Chapter 1
Kylie
Wham.
A face slams against the plexiglass before sliding down dramatically, and the brute who sent the poor soul into it skates away while chuckling to his teammates.
I tighten the laces on my skates and sigh before stretching my neck from side to side.
I’ve been skating at the Concordia, Massachusetts, rec rink on Saturday evenings since I was five years old—nineteen dang years ago—and still, I’m never prepared for the violence the rec hockey league brings with it.
The Fighting Fangs and the Iron Knights are finishing up a game, and per usual, as I’ve been getting ready, I’ve drawn more than a few stares. It’s as if they’ve never seen a woman before. Wide eyes, gaping mouths, the whole nine yards.
I stand and bounce on my toes to make sure there aren’t any pinch points in my new skates, then pull my sweatshirt over my head and toss it in my bag.
As the final whistle blows, I move onto the ice as the men move off.
“Hey, Ky.”
I glance over to find one of the more harmless oglers named Holland looking at me, his slightly goofy smile drenched in sweat as he slides to a stop at the glass next to me.
“Hey,” I reply, my responding smile friendly.
“How’s it going? Skating alone tonight?”
Normally, my best friend Alyssa would be lacing up her skates as we speak, and a little bit of the attention would be split between us.
“Looks that way.” I shrug. “Alyssa has an assignment for her master’s program due at midnight tonight. Chronic procrastinator, that one.”
He laughs, nodding like it confirms something. “I could hang out if you want. Keep you company.”
“Uh…that’s nice of you…” I pause. There’s something about the way he says it—too casual, too easy—and I shake my head as an overwhelming burn blooms across the back of my neck.
I spin on my skates to face him and start slowly skating backward toward the center of the rink.
“But no thanks. I’m good. Just going to do some drills and then head home. ”
“Yeah. Sure. See you next time,” he offers with a salute and steps off the ice.
I watch him head toward the locker room with the other guys on his team, and unease flickers through me for no real reason.
I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself that, for the love of God, I need to get some good sleep tonight.
Work’s been a real kick to the gonads lately, and the hours I’m putting in on a weekly basis—pushing seventy—are really starting to get to me.
I do a slow spin to test the texture of the ice—only to screech to a stop when I nearly collide with something solid enough to feel like a wall.
Grumpy. Serious. Glaring.
The Garbage Man. My garbage man. The one I chase down the street every Tuesday morning with my bin while he waits beside his big truck, arms crossed, looking like my existence personally offends him.
Rook Slater.
“Oh. Sorry,” I blurt out, trying to keep the peace even though he’s the one who skated right up on me.
I know he plays hockey—everyone knows the Slater brothers are real hard-asses on the ice, and I see him here all the time—but something about seeing him this up close and personal makes my stomach drop. He normally keeps his distance.
His alluring smell at this proximity is an unexpected addiction. Even sweaty, he smells sweet, like a perfectly salted chocolate chunk cookie—completely and utterly un-garbage-man-like. I resist the urge to suck in a breath of air and swallow by focusing on his looks instead.
He’s deadly handsome, I’ll give him that—dark hair, dark, mysterious eyes, and a jawline born of the gods—but he never fails to look like he’s swallowed a bundle of knives. Especially when he’s looking at me, a task in which he’s engaged fully right now.
First, my face, until his gaze tracks down my throat, my chest, and my hands before it snaps back up so fast it feels like I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
He melts into both anger and something sharper, and goose bumps scatter up my arms and neck.
His jaw clenches. His shoulders tense. For half a second, it looks like he might say something, but just before the pinnacle of tension is released, he exhales through his nose, turns abruptly, and skates away hard and quick, like he’s trying to get away from me as fast as he can.
Okay. Rude.
I mean, I don’t know what I ever did to this guy, but clearly, he’s not my biggest fan.
Whatever. My worth doesn’t hinge on the guy who collects my garbage, for Pete’s sake. Not that there’s anything wrong with blue-collar work—actually, it’s hot knowing a man is good with his hands. But Rook Slater is such a fringe part of my life, he doesn’t deserve main character headspace.
I shake it off and skate toward center ice, but my focus slips as I watch Rook reach the benches and nearly tear off his skates while his brothers move toward him.
Their tone is much more jovial—one of them, Kane maybe, even tosses me a wink—as their blond and brown heads respectively glint in the fluorescent light from overhead.
But when they reach him, and exchange low words I can’t hear, their faces turn serious.
It feels a lot like they’re all watching me now, but I try really hard not to notice and just skate.
I hardly know anything about the Slater brothers despite years of running in the same Concordia circles, and they definitely don’t know much about me.
They can work their blue-collar jobs and play hockey on the weekends, and I’ll do my own thing too because who cares what they’re saying or thinking.
Right? Right.
I think they’re a few years older than me, but to be honest, I don’t really know.
They all seem the same age or close, but they don’t look alike at all, so it doesn’t make sense for them to be triplets.
