or what I wanted. I was blocking the sun she was trying to enjoy. As far as she was concerned, that made me a problem.

I spent the whole weekend following her around like a lost puppy, slowly winning her over. By the time the wedding festivities ended, she didn’t entirely hate me. And I was completely fucking obsessed.

Micah doesn’t have a clue. For obvious reasons. If he ever finds out how I feel about her, he’ll lose his mind. He’s crazy protective of her. Can’t say I blame him for that shit because she’s literal perfection. But the girl was made for me.

And if she or Micah ever finds out the truth about the things I’ve done to keep her close, all hell will break loose. She’ll never forgive me. He will literally murder me.

RIP to our friendship.

RIP to our championship dreams.

RIP to any chance of ever seeing her again.

I refuse to allow that to happen, so I take what I can get and pretend it’s enough. It isn’t. Not even close. But when the alternative is being shut out of her life entirely? Well, a motherfucker’s gotta do what a motherfucker’s gotta do.

The blonde draws up short, shock filtering across her face, as if she can’t believe I’ve actually told her no. I guess she didn’t get the memo. My answer is always no. Never. Not fucking happening.

“Hands off, ladies,” Micah drawls beside me, no more patient with their bullshit than I am…but somehow far more charming. He even manages to smile. “Find a player willing to invite you into bed. It’s not gonna be me. And this one?” He shoots me a shit-eating grin, mischief in his brown eyes. “He’s a born-again virgin.”

“Wait. Seriously?” The blonde who was just trying to attach herself to me gapes like she just learned that the world isn’t flat. “So, you just don’t fuck like… ever ?”

“Ever,” Micah says before I can respond.

A brunette pouts up at him, batting her lashes. “You look like you could be fun, Micah. Are you sure you don’t want to party with us?”

He grits his teeth to keep from saying whatever he really wants to say and shakes his head. “Positive,” he says firmly. “Enjoy your night, ladies.”

He’s better at handling their bullshit than I am. Impressive since out of the two of us, he’s the one married with a baby. The man doesn’t play when it comes to his wife and baby girl. Ninety percent of the time, we can’t even get him to go out with us to celebrate when we win because he’d rather be home with them. But he still manages to handle the puck bunnies without infuriating them.

As captain of the team, I should have mastered that skill long ago but never did. Whatever. I earned my spot because I was right for it, not because I’m good with pushy women who want to fuck us.

At least their fury keeps them from trying me a second time.

I step around the group, eyes trained straight ahead. I just want to get to the damn restaurant. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

Vegas is not like DC. Everyone back home has pretty much learned by now not to even bother, but here? I guess we’re still fresh meat for the tourists and bandwagon fans. We barely make it three steps before a redhead spots us and turns in our direction.

“No,” I growl, shutting her down hard before she even gets close.

Her face blanches before anger settles over her, carving lines around her mouth. “Asshole,” she mumbles, turning on her heel to storm off.

“I hate playing here,” Micah mutters as we slip away.

“He’s a born-again virgin,” the blonde mutters behind us. “What the fuck does that even mean? That he’s, like, religious or something?”

Micah chuckles.

I shoot him a death glare. “I’m not a born-again virgin, you asshole,” I mutter to him under my breath, which only makes him laugh harder. Hell, maybe I am. I haven’t been with anyone since I was seventeen.

Back then, I, naively, thought we were in love. Turns out, I was just her ticket out of the town we grew up in. As soon as I found that out, I cut ties and never looked back. Realizing I was just a meal ticket hurt like hell. Funny thing is, though, I didn’t miss her once she was gone. It was an eye-opening realization. I decided real quick that relationships weren’t for me. If I couldn’t even tell the difference between love and whatever the fuck that was…best to avoid them altogether.

And then I met Wren. It was like a damn gong striking in my soul. What I thought I felt at seventeen was fucking laughable in comparison. That shit wasn’t love. It was loneliness and sheer teenage ignorance. But Wren? I look at her, and I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin if I can’t touch her. I want to know what she’s thinking, what she’s doing, every minute of the day. It’s getting harder and harder to keep it under control.

I’m supposed to be the perfect captain, the calm, dependable, reliable one. The one who never fucks up and never fails. And yet…I slip a little bit further into madness every damn day. Because of her. For her.

“She left you alone, didn’t she?”

I grunt. My best friend is an asshole. “If I’m in the paper next week beside some rumor that I’m in a religious cult, I’m sticking my skate up your ass.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Graves,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket.

I crack a smile despite myself. He’s an idiot. He’s also my ride-or-die. I’ve had a lot of teammates come and go since I joined the Carvers seven years ago, but Micah is the brother I never had. I’m fucking glad Coach added him to the roster two years ago.

“Where are we meeting everyone?” I ask as we bank a left toward the casino floor.

“What?”

