Chapter 1
ONE
JULIETTE
I have a big girl job.
A shiny, grown-up, brag about it job.
On Monday I will officially be the Player Engagement Coordinator for the Michigan Ice Wolves, which sounds so very polished and important and comes with a title. But more than that? This job is meaningful.
It means mental health resources, community outreach, charity partnerships, family support, education programs. I get to give back on a large scale—with the funding and reach of a massive organization that can affect real change.
Better yet?
My brother plays for the team, which makes it more personal. Plus, I’ll get to see him more often.
Declan is always traveling. Always busy.
Skating, lifting, exercising. Playing, practicing. Spending time with his teammates. Which means I rarely get to spend time with him. Sure, we text—but that’s not being present.
Hockey has always been a part of our family’s DNA; as soon as Declan could walk, our parents had him on skates. As soon as he was old enough to join a club, he was trying out. He’s been chasing a championship as long as I can remember.
Hockey isn’t just his job or his hobby.
It’s his identity.
This job puts me in his world—not only as his sister, watching from the family section, but as someone who understands the structure, the pressure he’s under, the weight of it all.
I’ll be in the building, and I’ll get to see him more often, and now we’ll have more in common!
Not to mention, the charitable aspect of it.
Giving back to the community. To children.
To families in need.
I cannot wait to make a difference in people’s lives.
The thought sends a thrill down my spine, and I’m here to raise a glass and toast to my cubicle and benefits and expense account and a company laptop and—
“Earth to Juliette. Wherefore art thou, Juliette?” A male voice cuts into my musings, interrupting my thoughts, and I glance up at Preston Bradly, the man I’ve been seeing for a month.
Tall.
Polished.
Effortlessly confident in a way that feels oddly forced, but I give him a pass for it. The loafers he wears without socks? Debatable. Collared, button-down shirts.
Great hair.
Smells expensive.
We matched on a dating app, exchanged tons of texts, and managed to meet in person three times before tonight and, apparently, he’s going to quote Shakespeare because my name is Juliette.
As if I haven’t heard it quoted to me before, dozens of times…
I smile, sensing that this is going to be one of those nights. “You know that line isn’t about location, right? Wherefore art thou actually means ‘why.’ Not ‘where are you?’”
He gives me a blank stare.
I clear my throat as the server appears with two glasses, one with wine, one with bourbon, Preston having ordered for us while I was in the bathroom.
“So,” he says, raising his glass, taking a sip, then leaning back in his chair. “Tell me about this new gig.”
I brighten at the subject. “It’s with my brother’s hockey team, on the operations side. I’ll be helping with player coordination, community events, in-person appearances. Charities and—”
He cuts me off with a soft chuckle. “Yeah, but like, what do you actually do?”
I blink at him, confused. “That is what I do.”
“No, I mean—” He gestures vaguely. “The players are the real stars of the show. And you’re not making real decisions, right? You have a boss who has a boss who has a boss.”
What is he doing right now?
I pluck at the napkin beneath my glass as Preston continues.
“Nepotism and all that, working for your brother.” Preston sighs. “My uncle is a VP at my firm, so I’m in no position to judge.”
“I do not work for my brother—and I got the job on my own.”
He winks. “Your last name is Kennedy, babe. They knew who you were.”
I set my barely touched glass down, pit forming in my stomach and growing roots.
“I’m sorry, are you insulting me on purpose? To make yourself a bigger person?” I ask, voice calm despite the coiling in my chest.
His eyes widen in shock. “What? No! I’m being honest.”
I cannot believe the nerve of this asshole!
I mean, yes, his texts may have given me some indication he was a bit of a douchebag, but he hasn’t outright said anything offensive to my face, up until now. Not to me, not to servers, not to bartenders.
But damn I am pissed.
“Honest about what?” I press. “That you don’t understand what I do for a living? Or that you think anyone who isn’t a pro athlete is basically useless?”
He lets out a little laugh, like I’m being dramatic. “Come on, babe. Don’t take it personally. I’m saying—you’re adjacent to greatness. That’s not nothing.”
Adjacent.
The word lands like a slap.
I sit back in my chair, studying him the way you study something mildly interesting but ultimately a let down—kind of like a limp dick or one that’s small and disappointing.
“You do realize a team can’t function without the people behind the scenes? Logistics, operations, scheduling, contracts, travel.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “But you’re not calling the shots.”
Who cares? So what?!
“And neither are you, at your job,” I snap before I can stop myself. “This conversation is ruining my night.”
His smile dims.
