Chapter 2
I Am That Guy
Josh Wylder peeled off the hideous shirt his mom had given him.
It looked like flamingos had mated with palm trees and barfed out parrots against a neon-blue ocean.
He loved his mother, he really did, and he would never be able to pay her back for all he and his brother had put her through even if that aim was his sole focus for the rest of his life, but this shirt …
Maggie Wylder was an amazing woman with countless strengths, but fashion wasn’t one of them.
“Ooh, the colors really bring out your eyes, Josh,” she’d gushed. Then she’d added, “You’re going to steal some girl’s heart when you get to that fancy hotel.” More likely scare her away, but he wasn’t looking to attract anyone this week anyway.
He hadn’t bothered asking exactly which colors Mom thought went with the hue of his eyes, unless she was referring to the hot pink and was ribbing him about being hungover a few mornings ago. Never mind that he’d had a really good reason to get wasted.
He held the shirt at arm’s length, pondering whether to drop it in the trash and tell her it had been stolen.
No, she’d only go out and replace it, and he didn’t want her spending her dough that way.
She’d spent plenty on him and his brother growing up.
He and Bradley shared a love for ice hockey, and without any contributions from their absentee dad, that passion had strained their little family’s meager reserves.
Mom had always made sure her rambunctious boys had what they needed, though, even if the secondhand gear didn’t fit quite right.
He and his brother had been fattening her bank account since their first big paychecks, but her single-mom frugality was so ingrained in her that Josh understood what it cost her mentally to splurge on this shirt—and “splurge” meant she’d bought off the full retail rack at Walmart.
Yeah, he owed her a fuck ton of good deeds, and he was woefully behind on the paybacks. He would do anything for her—like embarrass himself by wearing the damn thing. It seemed a minuscule price to pay for Maggie Wylder’s endless selfless acts.
He riffled through his bag until he found his favorite T-shirt.
Soft and gray—and probably a truer match to his eye color—it sported his brother’s bicycle shop logo.
Josh had worn it so many times now the logo was practically unreadable.
Mom wouldn’t be a fan of this particular wardrobe choice, but she wasn’t here to judge, and he wasn’t here to impress anyone.
He didn’t even want to be here. Why not be comfortable while he spent the week wallowing by himself?
Shucking his jeans, he pulled on an old pair of board shorts.
A shove of his fingers to tame his hair and a pair of flip-flops later, he sauntered down to the bar, where he expected to spend the majority of his time for the next seven days—unless he got lucky with some nameless hottie looking for a no-strings fuck.
Surprisingly, that didn’t hold a lot of appeal, which was further proof of how down in the dumps he’d let himself sink.
Then again, it had been a long time since he’d met a woman who got his motor revving.
They all seemed to be … the same. Hooking up had become monotonous.
Downright boring. And since he’d gotten away from clubbing and partying, fewer interesting possibilities crossed his path anyway.
Not that he was looking, but as he watched one buddy after another fall hard—and seem happier for it—Josh sometimes wondered what he was missing.
His brother’s voice bounced around his brain.
“Think of all the beach babes at the resort in string bikinis everywhere. Just tell them you’re a pro hockey player, and you won’t be able to peel them off you fast enough.
You might even be able to get yourself a twosome …
a three—” Josh had cut him off there. Bradley had been living vicariously through Josh since his own career had stalled in the minor leagues, and his brother’s imagination had far outstripped Josh’s reality.
Sure, he’d been dubbed “Wild Man” by his teammates for more than his acrobatic, unorthodox saves, but the moniker simply didn’t fit his life off the ice anymore.
And he was fine with that, even if Brad wasn’t.
At thirty-two, those days were in his rearview mirror—especially now that he found himself without a contract or a team.
And there it was again, reality staring him down. He’d worked his ass off to be the best goalie he could be, but it had garnered him a glove full of nothing.
Could he even call himself a professional goalie anymore? Philly hadn’t renewed his contract, even for a backup role, which he would have groveled for had they given him any indication they wanted him. No other teams were trying to punch his dance card either, whether as a starter or a backup.
“Give it time,” his agent, Herb, had told him when they’d spoken the week before. “There’s always a lull right after a Cup run. Things’ll pick up as we get closer to training camp.”
Training camp for most teams started in early September—only six weeks away.
“Shouldn’t they want to lock me up now?” he’d argued. “GMs and coaches want their rosters set before camp, right?”
Herb had waved him off, and for an instant, Josh had felt like he’d been marooned alone on Crazy Island.
“You’re making a mountain out of an anthill, son.
” But Josh wasn’t convinced his agent was right this time.
He hadn’t been without a team since he’d first been drafted fourteen years ago.
The fact that he didn’t have a landing place for the upcoming season fucking sucked balls.
He needed to lock the thought away in a compartment for now—which meant it was cocktail time.
The bar was an indoor-outdoor space, an extension of the lush grounds beyond, where sun played on glossy palm fronds ruffled by a warm breeze.
Josh picked a barstool with a panoramic view of the gardens and the bar area itself, which was filled with people seated at scattered tables.
From his perch, he had a perfect front-row seat to human dramas and foibles—and he delighted in the fact that he was merely a spectator.
Happy hour had just started, so he ordered two rum old-fashioneds from a friendly bartender—Matt, according to his name tag—and settled in. A guy about Josh’s age sidled up and pointed at the empty barstool beside him.
