Chapter 2
Cole
Practice is winding down, and my legs are burning from two hours of hard skating. The sound of skates scraping ice and sticks hitting pucks echoes through the arena as the last few drills wrap up.
“All right, bring it in.” Head Coach Dan Mercer's voice booms across the rink. At fifty-two, he still carries himself like the defenseman he was for fifteen NHL seasons, and every player here respects the hell out of him for it.
The team glides toward center ice, steam rising from our jerseys in the cool air.
“Good practice today,” Coach continues. “Ethan, nice work on those defensive zone exits. Novak, keep driving to the net like that. That's what I want to see.”
Novak flashes his trademark grin. “Just warming up, Coach.”
Ethan Ward, a defenseman and the moodiest guy on the team, grunts in response, tapping his stick against his shin guards.
Assistant Coach Davidson steps forward. “Power play looked good. We'll run through those same formations tomorrow.”
“Everyone else, same time tomorrow. The season starts in three weeks, and we're going to be ready,” Coach says.
The huddle breaks up, and I skate toward the tunnel with the rest of the guys.
Nova falls into step beside me. Somewhere along the way, the k fell off Novak’s name, and we’ve all taken to calling him Nova.
“How are you feeling about this season, Cap?” he asks, spinning his stick like a baton. “Ready to carry us to the Cup?”
“We underestimated everyone last season. We can't make that mistake twice.” Last season's failures are still fresh in my memory. We missed the playoffs by three points. Three fucking points. All because we thought we were the best in the league. I won’t let us make that mistake again.
“Come on, Robot,” Nova grins, using that stupid nickname he insists on using even when I’ve made it clear I don’t like it. “Where's the fire? The passion? We're going to dominate this year.”
“Save the celebration for when we actually win something, Nova,” Ethan says, wearing his usual scowl.
“Somebody's grumpy today,” Nova calls after him. “Did you run out of black eyeliner this morning?”
I stifle a chuckle as Logan hurries past us, his goalie mask tucked under his arm, saying nothing as usual. The guy's impossible to read on or off the ice.
After a quick shower, I head to the video room while most of the team filters out. The coaching staff is already gone, but I have my own key. I need to see those games again, analyze what went wrong, and make sure we don't repeat the same mistakes.
I pull up game footage from last March. A crucial loss to Boston that basically ended our playoff hopes.
I watch myself miss a pass in the neutral zone that led to their game-winner.
My jaw clenches. We've worked on that exact scenario in practice a hundred times since then. It’s muscle memory at this point.
I forward through more clips. Defensive breakdowns. Missed opportunities. Every mistake was catalogued and corrected in our summer training. The team looks different now. We’re hungrier and more focused.
We're ready.
My phone buzzes, jerking me from my thoughts. It’s Brett, which is odd because we spoke yesterday. Usually, we catch up about once a week by phone and occasionally meet up when he’s in Manhattan.
Like me, Brett was drafted into the NHL pretty early, and now, he’s the captain of the Boston Commanders. The team that knocked us out of the running for the playoffs. I didn’t let that come between our friendship, though.
“Hey, man,” I answer, still watching the screen.
“I need a favor.” Brett's voice is tight, and I pause the video. He's been my best friend since his family moved to town when we were ten, and he's the most laid-back guy I know. When he sounds like this, it's serious.
“What's up?”
“My sister's apartment is flooded. She needs somewhere to crash for a couple of days. Can she stay at your place?”
All the tension leaves my body. It’s not serious, but why is he asking me? I haven’t seen Harper since we were teenagers. “Doesn't she have friends?”
“Her best friend's place is occupied, and I’d feel better if she were in a safe environment.” Brett is using his most persuasive voice. “Come on, man. You've got that huge penthouse, and it's just for a few days.”
I rub my forehead. The last thing I need right now is a houseguest, especially with the season starting soon. My routine is sacred, and I can’t have anything interfere with that.
“She's family to you,” Brett continues when I don’t respond.
Fuck. He's right, even if I haven't seen Harper in years. Plus, I owe Brett more favors than I can count.
