Hooked by Nash Again

1

Kennedy

The media used to describe Nash Reed as one of the most sought-after players in the NHL—both on and off the ice.

Now the focus seemed to be on whether he still had what it took to keep his spot as the assistant captain for the New York Empires or if he was just another overpaid, overrated playboy.

But one thing was certain: he had people’s attention. As the new face of Armani’s latest cologne, his smoldering ads dominated billboards, magazines, and social media feeds everywhere.

I paused mid-unpacking and stared as the newest ad appeared on the TV.

Nash was dressed in nothing but a pair of worn blue jeans.

He stood at a slight angle, giving the camera a three-quarter view, which somehow made the whole thing worse.

His tanned arms were crossed over his massive chest in a way that made his biceps bulge and highlighted every sculpted inch of his shoulders.

The camera panned lower, revealing his sharply tapering waist and abs so defined they looked like you could bounce quarters off them.

“Damn,” I muttered as the camera continued its slow descent, capturing the perfect V that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. The snug denim left little to the imagination, showcasing his ridiculously firm ass and legs that could crush watermelons.

His dark hair was messy, just like I remembered, falling over his forehead in a way that only added to his ridiculous sex appeal. That signature smirk curved his lips, and there was a spark in his eyes that made the whole thing even more dangerous. The ad—just like Nash—was downright drool-worthy.

In short, Nash Reed was sexy as hell.

I sighed when the ad finally ended and I had to turn back to my suitcase. It wasn’t going to unpack itself, but it definitely wasn’t as fun as looking at a half-naked Nash.

Whoever created the ad knew exactly what they were doing.

It pulled at people’s emotions in all the right ways.

Men wanted to be him. Women wanted him—or, at the very least, wanted someone who smelled like him.

And me? I wanted to be the one behind the campaign—the one who told the story, shaped the brand, and stirred the desire.

That was the main reason I’d come to New York.

At twenty-five, I’d finally landed my dream job. After busting my ass through college and climbing the ladder at a major advertising firm in Chicago, I’d been offered a position at a company based in Manhattan, which was the home of the New York Empires.

Nash’s team.

Manhattan had always been my ultimate goal.

It was the epicenter of advertising—where the biggest agencies, most high-profile clients, and most noteworthy campaigns were born.

For someone like me, driven and determined to make something of myself, it wasn’t just a city.

It was the city. If I wanted to play in the big leagues—which I did— New York was the only place that made sense, and I’d sacrificed plenty to make it happen.

I’d put in longer hours than anyone else in the office, volunteered for the projects no one wanted, and basically lived at my desk. It had been a few difficult and very lonely years, but all that effort had finally paid off, and I was ready.

The other reason I wanted to be in New York City was the star of that Armani commercial himself.

I was—like most of the female population—totally smitten with Nash Reed.

I just didn’t admit it out loud. But for me, it wasn’t just a celebrity crush.

I’d been secretly head over heels for Nash since I was a kid.

The difference between me and all the women drooling over him on billboards and commercials was that I actually knew him.

We’d grown up next door to each other in a small suburban town in upstate New York.

It had been a few years since I’d last seen him, and over a year since I’d heard from him at all.

Things had changed once we’d gone off to different colleges—well, things had started to change before that—but that hadn’t stopped me from following his career.

I tried to stick to the stats, avoiding any gossip about his latest conquests as best I could.

“Are you almost done?” Sammy, my old college roommate, asked, leaning against the doorframe of my room.

She’d moved to Manhattan after graduation to run a small bakery downtown, while I’d headed to Chicago. Now, we found ourselves living together again, and to celebrate, I’d promised we were going out for drinks. The only thing we hadn’t totally agreed on yet was where we were going.

My brother, Jackson—thinking he was being helpful—had reached out to Nash to let him know I was in town.

That little gesture had turned into Nash texting me with the name of the bar he and the guys were heading to tonight. Sammy was all for going there, but I wasn’t so sure. As much as I wanted to see him, I didn’t know if I was ready.

But in the end, she won, like usual.

I survived my first subway ride, though I almost got off at the wrong station and got body-checked by a guy carrying a plant bigger than me.

