Point of Release (Goal Point #1)

Chapter 1

ALIA

What I want is to live in my pajamas, on my couch, in a happily codependent relationship. In keeping with the rest of my life, I have failed, because I’m currently standing elbow-to-elbow in a throng of bar-goers waiting for their drinks. Sigh.

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?” I whine, pressing the phone into my ear.

“I’m delayed with work,” Irsia says.

“Delay. Dates. Divorce. All terrible words start with a ‘D’,“ I grumble. “Dick! Also horrible, also a D-word.”

Someone coughs behind me and I shrink. Crap. Grabbing my mojito and a bottle of beer off the counter, I escape the crowded lounge.

“Diarrhea. Dysentery. Depression,” I ramble, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I climb the stairs to the rooftop. My cheeks heat when someone passes me by, throwing me a look of unfettered alarm. Social awkwardness: 1. Alia: 0.

“Drama,” Irsia says unhelpfully. I can almost picture her rolling her eyes at me.

“Delilah! Which should be your name. You betrayed me.”

“By skipping the bar?” she snorts.

“The only reason I agreed to come out was because you said you’d meet me for drinks.

Do you think I want to be sipping overpriced cocktails while hiding from all human interaction?

” I whisper-yell, covering my mouth with the cold glass.

“And what am I supposed to do with the beer I ordered for you?”

“Drink it,” she laughs. “Also, why are you hiding?”

“Because I have no friends here! It’s also really crowded.”

“Ironhearts won the game tonight. The hockey fans are celebrating. You’ll see the team if you stay and Rohan will keep you company. And, Aloo,” she adds, using my childhood nickname, “I love you, but your pajamas need a break. Being out will do you some good.”

“I don’t know,” I hem. “I’ll probably finish these drinks and uber back home. I prefer reality TV to reality.”

“At least wait ’til you see Ro,” she pleads. “You know how he gets when he can’t assure himself we’re okay.”

My mouth edges up. Rohan is the quintessential older brother. Responsible, reliable, and really protective.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Good! I called and opened a tab for you—my treat.”

“I shouldn’t,” I hedge. I’m a lightweight—but reminding Irsia of this will only make her worry.

“Loosen up and live a little, baby cuz. Life has no guarantees. I’m proof enough of that.”

Irsia cuts the call before I can protest.

Sighing, I scan the floor, my eyes bobbing between glass tables, rounded couches, and intermittently spaced shrubbery that allow for some semblance of privacy in an otherwise open area. I find an unoccupied nook near a group of chattering women and sink into the comfortable sofa.

With nothing else to do, I lounge back with my drink. The first sip makes me frown. Wasn’t this supposed to be a mango mojito? Did they forget the mango?

Times like this, I really miss India. Mango lassi, milkshakes, and smoothies—we’ve got the whole gamut. My mouth waters, recalling summer meals of piping hot puri and aamras. It’s not quite the same here, though my aunt has tried her best to fill that void.

Sight pinned on the skyline, I tune out the steady buzz of conversations around me, wishing the evening would cool off faster.

The waning sun throws a warm glow everywhere, the horizon drawn in streaks of deep orange and purple.

Swaying palm trees create a beautiful silhouette against the glimmering sky and I allow myself a moment of reprieve from my worries.

On the coast of California is the picturesque city of Monterey, with year-round pleasant weather, stunning views of azure waters, and a postcard-perfect town center.

I’ve been too embroiled in my messy life to appreciate where I’ve lived the last few years.

Tonight, nothing else demands my attention. Tonight, I can focus on me.

Unless my parents call to check if I’ve reviewed the matrimonial prospect sitting in my inbox.

Just keep breathing, breathing, breathing.

My lungs squeeze out a harsh breath that provides no relief.

Irsia’s right. Being cooped up in her apartment hasn’t been the best for my mental health.

My cousins, both older and thus under the misapprehension they’re responsible for me, are determined to drag me out of the wreckage of my life.

I’m not certain they can. I’m not certain the person they believe I am exists anymore.

A defeated sigh escapes me.

Defeat. Another dreadful D-word I hadn’t known—especially not with cricket, my first love.

Sitting in the stadium at Wankhede while Baba, my father, hoisted me up on his shoulders, is a core memory.

Wanting the power to bring a stadium full of people jumping to their feet, I spent my youth obsessively training, with the dream of playing for India.

The year I turned twenty-one, I inched closer to that goal, moving from Mumbai’s domestic circuit to the national team.

Then, a car crash ended it all.

The car crash I caused.

I chug my drink, attempting to stave off the stinging pressure building behind my eyes as guilt and disappointment grips me in a familiar chokehold. Brick by brick, mistake after mistake, I destroyed my life as much as my ex-husband, Namik, did.

Loneliness digs into my skin like an ever-present thorn when I notice the laughing faces around me, couples on dates, and friends catching up. I throw my jacket into the empty seat across from me so it seems occupied. So I don’t look as pathetic as I feel.

