Ice Ice Baby (Boston Bobcats #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

cole

“I look massive in this photo.” Logan frowns. “And not in a sexy lumberjack way. Seriously, out of all our team shots, they had to choose this one?”

I roll my eyes to the heavens. The blown-up team photo isn’t the most flattering, but then again, no one looks good after playing three grueling periods in a championship game.

In it, I’ve got blood streaking down my chin—thanks to an elbow to the face—Cameron practically sparkles with sweat, Jake’s beard is giving full caveman energy, and yes, Logan, buried in his pads and gear, could easily pass for Bigfoot’s long-lost cousin.

But it’s hockey. What does he expect?

Jake, our best right-winger and one of my closest friends, eyes Logan, then assesses the photo again, as if he’s giving the comment real thought.

I silently beg him to keep his mouth shut.

The last thing anyone needs is Logan’s vanity acting up any more than it usually does.

While the rest of our team travels with a duffel or a small carry-on, he rolls up with a full-size suitcase filled with skincare products and essential oils.

He takes bubble baths after post-game ice baths.

“You look fine,” I reassure him. “Same as always.”

He squints at me. “So you think I always look large and in charge?”

I bite back a scoff. Lord, give me strength.

“Pads and protective gear make every hockey player look bulky.” Jake’s tone is placating, though he turns away and rolls his eyes. “You don’t have an ounce of fat on you, dude. Relax.”

“How do you know that?” Logan asks, chin lifted and jaw clenched. “Have you been checking me out in the locker room?”

“Don’t be a perv,” Cameron fires back.

Before Logan can fire off a comeback, Jake clasps his shoulder. “Why don’t we go make our rounds, gentleman? Booze and schmooze?”

Cameron scans the crowd, his forest-green eyes narrowed, like he’s bracing for a natural disaster—ever the antisocial grump—while Logan hops in place like a squirrel who’s just discovered espresso.

I place a hand on each of their backs and give a firm shove. “Let’s go.”

We make our way through the room, weaving between clusters of Boston’s elite, our sponsors, and a sprinkling of friends and family.

Here and there, I greet familiar faces, my professional persona flicking to life on its own as I talk about the upcoming season, my words practically scripted.

Our defense is looking sharp. Strategy’s solid.

The new offensive line should give us more flexibility in transition.

We’ve been schmoozing for less than an hour when someone brings him up.

“Your brother would be proud of you.”

I force a tight smile at the sponsor I’m chatting with. His expression is kind, but there’s a softness behind it, a look akin to pity that makes my chest tighten. “Mm-hmm.”

“It’s wild that your parents raised two hockey legends,” he continues, as if he has any right to speak about my twin. “Nate was one of the best left-wingers the sport’s ever seen.”

“Yup.” I grip my glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

I’m glad that my brother’s memory lives on, truly. And yes, the sport lost a legend, but I lost my brother and best friend. The two aren’t comparable. They never will be.

Jake, likely sensing the subtle shift in my body language, jumps in, steering the conversation toward the Chicago Patriots’ new defenseman.

When the sponsor’s attention drifts his way, I mutter an excuse and step away. If I don’t, there’s a chance I’ll say something I’ll regret.

As much as I love the start of the season, it feels wrong not shit-texting my brother about whose team is going to beat whose ass.

Before Nate passed away three years ago, the Berrett brothers dominated the sport with a combined three Stanley Cup wins.

Nate repped the Miami Trailblazers, and I wore the Boston Bobcats’ blue, but he was my biggest fan and I was his.

Our dream was to one day suit up together for our hometown team, the San Diego Devils.

We made the pact when we were six, lacing up our skates side by side.

Now that it’s just me, I have to work twice as hard to leave a legacy for us.

Needing a breather and a chance to shake off that conversation, I head to the bar.

As the bartender pours me another drink, I turn, scanning the room, the toe of my velvet dress shoe tapping against the black marble floor.

The DJ is set up on one side of the room, and a good chunk of guests dance on a black-and-white checkered floor.

Others are huddled at high tops, mingling and sipping on craft cocktails.

I continue my perusal until I catch sight of a hidden alcove off to the side.

Bingo. Hiding out with my drink isn’t the most mature move, but I need a moment of peace to collect myself.

As I step into the hidden nook, I find it already occupied. Curled up on the navy velvet couch nestled in the corner is a brunette with a cocktail in one hand and… an e-reader in the other.

