Chapter 3
Alley Heat
Cam
My rented convertible purrs through Cedar Falls like it's apologizing for being too loud in a library.
Top down, the pine-scented mountain summer night air fill my lungs. It's a far cry from the diesel exhaust and honking chaos of downtown Houston. My concussion-rattled brain counts it as the first win I’ve had in weeks.
I grip the steering wheel and resist the urge to floor it just to feel the rush I was built for. Speed. Control. The rush of moving faster than my problems can follow.
Cognitive rest, I remind myself as I vaguely remember the lecture from my little brother, the trauma surgeon, about “respecting the healing process" like my brain is some delicate flower that needs to be watered with meditation and herbal tea.
That’s before he hit me with a knock-out punch of “Your brain is broken."
Brutal. Accurate. And exactly why I'm here instead of in Houston, pretending I can still think fast enough to track a power play without my neurons misfiring like a dial-up modem.
The thing is, I should be grateful. The doctors said full recovery is possible. I've got a place to heal, friends who give a damn, and enough money in the bank to take all the time I need.
Just the occasional dizziness. Fainting spells. Forgetfulness… and—what else? Hell. Exactly.
But gratitude feels a lot like surrender when you're used to being the guy who makes things happen.
I'm supposed to be the chaos engine, not the broken-down carnival ride parked in the corner.
The irony isn't lost on me. I built my reputation on chaos, on being the loud one, the magnetic force that pulled energy out of thin air and turned it into momentum. Now I'm here to learn how to be quiet. How to let my brain rest instead of pushing it until it screams.
A new message from Mom flashes on the car’s dashboard. She's been sending me Korean phrases all day—little anchors, she calls them. Things to hold onto when the fog rolls in.
Sarang-hae, I love you.
Simple. Direct. The kind of truth that cuts through the noise.
The GPS cheerfully announces my destination is ahead, and I spot the familiar silhouette of Sugar Mill Lofts rising against the dusky sky.
That's when I see her.
A woman jogging down the sidewalk, all flowing hair and determined rhythm.
Even from a distance, I can tell she's got curves that would make a saint reconsider his vows.
Her stride hooks me in—confident, purposeful, comfortable in her own skin.
The kind of woman who'd probably laugh at a guy trying to impress her with car horsepower and hockey stats.
Intriguing.
Then I see him.
The shadow about twenty feet behind her, moving with the wrong kind of intention.
My concussion-addled brain might be running slow, but my instincts are still sharp as fresh steel. This isn't a coincidental jogging partner. I've seen enough predators on the ice to recognize the behavior.
I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s perfectly innocent. Maybe I've been hit in the head so many times I'm seeing predators where there are just late-night joggers and overzealous personal trainers.
I run my hand through my hair. Five minutes in Cedar Falls and I might already be the guy who tackles innocent businessmen in alleys. My PR team is going to love this.
But my gut doesn't give a damn what my brain thinks. Every protective cell in my body fires at once.
I pull over hard, engine cut, closing the door behind me. Key still in the ignition, because if someone jacks my ride in Cedar Falls, they'll probably return it with a full tank and homemade cookies in the glove compartment.
Adrenaline floods my system, making my head pound, vision stutter for a second.
Shit. This is exactly what the docs said not to do.
But I can't walk away from this—the first clean rush I’ve felt since Game Six.
This is what I was built for. Not managing symptoms. Not overthinking plays.
Just stepping between a threat and the innocent.
The jogger—gorgeous even from behind, dark hair flying, stride smooth as a breakaway—cuts down an alley. The shadow follows.
Then I hear it: a sharp grunt, a scuffle, a deep, ugly groan.
Every civilized thought evacuates my skull. My legs remember how to be fast—even if my head’s still deciding which way is up—and I break into a run.
I round the corner and—Not what I expected.
The guy is doubled over, clutching his family jewels like she just turned him into a cautionary tale.
But the suit-wearing piece of garbage soon straightens up and shoves her against the wall.
She fights back—I'll give her that. Petite but fierce, all curves and determination. She's got some kind of defensive training. Low center, light feet, hands up while trying to break his grip and create distance.
But he's bigger, and physics is a bitch when you're outweighed by sixty pounds.
Not on my watch.
"Get your hands off her."
My voice comes out low, carrying the kind of promise that's ended more than a few fights before they started.
