Could’ve Fooled Me (Georgia Jaguars Hockey #1)

Chapter 1

SARAH

After three weeks of living in Atlanta full time, I’ve decided the roads were planned by an angry toddler with a fistful of crayons.

Roads change names with no warning, highways weave up and around and over themselves, and there are at least fifty different Peachtrees.

Peachtree Road, Peachtree Boulevard, Peachtree Lane.

Do they celebrate any other kind of fruit in Georgia?

I’ve eaten Georgia peaches, and they’re admittedly delicious. But this level of obsession is ridiculous.

I slow my car and take a right into a restaurant parking lot so I can turn around.

To be fair, it’s on me for assuming I already know enough to get around without my GPS.

But I only had to go to the art supply store, which is directly in between my new favorite coffee shop and the grocery store I’ve been to at least four times.

It shouldn’t be this hard. And yet, I made the same wrong turn today that I made yesterday. And the day before that.

Across the street, Vortex Arena looms large, its glass walls gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

I haven’t been to the arena since I moved in, but the last time I was in the car with Anna and her girls, Poppy pointed out the window and said, “Aunt Sarah, that’s where Daddy plays hockey!

Now that you live here, will you come to games with us? ”

I looked over and exchanged a glance with Anna.

“Sarah’s pretty busy, Pops,” my sister-in-law said. Then she launched into a list of the different restaurants Poppy and Olive could choose for dinner, and my oldest niece’s question was forgotten.

I appreciated Anna’s redirection, but honestly, I still haven’t shaken the guilt that’s been gnawing at me ever since.

Last year, my brother led the Georgia Jaguars all the way to the final round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. It was the closest he’s ever come in the seventeen years he’s been playing in the NHL, and I didn’t see any of it.

As I ease back out onto the main road—one that is absolutely named after a peach—my phone rings from where it’s sitting in the center console, and Anna’s face pops up on my dashboard.

“Hey,” I say, answering the call through the car’s connection. “What’s up?”

“Are you still out?”

“I am, but I’m almost home. I’m across the street from the Vortex.”

She’s quiet for a beat before she asks, “Did you get lost again?”

“It’s an easy turn to miss,” I argue, and she chuckles.

“Just use your GPS, Sarah. I still use mine, and I’ve lived here my entire life.”

“Using it to avoid traffic is different than using it because you can’t drive ten minutes to the art supply store without getting lost.”

“You’ll get there eventually,” she says, and I hope she’s right. I’m not sure why it matters so much. I’ll only be here a few more months.

Two months, three weeks, and four days, to be exact.

And yes. I’m counting, but not in a good way. I’m the opposite of a kid crossing off the days until Christmas. Because the giant X on my calendar marking my departure only fills me with a sense of dread.

“In the meantime,” Anna continues, “can you swing by Chick-Fil-A and pick up the platter of nuggets I ordered for the kids? I just called, and they confirmed it’s ready. You can go through the drive-thru to pick it up.”

“Sure,” I say. “The one by Publix?”

“Yes, but I’ll send you a pin for it. Don’t try to get there on your own.”

I breathe out an exaggerated sigh. “I have a reputation now, don’t I? I’m always going to be your directionally challenged sister-in-law.”

She laughs. “You have to have something to keep you humble. I sent the pin. Did it come through?”

“I’ve got it,” I say as I pull up the location on my GPS. “I’ll be home in a few.”

“Thank you. Love you. See you soon!” Anna says, then the call disconnects.

My brother has done a lot of incredible things in his thirty-six years, his hockey career notwithstanding. But I’m not sure anything rivals convincing Anna to marry him.

Miles is ten years older than I am, so I was only sixteen when he and Anna got married, but she never treated me like I was just an annoying teenager.

She loved me with her whole heart, which has made it easy to love her back.

She’s kind, funny, loyal. And honest in a way that people who love you should be honest, but not in a way that ever hurts my feelings.

Nine years later, the age difference is much less significant—we’re as much friends as we are sisters. Best friends.

Which is why leaving is going to be so hard.

Twenty minutes later, chicken nuggets secure in the front seat, my GPS safely guides me back to my brother’s ridiculously enormous house.

The street out front is full of cars, so I’m guessing most of his teammates are already here.

