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CHAPTER ONE

Kenzie

Warm hands glide across my body, their touch gentle yet electrifying.

I feel fingertips skim over the contours of my hips. A soft, involuntary moan escapes my lips.

My skin is aflame, each nerve alive with sensation, my pulse pounding like a relentless drumbeat, while my breath escapes in shallow, ragged gasps.

A hand ventures upward along the inside of my thigh. The tantalizing caress makes me arch instinctively into the touch, anticipation winding tightly like a coiled spring in my belly.

Their bodies are against mine, firm and insistent, creating a delicious pressure that demands my attention.

I find myself sinking deeper into the overwhelming sensation, utterly lost in the intoxicating heat of the moment…

Suddenly, my phone blares loudly against the surface of my nightstand, shattering the fragile cocoon of my dream in an instant.

I jolt upright, sweaty and tangled in a mess of sheets.

My heart pounds for a very different reason now as my eyes squint at the bright light of the phone screen on the table next to me.

The room is cloaked in darkness, except for the phone. Shadows dance across the walls, cast by the dim light.

I grope for the device, my fingers ice-cold from the abrupt jolt of being yanked from sleep's embrace. The name flashing across the screen makes my stomach drop like a stone, emergency line.

Shit.

“Dr. Wood,” I rasp into the receiver, my voice thick with the remnants of sleep.

A frantic voice crackles through the speaker, rapid and panicked, slicing through the silence of the night. "Doc, it’s Margo! I need you at the clinic now. It’s King. His wing is messed up bad."

Damn it. King is only one of the most prized racing pigeons in the state, known for his unparalleled speed.

I shake off the last lingering traces of my dream which proves harder than I’d like to admit. As I throw off my blankets, the adrenaline already coursing through my veins like a river.

There's no time to waste.

Hastily, I yank on a pair of black joggers and an oversized hoodie. With a quick shove, my feet find their place in my well-worn sneakers, their soles molded by my steps.

As I step outside, the crisp Minnesota morning air bites sharply, it’s a chilly embrace that jolts my senses awake.

The sky is draped in a deep indigo cloak, with the first hints of dawn just beginning to brush the horizon with tentative strokes of light.

A thin, ethereal mist clings stubbornly to the ground, swirling like a ghostly veil around my ankles as I jog purposefully toward my car.

Inside the Jeep, the air is frigid, the leather seat an icy surface against my legs as I settle behind the wheel. My fingers fumble to turn the ignition, the engine protesting with a groan before it finally roars to life, its sound resonating in the stillness.

For a moment, my mind lingers on my backseat adventures with the Marauders new player…

I’ve gotta focus. I throw the car into drive with a determined thrust.

The streets lie eerily abandoned. The city is cloaked in an unsettling silence, broken only by the hum of my engine as I press the accelerator a tad harder than prudence allows.

My mind races ahead, worried about the injured bird waiting for me.

By the time I glide into the parking lot of Feather & Fur Veterinary Clinic, the neon “OPEN 24/7” sign buzzes softly in the darkness, a flickering beacon that promises another arduous early morning.

I barely take the time to throw the Jeep into park before I'm grabbing my worn, trusty bag and sprinting toward the entrance.

The clinic is awash with the sharp scent of antiseptic mingling with the earthy aroma of fresh hay, a peculiar combination that immediately roots me in the moment.

As one of the only clinics in the area that takes exotic animals, I am often blessed with bunnies and other small animals that love to snack on and sleep in sweet-smelling hay.

Margo stands anxiously by the counter, her dark curls a tumultuous halo around her face, her eyes wide pools of worry. In her gentle hands, she cradles King, the small pigeon, swaddled with care in a soft, cream-colored towel.

A faint, plaintive coo escapes from him, his gray and white feathers fluffed up in tension and distress.

She swiftly transfers him into my embrace and his fragile body radiates warmth. I can feel the frantic rhythm of his tiny heart thrumming against my palms like a rapid, worried drumbeat.

His left wing hangs limply, drooping at an awkward angle, a telltale sign of strain or perhaps a fracture, eliciting a pang of concern in my chest.

“He just…he hit the coop door wrong when I was putting him away,” Margo blurts out, her voice tinged with urgency and worry. Her eyes dart between me and the bird in her hands. "He’s supposed to race in a month, Kenzie. You have to fix him."

