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CHAPTER THREE

Dozer

I see my feisty new neighbor a few times around the building over the next couple of weeks, mostly near the door when I’m heading out to or coming home from training camp. During the season, daytime practice hours are shorter, but training camp is a lot more intense—workouts, ice time, learning to gel with the new members of the team after trades and draft picks.

She’s shut the door in my face two more times since her move-in day, and it’s clear to me she’s not letting that shit go, even though I held the door for her last week, practically holding my breath as she waltzed past me without sparing me a glance. I dreaded catching a hit of the likely expensive perfume I just know she has to wear—I know her type, after all—but the thing that hit me like a punch to the gut was the way I felt her body heat as she brushed past me.

And then, the minx, the very next day, she saw me coming, made eye contact, even seemed to hesitate for a beat, then pulled the door closed right as I was almost there, close enough to hear the snick of the lock engaging. Then she flashed me a sunny smile and sauntered off, ass swaying in her skirt suit.

I’m still not sure what she does, but every time I’ve seen her, she’s been primped and polished and professional looking. The fitted skirt suits combined with those long, red nails … don’t even get me started. She has high-powered boss bitch written all over her.

Curvy brunettes with expensive taste have always done it for me, but the hard on I get for the feisty vengefulness is new for me.

But every time I catch a glimpse of her, she starts running through my head like a tireless—and much prettier—hamster on a wheel.

The thing is, I want to know more about her. I want to know where she’s going in those very fitted suits with her perfectly manicured nails, perfectly blown out hair, and perfectly applied makeup.

She’s just so … perfect.

Which is all the more reason I need to stay as far away from her as possible. Take a page out of her book and don’t bother trying to be nice anymore. My first instinct was right. Pissing her off was the right move. Otherwise she might try to be friendly, like I witnessed yesterday morning with one of the other residents.

Of course, I don’t know any of my neighbors who aren’t also my teammates—Jenkins and Bouchard also live in this building, and Troy Easton lived here until he moved to Arcadian Falls to be with his new girlfriend. I’m pretty sure he still has his place here, but it’s equally clear he doesn’t really plan on moving back here permanently.

I can’t blame him, though. If I were to retire, where would I go? What would I do?

Follow the new neighbor lady to see where she goes every day .

I bat away that creepy thought like a puck in a passing drill—get it away as soon as it hits, no lingering, always keep the puck moving.

Bowman, our coach, prioritizes speed, so everything has to be done as fast as possible—skating, passing, shooting. Don’t hold onto anything for longer than you have to. Always keep it moving, always giving it to someone who has the opportunity for a shot on goal.

As one of the D-men, that’s not me as often, but I get my fair chance at scoring. And these few weeks of training camp followed by the pre-season games are all about him finding the best combinations of players to put on the ice together, solidifying lines, and forming the bonds that’ll take us to the Stanley Cup.

That’s the goal, at least.

We made it to the playoffs last season for the second year in a row, but we got knocked out early, and we were all pissed about that, wanting to send Easton off on a high, but unable to deliver. So we’re more determined than ever to win it this year.

That’s obvious even now. Some people—non-hockey players—might think that with that contest nine months away, we wouldn’t be as focused on it now as we will be in March or so, but that’s not how it works. In hockey, the Stanley Cup is always the goal, no matter what part of the season—or preseason—we’re in.

As I get ready to head to the rink for our first preseason game, I wonder if I’ll bump into Little Miss Princess again today. I haven’t seen her in a few days …

Which is for the best, I remind myself sternly. I’m supposed to be avoiding her anyway. Not seeing her is what I should be hoping for.

But the part of me that likes pretty women—my little head—desperately wishes I could see her daily, even if our interactions only amount to breathing in her perfume or catching her triumphant smirk as she closes the door in my face.

What does it say about me that I’m turned on by this woman being mean to me?

I’ve heard of that as some kind of kink but never found it appealing myself. Not until now, anyway.

Grabbing my suit jacket, I shrug it on and check it and my tie in the mirror before heading out.

Even though I keep an eye out for Little Miss Princess, she’s nowhere to be found. Not even a faint whiff of perfume to indicate she’s been through the building recently.

Pushing aside my disappointment, I head for my car.

My teammates tend to give me shit for her—she’s an older Toyota Tacoma, a dark teal pickup that I bought with my earnings from my time in the Junior A league. It was the first big purchase I made all on my own, and yeah, I could definitely afford something nicer by now, but I don’t really see the point. This pickup has carried me through a lot, moved me all over Canada and the US, and it still runs great.

Sure, I know that someday I’ll have to trade her in and get something else—or if I drive her until she’s unrepairable, I’ll have to just buy something new outright—but that day is not today.

It serves as a good barometer for women too—not that I’m planning on dating anyone again soon. But looking back on all my failed relationships, those women were always bothered by my pickup, pushing me in ways big and small to get a flashy sports car or luxury SUV. Jenny high-key hated my truck, making me rent a car when we went on vacation so she could ride in something more comfortable, she said.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, is there, baby?” I whisper to my truck as I climb in, patting the dashboard with affection. “You’re plenty comfortable. Just further proof that Jenny was definitely not the one, and even though she pretended to think my sentimental attachment was cute, by the end, I could tell that was all part of her act.”

Taking a deep breath, I fit my key in the ignition, smiling as I turn it.

But my smile falls, my brow furrowing with concern when all I hear is a faint click click click instead of the reassuring sound of the engine starting. I try again and only get more clicks.

I hit the dome light button, and it doesn’t come on.

“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching for the latch to release the hood, though fuck if I know what I’m going to do once I get it open.

Taking off my suit coat, I toss it onto the passenger seat and roll up my sleeves. Sure, I know fuck all about cars, but I know that I don’t want to get my shirt dirty.