“Mind if I—”
“Go for it,” Josh invited.
The guy extended his hand. “Neil Afton. Didn’t I see you on the shuttle?”
Josh shook the dude’s hand. “Josh Wylder. Maybe. I slept the whole way.” Something about riding on a bus always made him fall asleep quickly, even when he wasn’t tired—a habit he’d developed after years of team travel.
Neil looked around, a wolfish grin plastered on his face. “Really enjoying the scenery so far.”
Matt delivered Josh’s drinks and took Neil’s order.
Josh tasted his cocktail. Damn, that was good! “So, Neil, what do you do?”
“I’m the chief financial officer for HelpFirst Healthcare.”
A sign on the boards at Josh’s home rink flashed in his mind. “No kidding? Aren’t you guys one of the sponsors for Keystone Arena?”
“Yeah, that’s us. I take it you’ve attended an event there?”
“I am one of the events there.” Chuckling, Josh shook his head. “What I meant was I play for—”
The guy’s eyes lit with recognition. “You’re the goalie for the Philadelphia Forge, right?”
“Yep.” Was the goalie.
“Sorry about your team’s early exit from the playoffs. That had to be rough, but you’re probably used to it after missing out the last bunch of years.”
Josh was a competitor. He never got used to defeat. It left a bitter taste, and he downed half of his drink to wash it away. This was his first day of vacation, and he didn’t have to drive anywhere, so why not?
“Yeah, winning is always preferred,” he muttered.
Losing was the norm when you played for a bottom feeder—which made them not extending him even more puzzling.
He had the experience. He was a great goalie in the prime of his career.
He was a leader in the locker room. And hadn’t he put in the grueling rehab work after his injury?
No matter what the coaching staff said, he was back to his old form, damn it. Why wouldn’t they believe him?
So much for leaving it all behind.
Neil nodded. An awkward beat passed before Josh added, “Getting an early summer break has its perks, though.” He gestured around the expansive space.
Neil readily agreed. “Can’t argue with that. And if action’s what you’re after, there should be plenty to go around.” He threw back his tequila, set the empty shot glass on the bar, and signaled Matt for more. “And speaking of action …” Neil’s eyes darted to the opposite side of the bar.
Josh followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes on the redhead who had blocked everyone on the shuttle and slammed into his back.
She looked different. Maybe it was the off-the-shoulders gauzy white dress she’d changed into.
It hit her mid-thigh and hugged her in all the right places—and she had all the right places for it to hug.
Sandals with high heels accentuated shapely legs, and long auburn hair he hadn’t really noticed before was brushed back, skimming her shoulder blades and revealing a heart-shaped face.
“Do you know her?” Josh asked.
Neil shrugged. “Not yet. I’m not into redheads, but I could make an exception for that one.” He pointed toward a different woman who stood off to one side, seeming to survey the clientele. “That one’s more my speed.”
Unlike Red, this woman was a long cool customer with dark brown hair and eyes to match.
Her tanned body was impeccably displayed in a red-and-white tropical number that exposed cleavage—cleavage that looked manufactured.
She was gorgeous in an exotic sort of way, but an invisible sign flashing “High Maintenance” over her head was a turnoff.
Josh had sampled his share of high-maintenance women, and the clues were unmistakable. No thanks.
Neil ogled her shamelessly, his grin exposing his pointy white eye teeth, and Josh nearly laughed out loud. “The redhead’s all yours,” Neil offered.
“No thanks, man. I’m looking for a quiet week. No drama.” Josh wasn’t going to touch this week, but look? Oh yeah. He could look plenty. Didn’t cost anything and would definitely lift his black mood.
The redhead zeroed in on a table for two, where she took a seat, crossing her smooth legs and tugging at the hem of her skirt. She looked uncomfortable doing it, as if she wasn’t used to wearing short skirts, though with those legs, short everything needed to be her go-to.
Neil’s eyes remained pinned to the dark-haired woman. “You here alone?”
Josh nodded. “My brother was supposed to join me, but he came down with COVID and had to bail.” Probably better that way because Brad would have been trolling hard, despite the fact his divorce wasn’t final.
Josh had been his unwitting “fishing” companion in the past, and it had caused friction between them when Josh had pointed out that Brad had a lovely wife at home.
Might’ve explained why said wife was divorcing his brother’s ass.
Their father’s abandonment and the demise of his brother’s perfect union were two of the main reasons Josh didn’t believe in happily ever afters.
Neil yanked him back to the present. “I’m by myself too. If I can’t convince that stunner that I’m the only man for her tonight, maybe you and I can have dinner together.”
Why the hell not? “Sounds good.”
Neil chuckled. “Hopefully luck’s on my side.”
Something told Josh Neil didn’t need it.
He polished off the rest of his drink, started on the next, and signaled the bartender to bring another round.
As he did so, he felt eyes burning into him, and he looked up to find Red’s gaze pointed his way.
Not at him, though. She was lasered in on Neil.
Josh stared at her a few beats, but her gaze didn’t waver.
If he could read a woman’s mind—and he’d proved time and again he couldn’t—he would’ve guessed she wanted to get to know his new companion.
The seat across from her remained empty. Maybe she was alone too and hoping someone—Neil?—would fill it.
Huh.
Tossing back what was left of his second cocktail, he scanned the rest of the crowd, purposely avoiding Red … until his eyes ignored him and wandered back to her.