Chasing Love (Pucks & Penalties #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

West

Wet, slushy snowflakes are falling from the sky, and Atlanta traffic has slowed to a crawl. It went from a comfortable fifty degrees yesterday to this bullshit in just twenty-four hours.

This is one thing about Atlanta I haven’t yet adjusted to—the extreme weather changes day to day.

It’s late January, for fuck’s sake, and yesterday it was fifty-five degrees.

Overnight it rained and we got a blast of arctic air, and now it’s snowing.

As a Midwesterner, snow doesn’t faze me, but these inexperienced Southern drivers coupled with the lack of salt trucks to treat the roads makes this a nail-biter.

Don’t get me started on the ice storm they’re forecasting for overnight.

I slow down, barely going twenty miles an hour, so I’m going to be late to this damn fundraiser I didn’t want to attend in the first place.

As a professional hockey player, there’s always something you have to do that has nothing to do with hockey.

Community outreach is important. Just not on a night like this.

The car in front of me puts on its hazard lights, and I follow suit.

It’s coming down so hard it’s getting difficult to see and, frankly, I wasn’t expecting this kind of snow.

In the suburbs of Atlanta. According to some locals I’ve talked to, it happens every now and again, but the city in general is not prepared for it.

Technically, I’m about twenty-five miles northwest of downtown, close to Peachtree Heights, the suburb I live in. And the farther north I go, the worse the weather gets.

A few cars have started to pull over, apparently wanting to wait it out.

I’m just glad I’m not in the Ferrari tonight.

I considered it, but between the forecasted snow and my not-so-great experiences with Georgia drivers in the winter, I opted to take the safe option—my steel-gray Tahoe.

It’s big and heavy, with all-wheel drive and all the bells and whistles, so I’m not overly worried as I make my way toward the upcoming exit.

Two more miles and I’ll be at a fancy country club with good food and maybe a glass of champagne. I won’t have more than one drink since I have to drive home, but maybe the snow will stop by the time I head out.

I’ve just turned on some music when the car in front of me starts to fishtail, and I feel a surge of adrenaline. It’s happened to me lots of times but even when you’re experienced driving in this kind of weather, it’s scary and unpredictable.

The brake lights go on, then off, then on again, and the car whips back and forth before doing a complete three-sixty and ending up in the ditch, perpendicular to the road. It stops hard, hitting a wall of dirt and grass.

Shit! There’s no way to know if anyone inside is hurt but there’s also no way I can just keep going without checking.

Foot off the gas, I ease onto the shoulder and come to a stop.

The driver hasn’t moved and though I’m loath to get out in this weather, it feels like I should make sure that he or she is okay.

Grabbing the light windbreaker I keep in my SUV—I didn’t think to bring a winter coat since I’m wearing a tuxedo and wasn’t planning to be outside—I twist to check traffic before opening the driver’s side door and carefully stepping out.

The ground is wet but not slippery and I mentally curse my leather dress shoes as I hurry toward the car in the ditch. Now I can see the driver moving, on the phone, and the woman inside looks panicked.

Wary blue eyes surrounded by a fur hood meet mine as I approach the driver’s side and I motion for her to roll down the window. She hesitates but then does it.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, keeping a polite distance so as not to alarm her. “Can I help?”

“I’m okay,” she says in a throaty whisper. “But it won’t start.”

I take in the aged Honda Civic, and from the looks of it, it’s a wonder it’s running at all. It’s at least twenty years old, with rust on the doors and part of the hood, a crack in the windshield that makes me wonder how she can even see to drive.

“If you get out, I could try,” I suggest. “But if you’d rather I call Triple A for you…” I let my voice trail, giving her options, but the expression on her face tells me that’s not possible.

“If you could give it a try,” she whispers. She gets out of the vehicle, and her coat isn’t in much better shape than her car. She shivers in the brisk wind, and I make out a tall woman with a slight figure dwarfed by a coat at least two sizes too big.

From a thrift store.

The thought comes to me as memories of how my mom and I would spend Saturdays going from one to the next, looking for school clothes. Winter clothes. Hockey gear. It was a long time ago, but the memories hit me harder than I thought.

I slip into the driver’s seat, pushing the seat back as far as it will go to accommodate my long legs. All the lights on the dashboard are flashing orange.

That can’t be good.

I turn the key in the ignition and the engine sputters for a second before dying out. I try once more but I don’t want to flood the gas line. When I glance over at her, she’s watching me intently, as if studying what I’m doing.

“I don’t think it’s going to start,” I say softly.

“I have to pick up my son from daycare,” she whispers, her lower lip trembling slightly. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s afraid or cold or some combination of the two. But I hate seeing a woman cry.

God dammit.

