Your Masked Valentine (Saint Paul Sinners #1)

Prologue Serena

No man with that pretty of a smile should also be allowed to have effortlessly wavy, short brown hair, freckles that dust his cheeks and nose, and be six-foot-six on top of it. But here I am, eyes locked with the annoyingly attractive man.

Bates Finnegan, who hasn’t wiped that damn smirk from his lips, driving me insane. An hour into the team dinner, I’ve practically memorized the dimple his smirk creates.

My dad invited me as his date for tonight for the team’s summer dinner, and without thought, I said yes. Just like I have for any event he’s attended my entire life.

My dad, Bill Rafferty—Coach Rafferty to his staff and players—is the head coach of the Saint Paul Sinners. They’re dominating the league this season, and I’d be shocked if they didn’t make it to the Stanley Cup Finals this year.

Hockey has been my dad’s entire life and therefore, it’s also been mine—at least in some sense.

He played professionally when he was younger, but after his injury and my mom’s death when I was three, he retired to be home more for me. After a few years, he started coaching at our local college, and he found a new passion within the sport he held so dear to his heart.

I respect him so deeply and want nothing more than to watch him finally lift that Cup into the air.

To most people, he comes off as serious and unemotional, but to me, I see the sweet, tender father who had tea parties with me and played dress-up in gowns that were far too small for him. Who listened to every dream I had, growing up, and helped me chase them in any way he could.

He’s just Dad to me, but right now, he looks like Coach. Stoic. Intense.

Until he turns to me, seated at my right at the round table, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Having fun?”

“I am.” I grin, taking the last sip of wine from my glass. “I’m going to get a refill. Need anything?”

Gently pushing my chair back, I stand from my seat with my glass in hand, ready to get a refill at the bar. He shakes his head, and I let him know I’ll be right back before heading over to the opposite side of the room.

Gold and black decorate the enormous ballroom, tucked away inside the arena.

The nearly billion-dollar arena, home to the Sinners, is what event dreams are made of.

From the game side—with the rink, shops, and concessions—to the medical wing and staff suites, to the conference room and ballrooms, this place was seemingly built without a budget.

I order my wine and hand the bartender my glass, spinning a napkin on the countertop as I wait.

“Please tell me your name.”

A deep, smooth, almost-wistful voice flutters into my ears, finding a home in my stomach as my cheeks warm.

Somehow, someway, I know who’s standing behind me—the same man who’s been staring at me all night. I was hoping he wouldn’t be bold enough to hit on me because I’m going to have a really hard time turning him down.

The bartender hands me the glass with a smile, and I thank him before pivoting on my heel to find just who I suspected—Bates, wearing a white button-up, slacks, and dress shoes.

His sleeves are rolled up, and I suddenly feel like a Victorian man, freaking out about a woman’s scandalous ankles, because looking at his veiny arms and the tattoos that pepper his barely exposed, freckled skin has me nearly foaming at the mouth.

Deep blue eyes study me, like they’re reading invisible text on my skin, consuming information about me that I don’t even realize I’m giving. Yet, greedily, he takes it anyway.

“Bates,” I murmur, watching shock and amusement fill his heated stare, likely surprised that I know his name. “Nice to officially meet you.”

Wetting his bottom lip, he sucks it between his teeth, then clicks his tongue. “You know who I am?”

“Would I be at this party if I didn’t?” I retort, enjoying toying with him more than I should.

“Do you always answer a question with another question?” he challenges.

“Only when it comes to talking to guys on my dad’s team.”

Realization dawns in his eyes, flattening his expression. But not a beat later, his devious smirk returns, and I quickly understand that my dad’s title does little to discourage his pursuit.

“You’re Serena?” he asks, but there’s a declaration in his tone, like he already knows the answer.

“You didn’t already assume that the younger woman sitting next to your coach at the team family dinner was his daughter?” I cock my head to the side. “I guess hockey players really are stupid.”

This earns me a genuine smile, and my heart nearly stops in my chest.