I pull into the second driveway and ease past the garage so I can park next to the pool house.

There’s a spare bedroom inside the main house that Anna and Miles offered to let me use, but it’ll be Olive’s room soon—as soon as they move her out of the nursery to make way for the new baby.

So I’m living in the pool house instead.

It’s dated—it wasn’t renovated like the rest of the house was before Anna and Miles moved in—but it’s cozy and private and I really like having my own space.

The only downside is it doesn’t have much natural light, so I still haven’t figured out a good place to paint.

I haven’t minded too much—I’ve been so focused on spending time with my nieces—but I’m starting to feel twitchy, restless and ready to get back to it, so I’ll have to solve the problem soon.

I climb out of the car just as an SUV pulls into the drive behind me. A couple gets out and walks together toward the front door, and I swallow a groan.

When Miles first mentioned the dinner, I considered faking a migraine to get out of having to attend.

Not because I have a particular aversion to hockey players.

It’s watching the sport that’s triggering—not being around the men who play it.

But social situations are generally tough for me.

Crowds are intimidating at best. Completely draining at their worst.

Anna posed the evening as an opportunity to meet someone—there’s no shortage of single guys on Miles’s team.

But I’m moving in a few months. Seems dumb to start something when I won’t be around.

Plus, she’s forgetting my brother would probably break his teammates’ ankles before letting any of them date his sister, which is generally annoying but helpful in this case, because I have no interest in being a WAG.

I respect what my brother does for a living. And hockey Wives and Girlfriends are incredible women. At least the ones whom I’ve met—Anna most of all.

But I don’t fit in that world.

I can’t fit. Even if I want to.

Still, Miles has been in Atlanta for most of his career, and he talks about his teammates like they’re brothers.

Now that I’m living here too—at least temporarily—it feels rude to avoid them.

Or maybe the guilt for missing all his games is starting to catch up with me.

Finally meeting his teammates feels like a relatively low-risk way to support him.

I climb out of my car and move around to the passenger side to retrieve the large platter of chicken.

It smells delicious and my stomach rumbles with hunger, prompting me to set it on the hood of the car and lift the lid on the tray so I can retrieve a couple of nuggets for myself.

There can’t be that many kids in attendance. Surely they won’t miss a few.

The chicken is tender and juicy, and I let out a little groan as I sink back against my car. When was the last time I had anything to eat? I sketched all morning…which, honestly, I often forget to eat when I’m immersed in my work. I suddenly feel like I could eat this entire tray.

“Can I have one?”

I spin around, still licking my fingers, and find a little girl in the driveway behind me.

She looks close to Poppy’s age, around five or six, and has long red hair braided into pigtails.

She’s wearing fairy wings on her back, which feels like an odd choice considering she also has goalie pads on her legs.

Either way, she’s possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

“A piece of chicken?” I ask.

She nods, eyes wide and serious. “The food is taking forever.”

My mind flits back to a conversation I had with Anna when Poppy had a friend over who had at least a dozen dietary restrictions.

Gluten, dairy, eggs. The poor kid was allergic to everything.

It’s making me nervous to offer food to a random kid, and my eyes dart to the back door, wondering if she has a parent nearby.

As if on cue, the door swings open, and a man steps out. “Charlie?” he calls, eyes on the backyard.

Even if I didn’t know Miles’s house was full of professional hockey players, I probably would have guessed this guy was an athlete just by the size and shape of him.

Broad shoulders, tapered waist. Thighs straining against the seams of his pants.

I can’t see his face from this angle, but I don’t mind the look of the rest of him.

I look at the little girl. “Are you Charlie?”

She looks toward the man calling her name. “Yeah. But that’s just Uncle Carter. He won’t mind if I have some.”

“There you are,” the man calls, finally turning this way and closing the short distance between us. Turns out, his face is even better than everything else.

Uncle Carter is really handsome. Light brown hair, a close-cut beard. And the most arresting blue eyes.

He offers me a brief smile, then zeroes in on the little girl—Charlie. “Your dad’s looking for you. Did you tell him you were going outside?” His tone is gentle—more curious than scolding.

She shrugs. “I saw a bird.”

“Yeah? What kind?” His answer surprises me, and it must surprise Charlie too because she perks right up.

“It was brown. With orangey-red on his belly.”