Chapter 2
TWO
I’d like to say the disappointment on my teammates’ faces isn’t my usual post-game view, but I’m not in the business of lying to myself.
After spending most of last season on injured reserve, I forgot that Coach’s voice can fill a room while leaving space for every tiny sound—the swish of fabric, Velcro tearing, gear clattering into bins.
I forgot the way the guys avoid meeting your eye, not trying to pin blame, and not wanting to see it reflected in someone else’s.
Deep brown eyes framed by thick lashes flash behind my closed lids for maybe the hundredth time since this afternoon. I pinch the bridge of my nose before focusing back on Coach.
I take a sip of Gatorade as he wraps up with, “Rest tomorrow. We’ll be back at it the day after.”
That tug in my gut—responsibility, guilt, whatever it is—pulls me to my feet. “We know how to play better than we did tonight. Leave it out there and concentrate on the next one.”
It sounds a lot like the last eight times I’ve encouraged my team.
We’re on another epic losing streak, but as captain, it’s my job to keep the hope alive.
Even if I’m losing it myself. I thought this season was going to be different, but nearly two months in, the Stanley Cup feels farther away every night.
“Aye, aye, Cap,” Helm chirps.
The mood in the room snaps like a rubber band as my teammates hustle to get out of here.
I drag a hand through my hair, forgetting it stops at my neck now.
Still not used to the shorter cut Fox talked me into.
He claimed his new mustache was the secret behind his hot streak earlier this season.
I’m pretty sure being in love with Mia has more to do with it, but he swore a fresh style would help me get my “groove” back.
I’m still not sure how I bought that, but here we are.
“Anyone wanna grab a drink?” I toss out to the locker room.
I get the usual chorus of polite declines.
“Not tonight, man,” Fox adds, last and loudest. I lost my wingman the minute he fell for Logan’s sister.
So I head to cool down. The guys call my post-game routine “psychopath behavior,” and they’re probably right. I don’t need to spend an hour flushing out my legs on the bike while rewatching the game and jotting notes—
Which reminds me of another note-taker.
Stop.
Old habits die hard; it’s not like I have anyone to rush home to.
Except maybe the memory of lips that curve into a sly smile and speak with a subtle southern drawl.
Fuck.
Where do I know her from?
It’s driving me insane. That’s the only explanation for why I can’t stop thinking about her. That, and the annoying pit in my gut that says I should’ve asked for her number.
But what would I have done with it?
I’m not the guy who asks for women’s numbers anymore. Hell, I’m not even the guy who calls when someone gives me theirs.
I’m definitely not the guy who gets hung up on someone I talked to for, what, two minutes.
Since my ex, and my subsequent attempts—and failures—at finding that kind of connection with someone new, I’ve kept things casual. And I’ve been mostly content with it. Happy, even.
Yet, I keep thinking about the girl at Citgo.
The rookie’s the only one still lingering when I get back from the showers.
“Change your mind about grabbing a drink?” I pull on a pair of boxer briefs under my towel.
“Nope. Already got plans.”
“Date?” I button my shirt.
Last season, we’d all be commiserating the loss with a pint in hand. Now my friends are running home to their girls. I can’t even count on the rookie for a drinking buddy, though I think he’s a long way from settling down.
“Yup.” Helm tucks his phone into his pocket. “You should get on the apps, King.”
“I’m good,” I say, though the truth is I’ve probably exhausted all options on them.
I wasn’t always this jaded about dating, but at some point, I accepted that I’d missed my chance at finding something lasting. Or lost the desire to do so.
“Quit frowning.”
I am not frowning.
“It’s just Doom December, Cap,” he continues, shouldering his bag. “Don’t stress it.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“The annual collapse. Happens every year—we collectively forget how to play hockey for like thirty days. Check the stats if you don’t believe me.” He heads toward the door. “Later, Cap.”
I raise my hand in goodbye and finish dressing. If no one else is going to drown out the sting of that loss, I guess it’s up to me.