“You literally told me your uncle got you your job,” I continue, heat rushing to my face now. “But somehow it’s my career being questioned?”
He shrugs. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” I grab my purse and slam the rest of my wine. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you think men with money get to be important, and everyone else is… lucky to be nearby.”
Silence stretches between us as I glare.
His jaw tightens. “Wow. You’re reading way too much into this.”
“No,” I say calmly, pushing myself out of my chair. “I’m reading exactly enough into it.”
He exhales through his nose, annoyed now. “You’re being sensitive.”
My mouth gapes.
I am aghast at his audacity! The nerve of him, calling me sensitive. To my freaking face.
“And you’re being condescending. Which, frankly, is worse.”
His eyes widen. “Wait—you’re leaving? Are you fucking serious?”
“Totally.” I toss my hair. “I’m here to celebrate a milestone in my career. Not to be patronized by a man who thinks quoting Shakespeare makes him sound like he has some smarts.”
“Dude, this conversation has gone off the rails so fast.” He squints at me. “What’s the issue here?”
“You’re sexist, that’s what.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, babe.”
“Oh my god. Stop calling me babe, asshole.”
This is as close to losing my shit as I’ve ever gotten, not including the time when, as teenagers, Declan slid on my new white sneakers to walk to the mailbox and stepped in the mud, completely ruining them.
Preston watches me spiral. “Guess I dodged a bullet with you.”
With me?! Oh my god, this guy.
“Trust me, Preston. You did not.”
I did.
I turn on my heel and stalk toward the exit, pulse pounding in my neck, cheeks burning, dignity intact. The cool night air hits me the second I push through the door. I suck in a breath, trying to shake off the bitter taste of that entire conversation.
“Unbelievable,” I grumble, fishing my phone out of my purse, already dialing my best friend before I even reach the sidewalk.
There was a time I might have also called my brother. Once upon a time, I dated a hockey player; I was young and even more na?ve than I am now and thought he loved me.
But I was a teenager, and a fool, and when I thought I could go to Declan for advice, he told me you can’t date potential and the sooner I learned that—the better.
You’re smarter than that, Jules.
But it had only made me feel worse. And so, after my first heartbreak, I also learned if I had boy trouble, I shouldn’t trouble him with the details.
I call my best friend, Blaire Winthrop.
“Blaire—thank god I didn’t have sex with that man. Preston is a mega douche.”
“Oooh,” Blaire purrs. “Strong words. Tell me everything.”
“He mansplained nepotism to me. He implied I got my job because of my brother, which is rich coming from a man whose uncle literally hired him.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“What an asshole!” Blaire curses appropriately. “I could have predicted this, but didn’t want to assume he was a dick based on how tight his pants were.”
I laugh. His pants were tight. “And then he told me I was being sensitive!”
“He did not!” Blaire sucks in a sharp breath. “Okay, that’s it. We’re burning down his entire block.” She pauses. “Honestly, Juliette? Considering your Hall Pass is a hockey god, I’m literally so shocked Preston’s aesthetic made your girlie parts tingle.”
They didn’t.
Not really.
But I’m taking chances. Saying yes more. Getting outside my comfort zone, a.k.a. out of my apartment. Dating outside my type because my type hasn’t worked out in the past.
Shaking my head, I step forward off the curb—and smack directly into a solid, immovable, warm wall of a human.
“Oof—!” I stumble, phone nearly flying from my hand.
A hand catches my elbow, steady and solid.
“Easy,” a low voice rumbles. “You okay?”
I look up. And immediately forget how to form coherent sentences.
Oh…
Oh, shit.
I know this guy. I have a crush on him.
Aaron Bishop.
My brother’s teammate. The Ice Wolves enforcer.
Mister Hall Pass himself, in the flesh…
This cannot be happening. I did not collide with someone I’ve only fantasized about in all my bookish girly dreams. The man I swore—after too many glasses of wine during Girls Night Out and Blaire egging me on—that I would, one hundred percent, bang if the universe ever handed me the chance.
Which, apparently, the universe has decided to do. Put me in his path, anyway.
While I’m fresh off a bad date, and wearing shoes I can’t run away in.
“Juliette? HELLO?” I hear my friend screeching through the phone that’s been forgotten in my hand. “Are you there? Answer me!”
I raise it to my face. “Um… I’ll call you back.”
“No! What’s going on? Did that piece of shit Prest—”
I hang up. Tuck the phone in my pocket and push the hair back from my face.
I blink up at Aaron, brain short-circuiting.