Chapter 2
HADLEY
“Iknow it sounds crazy, but it felt like someone was watching me,” I say as I play with the wrapper of the straw.
Isla tightens her ponytail. “What do you mean? At the dance studio?”
“Yeah. I was doing my usual self-practice. Just dancing a modern piece to music on the speakers, in my own little world, but then I swear someone was outside watching. I had the backdoor to the studio open, but when I looked, nobody was there. Maybe I’m paranoid.
Then again, I also didn’t feel unsafe, you know? ”
She shrugs. “I mean, Lake Spark is one of the safest places to be.”
“True.”
I’ve lived here my whole life. I also grew up in that dance studio, and after my teacher Ms. Romy moved to Colorado, my father bought the place and gifted me the studio when I finished up my dance degree over at the university in Hollows nearby.
I turned down a spot at a professional dance company, as it wasn’t for me.
I don’t like rigid routine, and I love my family too much to be far.
Teaching is my calling, as proven by the fact that it's been a few years and I’m still happy.
The waiter returns to take our orders. I go for a chicken salad sandwich, it’s my favorite at Catch 22, and Isla orders a Caesar salad.
The moment the waiter leaves us, Isla is in action mode while I down my glass of water. “Pause your gallon-a-day hydration for a sec, we have business to discuss.”
“Hydration is key for my dewy skin,” I playfully defend.
Isla crosses her arms on the table and looks at me with enthusiasm. “So, Vegas.” She flashes her eyes at me.
“What about it?”
Isla is a few years older than me, but it doesn’t deter our friendship. Her brother plays for the Spinners, and she’s close with the team, as she works for Ford at the training arena in project management for the summer camp that he runs.
“Come on, it’s my brother’s birthday. I can’t not go to Vegas. But I do need a trusted sidekick with me.”
A half-smile forms on my mouth. “As much as I love a good party, I’m not… sure.”
“Because of a certain player who is sitting somewhere in this restaurant?” Isla’s face screws up, and she pretends to search.
I huff out a breath, and my eyes do a quick travel to land on Connor Spears, the carbon monoxide of my air.
His piercing brown eyes don’t affect me, nor do his cunning grin or well-defined biceps.
And so be it if his hair is the kind of shade of light blondish-brown that I like, not quite as dark as his ruthless heart.
I hate the off-season. It means I have to see his face around town more than usual, and it exceeds my tolerance quota for the guy.
My eyes journey back to Isla. “Trust me, I could care less if I have to witness his partying antics or flavor-of-the-week puck bunny.”
Isla offers me a pained look. “Did you two ever talk about—”
My palm flies up to stop her. “Please don’t mention it.” I groan from the pure memory of a time I should have known better.
She nods in agreement to my request. “Then it’s settled. You will pack your sexiest dress and come with. The private plane that my brother arranged leaves tomorrow at lunch, and we should be back the day after.”
Picking up my phone, I see my screensaver.
It’s my dad, mom, and little brother Ashton.
It’s an old photo, which you could tell because Pickles, the beagle that lived to a hundred, is in the photo.
I loved that dog. He was almost the best part of my dad marrying April, except April became my mom and nothing tops that.
My biological mom was never in the picture, a fling of my dad’s.
She even signed away her rights the moment I was born.
But I don’t care, because it means my dad and I ended up with the person who I consider to be my real mom, and they had my little brother one day after my ninth birthday.
I bet if I told my mom that I was going to Vegas, she’d help me pack. My parents are the kind of people that you can throw back a drink with while listening to good music. They encourage living life to the fullest.
“I guess I should get out of the house,” I say.
“Plus, I do want to get another small tattoo, which I could get in Vegas in the morning before we go.” I already have a small pair of ballet slippers, and a baseball because my dad was a pitcher.
I would like to add a few tiny shooting stars somewhere.
I keep my tattoos hidden in intimate spots near my hip bone.
There are great tattoo artists in Vegas, so it would be a bonus for this trip.
“That would be fun, and you should get out of the house. You live with your parents.”
I give my friend a pointed look. “By choice,” I correct her. Why give up a great room in a beautiful house with an indoor pool, family, and a mom who cooks to professional standards?
Isla reaches across the table to take my hand between her palms. “Please, Hadley, I don’t get along with the other girls in the group. I need someone who can dance all night and tell a good joke. I think Cann has a thing for you too.”
“Shawn Cann, the center?”
She nods.
“Not interested. Besides, my dad would go through the roof if I ever introduced a hockey player as a boyfriend. He witnessed too many of Connor’s varsity team parties next door, and it’s only gotten worse since then, and his opinion has only grown since then thanks to the asshole over there.”
Isla can’t help but smirk. “A party. Is that how you and—”
“You are bad. Don’t bring him up. Con is his nickname, and trust me when I say it’s purely fitting for his personality too.
” Connor is the opposite of what he seems, but few people know that, and I don’t call myself lucky that I’m one of those people.