Sully’s is busier than usual for a Thursday, the music humming under the conversations. The place is still the same dim hole-in-the-wall it’s always been—wood-paneled walls, lighting with a faint green tint that makes everyone look a little sickly. It’s part of the charm.
I take an open stool near the end of the bar. Cassie spots me right away, holds out a fist, and I bump it.
“The usual?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She turns to pour, and I check my phone.
I don’t have a plan for tonight beyond a beer and a quiet enough head to sleep. Lately, that’s the most I hope for.
Last year, this would’ve been different. Fox would’ve dragged everyone here, Logan would be next to me, acting like he wasn’t waiting on a text from Hannah, and Volk would brood but still show up. Helm would be halfway across the room, looking for someone to take home.
Since when is he interested in dating? How can so much change so quickly?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them. I just feel a bit… behind.
Cassie sets a frosted glass of Half Acre IPA in front of me, and I abandon my phone to take a sip.
I’m not in the mood to pick up, but my eyes wander, thumb tapping the bar. The battered bookshelf in the back is half board games, half lost-and-found, displayed like a museum. Tonight, the most interesting thing is a single red glittery heel straight out of The Wizard of Oz.
My glass is halfway to my mouth when I catch a blur of auburn. My gaze jerks back.
I set my drink on the bar. She’s a few stools down and caddy-corner, leaning toward the bartender with her elbows on the counter. He says something that makes her smile, the same easy one that’s been stuck in my head all day.
She doesn’t notice me. I’m glad. It gives me a chance to just… take her in.
It’s her.
What are the fucking odds? I blink. Nope, I’m not imagining it.
My stomach drops in that swooping, tight way it did earlier. Cassie returns, and I pull my eyes away long enough to hand her my card.
When I glance over again, the bartender is tossing a word over his shoulder as he walks off. Whatever he said sends her head tipping back in laughter. I wish I could hear it, but the room swallows the sound.
She pulls that little notepad out of her bag and flips it open, tapping her pen against the bar top before chewing on the end of it.
Her brow furrows, and she lets out a huff that blows a stray strand of hair from her face.
Then, she brings an amber bottle to her lips, eyes roaming the space until they catch on mine.
My pulse kicks up when her cheeks lift, flushed with color.
She mouths something I can’t make out, then shoves everything into her purse, pushes her chair back, and heads straight toward me.
People look as she passes. Not just men—everyone. She has the kind of presence that’s hard to ignore, the kind that makes a room feel brighter because she’s in it.
I’ve been around plenty of beautiful women. This is different.
She slips into the empty seat on my left, angling my way until her knees brush against my thigh. Heat slides through me at the contact.
“Citgo” is what comes out of my mouth.
“I’ve been called worse,” she tosses back without missing a beat.
“I’ve been thinking about you.” The words escape before I can stop them, and judging by the pleased tilt of her lips, she knows it.
“I have that effect on people.” She takes a sip of her drink.
“Can I get you another?”
Don’t fuck up your second chance, I tell myself. It’s not often the universe hands you a do-over on the same day. And I haven’t wanted a second chance with anyone in… Well, never.
She lifts one shoulder. “Why not?”
I nod to Cassie when she swings by. “Another?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, and I add, “Put it on mine.”
Cassie swaps the empty for a fresh one.
I rest an elbow on the bar and turn to her. “I didn’t take you for a Budweiser girl.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” She drags a finger through the condensation on the bottle, turning it between her hands. “Yet.”
“Yet?” My voice drops as her knee presses further into mine.
“If you’re lucky.”
She takes another drink, her tongue catching a stray drop on her lower lip.
I clear my throat. “I could use some luck.”
“I guess I could, too. What do you need luck for… Wait, no. Let me guess.” She leans in, propping her chin on her fist as she studies me. “You’re a pharmaceutical rep. Viagra. And you’re angling for a raise.” She waggles her brows.
I choke on the sip I just took. “I think I should be offended.”
