The Players Next Door (Hotshot Harems)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Holly

" Y eah, Sawyer, I'm at the apartment now," I huff into the phone, balancing one of my last moving boxes against my hip as I slam my car door closed. “Thank you for this, seriously.”

“Well, I’m not going to toot my own horn, but I think this earns me the ‘best brother ever’ trophy, don’t you?” Sawyer's voice crackles with static, but his teasing tone is clear as day.

"Right, I—" The box shifts and I scramble to get a better hold on it. “I’ll get right on that.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes…and fail. My fingers are numb from the endless parade of boxes and totes, and I almost drop my phone but I finally manage to hook it between my ear and shoulder.

"Seriously, Sawyer." I push through the lobby doors with my hip. The box in my arms teeters precariously as I edge toward the elevator. "I can’t believe your place is like ten minutes from the arena. It's perfect."

"See? Told you, squirt. You'll do great things there.” His confidence in me gives me a huge boost.

“I really hope so.”

I press the call button with my elbow and listen as Sawyer chatters on about his new apartment out west. I hate that he got traded from the Grizzlies right as I’m getting started with the franchise, but this is a good move for him. And I got a great apartment out of it, so it can’t be all that bad.

“Shit!” The box wobbles, but I manage to get a hand on it without dropping my phone.

"Everything okay?" Sawyer asks right as the elevator dings open.

"Uh, yeah. Just trying to juggle a few too many things.”

"Hey, Hol, remember to check the—" Sawyer's voice cuts out, and I smack the phone against my cheek, trying to hear him more clearly.

"Check the what?" I grumble, shifting the box again. My heart races. This is my chance to step into the big leagues of sports broadcasting, and it's all thanks to my big brother. But man, this city feels so much bigger than back home.

Parking was an impossibility. And the cost of movers? Way out of my price range. Sawyer said some of his hockey buddies lived in the building, but I didn’t want to bother a bunch of strangers to help me move in.

"Water pressure," he finishes as I step out onto my floor. "Shower can be kind of wonky."

"Got it, water pressure," I repeat, just as the box gives a sudden lurch. Fuck. A cascade of bras, lacy panties, and—crap, is that the vibrator my bestie got me for my birthday?—spills across the hallway floor.

"Damn it!" I hiss, squatting down to grab everything. The elevator dings.

As the elevator doors slide open, I freeze, my hand still clutching a pair of lacy panties. My eyes dart from one man to the next, each stepping out with a presence that commands attention, but in very different ways.

Of fucking course.

Sweet cheese and crackers, these men are gorgeous. And I mean drool-worthy . What perfect timing. I was just thinking I needed to meet the world’s hottest men when I was at my sweatiest and most embarrassing.

The first one to step out rubs his chiseled jawline with one hand. His curly light brown hair, which is cropped short, catches the overhead lights, and his piercing brown eyes flicker with a knowing smirk. A delicious dimple appears in his cheek as he surveys the scene.

Broad shoulders and tattoos hint at a rough exterior, but the lazy arrogance in his stride makes him impossibly magnetic. I can almost feel the electricity from his smirk, and I have to force myself to look away.

A towering figure stalks out after the first guy and the contrast is striking. Where the first is all swagger and sharp edges, this guy is a calm mountain by comparison.

He has shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and piercing green eyes, which give him a look of quiet intensity. His reserved demeanor makes him seem almost aloof, but there’s something undeniably endearing about the way his high cheekbones and thoughtful gaze soften his stern exterior.

The last man to step out would render me speechless if I wasn’t already biting my tongue. Dark, wavy hair falls casually over his intense gray eyes, and a five-day beard surrounds his lush lips. He has a brooding presence, but the moment his lips curl into a smile, it’s like the room is bathed in sunlight.

They freeze as they all catch sight of me and my predicament.

"Everything okay here?" a deep voice asks. Broody and Bright, as I’ve mentally dubbed them, start toward me before I can unswallow my tongue.

"Fine, fine." My face burns hotter than a sauna. "Just...moving in."

"Need a hand?" That’s the gentle giant. His tone is quieter, more reserved.

"Please, don't worry about it." I snatch up a bra and shove it back into the box. If the floor could swallow me whole right now, that'd be great.

"You sure? Really looks like you could use a hand—or two," the tattooed god's dimpled smile doesn't help my blush.

"Got it!" I squeak, trying to snatch everything up at superhuman speed.

The gentle giant bends down, all focused energy and quiet intensity, and my pulse stutters. He's close—too close—and when he straightens, a lacy something dangles from his fingers. Mortification floods me. I'm about to make an even bigger fool of myself; I can feel it.

"Here." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but it rolls over me, warm and deep. He hands me the offending garment without so much as a smirk. Our fingers brush, and a jolt shoots through me. Green eyes lock onto mine, sparking with something that feels a lot like heat.

"Uh, thanks," I choke out, snatching the lingerie like it's a lifeline. But it's not, because now I'm drowning in those eyes, in the silent question they ask, the one I don't have an answer to.