It’s weird. I suppose I could ask, but it never feels like the appropriate time to insert myself into potential family drama, especially given the dirty looks I already get from Rook.
I have a hard time pinpointing anything that should cause so much disdain, but it doesn’t matter.
It. Doesn’t. Matter. Kylie.
Shaking my head to clear it, I skate a loop around the rink, foot over foot over foot until I’ve picked up enough speed to feel the ice-cooled air brush against my face. I do a few spins to get my footing before throwing a toe loop to get started.
I feel good, limber even, and my roommate Alyssa will be happy to hear that the stretches she’s been telling me to do are paying off.
Skating is one of my favorite things in the world.
Growing up, it was my escape from the turmoil that comes with losing both of your parents at a young age.
Now, it’s an escape from the stress and mundanity of everyday life.
It’s my sanity in a largely insane world, and it feels good to lose myself in the power of it rather than the uneasy feelings I get from the Slater brothers.
My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my leggings, so I slide to a stop and pull it out to get a look, just in case it’s important.
Unknown: Kylie, it’s Gammy. This is my new number. I lost my phone again.
I snort. My grandma is almost eighty, and has not, no matter how many times I’ve explained, grasped the fact that losing your phone doesn’t mean you have to get a new number.
You just get a new phone. I don’t bother getting into that for the five millionth time now.
The number will be new again within the month, and we’ll have to do the whole dog and pony show all over again.
Me: Okay, I’ll add this to my contacts.
Gammy: Good. Also, do you have some time to get together this week? It’s really important that we talk.
This week? She’s kidding, right?
I work for an accountancy firm just outside Boston, and with returns due painfully soon, this week is pure murder, schedule-wise.
I love my Gammy—she’s the one who raised me after my parents passed—but I don’t think fitting her in at this stage of tax season is even humanly possible.
I barely make time for skating, and that’s practically therapy.
Me: Ah, I don’t know. This week is so, so busy, Gammy. Can it wait until after the 15th?
The 15th, as in April 15th. Otherwise known as D Day in the tax world and a measly two and a half weeks from today.
Gammy: No. It can’t.
I guffaw, but when I look up from my phone, every hair on my body stands on end.
All three of the Slater brothers are staring right at me.
Kane and Calloway have the good grace to look contrite for being so unabashed about it. Rook, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to set me on fire. The intensity of his glare makes my breath hitch and hold. As much as I want to, I can’t look away.
But much longer of this staring contest, and I fear he’ll be able to hear the thoughts rolling around inside my head.
What’s his freaking deal? What did I ever do to him? How can a man look so angry and scary and be so hot at the same time? And for the love of everything, why can’t my vagina distinguish between the two?
Eventually, I have to look away first. The intensity is too much.
Taking a deep breath and pouring everything I have into regaining my focus, I move my attention back to my phone and type out a text.
Me: Geez. Well. Okay. I’ll try to figure something out and let you know, okay?
Gammy: Don’t try, Ky. DO. We need to talk.
Geez. I want to put stock in her words, but the last time she sounded this serious, all she wanted was to warn me against the dangers of Botox. It was valid advice, coming from a woman with glass skin and an ass that won’t quit even at her age, but it was hardly groundbreaking information.
I’m not saying I won’t try to find a time to have dinner with her or something soon, but I definitely can’t nail anything down before reading the room with my boss, Martin.
He’s pretty chill nine out of twelve months of the year, but as of two Fridays ago, he’s smack-dab in the middle of an existential crisis.
Pretty sure it’s not going to be as simple as me saying “my gammy needs me” while my boss is balls deep in IRS returns.
There’s going to have to be sugarcoating and coddling and working through returns at the speed of light to be able to leave the office with enough time to make the forty-five-minute drive to my grandma’s house, have dinner, and be back again before midnight at any point over the next two and a half weeks.
I tuck my phone into my leggings and push off again, forcing my focus back onto the ice. I glide into motion, ready to get back to work on my toe jumps. For some reason, they’re always my sloppiest, and I find starting with them when my energy is highest is the most productive.
I turn and burn around the outside of the rink, spinning around and skating backward for half the loop before spinning forward again.
But still, I’m not alone.
Across the rink, Holland and a few of the Fighting Fangs lean against the plexiglass, out of their gear and watching me without remorse.
A quick glance confirms that the trio of Slater brothers has made its way to the locker room, and shockingly, in their absence, my tension over being watched only amplifies.
I try to concentrate on my form instead of on the ogling men, but the vulnerability won’t leave. I’m in a sports bra and leggings, and the weight of all these eyes makes me feel like I’m in a fishbowl.
Like I’m being measured and judged and calculated somehow. I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t feel good.
It’s probably ridiculous. I’m probably being ridiculous. I mean, this is a public rink in a sleepy town, and these are a bunch of hockey dudes locking in on the only woman they can.
But…the unease won’t leave.
Ugh.
Why are these men so damn starved for female viewing? Don’t they know there’s free porn on the internet?