Chapter 2
ARCHER
If the incessant knocking isn’t enough to wake me, my cell’s piercing alarm definitely is.
“All right, all right!” I announce, sitting up in bed and massaging my temples.
Last night’s statement about cutting alcohol in the offseason was about as believable to Kendra and Jack as it was to me.
Shortly after I ended the call with Sawyer, I decided my best course of action was to drink away the mess. After that, I have little to no recollection of the events that followed.
Ripping my phone from its charger cable, I hit Stop on the alarm and breathe a sigh of relief as silence descends on my bedroom, although it’s short-lived, as the knocking starts up again.
Running a hand over my face, I reluctantly slide out of bed and grab a pair of dark blue athletic shorts, my number thirty-three stamped in white over the right thigh. Whoever’s paying me a visit has zero intention of leaving.
“Give me a minute,” I drawl, staggering out into my hallway and heading for the front door.
“Give me a motherfucking minute,” I repeat as I unbolt the door and swing it open, fully expecting my pissed captain to be waiting on the other side.
“Fucking language,” a light tone replies as I wipe the sleep from my blurry eyes and focus on a set of white Converse, the left one tapping the ground impatiently. “That’s no way to greet a lady,” she continues, her unmistakable British accent cutting through my hangover.
Slowly, I lift my head to take her in and come face-to-face with Darcy Thompson, the last person I expected to find at my door, wearing a similar summer dress to the one she posted on her Instagram—only this one is light blue.
“I, umm … I’m sorry?” I reply awkwardly, way too focused on why she’s here in the first place. Has she ever been to my apartment? “How do you know where I live …” I trail off, leaning against the doorjamb and attempting a casual stance.
Jesus, she looks like a fucking dream. My fucking dream. I look like I’m still half asleep.
I slap a palm against my cheek, checking I’m not still unconscious.
Darcy cocks her head to the side in question. Her long, thick eyelashes frame her narrowing eyes as she studies me intently, and it’s then that I notice the two coffees in front of her.
She offers the tray of coffees to me. “I figured you might need caffeine.”
“Umm, thanks,” I reply, lifting one of the takeout cups from the holder and stepping to the side, allowing her to enter.
She doesn’t move, choosing to peer down my hallway instead. “There aren’t any girls lurking, are there?”
I chuckle, but it’s fake. I’m still waiting for the time when her referencing my playboy reputation doesn’t cut through me like steel. It’s amazing how you can stop hooking up with women for the better part of a year, but the opinions others have of you still remain regardless.
“Just me,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “Want to come in?”
Darcy looks down at the remaining coffee in her holder, twisting her plump lips to the side. “Do you promise to put some actual clothes on if I do?”
I smile, scratching at my bare chest. “At the risk of sounding like an asshole”—I lean down closer to her petite frame since I’m six-four without my skates on—“you’re the one who turned up at my place at the ass crack of dawn.”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief before her spare hand dips into the cream Marc Jacobs bag she always carries with her.
Fetching out the Amex Black Card, she waves it between us.
“And at the risk of being presumptuous, I assume your fat NHL wallet won’t be needing this then?
” She lifts a quick shoulder as I stare at my credit card.
“Fair enough. Macy’s and I can keep it company. ”
I’m still staring at the card as I ask, “How did I lose that?”
She smiles sweetly, doing things to me below the waistline that are hard enough to hide in hockey pads, let alone flimsy shorts.
“Ah, well, last night—right after you bought the entire bar another round of drinks—you handed it to me and slurred something incomprehensible. It sounded like I could keep it for anything I wanted.”
I pull back and stand up straight, racking my brain for the memories.
I mean, I knew I was wasted, and I vaguely remember offering random people drinks, but giving Darcy my Amex?
Shit, what else did I say to her? Sure, I’m usually all kinds of crazy when she’s around, but I always keep my alcohol consumption in check.
Keeping my feelings hidden is hard enough, never mind with lowered inhibitions and a loose tongue to match.
“Don’t worry,” she sings. “I didn’t use it. Not even for these coffees.”
She takes a sip of her own before stepping inside, and I absentmindedly close the door behind her.
“And how do I know where you live?” She takes off down the hallway, round ass swaying in her floaty, knee-length dress.
