Wild Game (Renegades Hockey #2)

Chapter 1

Willow

Sometimes life hands you broken pipes and dripping ceilings that force you to seek refuge in your brother’s empty apartment while he steals away your best friend for a weekend of pillow fighting.

Yes. That’s what I’m calling it. My brother is spending all fifty-one hours away whopping my bestie with his pillow.

It’s better for everyone if I think of it this way.

They’re in love, and I couldn’t be happier for them.

That’s why I’m not moping around, eating cinnamon toast crunch in my underwear while reading my latest historical romance on my e-reader.

Good Duke Gone Hard? Yes, please. Eliana, you just get it.

She remembers everything and he—Jonathan—the asshole, forgets.

I don’t care that he got amnesia, the douche should remember! She remembers.

I remember.

Huff.

And somebody—a nameless man who may or may not be the professional hockey playing brother of my best friend—acts like he forgets it all. Even though I know better.

I may be relating a little too much to my book. Oh well. I shovel another bite of cereal into my mouth. The Renegades aren’t playing this weekend (Yay for Lacy and Zane!) and I have some time off. Otherwise, I’d be vag deep in team operations.

Which is literally the only action she sees.

Which may or may not be something I’m working on.

By myself.

Ugh. I did try. I really did. Wendell, another player for the Renegades, is super sweet and super sexy.

We danced the other night at The Dark Horse, but it’s obvious we’re just friends.

I’d like to say something might have happened if the man who shall not be named wasn’t glaring at us all night, but in all honesty, nothing would have transpired.

Wendell makes an awesome friend, and he’ll make some lucky woman an incredible husband. That lucky woman is just not me.

Oh well. I’m lucky enough to be temporarily homeless and mooching off my brother. So there’s that. More cinnamon toast crunch should do the tric—

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

My spoon clatters to the table spraying droplets of soy milk onto my e-reader.

Damn. I can’t even wipe them off with my shirt, so I use the heel of my hand, and look up.

My stomach rolls over and I lock my ankles under the table as he looks at me with disdain.

I’m just his little sister’s annoying friend.

And he’s all hot and awesome—except he’s awful—with those muscles that are building muscles on top of each other.

I mean, how many muscles does one professional defensemen need to be the enforcer for his team?

And of course, he—and all his muscles—are here.

Why am I not surprised? Honestly. I should be. I should have fallen back off my chair. But this is just my luck this weekend, isn’t it?

0% surprised.

100% bothered.

“I’m eating.” I drop my head back down and resume my reading and eating without acknowledging him, even though he’s standing there beside the table in nothing but black boxer briefs with the outline of his dick taunting me. “You?”

“Seriously. What are you doing here?”

Obviously, with his dick about to nudge my shoulder, I’m not paying attention to any words, but still, I have my pride. “Probably the same thing you are, Monk.”

“Monk? Really? The 2000s superstar detective?”

“Mhmm.” That and his austere approach to life. And me. But whatevs.

His grunting sounds compete for my attention, but my books have always been more loyal than any man, so I ignore him as he clanks around the kitchen to make himself a six egg white omelet with three whole wheat avocado toasts and a whey protein smoothie. Ask me how I know. Then ask me if I care.

“Guess we’re stuck together while they sort out our apartments.”

“It’s all your fault, you know?”

“How’s that?” He cracks the eggs and whips them in a bowl, eyeing me over his shoulder.

“You’re the one on top of me.”

His eyebrow ascends like an old elevator and his eyes rake over my body. This bralette was not my best idea, but it’s super cute. So it’s a him-problem.

With a shrug I go back to reading.

“You’re going to blame me for the fact that both of our apartments are flooded?”

“Welp. It wasn’t me.” That’s when I take the last bite and stand up, making my way toward him to put my dish away like a good girl.

Shit.

Bad plan.

Who does this? Who walks toward, into, and ever-broadening laser beams shooting out of someone’s eyes?

Oh right. Me.

His jaw clenches and the grinding sound from his molars only gets louder the closer I get.

“If we’re stuck together here, you shouldn’t be wearing that.”

“What? This?” To poke the bear, I jut my hip out and with great exaggeration I flip my hair.

“Ya. Willow. That.”

“Tell you what, Brody.” Flicking open the dishwasher, I bend over—at the hips—and neatly, with great diligence, place my bowl and spoon in the machine. “I’ll wear whatever I want to.” I straighten, looking him dead in the eye. “Even if that means nipple tassels.”

His jaw works back and forth before he grumbles out something inaudible.

“Oh, and by the way…” I let it hang because why the fuck not.

And with immense reluctance, he asks, “What?”

“Your omelet’s burning.”