For the Record (Saints Hockey #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

“Who’s a good girl?”

Still, she got me here. Ha. Proved my brother wrong. Nashville to Chicago. Four hundred and fifty miles from the only place I’ve ever called home.

I pat the steering wheel for good measure, then hop out to fill up the tank.

The frigid wind whips against my cheeks and penetrates my jean jacket, my newly acquired winter coat still packed in my luggage.

It was fifty degrees back home two days ago.

Here it feels like five below, though the dash says thirty-five.

The nozzle clicks into place, and I lean back against the sky-blue paint that could use a good buffing.

The sun peeks through the clouds, catching on the rust spot above the rear wheel well that I keep meaning to deal with.

But let’s be honest, there are plenty of upgrades this old girl could use.

Like Bluetooth and a sound system from the last decade.

All part of the plans for when I hit the Billboard Hot 100.

The dream that got me here.

Technically, it wasn’t the dream that landed me here. It was the legendary—and notoriously difficult—producer who agreed to record my debut album. Nashville might be the hub for country music, but this man apparently doesn’t leave his compound in a rural suburb outside Chicago.

But when you’re that talented and that sought-after, I guess you get to make your own rules.

The tinny sound of my phone’s ringtone bounces out of the cupholder, and I hustle back, leaning across the seat to grab it. Mia’s picture lights up the screen, along with a text from my manager.

Kendra:

I have an epic collaboration in the works. Fingers, toes, and tits crossed…

I shake my head at her message and answer Mia, “Hey, hot stuff.”

She huffs a laugh. “Hey, yourself.”

“Are you just dying to see me? Can’t wait another minute?”

“You caught me,” she deadpans. “What’s your ETA?”

I pull up the GPS app, and my phone flashes with a low-battery warning as I flip back to the call. “About twenty minutes.”

“How do you want to celebrate your first night as a Midwesterner?” she asks over what sounds like the whirl of a blender in the background.

“Doesn’t Dominic have a game tonight? I figured we’d be going. Don’t you go to all of them?”

“Nah, it’s okay to miss one.”

Then I hear Dominic’s voice in the background. “Only one, la mia fiamma. We need all the luck we can get, and I play better when you’re there.”

“Aww.” I can’t help but tease her. “How’s my ex doing?”

Mia and I spent the summer competing against each other on a reality dating show. Although “competed” is a stretch. She had it in the bag from the start, and I cheered her on.

She walked away with a fiancé—or she ran away and he chased her—but still, the fiancé part remains true. I walked away with new friends, which isn’t so different from my normal dating life, where I somehow collect friends rather than love matches.

“He’s perfect.” Her voice softens in that way it does when she’s talking about Dominic. “One second.”

Muffled sounds of their goodbye filter through the line as the nozzle clicks off. I return it to the pump and retreat into the relative warmth of my truck. I plug my phone in, jiggle the cord, and wait for the charging bolt to show up—

Nothing. Of course.

“Anyway, tonight.” Her voice is clearer now. “We need a girls’ night. You’re going to be too busy for me once you get into the studio.”

“Never,” I tell her, though we both know my focus has to be on the album. I probably won’t see her as much as I’d like.

“Chicago is your new home—”

“A temporary one,” I remind her, but she barrels on.

“I want you to love it here. I have six months, and I’m very confident in my persuasion skills.

Dom says I’m quite convincing. And I only get you for one night before you move in with that weirdo.

” She pauses, then adds, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us?

You’re so far out of the city, and you don’t even know the guy you’ll be living with. ”

This isn’t the first time she’s tried to talk some sense into me, and she’s definitely not the only one.

Turns out most people think finding a roommate on NestQuest is…

unwise. But my savings are drained from my stint on reality TV.

Contrary to what people think, it’s not a paid gig.

And I refuse to mooch off the only two people I know in this city, especially when they’re still in the honeymoon phase. No, thanks.

Plus, I found my Nashville roommates on the site, and that turned out fine.

Ish. Dale comes home drunk too often, and Lucy and Will are terrible at keeping both their arguments and lovemaking at a normal volume, but I expected a couple of hiccups with a shared house.

I picked that place for the same reason I picked this one in Chicago: it’s cheap (in this case, free) and close to work.

It’ll be fine.