Sammy couldn’t stop laughing when I had to duck to avoid being smacked in the face by a branch.

But somehow, the damn thing still got caught in my hair, and Sammy spent the next few stations pulling leaves out of it.

We were still giggling when we arrived at the bar.

O’Reilly’s was the unofficial hangout for the Empires hockey team.

An ornate sign with intricate scrollwork hung over a massive wooden door with green-painted trim.

The inside had dark wood paneling, red tapestries, and a warm, cozy ambiance.

A few booths lined the back wall, and small bar tables dotted the floor, but the true centerpiece was the large wooden bar stretching nearly the length of the room.

It was packed, with not a single open seat in sight.

Sammy took my hand and pulled me toward the side of the bar, next to a group of well-dressed women. We squeezed our way in, and Sammy gestured to the bartender.

“So, what can I get you beautiful ladies?” the bartender asked, flashing a playful smile as he looked up.

“I’ll have whatever they’re having,” Sammy said, nodding toward the group of women next to us.

“Me too,” I added, even though I had no clue what they were drinking other than it was pinkish liquid in a martini glass—and honestly, I didn’t care. I was just happy to be back with my best friend, and nervous at the thought of seeing Nash.

“Coming right up,” he replied, reaching for two glasses, his hands moving swiftly and expertly behind the bar. He placed two martinis in front of us a couple of minutes later. Whatever they were, they were good and went down way too easily.

When I was on my second martini and Sammy was on her third, the women next to us began glancing over their shoulders, chatting like a bunch of noisy hens, practically bouncing on their stools like excited little kids.

There were usually only a few reasons women acted like that.

They’d either found a food they liked that was somehow almost calorie-free, stumbled upon a great sale, or spotted a really hot man nearby.

My bet was on the latter, and the nervous excitement I’d felt ever since Nash’s text had the butterflies in my stomach doing somersaults.

I tried to peer toward the back, but even in heels, I couldn’t see a thing. From my stellar five-foot-two height, all I got were backs and chests. Sammy, of course, had a much better view. She was tall and slender like a runway model with shoulder-length blond hair and hazel eyes.

“What’s going on in the back?” I asked her, nibbling nervously on my lip. “Is Nash there?”

Her eyes met mine for a second, wordlessly acknowledging the tumult twisting inside me, before she rose onto her tiptoes to get a better look.

I watched as she took in the room, eyes moving rapidly over the crowd. “I don’t know,” she said finally, “but I’ll find out.”

She turned and waved down the bartender. He appeared almost immediately, despite everyone else also wanting his attention. “Ready for another already?” he asked with a grin.

Sammy giggled in that effortless, flirty way of hers, motioning toward our still half-full glasses. “Nope, still working on these. We were just wondering—what’s going on in the back?”

The bartender chuckled and nodded toward the group of women. “Some of the Empires players came in. You can usually tell when they’re here by how the ladies act,” he said with a wink.

“I can see that,” Sammy laughed, raising a perfectly shaped brow.

I didn’t laugh but forced an awkward smile as the butterflies in my stomach stopped flipping and jumped onto a hair-raising roller coaster, knowing I’d probably see Nash soon.

My hand trembled slightly as I took another sip of my martini, trying to brush off the nerves.

It was ridiculous, really. I didn’t know if Nash was here, and even if he was, it wasn’t a big deal.

Or at least, it shouldn’t be. We were friends—childhood friends.

It would be perfectly normal for me to go over and say hi. Expected, even.

Fine, it would probably be frowned upon if I didn’t, but something inside held me back.

Before I could talk myself into—or out of—anything, the women next to Sammy squealed, “Oh my God, Nash Reed is over there!”

“Are you serious?” one of them gasped.

A stunning blond who looked like she’d already had one martini too many slammed her hand on the bar and spun toward her friends. “Let’s go talk to him,” she said, like it was the world’s greatest idea.

They all squealed again and scrambled off their stools, knocking into one another and nearly spilling their drinks in their mad dash toward the back.

Nash might’ve been struggling to score on the ice lately, but most women cared a lot more about the commercials—and his abilities off the ice.

Sammy wasted no time sliding onto the now-empty stool beside her, and I followed, settling onto the one next to hers.