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twenty-two

RHETT

Eleven Years Ago

Chicago, IL, USA

I live here now.

But I couldn’t feel more like a tourist just passing through if I tried.

I tap my foot, staring out the coffee shop window.

A flock of birds crowds the sidewalk, pecking for crumbs dropped by people on their way out. One bird catches my eye—bigger than the rest, flashier feathers, and clearly aware of it. He flaps and twitters way too close to every passerby, putting on a show.

What a little shit.

Someone’s calling out orders behind me, but I ignore them, locked in on this damn bird. He’s tailing a woman in a blazer and heels, laser-focused on the pastry bag in her hand, trampling over his bird-friends without hesitation. The woman doesn’t notice—she’s too busy on a phone call .

Movement to the side draws my attention.

A little girl and her mom tear apart a croissant, tossing crumbs.

The rest of the flock rushes over immediately.

Everyone gets a bite—except showoff bird.

He’s still chasing the woman, oblivious, hooked on something that was never his to begin with.

So full of hope in his game. Certain to end in disappointment.

And here I am, in downtown Chicago, feeling sorry for a goddamn bird.

And worse—relating to it.

I blink, hard. Snap out of it just in time to hear the tail end of my name being called. I grab my drink and check my watch.

Shit—only twenty minutes until the meeting.

First impressions matter, but this one? Probably the biggest of my life.

I make it two steps toward the door before someone taps my shoulder.

“Excuse me?—”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have time right now,” I say, already walking.

I’ve only been in the city a few days and I’ve been stopped over a dozen times. I knew Chicago’s hockey fan base was strong, but I never expected so many people to recognize the face of a rookie who hasn’t even had his first minute of NHL ice time.

I feel a twinge of guilt as I keep going, but I don’t have any choice.

But whoever it is isn’t letting it go. A hand wraps around my bicep, pulling me to a stop.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go?—”

I turn, expecting some starstruck teenager.

Instead, I get a drop-dead gorgeous woman in a black workout set that should come with a warning label.

“Well, that’s fine and all,” she says, lifting an eyebrow, “but you’re not going anywhere with my coffee. ”

“Your coffee?”

“Uh huh.” She nods at the cup in my hand.

“But they called my name?—”

“ Rhett! ” a barista yells behind me, right as I turn the cup and see the name Jennette scribbled across it.

“Oh…”

I step forward, grab my actual drink, and turn back to find her watching me with her arms crossed—just making that workout set even more criminal. She’s not hiding the way she looks at me, so I don’t either.

“Sorry about that, Jennette.” I hold out her drink like I’m presenting a trophy, giving her a slight bow.

“Seems like an honest enough mistake, Rhett ,” she says, meeting my eyes from under her lashes.

I know what happens next. This is the game—and I could play it in my sleep. Either she walks away, or she doesn’t. If three seconds pass and she’s still looking at me, I’ve got her.

I count to five.

Still locked in.

Bingo.

“You know,” I say, stepping closer, “it’s kind of crazy.”

“What is?” she asks, tilting her head just enough for her blonde ponytail to fall over her shoulder.

“How much we have in common.”

She snorts. “We don’t even know each other.”

“Well, for starters, our names rhyme. And we’re both too pretty for our own good.” I grin. “That’s two for two.”

She hums, trying to stay unbothered, but her pink-tinged cheeks give her away.

“Well, I’m not sure I trust your judgement. Either you’re blind or extremely unobservant.”

I knit my brows, confused, until she holds up her drink.

“Our coffee orders clearly differ. ”

Hers is jet black.

Mine? Pretty much chocolate milk.

“What can I say?” I shrug. “I like my coffee like I like my women.” I hold up my cup. “Blonde and sweet.”

“To each their own,” she says, clinking her cup against mine.

I start to pull away, but she leans in.

“I just take my caffeine like I take my men.”

I blink at her, her words going straight down my spine.

You need to leave. You’re going to be late, my brain screams.

But my mouth has a mind of its own.

“And how’s that?”

She locks eyes with me. “Fast and hard.”

Jesus Christ.

“Are you free tonight?” I ask, my voice husky.

“Nope,” she says. “But I’ve got fifteen minutes now.”

Fuck.

“Then I’ve got time to take care of you twice.”

And that’s how I ended up christening my new city against a coffee shop bathroom wall at 9:42 a.m. on a Wednesday.