“You once told me on a night out that you moved into the most expensive apartment complex in Brooklyn, and naturally”—reaching the end of the hallway, she turns on her heel and grins at me—“Archer Moore could only live in the penthouse. It was an easy guess.”
Darcy rounds the corner, leading into what I know is a messy living space, and I stalk after her, still freaking out at what the hell I might’ve said last night when I grind to an abrupt halt.
The dark-haired guy. The prick. Did I tell her or anyone about what had happened? And did he post anything online about it? Part of me thinks—and hopes—Darcy wouldn’t be all smiles and Sawyer would be already blowing up my phone if he had.
I start walking at a slower pace until I find Darcy standing in the middle of my kitchen, coffee in hand, and her cream tote sitting on top of the island next to my credit card. Beside my card, there’s an empty, unwashed cereal bowl I must’ve eaten when I got home last night.
She quirks a brow at me, eyes briefly dropping down my body. Despite the panic manifesting in every cell right now, a sense of satisfaction settles in my gut.
She’s checking me out.
Clearing her throat, she shifts her gaze to explore my large apartment.
It’s nice, open plan and expensive, but I’ve done nothing to make it my own.
It features gloss white cabinets and a butcher’s block countertop in my kitchen, and a contrasting tan leather couch in my living space.
The place is stark and not particularly homey.
Other than the bright girl now hopping onto a stool at my island.
“Thanks for returning my card,” I say, running a hand through my disheveled bedhead.
She crosses her legs over at the knee, causing the dress to ride higher on her perfect thighs.
Oh fuck, Darcy. Don’t do that.
“You’re welcome.” She pauses before bringing the coffee to her mouth. “But I have to confess, it’s not the only reason why I’m here.”
I swallow thickly, back to freaking out over last night. “It’s not?” I ask, casually walking toward the fridge.
She swivels in the stool, tracking my movements across the open-plan space.
“No, it’s not. I actually, umm … I came to make sure you were okay.
You seemed a little off last night.” She waves a hand out in front of her, setting her coffee cup down on the island.
“Like, you were your usual joking self, but you seemed kind of stressed out.”
Pulling out my morning protein shake from the fridge, I twist the cap and down it in two big gulps, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth when I’m done. “What makes you say that?” I inquire.
She uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs in the opposite direction.
It’s more of a fidget than it is to get comfortable.
“Well, last night was just weird—that’s all.
One minute, I had this hot guy all over me, and the next—poof—he was gone.
” She giggles. “I thought I was getting lucky and pulling off your moves.”
Her face drops, and I fucking hate that it does. Sad Darcy makes me want to punch things. Equally, Darcy calling another man hot makes me want to rip them apart.
“Anyway, next thing I knew, you were storming past us on the phone and then waltzing back inside, determined to get drunk and buy everyone drinks. You were erratic and weird, so I wanted to check on you.”
Her eyes soften as she looks at me, and I conclude this is way worse—I can just about temper my rage at her sadness, even my thoughts when her dress slips up her thigh.
It’s kind and gentle Darcy that does things to me I don’t know what to do with.
The beat of my heart is in unfamiliar territory; I’m in unfamiliar territory.
I toss my empty shake into the trash and close the fridge. At least she’s clueless about what happened in the bar restroom last night, along with the motives behind slipping her my credit card. I’m tempted to slide it back along the counter and repeat my drunken statement.
“I’m good, Darce. Honestly.” I don’t have another response because what else am I supposed to say? Confess my obsession right here, half naked and hungover?
I’ve never shied away from going after what I want. Not in my career, not with anything in life, and especially not with women.
But this is one girl—my teammate’s sister and coach’s stepdaughter—I know I can’t touch.
Wrapping a piece of blonde hair around her index finger, she nods a couple of times.
“Okay. It’s just that Jack said your mum and dad recently got a divorce, and I wondered if that might be troubling you.
You never mentioned it before to me, so I hope I’m not overstepping here …
” She trails off, eyes softening further.
I want to tell her that she’ll never overstep with me.
She eyes me carefully before continuing. “You know that my parents broke up a while back, and it sucks. Even when you’re older and you know it’s the right thing, it still hurts. Big time.”
When Darcy was sixteen, her parents—Felicity and Elliott—divorced. From what Jack told me, it was way overdue.