He spins around, and in the dim alley light, I get my first good look at him. Mid-forties. Expensive threads. Polished shoes. If Italian mafia has a look, he’s the poster child.
He sizes me up—six-four of Korean-Danish muscle with a face that's been in too many hockey fights to count. His grip on the woman loosens as he recalculates the odds.
"This doesn't concern you," he says, but there's already defeat in his voice. He's looking for an exit.
"Funny thing about me," I say, taking another step forward, "I make everything my concern when assholes are hurting women."
The mathematical certainty of losing a fight with me settles over his features. Smart man.
"This is a private matter," he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as artificial. “Family business.”
"Funny," I say, taking another step. "She doesn't look like she agrees."
The woman—her chest rising and falling rapidly—looks more like a celebrity in an adventure movie. Her eyes aren't scared. They're pissed. And when she looks at me, there’s a hint of recognition.
"She's my cousin," the suit says, like that explains why he was manhandling her in an alley at night. "We're having a disagreement."
"And I'm the tooth fairy," I reply as I move closer.
He backs away and adjust his jacket, all smooth movements and predatory calm.
He looks at her with the kind of possessive hunger that makes my skin crawl.
"This isn’t over. You can't run forever, Taralyn. He'll find you. He always does."
Taralyn. Even the name sounds expensive, like champagne and private jets.
So, this is not a random but targeted attack.
Names blur, conversations slip, but I need to remember this guy’s face.
"Time to go," I tell him, putting enough ice in my voice to freeze a rink.
He studies me for another moment, then shrugs like this is all just mildly inconvenient. "Tell your new friend," he says to her, that smile never wavering, "that problems follow you wherever you go."
I see her flinch, see the wall behind her eyes crack, and it makes me want to introduce his guy’s face to the nearest brick wall.
Then he melts back into the shadows like he was never there, leaving behind only the lingering scent of cologne and threat.
I turn to the woman, and the breath catches in my throat.
She's beautiful. Not magazine-perfect—better. Real. Gentle waves of brown hair, blue eyes that could cut glass, and curves that make my hands twitch with want. She's breathing hard, adrenaline flushing her cheeks pink, and there's a fierceness in her that tells me she's tougher than she looks.
"You okay?" The words come out rougher than intended, and I force myself to soften them.
"I mean—are you hurt? Did he—" I can't finish the question. The thought of him putting his hands on her makes me want to punch something, but she doesn't need my rage right now. She needs my calm.
She nods, then those blue eyes widen as they focus on my face.
"You're Cam Wilder."
The recognition shouldn't surprise me—I'm used to being spotted. But something in her voice is different. Not the usual fan-girl excitement or the calculated interest of someone looking for a hookup. Just... knowledge. Like she's filing away the information for later.
"Guilty," I say, flashing the smile that's been getting me out of trouble since junior high. "Don't suppose you want an autograph after I just scared off your... friend?"
She laughs—and the sound hits me like a shot of something stronger than whiskey. It's rich and real and totally at odds with the fact that she was just fighting off some creep in an alley.
"He's not my friend," she says.
“And err… I recognized you from the Candy Jar delivery van," she explains. "Your mugsh—I mean, photo of you and your teammates has been driving around town for a while."
I laugh despite everything. That ridiculous van.
"Yeah, that's us. My contribution to local commerce. And those are artistic portraits." I lean against the alley wall, studying her face. Pretty doesn't begin to cover it.
She laughs again. Melodic and light.
Wow. This woman is dangerous. Dangerous like sunlight after weeks of rain, like the first bite of your favorite food after being sick.
"So, you know who I am. Do I get to know who you are? Besides someone who's apparently got people in expensive suits following her around?"
She hesitates, and I can practically see her weighing options behind those blue eyes. "Tara," she says finally. "Tara Haynes."
"Nice to meet you, Tara Haynes." The name feels right in my mouth, like something I want to say again.
"So, this might be presumptuous of me, but a rescue like that usually comes with some kind of reward."
I'm teasing, expecting another laugh or maybe a playful comeback about hockey players and their egos.
What I don't expect is for her to step closer, her eyes going dark with the intensity that makes my pulse spike.
"What kind of reward were you thinking?" she asks, not quite innocently, and my cock twitches to life in an instant.