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CHAPTER ONE

Dozer

The tall brunette catches my eye as I approach the door to head out for a jog. Training camp starts next week, and I need to get back into fighting shape before then. After a vacation and a mid-summer breakup, it took me longer than it should’ve to get back to my regular workouts, choosing instead to wallow in my feelings for weeks until I couldn’t afford to put it off any longer and Nick Abernathy, the Emeralds’ team captain, sent Jenkins and Bouchard to kick my ass into gear.

But I freeze in my tracks at the sight of the brunette, watching her move. I can’t help it. I have a type, and she ticks all my boxes. Tall and slender. Leggings show off her toned muscles as she stretches and reaches, accepting a box from a uniformed mover standing in the back of a box truck, a cropped T-shirt showing off her waist. Her long hair hangs in a braid down her back. It doesn’t take much to imagine it loose, falling in a curtain around us as she moves over me?—

“Focus!” I hiss at myself, viciously cutting off the image that rises unbidden to my overactive imagination. Well, at least where women are concerned.

The problem is, my imagination doesn’t stop once I have them naked like that. At that point, I imagine they want more than just sex. Like an actual relationship.

It’s my fatal flaw.

And after a string of disastrous relationships—though I know my friends and teammates would think it’s hilarious to qualify any of my hookups as relationships—I decided over the summer to take a break from women.

The last woman I was with, Jenny, seemed perfect for me. She was gorgeous, wanted to spend all her spare time with me, and was insatiable in the bedroom. Which was awesome, since I met her right as we got knocked out of the playoffs. Suddenly my days were wide open. It was even more perfect because I had a couples’ trip planned with two of my teammates and no one to be my plus one.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, it wasn’t a couples’ trip at all. Nick Abernathy, our captain, brought his wife and kids along, but Troy Easton, our newly retired left wing, didn’t bring anyone. I’m pretty sure they were all kinda pissed at me for bringing Jenny along.

But how was I supposed to know I wasn’t allowed to bring a date?

It worked out okay in the end, though. Troy met Anna and ended up staying in Arcadian Falls, the tiny town where we went on vacation. The point, for Troy at least, was for him to figure out what to do now that he’s not playing hockey anymore.

I’m still not sure why it’s okay for him to start a relationship to fill his spare time, but it’s not okay for me to do the same thing.

Yeah, I know Jenny wasn’t the best choice. Although she seemed great at first, she practically moved in with me as soon as we got back from Arcadian Falls, and after a few more weeks, it came out that she’d been kicked out of her apartment right before our vacation.

Honestly, I could’ve handled that if she’d been honest. But when she started trying to sell my stuff, that’s where I had to draw the line.

The brunette moving in approaches the door, and I get a clear glimpse of her face, her dark almond shaped eyes, plump, kissable lips, and dammit , I shouldn’t be fantasizing about anyone, much less a new neighbor.

And definitely not this neighbor.

I catch a glimpse of her long, perfect fingernails as her brow furrows, and she juggles the box, trying to pull out a key and a piece of paper—which I assume has the access code written on it—as she approaches the door.

Pushing through the door, I see her face brighten when she sees me, and I force myself to shut this down.

With that hair, those nails, the fact she’s wearing makeup while she’s moving for chrissakes, and to add insult to injury, she’s wearing a boyband T-shirt?

She has prissy princess written all over her. The exact type of woman I need to avoid at all costs.

“Hey!” she says, offering me a friendly smile. “D’you mind holding the door for?—”

Her friendly smile disappears as I pull the door closed.

“Security,” I mumble as I sweep past her.

“Hey!” she shouts, and I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to register her anger. Don’t want to see that pretty face pissed off at me. “Asshole!” I hear her shoe slap against the concrete, and then another loud thunk. “Goddammit! You made me drop my box, you jerk!”

That makes me glance back over my shoulder, but one of the movers is already rushing over to help her, and I hunch my shoulders, keep my head down, and start moving at a slow jog to get me warmed up before picking up the pace.

The weather’s perfect, a gorgeous September day, and I enjoy the sunshine, knowing full well that the rain will take over again soon enough.

I don’t mind the climate here, though. The rainy season’s in the middle of hockey season, so I spend a lot of time on the road anyway. And at least it’s not as brutally cold as it is in Michigan in the winter, where I grew up. Midwestern winters are harsh and seem to last forever, which was perfect for my hockey-loving heart as a kid. We could play on the lake, and then as I got older and it became clear I was serious about hockey, my friends and I spent our free time practicing on the backyard rink my dad got for me.

Basketball was my warm-weather sport, though I didn’t ever get to play more than at the park with friends. Hockey season and basketball season always overlap.

But this summer, I barely even touched a basketball, too bummed over another failure, another relationship that I thought was real—or at least had the possibility of being real—only to find out that I was getting scammed yet again.

What is it about me that attracts those types of women? Why can’t I find a nice woman who likes me for who I am? Who sees my tendency to attach quickly and strongly as a strength instead of a weakness to be exploited for their own social and financial gain?

Nick got lucky, finding that in Tina before he made it big. They’ve been together since college. He knew he was going places even then, though he waited to enter the NHL draft until he was twenty, managing to keep playing for Boston and finish his degree before getting called up to The Show.

Maybe I’m destined to end up more like Troy Easton. He didn’t meet anyone he could be serious about until after he retired. Of course it was right after, but maybe without the prospect of continued fame, the wrong kind of women weed themselves out?

I can see that being true.

My mind slips back to the gorgeous woman moving into my building. What’s her deal? How is she affording to live here? She looks young. Maybe her parents are footing the bill? Or a sugar daddy?

Who cares? I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be focusing on myself, on hockey, on staying at my best. I’m on the wrong side of thirty now, and while guys like Abernathy keep going longer, the clock is ticking on how much time I have left in the NHL. A body can only take on so much abuse, and at thirty-three, I’m already starting to feel my age.

It wasn’t the magical 3-0 that did it, surprisingly. Those milestone birthdays kinda mess with your head, but once it passed, I didn’t feel any different.

It was last season when I really started feeling my age. They called up one of the guys from my old junior hockey team. He was so young and puppyish, trying to play pranks on everyone—though I got him back for his most egregious offenses and put him in his place. But he wasn’t even old enough to play in the junior levels by the time I entered the draft.

It just made me feel ancient, even though I’m as fit as ever.

At the end of my run, I walk the last few blocks, going ever more slowly, hoping that the new neighbor and her moving truck will be gone.

No such luck, though. They’re still here, the front door propped open while the movers bring furniture inside.

I grunt at the sight, irrationally irritated—because of course they have to prop the door open to move furniture in. My movers did the same thing when I moved in. It’s happened plenty of times over the last few years I’ve lived here.

But with Jenny managing to sneak in a few times since I kicked her out, I don’t like the idea of the building just being open like this.

Stopping, I stand with my hands on my hips, watching the activity.

Then the brunette appears in the doorway, at first watching the movers, but then she catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow, but I ignore her, waiting for the movers to clear the door before moving to follow them in.

But she blocks me, filling the doorway surprisingly well. Holding up a hand in the universal sign for stop, she presses her lips together, kicks the doorstop up, and yanks the door closed before I can get to it.

Then she gives me a dramatic shrug through the glass. “Security!” she yells loud enough there’s no way I wouldn’t be able to hear her. Then she spins on her heel and strides away, leaving me standing on the other side, frozen in place until her swaying ass is out of sight.

I let out a bark of laughter, grudgingly liking her more than I should.

But on top of everything else, that fiery temper is a neon warning sign. This woman is bad news.