Chapter 1 #2
I don’t tell her my name. I don’t tell her that I’m the team’s center.
The anonymity is refreshing. When people discover who I am, they treat me differently.
They behave differently, whether it’s out of jealousy, respect, or lust. I’m no longer Cole.
I’m Nicholas Berrett, the NHL superstar.
Because hockey is such a key part of my personal identity, it’s rare that I get to be myself with someone I’ve just met.
“I do like sports romances, though.” Her smile is sweet, as if she has no clue that her comment about hockey just shredded a tiny bit of my soul. “If that helps at all.”
A scoff escapes me. “Before my brain implodes from your very incorrect opinion of hockey, please explain how reading about a sport is better than watching the sport.”
She throws her head back and sighs, as if answering my question will cost her precious moments that she’ll never get back.
“Because the authors don’t dedicate entire chapters to sixty-minute halves where no one scores.
” She smirks, her eyes sparkling. “Well, someone may score, but in the biblical sense, not athletic.”
Head hanging, I give it a shake. There isn’t a sport in existence with hour-long halves. Dear God.
We sip our drinks while arguing the finer points of athletics. She’s not ignorant about sports in general, she just really doesn’t care. She’s lived in Boston her whole life but has never attended a single professional sports game. And damn if that isn’t refreshing.
“What’s your favorite sports romance?” I ask. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”
I won’t, but her eyes light up, which was the reaction I was going for.
I listen intently as she chatters on about a soccer romance where the star player dates the coach’s daughter.
I didn’t expect a whole SparkNotes version of the book when I asked, but the way she discusses tropes and character arcs and something called the third-act breakup has me rapt.
I truly can’t remember the last time I was interested in spending time with a woman.
I’ve spent my whole life focused on hockey, which doesn’t leave room for much more.
If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t change the choices I’ve made, but I don’t particularly enjoy that I’ve become the cliché sports player who’s married to the game.
Especially as my childhood friends are getting married and starting that “next chapter” of their lives.
My next chapter has always just been hockey, my happily ever after a spot with the San Diego Devils.
“What do you do for work?” I ask. “Please tell me it has something to do with books.”
She flashes me a mischievous smile that has my balls tightening in my slacks. “I’m actually Punxsutawney Phil’s travel agent, believe it or not.”
Her expression and tone are so deadpan that I genuinely can’t tell whether she’s kidding.
Before I can confirm, a figure storms into the alcove and growls, “For the love of the original cast of Hamilton, if you’re in here with your—”
The interloper catches sight of me and snaps her mouth shut. The way her eyes widen is a dead giveaway that at least one of the women in this alcove recognizes me. Her dark blond hair swishes against her back as she looks from me to my companion and back again, brow furrowed.
“Sorry, hi,” she says, snapping out of her confused trance. “I did not mean to interrupt… this. When I couldn’t find you, I figured you’d snuck off somewhere to read, but…” She waves a hand at me. “I can see I was mistaken.”
The woman beside me brushes my arm as she covertly slides the e-reader behind my back. “I would never do something so antisocial. This is a party, for God’s sake, not a book club, Kennedy.”
“No reading here,” I confirm with a nod. “Just quality conversation.”
Clearly, this is a common occurrence, and I kind of like that I’m partnering up with her to cover up her crime.
“Ah, well, I’ll just be on my way then,” the newcomer—Kennedy—replies with a mega-watt smile and eyebrow waggle. “Continue on with your… quality conversation.”
Her tone drips with innuendo, making the phrase sound absurdly sexual, which makes my mystery reader’s cheeks turn redder than a tomato.
For a moment, she doesn’t move, like she’s stunned. But when she snaps out of it, she hurriedly shoves her e-reader into her purse and stands.
“I should go find her.” Her eyes move to mine, and she gives me a shy smile. “It was nice talking to you…”
“Cole,” I supply.
“Maya,” she responds on her way out. “Enjoy your whiskey, Cole.”
It hasn’t been that long since I got laid, so why the hell does my name on her tongue send very explicit images through my mind?
I’m so caught off guard by my body’s reaction that it doesn’t even occur to me that I should’ve asked for her number, or Instagram handle, or quite literally anything. Fuck.
I knock back the rest of my whiskey and stand.
As I leave the alcove, I survey the room, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
It’s ironic, this situation. This woman who loves a good story has gone ahead and turned our meeting into a real-life Cinderella scenario.
I may not have her shoe, but I’ve got her name, and that’s all the information I need to find out who she is.