I nod, my mind already transitioning into doctor mode, a practiced calm settling over me. “We’ll do a scan, see what’s going on under there,” I say, my voice steady and reassuring.

I gesture with a tilt of my head toward the dimly lit hallway. “Come on, let’s get him settled in the exam room.”

Three hours later, I finally breathe a deep sigh of relief, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders.

King is going to be fine.

The X-rays, developed with meticulous care, reveal no fractures, just a deep bruise along the smooth curve of his wing's radius. It's nothing a little time and tender loving care won’t mend.

I gently stroke the top of his head, my fingers sinking into the soft, downy fluff, and he coos softly in appreciation, a gentle vibration of comfort.

“All right, Margo,” I say, handing her a small amber bottle of anti-inflammatory medication. “Administer two drops every morning for the next ten days, and make sure he doesn’t fly at all. He needs to rest. Think of it like a human with a sprained ankle that needs cautious care.”

Margo exhales a heavy breath of relief, clutching King close to her chest as if he were a precious treasure. "Kenzie, I owe you big time," she says, her voice filled with gratitude.

I wave her off with a small smile, already turning to tidy up the examination room. “Just take good care of him, that’s all I ask,” I reply, my heart full with the satisfaction of having helped.

She nods vigorously, her enthusiasm palpable, but as my eyes dart to the wall clock hanging above the exam room door, a sharp twist of anxiety coils in my stomach.

I'm running late.

“Shit,” I whisper to myself, stripping off my exam gloves. The thin latex snaps against my skin, echoing in the quiet room as I toss them into the bin.

My shift at the ice rink looms ahead, and I still need to hustle through a shower, change into my uniform, and grab something more substantial than the stale peanut butter crackers languishing in the breakroom.

I snatch up my keys, the metal cool and reassuring in my grip, and cast one last glance at Margo and King, their eyes following my hurried movements, before I make a beeline for the exit.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon to the east.

As I maneuver into the parking lot of the sprawling Minnesota Marauders ice hockey arena, my fingers constrict around the leather steering wheel and my heart executes an erratic rhythm in my chest.

Through the windshield, I catch sight of a cluster of players gathered near the entrance, their warm breath forming visible clouds in the crisp morning air, their laughter echoing across the otherwise silent expanse of the lot.

They’re shoving each other playfully, engaging in boisterous roughhousing like oversized children, the sense of camaraderie among them almost palpably infectious.

And then, my stomach lurches.

Amidst them, towering over the rest, is him .

I freeze, a wave of heat surging up my neck despite the biting chill outside.

The man I had hooked up with is right there, engaged in laughter, exchanging jokes, blissfully unaware that I’m sitting mere yards away in my car, immobilized by a sudden rush of anxiety.

Damn it.

I hadn’t anticipated encountering him again so soon. Or ever, if things had gone my way.

I thought it was just a fleeting encounter, a reckless decision spurred by the effervescence of the drinks and the way his eyes had lingered on me, as though I were something he wanted to savor.

But then I saw the hockey stick in his room the next morning and I had a feeling…

And here he is.

I slide lower in my seat. My mind races, conjuring up a cascade of worst-case scenarios.

What if he spots me?

What if he cracks some inappropriate joke in front of his friends?

What if this jeopardizes my professional standing.

I force myself to swallow the rising panic, drawing a deep, steadying breath. This is manageable. I just need to maintain my professionalism.

We can navigate through this.

I remain seated in my car, peering through the windshield, my gaze fixed on them as I wait for the opportune moment when they will vanish indoors, allowing me to slip in unnoticed.

My attention ought to be on my job, specifically the team macaws that require my care and observation.

Yet, I find myself captivated by the sight before me: three strikingly handsome, towering men, each clad in their team jackets and workout gear, exuding an aura that seems to have leapt straight from the pages of my favorite steamy romance novels.

Their athletic frames and confident strides command attention, leaving me momentarily entranced.

It’s truly unfair, isn't it? How do men like this even exist in the world?

They exude an aura of mischief, but the kind that draws you in rather than pushes you away.

There's Braden, the audacious Irish charmer whose sharp green eyes seem to pierce right through you, accentuated by an easy grin that suggests he knows more than he lets on. Black hair, mint green eyes, it’s like he stepped off the set of Boondock Saints or something.