“Fine,” I say. “Just for a couple of days.”
“You're the best. I'm texting you her number now. Give her a call, will you? Let her know the plan.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.”
The call ends, and Brett's text comes through immediately. Harper Hayes, followed by a Manhattan number.
I dial without thinking about it.
“Hello?” Her voice is cautious.
“Harper, it's Cole. Brett told me about your apartment situation. You can stay at my place.”
“Are you kidding me?” There's fire in her voice now. “I specifically told Brett not to ask you.”
“Well, he did,” I say, already growing tired of the conversation. She should be thanking me, not giving me sass. I’m guessing she’s still as bratty as she was when we were kids. “And you're staying at my place.”
“I appreciate the very warm welcome,” she says in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I can sort my own problems.”
“Clearly. That's why you're homeless,” I throw back.
Silence stretches between us before she finally speaks. “That was uncalled for,” she says, her voice ice-cold.
I let out a yawn. “I'll have the doorman set you up with a key. The address is Three West End Avenue, penthouse level. Ask for Julius at the front desk.”
I hang up before she can argue further. Brett's little sister. I have vague memories of an awkward teenager with braces, always lurking around. She always had her nose in a magazine and barely spoke to me.
That was a decade ago. It sounds like she’s grown some backbone since then.
I finish up the video session and head home, planning to review more game footage later tonight. We're not missing the playoffs again. But halfway home, I remember I won't be alone tonight.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. Why did I let Brett talk me into this? My apartment is my sanctuary. Now, there's going to be someone else there, disrupting my routine.
This is going to be a long few days.
When I get to my building, Julius confirms that a young woman arrived an hour ago with several suitcases. “I gave her the key as you instructed, Mr. Maddox.”
I nod curtly, irritation settling in my gut. Why would she need several suitcases if she’s coming to stay for a few days?
I take the elevator to the penthouse, key card ready. My apartment is where I decompress after practice and games.
When I walk into the living room, there are papers scattered across my leather sectional and a dark-haired woman sitting cross-legged on my couch, typing furiously.
She looks up and smiles when I enter.
And my world tilts.
This is not the Harper I remember.
The braces are gone, replaced by a wary but gorgeous smile. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders, and she's wearing jeans and a gray sweater that emphasizes the full breasts that make it clear she's very much a woman now.
Heat shoots straight through me, primal and unwanted. Christ. This is Brett's baby sister. I can’t be thinking about her like this. I need to get laid. Soon.
“Hi, Cole,” she says, closing the laptop. “Thank you for letting me stay. I should’ve said it earlier on the phone. It's just been a stressful day, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I know this is an imposition.”
I stand there like an idiot for a moment, trying to reconcile this woman with the woman who bit my head off on the phone earlier. Then irritation kicks in. My pristine living space looks like a tornado hit it.
“It's fine,” I say curtly, dropping my gym bag by the door. “Just try to keep your stuff contained.”
Her expression shifts, the wariness becoming more pronounced. “Of course. I'll clean this up right now.”
I should tell her that she doesn't need to do that. I should be a better host. But the sight of my disrupted space has me on edge, not to mention the erection I’m currently sporting. I adjust my pants before facing her again.
“Let me show you around,” I say instead, keeping my voice business-like.
I give her the most efficient tour possible. “The guest room is yours. Bathroom's stocked with everything you should need. Kitchen's always available, help yourself to whatever.” I hand her the spare key card. “This gets you in and out of the building so you don’t have to be buzzed in.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I really appreciate this, Cole. It'll just be a few days until the repairs are done.”
“Right.” I'm already backing toward my home office. “I have work to do, so make yourself at home.”
It's a dismissal, and we both know it.
“Of course. I'll stay out of your way.” Her words are polite, but her expression is thunderous. There’s the woman I spoke to earlier.
I retreat to my office and close the door, but that look stays with me. What the hell does she have to be pissed off about? She's the one invading my space, disrupting my routine.
If she doesn't like my hospitality, she can pack her bags right back up and find a hotel.