And that’s how I ended up christening my new city against a coffee shop bathroom wall at 9:42 a.m. on a Wednesday.

And how I managed to royally screw my first impression—storming into the Chicago Blizzard’s headquarters fifteen minutes late, panting, sweaty, curls wild, lips bruised, and very visible scratches peeking from my collar.

Jennette.

She left me with nothing but a laugh and a pat on my cheek when I asked for her number—which, I guess, is more than I’ve gotten in the past.

So—

Was it worth it?

No, probably not.

Would I do it again ?

Probably, yeah.

“Coach, I’m so sorry,” I start, breathless. “Got turned around on the way. Still learning the city?—”

“How nice of you to join us.”

My shoulders instantly stiffen. Because the voice that cuts me off isn’t my Coach Patrick’s. It’s coming from someone sitting down at the table behind him.

And even though they’re hidden from my view, I’d know that voice from a mile away.

Coach steps aside.

And there he is.

And suddenly it all comes back to me like a war flashback.

Red streamers. Deafening chants. His face inches from mine as he slammed me into the boards.

My old enemy.

Now, my new captain.

“Holt,” I mutter. Then clear my throat. “Holt! Good to see you.”

I step around Coach, hand extended.

Holt rises slowly, keeping eye contact as he grabs my hand and damn near crushes it. I bite the inside of my cheek.

When I got drafted by Chicago, I couldn’t believe it. My first thought was: I don’t deserve this. I didn’t think I’d get drafted at all. But once it sank in, reality followed. And my second thought was: What did I do to deserve this?

Because playing for Chicago meant playing with him.

And now, thanks to the recent captain retirement, it means playing for him.

I knew this reunion was coming.

But I didn’t know it would be today.

How generous of him.

“Sutton,” he nods, looking at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his shoe .

“I was glad to hear you and Brendan are old friends,” Coach Patrick says.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“It’s a big transition joining the NHL. Not everyone makes it. So having a familiar face around never hurts.”

You sure about that?

“Especially as your captain.”

“Dream come true, Coach. Holt knows how fond of his face I am.” I pat his arm. Play nice.

Coach’s phone starts ringing. “My apologies, boys. I need to take this. Take a minute to get reacquainted and I’ll be right back.”

“So what’s your skincare routine looking like these days, Holt? I wasn’t lying about your face. What are you using? You’re glowing?—”

“Sutton—”

“Is it the blood of your enemies? Or perhaps the tears of women? No, I’ve got it. You’re exfoliating, aren’t you?—”

He slams a hand on the table and shoots to his feet.

I don’t even flinch. Just smirk up at him.

“Let me give you some advice,” he growls. “Life here’ll be a lot easier for you the quicker you learn to talk less. You can keep that shit-eating grin all day for all I care, but running your mouth isn’t going to work around here like it has for you in the past.”

“I think you’re strongly underestimating what my mouth is capable of.”

He laughs darkly. “I told you I’d knock you down a peg one day. Guess what? Today’s that day. You may have made it to the big leagues, kid. But I’m your daddy now.”

“You’re—”

He lifts a hand. “Wait, Sutton—You know what? I’m sorry.”

I raise my brows .

“I forgot. You probably need a reminder what that is—since yours is too ashamed of you to act like one.”

I launch out of my seat.

Coach walks back in. “Alright now, where were we?—”

Holt yanks me into a hug so fast I stumble.

“Well, would you look at that!” Coach claps.

Holt pats my back like he’s trying to break a rib.

Coach’s phone rings again. “Damn—sorry, boys. It never ends. Oh, it’s just my wife. One second.”

As soon as he turns away, Holt grabs the back of my neck and pulls my ear to his lips.

“Listen close. This team’s mine now. I care about it. People respect me for that—not that that’s something you’d know anything about.”

I try to pull back. He tightens his grip.

“I want to work with you. But that means you have to work with me. Get your shit together. Show up on time. Shut up. Stay in line. If you can do that, we won’t have a problem. But if you don’t?—”

Coach is wrapping up. I wrench away, but Holt grabs my shirt.

“Remember, I earned this. I’m the star. You? You’re nothing.”

I grit my teeth.

“And if you give me even one excuse—I’ll make sure you stay nothing. I’ll ruin your career before it even starts. If you don’t do it yourself first.”

Coach turns around. Holt releases me and pastes on his best captain smile.

“Alright,” Coach says. “Let’s go over what you can expect this season.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

Coach couldn’t have been further off.