“Where are we meeting everyone?” I repeat, raising my voice to be heard over the dull roar of the casino. It’s always loud in a casino, especially on a weekend in Vegas. It’s also bright as hell, with lights flashing all over the place.

He looks up from his phone, his brows furrowed. “We need to make a…”

“Micah!”

My entire goddamn body lights up as soon as I hear that voice. Even over the noise, I’d know it anywhere. I hear it in my dreams. Every fucking night, I imagine it moaning for me. Begging for me. Her voice haunts every dream I have, staring in every fantasy.

A broad grin stretches across Micah’s face, confirming what I already know. Wren is here. In Vegas.

What the fuck?

She hits him like a cannonball, plowing into his chest with laughter trailing behind her. He whoops, lifting her off her feet to spin her around in a circle.

I bite back a groan at the sight of her—gray eyes bright with happiness, blonde hair wild around her heart-shaped face, full lips curved into a bright, happy smile, porcelain skin all soft and glowing. The tops of her breasts are visible in her low-cut dress. I want to bury my face between them and die right there. I’d do it with a fucking smile, just starve for oxygen while drowning in her scent.

She looks like sex and sin in that red mini dress. It’s too short, ending right below her perfect ass. Clinging to every luscious curve. And goddamn , those curves.

Wren isn’t a dainty little girl. She’s maybe five foot two, but she’s all woman, thick in every way—her ass, her thighs, her belly. Nothing has ever made me harder than those curves of hers. Especially in that dress. It’s right up there with that damn bathing suit from the wedding.

I’m going to be beating off in the bathroom before the night ends.

“Put me down, you big idiot!” she cries through laughter. She isn’t mad, though. Wren Erikson hasn’t been mad at her big brother a single day in her life. I don’t think she’s capable of it. She idolizes him. He’s her hero, the one person on the planet she’d hide a body for without question.

And she’s the one person he’d let get away with murder.

“What? Can’t a motherfucker hug his sister?” Micah asks, planting a big kiss on her cheek before he sets her back on her feet. His gaze runs over her, his eyes narrowing with disapproval. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

She beams up at him, all sunshine and sweetness. “It’s called a dress, Micah. Mind your business before I tell Elodie that you said I looked ugly in the dress we picked out together.”

He gapes at her. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Her sweet smile doesn’t waver even as she threatens to set his wife loose on him.

Wren may idolize her brother, but she doesn’t take any shit from him. Or from anyone else, for that matter. She’s a pretty little princess with a spine of steel. And goddamn, I’ve never wanted to taste a diabolical smile more. I watch her with my cock pressed against my zipper, fucking desperate.

Christ, she’s beautiful.

Micah holds up his hands, grumbling under his breath—something about her being evil incarnate and that fucking dress being too goddamn short.

“Knew you’d see it my way.” She pats him on the chest before turning to face me. Those gray eyes tangle with mine, sweeping me away in a maelstrom of…fuck. I don’t even know what this is. Does she know I’m crazy about her? Does she feel the same way? Sometimes, I wonder. Like right now. The way she looks at me from beneath her lashes, her lips curved into a smile, eating up the sight of me.

“Hi, Archer.”

I fight a groan as her lips wrap around my name the same way they always do. Like she’s tasting it for the first time.

“Wren.” I pull her into a hug, wrapping my arms around her. She melts against me, her tits pressed up against my chest. I hold her for a beat longer than I should, just breathing her in. She smells like tangy apples. That scent shouldn’t be nearly as erotic as it is, and yet…my cock is begging for relief.

“Happy birthday,” I murmur against her ear, unable to resist letting my lips brush the shell of it.

She shivers and presses closer for a moment before her wide, startled eyes meet mine. “You remembered my birthday?”

As if I’d forget it.

“Get your hands off my sister, Graves,” Micah interrupts before I can answer. There’s no real heat to the warning…but it is a warning, nonetheless.

“Well, someone is cranky tonight,” Wren teases, breaking out of my arms to harass her brother. “Are you hangry? Did they forget to feed you second dinner?”

He shakes his head at her, grinning. “Why do I already regret inviting you?”

“If you can’t take the heat…sucks for you.” She shrugs, looping her arm through his. “I’m here now, no takebacks.”

“You’re hanging out with us tonight?” I ask, my voice rough. Hard.

She glances up at me, startled by the question. Or maybe by my tone. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Micah answers for her. “Figured since I missed most of her birthday because of the game, I’d let her spend all of my money in Vegas to make it up to her.”

Fucking hell. Sitting across from her all night is the sweetest kind of torture. Close enough to touch but forbidden from doing so.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says softly, peeking over at me.

“Never,” I murmur, meaning that shit all the way to my soul. Any chance to be near her is a chance I’ll gladly take. Right up until it blows up in my face and my dirty secrets come spilling out like blood.

The team’s perfect Captain? Never fucking met him.

And they haven’t either.