“Sure, I do. He’s just some old businessman who’s obsessed with his cat and out of town a lot. I’ve already hit it off with his assistant—”

“You could make friends with a fly.”

“Give yourself more credit.” I grin, checking my lip gloss in the mirror. “You’re at least a butterfly.”

Mia laughs, and I take way too much pride in that. She was a tough cookie to crack initially. Maybe opposites don’t only attract in love, but in friendship, too. Where she’s closed off and prickly, I’ll talk to just about anyone and I’m usually smiling while I do it.

“It’ll be good,” I continue. “I’ll barely see the guy. I’ll be at the studio most of the time, anyway.”

She goes quiet, and when she speaks again, she still doesn’t sound convinced. “I don’t like it. If you change your mind—”

Her voice cuts out, and I glance down at the black screen. Looks like my phone has checked out of this road trip, too.

I grab my wallet and my notepad. Is inspiration going to strike in a gas station convenience store? Unlikely. But I’ve been staring at a blank page for what feels like eons, and I’m not about to risk missing my muse.

I jot down “eons” as I lock the Bronco with a double chirp and head toward the entrance.

Eons… universe… you’re the eon of my universe—absolutely not. I scratch all of it out.

The door swings open just as I reach for the handle, and I jump back a step.

“Shit, sorry,” a deep voice mutters as its owner nearly knocks me over. I guess what they say about Northerners being in a hurry is true.

My gaze connects with brown eyes, partially hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses. A few dark blond curls slip forward, falling against his forehead.

“Oh. Hello,” I cajole, because I’m… well, me.

He blinks, lips parting like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. He pushes his glasses up with the back of his wrist, his other arm loaded with way too many Gatorades.

Something about it, the awkwardness, makes me stay in the doorway a beat longer.

His brows pull together. “Do I know you?”

“Don’t think so.” I smile.

“You look so familiar. I swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”

One day, I hope to be someone people know, but for now, “aspiring” is still a required prefix for country singer.

“I’m new to town, so I doubt it,” I say. This guy, a mix of athlete and college professor, doesn’t strike me as the type to watch reality TV. And that’s the only place anyone might’ve seen me. Well, that and… “Unless you’ve been barhopping on Broadway recently.”

“Nashville?” His gaze drifts down my body in a way that feels more curious than creepy, then snaps back up, catching on my notepad. He gives a small shake of his head. “Nah. Are you a reporter?”

“Do you often get reporters ambushing you at gas stations?” I study him, coming up empty. Though to be fair, I don’t watch much TV. Or movies. Or sports. So my odds of recognizing a celebrity are slim unless they’re a musician. “Are you famous?”

He chuckles, it’s warm and deep, and I want to hear it again.

“Not often.” He runs a hand through his hair. “And not famous, per se.”

“Oh, now I’m intrigued.” I take a step closer and lean on the door he’s still holding open.

“I’ve only seen reporters use a notepad like that.” He nods at it. “Or my grandma, who kept one for her weekly grocery list.”

“Oh, so I remind you of your grandmother?” I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one hip. “Careful, that’s not usually an opener that wins girls over.”

He coughs a laugh. “That’s not—I wasn’t—”

A bottle slips from the crook of his arm. I reach out on instinct, but he catches it one-handed. Fast reflexes.

“No, of course not. I was just…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

A man brushes past us, and the handsome stranger steps closer to me, letting him pass. The shift reminds me we’re half-blocking the entrance. He pushes the door open wider, pausing the same way I do. Not wanting this unexpected, odd interaction to end.

I wouldn’t hate it if he asked for my number. I’m not looking for anything serious, obviously, but I’m also not someone who turns down a little fun.

“Well…” he starts, then settles on, “Welcome to Chicago.”

My stomach does a quick dip.

“Thanks.” I match his polite grin before slipping inside.

I don’t make it three steps before glancing back.

He’s still there. Still watching me.

I could ask for his number. Heck, if I were back home, I probably would’ve already. But it feels like too big a swing for hour one of this new life. And I have other things to focus on.

Plus, he should’ve asked for mine. I’m done with lukewarm. I deserve a man who wants me fiercely. Loudly. I want the big feelings, the ones that shake loose lyrics. The ones you write songs about. That ruin you a little before building you back up, stronger.

He gives me a small wave and an even smaller tip of his head before letting the door close between us.

I scribble a note down about Gatorade, grandmas, and déjà vu.