“Your pitch to get me to Vegas really sucks,” I tease her.
Isla sits up and clears her throat. “You’re right. Okay, how about my brother is getting you and me a luxurious suite with a hot tub, full breakfast, and unlimited champagne.”
My eyes slightly bug out, as I’m impressed. “You should have led with that.”
“Come on, please? You know I’m not a big party girl, but this sounds like something fun and out of my norm, plus it’s my brother’s birthday.” She brings her hands together in a pleading gesture.
I debate for a few seconds, but it doesn’t take long. “Fine.” A grin slowly forms.
She nearly squeals. “It will be unforgettable.”
“I’m sure.” I look at my phone and see the time is near one. “I’ll get someone to sub my classes tomorrow. Be sure to have a glass of champagne ready the moment I walk onto that plane.” My eyes sideline to Connor who is standing up from the table with his family. “I’ll need it,” I murmur softly.
Isla hands me a glass of champagne as I settle in my seat post takeoff on this private plane, and I adjust my black dress; it’s casual, but I know it turns heads.
Already, the party seems to be going, so I’m not sure many would notice anyhow.
Shots of tequila are being poured, and a few women are sitting on hockey players’ laps.
Why I signed myself up for this, I’m not entirely sure.
Maybe it’s growing up with professional athletes always around me, but I appreciate that these guys have an unusual life.
I guess that I have more understanding than most, which is why I’m often invited to their social gatherings.
Most of the guys here are good men who treat Isla and me with respect and as a friend. They’re fun to hang around with too.
Well, all except one.
Connor is sitting by the window with a nice pair of jeans and a baby-blue button-down. It nearly makes me miss his glared look of steel or appreciate how baby blue brings out his eyes. But the scotch in his hand has me thrown. The image itself makes me chortle.
Scotch is a man’s drink. And I’ve seen Connor as a boy, the next-door neighbor who made fun of my ballet costumes when I was a little girl, to the teenager whose parties I would crash and he would shoo me away.
The guy who lived and breathed hockey his whole life and gave roses to girls, with a charming grin plastered on his face.
God, I had such a crush on him. Made worse when I was fourteen and his uncle forced Connor to walk me home after Connor’s party got busted, then he surprised me and kissed me on the cheek.
His parents are the sweetest and are good to me. They raised him well, which is why it doesn’t make sense that, when it comes to me, Connor is…
Our eyes connect, and for a mere second, I could swear something underlying is there, and I hate my treacherous heart for jumping.
Isla breaks my focus by nudging my arm with hers. “Drink up. Tequila is next, and it’s calling our name.”
I laugh. “We should pace ourselves.”
“Don’t you want to be a little numb and hungover when you get your tattoo tomorrow?”
“You’re getting a tattoo?” Shawn asks, having overheard as he flops onto a seat nearby. He has a sweet smile, so it’s a shame I seem to be drawn to hardened looks.
I offer him a polite smile. “Yeah, I think so. I’ve been wanting it for a while, but I didn’t have the right moment. I actually got my last tattoo with my dad, and he got one too—a baseball glove with names of everyone in the family.”
“Your dad is cool like that. He comes to our games sometimes, but in truth, I used to watch him play baseball. He was a really talented pitcher. Where are you getting the tattoo?” He swipes his hand across his jaw in a suave manner. “Let me guess, your inner thigh?”
The sound of a cough breaks our conversation, and my eyes sideline to the culprit. Connor gives his teammate a death glare. “I’m confident princess tippy-toes keeps her tattoo destinations above the waist.”
My eyes roll before I down a long sip of champagne. Of course, this would happen. My favorite villain always surprises me when he decides to go possessive on me, as if he has a fucking right. He doesn’t. Yet he still takes it upon himself.
“Or I enjoy very intimate locations. Hidden, private, slightly questionable for the tattoo artist,” I challenge with my eyes set on Connor whose jaw clenches slightly.
“If you need someone to hold your hand, I’m there,” Shawn volunteers with a grin.
Isla makes a sound of approval.
Connor, on the other hand, is quick to stand up. “Cann, now,” he orders and indicates to follow him.
Shawn gives me a rueful shake of his head before he agrees and follows Connor to the other part of the plane behind a curtain.
Leaning back in my chair, I sigh and finish my champagne down to the last drop.
Isla leans in to whisper, “Remind me again, what the hell is Connor’s problem?”
“Hell if I know.” I puff out a breath and offer my glass for replenishment, while I attempt to fog out the memory of that one time, when his hands and lips landed on me.
But I was just a little mistake, and we’ve hated one another since.
Which is why I stare at my champagne flute, confused as to why Connor Spears is berating his teammate for merely glancing at me.
For a jerk who hates me, his possessive streak is sometimes endearing.
Definitely infuriating, and I sure as hell will let him know. Which is why I unbuckle my seatbelt and stand.