"Anytime." There's a hint of a smile on his lips, but it doesn't reach those intense green eyes. They're still looking at me, seeing way too much. It's like he knows every secret I've ever kept, every thought I've never said out loud.

"Right." I stuff the lacy item into the box—trying to subtly shove the hot pink dildo back inside before anyone sees—slamming the lid shut. "Appreciate the help."

"Any time," Mr. Broody says again, and I don’t miss the way his lips twitch, like he's fighting a smile too.

"Sure." The word comes out of my mouth breathy and light, fluttering around the hallway like a lost butterfly. I need to get out of here, away from their helpful hands and knowing looks.

"Welcome to the building," the gentle giant adds, sounding polite but distant. Like he's already put up a wall between us. I'm not sure if I want to tear it down or hide behind it myself.

"Thanks." I force a smile, hoping it doesn't look as shaky as it feels. "Guess I'll see you around."

"Looking forward to it," Broody replies with a grin that could melt the ice at the Grizzlies' home arena.

I nod, clutching the box to my chest like it's a shield, and rush toward my brother's old apartment. My new refuge. Away from embarrassing drops and smoldering neighborly assists. Because, of course, they’re my neighbors, why wouldn’t they be?

"See ya," I call over my shoulder, not daring to look back at them. Not yet. Not until my face stops feeling like a five-alarm fire.

As the door slams behind me, I lean against it, my heart pounding. New city, new job, and new neighbors who are way too handsome and way too close for comfort.

"Get it together, Holly," I mutter to myself. "It's just a couple of hot men who saw your unmentionables. No big deal."

But who am I kidding? It's a very big deal.

I catch my breath, back pressed against the door. That's when I notice it—my phone's not in my hand or my pocket. Panic spikes within me. A knock sounds on the door, the impact vibrating through my body.

"Looking for this?" The voice is deep, confident. It’s the tattooed god.

I peel the door open a crack and peer back out. He's got my lifeline in his hand, and he's talking into it like it's his. I squint at him, trying to make sense of it all. Then it clicks. Sawyer's laugh filters through the speaker.

"Give me that!" I lunge for the phone, cheeks flaming.

"Whoa, easy tiger," he chuckles, handing it over.

"Who's that? Your boyfriend?" The tattooed god leans over my shoulder, looking at my phone where Sawyer is still waiting.

"Brother," I say sharply, glaring over my shoulder at the tattooed man, who has this look on his face like he knows something I don't. "Sawyer, I—stop laughing."

“Put me on speaker, Hol.”

Sawyer's laughter continues to ring through the phone as I switch it to speaker. He’s clearly enjoying my discomfort.

"Having fun with the new neighbors?” Sawyer's voice crackles through the phone, still laced with amusement.

“Oh, loads. You know me. I always like to make a big splash.” I roll my eyes, trying to play off my embarrassment. If only my cheeks would cooperate. I’m pretty sure they’re as rosy as Santa’s.

"Hey, fellas," Sawyer's voice booms through the phone, his tone easygoing and familiar. “I guess that’s one way to meet my little sister.” He snorts.

“Hey, Sawyer,” Broody smiles mischievously.

“Deacon! Don’t scare her off, okay? And don’t worry about her. Her bark is much worse than her bite.”

“Yeah, yeah. We know, Sawyer. You gave us all the ‘watch out for my baby sister or you’ll never play hockey again’ speech before you left. And every day since.”

I can feel my face heat up even more, my embarrassment reaching new levels. These men aren’t just random neighbors —they're players from the team, and Sawyer knows them. How could I have missed this?

I want to disappear into the floor.

It’s not too late to find a different, equally amazing job and a mostly free apartment, right?

“Jaxon,” the tattooed guy says with that panty-melting smirk.

“Cameron,” the gentle giant offers with a soft smile.

“Deacon. And you must be Holly.”

"Uh, hi," I manage to squeak out, feeling utterly exposed under their amused gazes.

I can feel my cheeks burning hotter than ever. Of all the ways to meet Sawyer's old teammates—men I would now be working with. Dropping my unmentionables in front of them was not on my list of ways that I wanted to be introduced to them. How do I recover from this?

Sawyer's voice crackles through the phone again, clearly enjoying the events unfolding at his old apartment. "You're doing great, Hol. Just remember to breathe."

"Thanks, Sawyer," I mutter into the phone, trying to keep my composure. "Really appreciate the moral support."

"No problem," he replies cheerfully. "You got this. And don’t forget to take your antibiotics!"

“Thanks, Mom," I snark, cringing at what they must think I need the antibiotics for. With what I just spread out on the floor, I’m sure they’re thinking the worst. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure thing, squirt. Don't let these guys scare you off," he teases. “They’re just a bunch of knuckleheads.”

Meanwhile, the three men in front of me exchange amused glances as if they're sharing some private joke that I'm not privy to. Great, now they're probably going to nickname me 'Panties' or something equally embarrassing.

"So, Holly," Jaxon starts, leaning casually against the wall, "welcome to the building."

