The Penalty Box Affair (That Steamy Hockey Romance #3)

Chapter 1

One

Baylor Nix

Einstein once said, “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity…and I’m not sure about the universe.”

And I’ve just proven him right.

By being stupid.

Really fucking stupid…

The conference room door closes behind me with a sharp click that might as well be the sound of my coffin lid snapping shut.

Why couldn’t I just apologize? Beg for forgiveness? Be a good “team player” and kiss whoever’s ass needed to be kissed to get my own ass out of trouble?

I don’t know.

I’m not built that way, I guess. I was built stubborn, determined, with a strong sense of justice, and an even stronger aversion to saying I was wrong when I know I’m right.

I stand in the hallway, breathing in the scent of industrial cleaner and the tang of ammonia from the rink down the hall. The air feels too thin, like I’ve just skated five overtime periods without a breather, and my dress shirt is sticking to my back.

Turns out being repeatedly reminded that I’m one more “incident” away from becoming a cautionary tale makes me sweat. A lot. But hey, at least I’m not out of a job.

No official suspension.

The words should be a relief, but they’re not.

I was also gifted/cursed with the ability to read between the lines and hear the subtext in every polite conversation. What they really said was—We’re watching you, bucko. One more slip, one more outburst, one more toe out of line, and you’re done.

Keely’s voice still echoes in my head, that careful PR tone she uses when delivering bad news wrapped in corporate speak, “I understand where you’re coming from, I really do. But the optics are problematic, Baylor. Regardless of intent.”

And then Coach Merwood chimed in, his dwarf-lord beard bristling as he rumbled, “Get your head on straight, son. We don’t live in a society that condones vigilante justice. You’re putting the entire team’s reputation at risk. Control your temper, or you won’t be here to defend anyone.”

The way they’d all looked at me, like I’m a liability instead of a player who’s logged more ice time than half the defensive roster.

My throat goes tight, and a low-grade nausea roils through my gut that has nothing to do with the stale coffee I slugged down at the start of the meeting.

Six days until the season opener. Six days to be invisible, angelic, the picture of restraint.

Six days for the press to hopefully forget that I was the guy who put that wife-beater in the hospital because I couldn’t walk away from a woman getting her face rearranged behind a club on Bourbon Street…

Management made it abundantly clear that my “history” is a problem. Three fights in two seasons, the suspension I took last year for going after the enforcer who cheap-shotted Grammercy, and now…this.

Never mind that the bastard I beat deserved every bruise.

Never mind that his wife just sent me a thank-you email with a photo from her new apartment, where she feels free and safe for the first time in nearly a decade.

I’m still the problem.

Aristotle said a man should pursue virtue for virtue’s sake, but he never had to answer to team owners worried about their brand image.

I start down the hall, determined to be gone before management finishes their meeting.

The Voodoo’s side of the arena is clearing out fast, my teammates headed home for the weekend after a grueling final week of training camp.

I can’t wait to join them…as soon as I change into something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m suffocating.

Grammercy and Blue said slacks and a dress shirt would show management that I gave a shit about their lecture.

I give a shit, all right.

Just not in the way they want.

I want to do the right thing, not the politically correct thing—and not always the legal thing, if I’m being completely honest—and that’s…

Well, that’s my cross to bear, I guess.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I tug it out, glancing down to see a text from Parker—Had to head out early to meet Makena.

Hope management didn’t bring down the hammer too hard.

Text me later, okay? And don’t forget about the party tomorrow night.

We’re going to have so much fucking food, dude.

We need everyone to show up hungry and eat their share. You’ll be there, right? For sure?

I slide my cell back into my pocket with a sigh.

As if I could forget about his engagement party, even if I wanted to. No, his party has been top-of-mind since the day the invitation popped into my inbox.

Because his party is being thrown by none other than Charlotte Delaney.

Charlotte…

As I round the corner toward the locker room, the memories begin to flicker on my mental screen, the way they always do. It’s been three months since that night in June, and simply thinking her name is still enough to make my chest ache and my dick thicker.

The surprise of finding a gorgeous, strawberry blonde naked in Parker’s hot tub, her pale nipples just visible beneath the frothing water.

The way she screamed, the way I screamed, the way we’d both laughed…

even though I was standing there buck-naked, as well, nothing covering me but my own cupped hands.

I’d stripped down in Parker’s laundry room, expecting an empty house and some peace after a day of pulling waterlogged furniture out of strangers’ homes.

The early summer flood left New Orleans looking like a war zone.

I’d been craving a long soak to ease the ache in my muscles and the heavier ache in my chest from watching people lose everything.

Instead, I got an invitation to join a gorgeous woman in a hot tub.

I got conversation and laughter and two glasses of Charlotte’s extra-large bottle of chardonnay. Then, I got Charlotte in my lap, her tongue dancing desperately with mine as we did our best to forget how shitty the world can be sometimes.

I’ve replayed the feel of her nipple in my mouth, the way she moaned and rocked against my cock as the chlorinated water churned around us at least a hundred times.

I’ve replayed those moments in the garden—dirt and moonlight and the smell of tomato plants crushed under us as I made her come for me—a hundred more.

It was one of the best nights of my life.