“You don’t seem like the type to get easily offended.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
She shrugs. “I’m wise beyond my years.”
“How old are you?” I’d guess twenty-five.
“Twenty-seven. What about you?”
“Twenty-nine.” I lean further into her space. “It’s the suit, isn’t it?”
She gives me a quick dip of her chin, her eyes tracing over my features. “You’re not wearing glasses. You were wearing them earlier.”
“Can’t wear them when I play.”
Her brows pull together. “Oh, let me guess—”
“You always size people up like this?” I take another swig. “Shouldn’t you get your notepad out? Take some notes?”
“I just might.” She grins and eases back in her seat, still studying me, her knees pressed firmly against my leg.
“Pickleball,” she declares. “You’re in an intramural pickleball league, aren’t you?”
I bark a laugh. “You think I only look athletic enough to play pickleball?”
“Don’t knock it, I hear the competition is brutal.” Her smile widens, bright despite the bar’s dim lighting. “Maybe I could join your league?”
Jesus. I can’t decide whether she’s serious or just messing with me. Either way, I don’t want her to stop. Which has me saying, “We can play.”
“Yeah, we can.” She winks, and heat crawls up my neck.
“Are you here by yourself? Or out with friends?”
“My friend. She just stepped out for some air. What about you?”
“Alone. What are you—”
“Miles?” a familiar voice cuts in.
I turn to find Mia leaning against the corner of the bar, her coat half-off, and her hair windblown.
“Hey.” I shift enough to include her, though her attention is locked on the woman beside me.
“I see you’ve met Summer,” Mia says, wry but affectionate. The introduction makes me realize I never asked for her name.
Summer.
It fits.
My favorite season.
Something about her feels familiar, but I still can’t place her face. I look at her again, trying to catch whatever my brain is missing.
Summer looks between us. “You know each other?”
“Yeah.” Mia draws the word out. “This is Miles—Miles King. He plays with Dom.”
“Hockey?” Summer tilts her head. “I still think pickleball was a solid guess. Your face is way too handsome for hockey.”
Beside me, Mia scoffs, but I don’t look away from Summer.
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, the reddish-brown strands catching the light. It’s shorter around her face, brushing her cheekbones. Her eyes are darker than mine, almost black in this light. And her mouth is full. Soft. And tips up when she catches me looking at it.
“And this is Summer Starling, future country music legend,” Mia announces, pride clear in her voice.
That’s when it clicks.
I have seen her before.
“You were on the show,” I blurt. “You’re The One.”
“Guilty,” she replies, and I lose her gaze when it shifts to Mia. “How’re you doing?”
“Better. The fresh air helped.” Mia winces before adding, “But don’t hate me… I called Dom to pick us up.”
Summer stands, her knees leaving my side, taking with them the warmth they brought. I miss the connection immediately.
She slips an arm around Mia, resting her chin on her shoulder. “Don’t even worry about it, buttercup.”
Mia side-eyes her, but her shoulders drop as she leans into the hug.
The two chat, trying to pull me in, but I’m too aware of the clock running out. Too busy trying to figure out how to stretch out my time with Summer. And then questioning why the hell I’m so drawn to her in the first place.
“He’s here,” Mia announces, checking her phone before zipping her coat.
She steps away, and Summer moves to follow, but something in me reacts before logic can catch up. I reach out and wrap my fingers gently around her wrist.
“Stay.” The word comes out rough. Too honest.
I don’t do this. I don’t ask women to stay. That’s the whole point of keeping things casual—no expectations, no morning-afters, and no complications. One night, then we both move on.
But I’m not ready for Summer to move on. Not yet.
She freezes. Slowly looks back at me. And for a split second, I think I’ve fucked this up. Pushed too hard, wanted too much, shown my hand too soon.
And then she laughs—this bright, unguarded sound—and Jesus, it’s better than I imagined.
When her eyes meet mine again, something soft settles in them. And I realize this was never going to end the way my nights usually do.
This one already means more.
“Why the heck not?”