Shaking his head and chuckling, he steps toward me, the distance between us shrinking to only a couple of feet, and a seriousness drifts across his face as his eyes bore into mine.

Our closeness makes his size seem even more intimidating as he towers over me; he’s so massive that anyone behind him, who might be looking our way, wouldn’t see me because I’d be hidden by his frame.

“Maybe I just wanted you to want to share your name with me instead of me assuming it.” Reaching out, he swipes my glass from my hand, glancing at the lipstick print on the rim. He lines it up with his own mouth before taking a drink, his eyes finding mine as he swallows.

I don’t know what the hell that was or why it made the room a thousand degrees warmer, but it felt like he was communicating a message—one that’s very clear as he slowly licks his lips before his teeth rake his bottom lip–he wants me . . . and he wants to taste me.

“Mmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Delicious.”

It takes everything in me to keep my jaw from hitting the floor as his words swirl in my mind, repeating over and over. He knew damn well what he was doing and what he was conveying.

No shame. No guilt. No hesitation to break the well-known rule about not dating a coach’s daughter. One that he personally set for me in highschool, the same one I have no plans on straying from.

“I know,” I mutter sassily, taking my glass back from him, our fingers brushing together.

Holding on to his stare, I use the napkin I was fidgeting with and wipe the lipstick and his touch from the glass.

As hard as I try, I can’t fight the menacing smile lifting my lips. I would feel bad if Bates didn’t look like he was loving every second of it.

If anything, I think my stubbornness only made him like me more.

“Let me take you to dinner. My treat. You pick the place, or I can surprise you. Either works for me. Just don’t say no.”

I scoff, both shocked by his forwardness and the thought that my answer could be so simple.

Bates seems nice and warm, and he is clearly interested in me.

On paper, this is what I’ve wanted more than anything after my last relationship—to be seen and desired—like he’s making me feel. But—and it’s the hardest but ever—he plays for my dad.

My dad’s always forbidden me from dating any of his players—more so when I was younger, but I know the rule still stands. And if anything, the stakes have only gotten higher with the success of the Sinners.

He’s so close to achieving his dreams, and I know damn well that my soulmate isn’t some rich hockey player whose DM’s are probably flooded with romantic and sexual pursuits.

I spent the last year of my past relationship never feeling like enough. I doubt I can satisfy a pro hockey player. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. I already knew my answer before he walked over here, no matter how hot our chemistry might be.

Maybe a one-night stand wouldn’t be so bad—

No. Stop that.

“Thinking long and hard …” Bates trails off, pulling me from my thoughts. His stare is still on mine, flickering to my cheeks as the burn deepens in them.

“You seem great, honestly. But I don’t date hockey players my dad coaches.”

His response almost immediately leaves his full, kissable lips. “So, what you’re saying is, I need to transfer teams, and I’ll have a shot?”

My eyes roll at his insane thought process and the loophole. “But you’re not, and you won’t.”

“I might.” He grins, his thumb brushing the top of my hand that’s holding my glass.

Jesus. I had no idea we had drifted so close to one another.

I’m craning my neck back to look up at him, even with these heels on. The angle is intoxicating. I know with a simple stretch of his arms, he could encompass me completely.

His aroma hits my nose, and without thought, I breathe in deeply.

“You’re cute.” I reward his persistence with a compliment. “But the answer is still no.”

He clutches his heart, his face contorting with agony. Although the grin that appears on his lips a moment later shows little of his pain. I think he’ll be just fine, handling my rejection.

“How can I convince you that I think we’re soulmates?” He presses as I take a sip of my wine.

I laugh audibly, choking. I calm the coughing, thankful for the music playing to drown out my hacking.

“You literally just met me,” I state matter-of-factly. “You can’t know that.”

“Says you.” He crosses his arms defensively, forcing his muscles to bulge up in his white button-up, which I wish weren’t weakening my resolve to give in more and more by the second. “Sometimes, you just know.”