Then there's Reggie, the fiery, redheaded Scottish powerhouse, a whirlwind of muscle and energy, as if he’s perpetually in motion, never pausing for a moment. Even from here I can hear his thick accent floating through the air.

Finally, the new guy, the one I slept with at the party, the brooding and enigmatic one. His face is a stoic mask, his jaw set with a firmness that suggests he carries the entire world on his shoulders. Tall, dark, handsome, with smoldering hazel eyes that made me melt like a puddle.

I exhale sharply, pressing the back of my head against the car seat, letting my eyelids flutter closed for just a moment.

My mind, rebellious and disobedient, betrays me by replaying last weekend in vivid, tantalizing detail, the way his hands had traced every contour of my skin, the way his lips had moved languidly down my neck, the way he’d breathed my name as if it were a sacred mantra.

I know I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I shouldn’t crave more than what was given.

But I do.

God help me, I do. So badly.

I snap my eyes open, shaking off the lingering memory, my pulse still racing just a bit too fast. Get it together, Kenzie , I tell myself firmly.

This is real life, not some absurd fantasy spun from the pages of one of my novels.

Not everyone finds their happily ever after with three impossibly attractive hockey players fawning over them.

Except...Ally did.

I bite my lip at the thought, casting a glance toward the arena where I know my best friend is probably already inside, seamlessly managing the whirlwind chaos of her job.

If anyone had told me six months ago that Ally Perry, the most composed and meticulous woman I’ve ever worked with, would find herself in a unique relationship with three professional athletes, I would have laughed outright.

But it happened.

She’s happy. In love. With not one man, but three.

My chest tightens like a vice, squeezing with the weight of unspoken hopes.

Perhaps such things really do happen outside the confines of fiction, where stories unfold with effortless grace.

Maybe there are those fortunate souls who stumble into such steamy serendipity.

But not me.

I exhale, dismissing the absurd thought with a shake of my head. The closest thing I have to a romantic relationship is the pair of lovebirds I keep at home, and even they spend half their time squabbling in their cage.

Besides, I have ambitions, aspirations carefully sculpted over years of relentless effort. I have battled my way out of the chaos of my past, painstakingly reconstructing my life piece by piece.

I can't afford to risk unraveling it all for the sake of some hockey player with an irresistible smile and a physique that seems to have been chiseled by the gods.

Even if every fiber of my being is dangerously tempted to throw caution to the wind.

I groan, the sound escaping my lips as I drag my hands down my face in exasperation.

I need guidance, a lifeline to pull me back from the edge.

I slump further into my seat, my eyes fixed on the gray, textured ceiling of my car for what feels like an eternity before I finally let out a long, deliberate breath.

I need to pull myself together.

With a resigned sigh, I glance down at my phone, my thumb flicking mindlessly through the seemingly endless stream of social media updates.

My old vet school classmates are flourishing, posting vibrant pictures of their weddings, cradling newborns, and basking in the golden sun on vacations to exotic, tropical getaways.

They all seem so settled, so blissfully content with the paths they've chosen in life.

And then there's me.

Huddled in my car, trying to avoid an awkward encounter from a one-night stand like a teenager desperately evading a crush in a bustling high school hallway.

So much for being a professional.

I grimace, my lips tightening as I close out of the app. Those names and faces no longer hold space in my life. They belong to a past I’ve deliberately left behind. Just like I left him behind.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the vinyl creaking beneath me as memories of my ex rush in, unbidden and unwelcome. Ethan.

The silver-tongued charmer who persuaded me to move in with him during our vet school days, promising a semblance of a normal, stable relationship, until reality crashed down, teaching me the harsh lesson that love alone isn’t always enough.

We experienced the gut-wrenching loss of a baby together.

And then, inevitably, we lost each other.

I thrust the memory aside before it can tighten its grip on me, shaking my head as if to physically expel it from my mind.

That chapter of my life is closed.

I cast my gaze toward the entrance of the rink, watching the group of guys finally make their way inside, their boisterous voices diminishing as they blend into the distance. It’s time to focus on the task at hand.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I open the car door, and step out into the crisp embrace of the morning air, the chill invigorating against my skin.

It’s a new day. A clean slate.

I refuse to let my past dictate my present.

And I certainly won’t allow some self-assured hockey player to unravel the resolve I’ve painstakingly built.

At least, that’s the mantra I repeat to myself as I march determinedly toward the rink, each step echoing with purpose.