I have somewhere to be but I’m going to offer her a ride anyway.

The problem is, I’m a big guy. Definitely imposing at six four and two hundred and twenty pounds. The long hair and somewhat unkempt beard probably don’t do anything to make me look less dangerous, and since I’m a stranger, I figure I can be intimidating to a woman alone on a dark road.

“What can I do?” I ask politely, getting out of the car.

The snow is coming down harder and she looks up in frustration.

“I…” Her phone rings and she sighs, picking it up.

“I know, I’m sorry. My car broke down. I’ll be there as soon as I can…

I know, Mrs. Carter.” She grits her teeth at whatever Mrs. Carter says to her.

“You think I can afford two dollars a minute in late fees? I can’t control the weather—or my stupid car!

I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She jabs at the screen, apparently ending the call.

Then she looks up at me, eyes narrowing slightly as if steeling her resolve.

The change in attitude is kind of adorable.

“Are you a serial killer?” she asks, completely serious.

I almost laugh but manage to keep a straight face. “No. I definitely am not.”

“What’s your name?”

“West McGregor.” Maybe the name will be familiar to her.

But it doesn’t seem to ring any bells. Instead, she walks over to my Tahoe and snaps a picture of the license plate. Then she types on her phone.

“I just sent your license to my boss and my best friend. If you kill me, they’ll know it’s you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nod, still fighting a smile. She’s smart under the circumstances, and I respect her being cautious, but it’s cute.

“I need the car seat,” she whispers after a moment. “My son is only three.”

Something twists inside me.

The last time I got involved with a woman with a kid, it went wrong a hundred ways to Sunday.

But I’m not going to date this woman.

I’m just being a good Samaritan.

“I’ll get the car seat. Why don’t you get in my SUV and warm up? You’re practically turning blue.”

“Uh, yeah. In a second.” She leans into the car and grabs a massive purse and begins putting a bunch of things in it. Her coat drifts up, revealing a very cute jean-clad backside that’s wiggling as she works.

Then her feet start to slide out from under her and I instinctively reach out to stop it, catching her around the waist.

“Oh!” She flails for a second before I plant my feet and draw her warm, lithe body firmly against mine.

Jesus, she’s soft and curvy and—what the fuck am I doing?

Quickly releasing her, I take a step back. “You okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Is her face flushed?

Forcing myself to look away, I open the back door and start unhooking the car seat. I did this at least a thousand times for Briar when we were together.

Fuck.

I try really hard not to think about her.

Or her adorable daughter.

She left me for her daughter’s father when he essentially came back from the dead—something neither of us saw coming. I don’t hate her but it’s taken a while to stop missing her. To stop wishing things had been different.

Moving to Atlanta helped.

I’ve been here since August, so five months, and I’m finally getting to a point where I don’t think about them every day. Hell, it’s been over a year since the breakup, so it’s beyond time to move on.

“Okay.” She stands up, strands of red hair framing her face as the hood of her coat slides back.

Really? A redhead? I nearly groan in frustration.

Fate really likes fucking with me.

“Anything else you need?” I ask, holding up the car seat. “If not, let’s get out of the snow.”

“I think that’s it.” She turns and hurries to my SUV, getting into the passenger seat while I put the car seat in the back. I don’t bother strapping it in yet since I don’t know if I’m taking her home once I get her to the daycare, or if someone else will meet her there and take her home.

I get into the driver’s side and turn up the heat. Hell, my feet are cold now and these shoes are probably ruined but that’s okay—now I have a good excuse as to why I can’t make the charity event.

“I ease back into traffic as she holds her hands close to the vent, rubbing them in front of the warm air.

“Thank you for stopping.” She turns her head and studies me. “You’re a life saver. Well, I mean, assuming you aren’t a serial killer who’s going to chop me into a million pieces and dump me in a ditch.”

I chuckle. “You’re welcome. And if you need further evidence, I play for the new hockey team, the Atlanta Thunder. You’re welcome to search me online and text whoever you want that I’m the one who picked you up on the side of the road.”

Her eyes widen a little before she laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s wry or humorous or something else. Either way, the sound warms me. “I don’t think playing hockey automatically excludes you from being a serial killer. Although the tux helps a little.”

“Serial killers don’t wear tuxes?”

The question hangs in the air for a beat and then we both chuckle. Like we’ve known each other for a lot longer than five minutes.

“I guess I don’t really know since I’ve never met one. But anyway, it’s this upcoming exit and then right.”

“No problem.” I glance over at her profile.

A damsel in distress is my kryptonite and she’s really pretty, but I don’t want to be anyone’s knight in shining armor.

Never again.

I need to drop her off, make sure she has a way home, and then go back to my very hockey-oriented life.

I want no part of a pretty redheaded distraction.