My heart skips a beat in my chest. My dad always says a similar statement when he tells the story of how he met my mom. He says it was love at first sight. I used to believe in that a lot more than I do now, but that belief faded over the years.

It’s not that I don’t believe in love—I do. Of course I do.

Love is about choices and instinct, finding a balance with your emotions. It’s not such a simple, easily claimed thing. It needs to be yearned for and worked for.

But what can I say? My dad has only ever loved my mom. They were high school sweethearts, and after she passed, he’s never even entertained the idea of dating, claiming that she was the love of his life and he doesn’t want to love if it doesn’t involve her.

I may not remember my mother, but I know she was an incredible woman—that much has to be true for her to be loved as deeply as my dad loves her. That’s the kind of love I want. All-consuming. Passionate. Overwhelming.

But my ability to help other people find their partners apparently doesn’t apply to my own love life. Even when I selected a perfect match for myself, I spent three years in a relationship that shouldn’t have lasted longer than a few months.

While Bates seems sweet—and he’s fucking hot as hell—I can’t see my happily ever after happening with an arrogant hockey player.

Anger settles in my chest, and I can’t quite figure out why. But I ignore the pulsing heat—or try to do my best at least.

“Bates …” I trail off, unsure of exactly what to say.

His thick brown eyebrows pinch as his eyes slam shut for a quick moment. “God, I love the way you say my name, even when you’re about to dump me and break my heart.”

A giggle slips free from my lips, and I scold myself for enjoying his flirting more than I should. “I can’t dump you if we were never together.”

He winces. “Now you’re just trying to hurt me.”

Shoving lightly at his chest, I try to push him back, but he stands still without wavering.

“If you wanted to feel me up, you could’ve just asked. I know a thousand places here we can hide.”

The thought bounces around my mind, and, God, it sounds like the most delectable idea.

But I have a feeling that when Bates gets his arms around someone, they have a hard time escaping his smirk and wit.

I’m already damn near face-first in his little flirt trap.

I know the moment he touched or kissed me, I’d be a goner.

Which is why I step back, pressing against the counter. “I’m sorry. I’m just not interested.”

A playful gleam sparkles in his gaze, and his head cocks to the side. “Now you’re just lying to me.”

I part my lips to double down on my untruth, but he cuts me off, holding his hands up at his sides in surrender.

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” I assure him, swirling the wine in my glass to distract myself so I don’t immediately go back on my word.

He turns on his heel to head back toward his table. I watch him until he gets back to his seat, and my stomach twists when two other players greet him with smiles, laughter, and amusement.

Was this just a game for him? A dare or something for them to laugh at?

A pit forms in my stomach as I walk back to my seat, feeling a whole new warmth all over, the kind of hot flash you get when you’re going to puke.

Maybe I’m reading into it too much, letting my insecurities narrate my thoughts. Maybe he’s not grinning at my expense as he sits down with his friends. Maybe—

His intense stare flicks up to me, like he knows exactly where I am. I can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he examines me carefully. I wish I could read his thoughts, but I might be scared of what I find, given the devilish glimmer in his eyes.

Forcing myself to look away, I find my dad lost in conversation with one of his assistant coaches, clearly unaware that one of his players was hitting on me at the bar. I know he’s not just playing it off. He’d have been mad if he had seen that, and he couldn’t have resisted reacting in the moment.

I slide into my seat, watching the red wine swirl in the glass. It’s beautiful, a deep burgundy that oddly reminds me of the Sinners’ jerseys, complemented with pink, white, and black. An image of Bates in his jersey flashes in my mind.

Clearly, the alcohol is doing little to keep my mind off the one guy I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

My shoulders tingle, and a shiver runs through me. I glance toward Bates’s table, finding his eyes already glued to me. And that’s the way they stay until the event comes to an end and he heads out of the door with his friends.

When I get home, I greet my fur baby, Freddie. Then I climb into bed and reach over to my nightstand, pulling out my vibrator. And I absolutely, one hundred percent don’t get off, thinking about some stupid, arrogant, freckled hockey player.