I fumble for the release and prop the hood open, staring blankly at the engine. There’s the battery. Still there. That’s good, I guess, though it’s clearly not working.

Glancing around the parking garage, I don’t see anyone out here. I’m pretty sure I have jumper cables, but that doesn’t help if I don’t have anyone to give me a jump. And I’ll probably have to Google how and where to connect the cables, because I sure as hell don’t remember.

With a growl of frustration, I lean into my car to grab my phone. Dammit, I need to leave now . Maybe I can get a ride with one of my teammates. I start a group chat with Jenkins and Bouchard.

Can I catch a ride with one of you guys?

Drumming my fingers on the side of my phone, I wait for an answer. And wait. And wait.

Finally, three dots pop up showing that someone’s responding.

Jenkins

Something happen? You usually like to ride by yourself. You made that very clear last year when I suggested we carpool

Battery died. No one’s here to give me a jump

Jenkins

Oh, I see how it is. We’re not good enough for you the rest of the time, but now that you need something, you hit us up?

Can I get a ride with you or not?

He sends a gif of Heidi Klum doing her shocked Wow face, and I growl. This is not what I need right now.

Jenkins

Bouchard and I are en route. Sorry, man. Gonna have to Uber it

Fuck. I’ve wasted precious time going back and forth with my asshole teammate. I’m definitely gonna be late, which means my laces’ll be all cut up.

Coach gives us a time range to show up, but we all know we’re supposed to be there three hours ahead of time. I won’t officially be late. But I’ll be late enough my teammates will punish me regardless. And even though Jenkins and Bouchard now know it’s because of car trouble, that won’t matter. Odds are, they’ll be the ones doing the cutting, laughing the whole time.

Fuck .

“Um, excuse me?” says a female voice behind me. Her accent reminds me of a guy I used to play with before I got traded to the Emeralds. He was from somewhere down south. Texas, I think. Her accent isn’t quite as thick as his, though. “Is everything okay? Do you need some?—”

She cuts off as I turn around, her face going from open and helpful to annoyed in the space of a heartbeat, though her eyes sparkle with something like humor. It’s my new neighbor who’s been running circles through my thoughts since she moved in weeks ago.

I raise my eyebrows. “You offering to help me?”

Pursing her lips, she looks me down and up, and I can’t help catching how her eyes seem to linger on my exposed forearms. I resist the urge to subtly flex. I’m not trying to impress this woman. I’m trying to keep my distance.

But if she can help …

I return her look, taking in her casual wear—jeans and a Brasher hoodie—and I can’t help smirking.

Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head and crosses her arms, the action nicely framing her sweatshirt-covered tits. “When I didn’t realize it was you , I was going to.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it, Princess. I wouldn’t want you to get your hands dirty on my account anyway.”

Her nostrils flare at the mocking nickname, and her eyes narrow when I say I don’t want her to get her hands dirty. “First, I was always taught to help people in need when I had the ability to do so.” She holds up one of those perfectly manicured hands, finger jabbing toward me. “And second, let me worry about how dirty my hands get, okay?”

I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. Even though getting an Uber would probably be safer for my sanity, I’d rather not be late to the game if I can help it. “I wouldn’t dream of worrying about your hands.” Now, fantasizing about them might be a different story, but I’m sure as hell not saying that out loud. And especially not to her, of all people.

Rolling her eyes, she stalks away, leaving me standing with my mouth hanging open. She offers to help and then leaves without another word? Was I really that offensive?

“Where are you going?” I demand, unable to help myself.

“To get my car,” she calls over her shoulder. “I assume you need a jump. Or is there something else wrong?” She pauses, half turning to look at me and wait for my response.

“Battery’s dead,” I tell her, and she nods like that was already obvious.

I fiddle with my phone for a minute while I wait for her to return, and she shows up a minute later driving a sleek black Lexus, parking it so it’s facing my truck. I guess if I’m going to need a jump, it’s fortunate I tend to back in when I park. Her car’s pretty, the same kind Jenny made me rent, and that commonality makes me snort, crossing my arms and sighing. This woman has to be just like her. Though I guess the main difference is that Jenny wanted me to provide the money and luxury car, whereas this woman already has them. How does she pay for them, though? Not that I care. I shouldn’t want to know anything about her at all. I’ve seen how she dresses. I know that she’s exactly the kind of woman I need to avoid at all costs.

And yet here I am, asking her for help.

“Fuck me sideways,” I mutter, shaking my head.

She appears in front of me and shoves jumper cables into my hands. Turning her back to me, she attaches the other end to her car in no time, staring at me expectantly.

I look down at the cables, then back at her. She has her arms crossed, eyebrows raised, wordlessly asking, “Well?”

Offering a sheepish smile, I shrug. “Uh, I’m not sure which part connects to where.”

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms drop dramatically. “Dear god, you’re worse than my little sister.” Grabbing the cables from my hands, she gestures me out of the way and stands in front of my hood, quickly attaching the cables where they go. “While she probably wouldn’t deign to jump her own car at this point in her life, she at least knows how .”

Before I can respond to that jab, she gets into her car and turns it on. I stare at her through her windshield. She’s avoiding my gaze, drumming those slim fingers with their ruby red nails on the steering wheel. Then she says something, but with her being in her car, even with the door open, I can’t understand her over the noise of her engine.

“What?” I call back.

She droops, like speaking to me so I can hear her is the most inconvenient thing in her life. And hell, a princess like her? Maybe it is. And judging by her comment about her sister, she comes from a family of princesses. Which makes sense, I guess. Royalty is a family trait after all.

With both feet on the ground, she leans out of her car, pitching her voice loud. “I said , what will you do if your battery needs to be replaced?”