The kind of instant connection that makes a man think maybe there’s someone special out there for him, after all.

I’d resigned myself to keeping things casual a long time ago.

Seriously dating anyone—especially women close to my own age—never seemed to work out.

And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out why.

The big brain that made it easy to graduate university with honors doesn’t work half as well when it comes to human relationships.

But that night with Charlotte…

It wasn’t just physical. It was a mental, emotional, even spiritual connection. I mean, it’s not every day a woman educates you on pagan fertility rights while letting you do wicked things to her with a zucchini. I was certain we were meant for something more, and that she felt it, too.

Then, she refused to give me her number. Shut me down cold. Made it clear through her silence that what happened was a mistake she had no interest in repeating.

The rejection still stings, honestly. Far worse than getting dressed down by management. Corporate types have never understood where I’m coming from, but Charlotte…

Well, I thought she did.

But I thought wrong, and that’s a mistake I’ll have to face head-on at her party tomorrow night.

This week just keeps getting better…

I push through the locker room doors, and the noise hits me—music thumping from a speaker, Torrance’s high-pitched laugh, the metallic clang of players tossing equipment into their stall.

My teammates haven’t cleared out as quickly as I thought, but I guess that makes sense.

The celebratory, end-of-camp energy is thick today, the entire team riding high on the fact that the season starts in less than a week.

Torrance blasts that pop-country fusion garbage that Jean-Louis pretends to hate even as he somehow knows every word by heart.

In back, the showers run, steam drifting out, making the room smell like soap and the deodorant Capo buys in bulk because he’s obsessed with keeping his pits in sniff-worthy condition.

The clang of lockers closing and the rustle of gear bags compete with shouted conversations and someone playing a highlight reel at full blast.

It’s loud. Festive. The kind of atmosphere that usually makes me feel like part of something.

Today, it just makes my jaw tighter than it was before.

“Nix!” Capo calls from across the room, his curly hair still wet from the shower. “You coming to Bourbon tonight? Jean-Louis made reservations for that French place he says is the real deal. We’ve still got two seats open. We’re eating at nine, then heading straight to the club.”

“Pass, but thanks for the invite,” I say, heading for my stall.

“Come on, man,” Torrance adds, popping up from where he’s been digging through his duffel bag. The kid’s barely twenty and still has that rookie eagerness. “It’s the last free weekend before the season. Live a little.”

The last thing I need is to be anywhere near alcohol or crowds right now. Not when my leash is this short, and one photo of me doing anything remotely questionable could end up as Exhibit A in my next disciplinary hearing.

“Can’t, man,” I say. “I have some shit I have to take care of at home tonight.”

I sink onto the bench, not far from where Blue, our team guru, is already in his street clothes and tying up his shoes.

Our eyes meet. He nods and murmurs, “Good idea. Stay focused. You’ve got this.”

I nod back, the tension easing around my ribs.

Blue doesn’t waste words. Never has. So, when he does offer his pithy brand of support, it always seems to land.

The guy spent years working through his own demons—a weird-as-hell childhood he hardly ever talks about, but that you can clock in the way he’s calm in the middle of chaos—and came out the other side with a Zen that makes him nearly impossible to rattle on the ice.

If he thinks I’ve got this, maybe I do.

I pull out my phone again, responding quickly to Parker’s text—All good here, man, and yeah, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it. See you tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

I’m going to see her tomorrow.

The woman who’s been starring in all my dirtiest dreams. The one who tastes like strawberries, wine, and endless summer nights. The one with a body that doesn’t quit and a mind as sharp as any student I studied with at Boston U.

The one who made it crystal clear she wants nothing to do with me…

I shove my phone back in my pocket and scrub my hands over my face.

It is what it is.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to the party and be polite. Cordial. I’ll give Charlotte a respectful berth, drink exactly two beers, let it be, and leave early.

Easy.

Except nothing about Charlotte is easy, and I already know there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to be anywhere near her and not feel the pull.

One beer, then.

One and done and on my way, dignity intact.

Deciding to change when I get home, I stand, grabbing my gear from my stall.

Around me, the locker room is emptying, guys heading home to their families, their girlfriends, their Friday night plans.

But my parents still live in Tennessee, my best guy friends are in Detroit—where I played for six years—my little sister is on tour with her piece of shit boyfriend and their band, and I’ve already proven I can’t be trusted to “behave myself.”

Which means I’ve got nothing waiting for me except an empty apartment and the knowledge that tomorrow night, I have to face the one woman who has the power to destroy all my hard-earned perspective.

I head for the exit, the late afternoon sun slanting through the facility’s windows. Outside, the New Orleans heat wraps me up tight, leaving no inch of skin unwarmed, even now, on the edge of October.

When I was first traded to the Voodoo last year, I hated the heat, but now…

I’ve come to like it nearly as much as I like my new team, my new friends, and the penthouse apartment I never could have swung if I’d been traded to Los Angeles the way I originally hoped to be. I love this city. I don’t want to leave.

But my career hangs by a thread, my reputation’s one dent away from being too roughed up to salvage, and I can’t stop thinking about the one who got away.

Maybe Blue was wrong.

Maybe I don’t “got this.”

Or much of anything else…