She’s literally reading. At a party.

I’m not sure whether I should be offended. Sure, this isn’t the Grammys, but it’s an invite-only party, not a quiet Sunday afternoon at home.

I cough subtly to announce my presence. Rather than flinch, she holds up a finger in a “one second” gesture, her eyes never leaving the device.

As I bring my glass to my lips, I fight back a grin. I can’t remember the last time someone dismissed me so casually. Maybe high school.

A minute or two later, she glances up, and when I get a good look at her, I nearly stumble back.

Damn, she’s gorgeous. Her beauty isn’t flashy.

It’s not the kind that’ll stop men in their tracks.

No, it’s the understated kind that sneaks up on a person.

Her heart-shaped face is smooth and creamy and complemented by deep brown hair that cascades down her shoulders in loose curls.

Add in the black dress hugging her curvy figure, and she’s my walking wet dream.

“Hi. Sorry, did you say something?” she asks, head tilted.

I shake my head and gesture to the empty space beside her. “Mind if I sit?”

There’s no trace of recognition or excitement in her midnight-blue eyes as she gives me a once-over; just pure, genuine confusion, like she can’t comprehend why I want to join her. Eventually, though, she gives me a small shrug and a polite smile. “Go ahead.”

I take my time getting settled, racking my brain for a conversation starter. Asking why she’s holed up in a corner reading at a party feels too accusatory, so I go with the safest, most boring question known to man: “What’re you drinking?”

Because the three coffee beans floating in the glass don’t scream espresso martini or anything. Good one, Cole.

“Espresso martini.” She takes a small sip, watching me over the rim. Nodding toward my rocks glass, she asks, “Whiskey?”

“The one and only,” I confirm.

She nibbles on her bottom lip, her eyes searching for a moment, before asking, “Did you know that during Prohibition, physicians could write prescriptions for medicinal whiskey?”

A bolt of surprise mixed with satisfaction hits me. It’s rare I speak to a perfect stranger who doesn’t lead with a hockey question or some version of are you ready for the season? “No, I didn’t know that.”

Lips pressed together, she nods. “I read a book a few weeks ago that took place during Prohibition. One of the main characters worked for a pharmacy that prescribed whiskey as a treatment for everything from indigestion to cancer. He got caught up with some mafia-type people who ran speakeasies across the city. I’m sure you can guess how that went. ”

I flash her an amused smile. “My whiskey and mafia knowledge come mostly from Peaky Blinders and the Godfather.”

She lets loose a raspy laugh. “The Godfather was actually a book before it was a movie. So was Goodfellas.”

Ah. The e-reader is starting to make more sense. “Yeah?”

“Yep. Most good movies were books first. Forrest Gump, Jurassic Park, Fight Club, Call Me By Your Name. And those aren’t even the obvious ones like Lord of the Rings and Little Women.”

I take a sip of my drink, letting the liquid fire soothe me, and nod toward the device in her hands. “I take it you’re a big reader?”

She glances down, grimacing a little, as if I caught her doing something naughty.

“Mm-hmm. I wasn’t planning to bring this bad boy tonight, but one of my favorite authors surprise-dropped a new release.

Figured if I’m not the Bobcats’ target audience, missing some of the party isn’t that big of a deal. ”

I arch my brows. “Why’d you come, then?”

“Blackmail sounds dramatic,” she says with a guilty shrug, “but my best friend threatened to dog-ear my books if I didn’t attend. She’s the one who made the massive puck-shaped cake everyone’s talking about, so I’m here to support her.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “Dog-earing pages, huh? That’s serious stuff. You must really not like hockey.”

“It’s not that I don’t like hockey,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“I just don’t understand it. I don’t know how anyone can follow the puck.

It’s microscopic. Everyone is moving so fast; it’s impossible to figure out what the hell is going on half the time.

And the fighting is brutal. I witnessed more than my fair share of coked-out frat boys wrestling during my college days.

I don’t really need to rewatch it on TV, you know? ”

Before I can stop it, a deep laugh bursts from my chest.

She cringes. “Shit. You probably work for the team or something like that, don’t you?”

The use of the word work instead of play confirms my suspicion. She genuinely has no idea who I am. If she did, there’s no way she would’ve just referred to me as a coked-out frat boy. “Something like that,” I confirm simply.