Here I am: twenty-six, jobless, friendless, and divorced from a man who made it his hobby to tear me apart.

Restlessness whirls through me as I amble to the railing, placing my glass on a ledge overlooking the lower level.

I need to find my way in life again, but it feels so daunting.

Like I’m looking at my future while wearing beer goggles, unsure of how to bring things into focus again.

I’ve been directionless for so long; I don’t know where to begin.

“That’s them. Fuck, they’re so hot.”

Pulled from my gloom, I glance right, then left, noticing locks of blonde hair fluttering past the ivy-covered trellis separating me from the giggling girls nearby.

“Do you think I could get one of them to tend my goal tonight?” someone says, leading to a new round of titters.

“Last time I was with Novak,” a silky voice adds, “I swear, I came harder than I ever have. I think I lost my vision for a bit.”

My brows rise automatically as I stifle a snort. Either they don’t realize they’re loud or they don’t care. Having come from a conservative upbringing, I’m still unused to openly discussing sex and pleasure. I might not have the cojones to participate, but I’m all for it.

Get yours, ladies! I raise my drink to toast them, wistfully wondering what it’d be like to be as confident as they are. To go for what I want without overthinking it.

“I’m waiting for Moore. Is he here yet?”

Moore? I straighten my spine. Surely, they aren’t talking about—

“One of these days, Rohan Moore will find his face buried between my thighs and I won’t be letting him go.”

Jaw loose, I involuntarily step back. It shouldn’t surprise me that there are women lusting after my cousin.

He’s a handsome man and I’m certain his career in the NHL helps.

His team, the Monterey Ironhearts, are famous.

They last won the Stanley Cup nearly a decade ago but there’s buzz the team could soon bring it home again.

As close as we are, I haven’t been exposed to Rohan’s life as a celebrated sportsman—especially not this side of his popularity. It’ll traumatize him if I ever reveal what I’ve overheard.

“Moore is a tree I’d like to climb. He’s got the whole moody, broody vibe working for him. You know what they say about a grump in the streets?”

I lean forward without thinking about it.

“Daddy in the sheets!”

I choke back a horrified laugh. I don’t need to know this about a family member. With any luck, the alcohol in my system will dull my memory. The one thing I can corroborate is his being a grump. Big brothers often are.

“Cal Finnigan or Theo Novak—now they know how to have a good time. Look, there they are by the pool table. Ugh, the way Novak handles that stick makes me feel things.”

“He could handle me any time. He could break me and I’d say thank you.”

I giggle to myself. Who are these sex gods?

My cousin’s teammates are as much a mystery to me as is his career.

I’ve watched him play on TV briefly but sports, all sports, have been pushed to the back of my mind for years now.

That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate supposedly hot men from a safe distance.

So, with more stealth than I require, I inch closer to the railing, craning my neck to see the pool tables below. Twenty or so feet away are a group of men clearly built differently: sportsmen. I can tell by the innate swagger with which they carry themselves.

Like I used to.

Shaking my head to clear unwelcome memories, I blink a few times to refocus my vision.

My eyes land on a tall man, his long fingers curling around a cue.

He strokes the gleaming wood, circling his thumb at the tip absentmindedly.

Something about that action makes my belly swirl with heat, catching me off guard.

That must be Theo Novak, I decide, reminded of the woman nearby who was salivating over his stickhandling. I can see why.

He gestures to something on the table before spinning his ball cap around, bill facing the back.

I can’t see his features, but his dark wash jeans tighten over his magnificent ass when he bends over to line his cue along the felt.

A loud strike rips my gaze from outlining his thighs as he straightens.

His face comes into view and my world shifts.

The slanted rays of the overhead light brighten his cheeks, drawing attention to the angled slope of his strong, stubbled jaw. His skin is flushed pink, his lips stretched in a stunning smile that takes my breath away.

He’s too far away for me to discern the color of his eyes or pick out the sound of his laugh amongst others, but something warm flickers to life in my chest.

Maybe he feels my stare because his gaze swoops up toward the balcony.

Like the Peeping Tom I am, I shrink into the shadows and plunk myself down on the couch.

The tremble in my hand matches my rattling heart as I reach for the untouched beer and take a long swig.

A man who looks like that definitely knows how to make a woman lose her mind.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m debating doing something crazy, like walking down there and introducing myself.

If I wasn’t a confused, anxiety-ridden mess, I would.

I huff resignedly, wondering how much of my absurd reaction to this stranger is due to the alcohol I’ve consumed.

Then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt human touch in a sexual manner.

Decisions. Another horrible D-word. Maybe this is how I harken new beginnings. By stepping out of my comfort zone to pursue a gorgeous man. I stand up, wiping my damp palms on my jeans as I give myself a pep talk.

I can do this! I can totally do it. Maybe.

Anything else I might’ve told myself is lost in a series of sharp barks that puncture my ballooning thoughts. Brows furrowed, I peer behind me, doing a double take when I see. . . him.