What We Knew Then (Great Lakes U #1)

1. LANE

LANE

I don’t know what’s worse: transferring to a rival hockey team where the mascot is an otter, or the go-to bar being called Shore Thing.

I roll my eyes at the pint glass, emblazoned with “Sip Happens at the Lake.” I get it.

It’s Michigan. There are five great lakes.

We’re at Great Lakes U. The puns are unnecessary.

I’m sitting alone at a table meant for two, taking in my new surroundings—the place I'll spend my last year of college before hopefully being signed to an NHL team.

Entering the transfer portal was the best chance I had to pursue a professional career, even if it meant going the free-agent route instead of hearing my name called on draft day.

My one shot after everything that happened.

There weren’t many offers to play hockey after, and I’d be lying if my balls weren’t in a vice waiting for one, but Great Lakes U came in at the last minute and saved my ass.

Even though I played on the opposing rival team in the conference and scored the goal that sent their asses packing last season, ruining their chance at a three-peat, this team is better than no team at all.

Here’s the thing, you don’t just transfer to Great Lakes U. You earn your way in—or you get exposed trying. They’ve built something here. A legacy. The kind of team guys would do anything to be part of… and even more to not screw up once they are.

So, yeah, I was fucking surprised when I got the offer.

Something else Michigan does right is craft beer. I smell citrus before taking a swig of my IPA—indulging before I’m in full-on hockey mode. Let’s face it, my life revolves around hockey, but I need a reset before meeting my new teammates.

Early August heat rushes in every time someone opens the door to the bar. A blonde walks in wearing a cut-up Otters jersey turned into a dress, threads frayed like she did it herself, and shouts to the friends waiting for her. The way they yell makes me jump, spilling some of my beer.

Fuck. Why do we have to scream in public?

It’s not lost on me that I play a sport where people bang on the glass and yell for three hours straight. That doesn’t bother me. But being somewhere you don’t expect it? That’s different.

I’m contemplating ordering another beer when a woman sits across from me.

“Pretend to be my boyfriend, okay?” she asks through a smile, reaching for my free hand on top of the table.

Before I have any time to process what’s happening, she’s rubbing circles on my palm and resting her chin on a propped hand.

She leans in, closing the distance, and her eyes are almost offensively blue—like the most perfect water you could dream about.

Her dark lashes flutter, matching her inky black hair, straight and falling past her shoulders.

“Found you!” someone exclaims as they stop at the small two-top table. He’s definitely who you’d call a ‘bro,’ and his eyes focus hard on the mystery woman across from me.

Then it clicks. She’s trying to lose this asshole.

“And me.” I look up at the guy, giving him my best get-the-fuck-out-of-here look.

Our eyes meet for a millisecond before he’s quickly taking a step back, almost tripping and falling on his ass.

“Woah. Sorry. Didn’t know she came here with someone,” he stammers, rubbing his hands together as his cheeks are painted red with embarrassment.

I take a drink of my beer and pause before replying, “Well, now you do.”

“Ugh, hey. Are you—”

“Why are you still standing here?” I ask, knowing he’s about to blow my cover. Tonight’s the only one where I can be me and not Lane Maxwell, transplant from the most hated school on this campus.

He lifts his hands up and turns away without saying another word.

The woman sitting in front of me doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, she says, “That was amazing. Thank you.”

I don’t respond; I'm not sure what to say to a person who was just trying to get space from some sleazy asshole.

“I’m Lee,” she offers, leaning back in her chair.

“Lane,” I reply, tipping my drink to her. She quickly lets go of my hand and pulls hers back.

Tiny black straps sit on her shoulders, holding up a black cropped tank top. Not that she should have to, but from here, it looks like she can hold her own—her arms flex when she rubs her hands together.

“Waiting for someone?” She leans forward, clasping her hands together.

Her lips—light pink and pouty—have me staring, but just for a second.

“Nope. Just me.” I take a drink of my beer, my eyes still watching her over the glass.

A bartender taps the table. “Can I get you anything?”

Lee gives me a side look and I shrug my shoulders, putting the ball in her court.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

The bartender is already reaching for a pint glass when I say, “You don’t even know what I’m drinking.”

“From here, it looks like a hazy IPA. One of my favorite types of beer.”

Damn, she’s good.

The bartender brings her a beer and nods, basically telling Lee she’s right. She offers her thanks and takes a drink, those light-blue eyes never leaving mine.

“From here, it also looks like you’re new,” she says, with less conviction than when she guessed my beer choice. Before I can respond, she continues. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” She mimics locking her lips with a fake key. “Any questions I can answer?”

“Any bars here without a borderline offensive pun in the name?”

She laughs and scrunches her nose. This is the kind of woman I should stay far away from.

Because Lee looks like fucking trouble.