"Yeah, welcome," Cameron adds with a friendly nod.

"Nice to meet you," Deacon says, his tone a curious mix of amusement and something I can't quite place.

"You too," I manage, hoping my voice doesn't betray the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me—embarrassment, attraction, and the nagging feeling that something big has just happened.

I reach behind me, fumbling for the doorknob. Escape is the only thing on my mind. I’m pretty sure my mortified blush has spread from my cheeks to my chest and I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon. I’ve already given them a little peek at my unmentionables. There’s no need to give them my best impression of a tomato on top of it.

"Thank you for the help," I say, because Mama Hawthorne raised me to be polite, even if I want to crawl into a hole right now.

"Anytime, neighbor." Jaxon nods, and I swear there's a hint of mischief in those brown eyes.

"We’ll be seeing you around," I hear someone say just before the door cuts off the world outside. Great, Holly. Just great.

"First impression," I mutter to myself, sliding down the door. "Nailed it."

The pressure to make a good impression on the players who are also my neighbors just skyrocketed. How am I going to face them again after this?

With a sigh, I shake my head, reminding myself that everyone has embarrassing moments. This is one of mine, but hopefully it won't define my relationship with my new neighbors—or my new job.

But as I glance around my half-unpacked apartment, I can't help but wonder if things are about to get a lot more interesting than I ever bargained for.

I’m finally starting to feel settled here. It’s been a few days since I moved into Sawyer’s old place and I really feel like I’m getting the hang of things. But tonight has me on edge. It’s my first game on the air while the Grizzlies are on the ice.

Please let this go well.

Stepping into the broadcast booth feels like stepping onto fresh ice—slippery and unfamiliar. Colton's already there, headset on, flipping through his own notes. He looks up when he sees me, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Hey, Holly, ready to make some magic?" he asks, his voice steady and warm.

"Sure," I say, but my hands tremble like rookie legs on the rink. If I stepped out onto the ice right now, I’d be a total bender. I set my notes down next to his, a neat stack of stats and player bios. I can pull most of the info up on my laptop, but I like having physical copies of the important stuff.

"First times are always rough," Colton says, leaning back in his chair. "But you know your stuff. Just follow my lead, and we'll have them eating out of our hands."

I nod, trying to believe him. My eyes dart over the notes, each line a potential trip-up. What if I choke? What if I can't find the words?

"Take deep breaths," Colton advises, noticing my nerves. "And remember, it's just hockey. You grew up with this game."

"Right. Just hockey," I repeat, like a mantra. Maybe if I say it enough, it'll be true.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump. I fish it out and Sawyer's name lights up the screen. The text reads, “Knock 'em dead, Hol. I'll be listening.”

A smile tugs at my lips. That's Sawyer, always there for me even when he's miles away on another team. I type back a quick “Thanks, big bro,” and then silence the phone. Can't have distractions now, not when every second counts.

"Who's that?" Colton asks, nodding at my phone.

"My brother," I reply, slipping the device back into my pocket. "Sending luck from the enemy camp."

"Ah, family rivalries," Colton chuckles. "Adds spice to the game."

"Something like that." I glance at the clock. Showtime is closing in, fast and fierce.

"Let's do this," I say, more to myself than to Colton. But he nods, as if I've just said the magic words.

"Let's," he agrees, and suddenly, I'm not feeling quite as alone on this fresh ice. Maybe, just maybe, I can glide after all.

The buzzer sounds, and the players spill onto the ice. My heart's racing, but not with nerves anymore. It's excitement now, pure and electric.

"Looks like the Grizzlies are hungry for a win tonight," I say, my voice steady and clear in my own ears.

"Absolutely, Holly," Colson replies, his baritone a smooth contrast to my lighter tones. "But don't count the Sharks out just yet."

"I would never do that," I shoot back, grinning as the puck slides across the slick surface. The crowd roars, a wave of sound that crashes over us, but I'm riding it, not drowning.

"Smith passes to Kowalski," I narrate, eyes on the game, mind sharp. "He's been a force all season."

"Force is right," Colton says. "But the Grizzlies' defense isn't giving an inch, and Cam Porter has been strong in the goal tonight."

"Talk about an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force." I'm getting into this, the words coming as fast as the action on the ice.

"Classic physics," Colton quips.

"Only more bruising," I add, and we both laugh, the sound natural, easy.

Something warm blossoms inside me. Pride? Confidence? Both? As the third period ends, I lean back, surprised by how fast it's gone, by how right this feels.

"Great job, Holly," Colton says, and I beam at him.

"Thanks, Colton. You're not too shabby yourself."

"Years of practice," he admits with a wink.

"Guess what they say is true," I muse. "Practice makes perfect."

"Then you're well on your way."

"Thanks to a good coach." I nod at him, grateful beyond words.

"Team effort," he insists, and there it is again—that feeling of not being alone.

"Right you are," I agree, and as the lights shine down on the ice gleaming below, I know it deep in my bones—I can do this.