2. Chapter 1
Josie
I'm trying to do yoga, but apparently, my vagina has other ideas.
"Okay, Josie. Take some deep breaths and center yourself…" I close my eyes and fill my lungs with beautiful ocean air. "Find your inner peace."
I keep the motivational talk going, even if my inner peace resides somewhere deep within my screaming thighs.
Below me, on a stretch of golden sand that looks airbrushed, a yoga class flows through a sun salutation.
The instructor is dressed in white linen, calling out poses in a voice so serene I want to bottle it.
Keep it in my pocket for emergencies, like when I’m trying to explain to my new boss why I’ve been walking funny for three days.
“Downward-facing dog, my ass,” I mutter, peering through my the open French doors in my hotel suite at the group on the beach below.
The class moves in unison, a serene wave of toned limbs and expensive leggings backed by the soundtrack of crashing waves on the shore.
Me? I’m in my hotel bathrobe, one leg half-extended, wobbling like a newborn giraffe on the plush carpet of my oceanview suite.
I try to mirror the instructors next pose, lowering my chest toward the floor. A sharp, delicious ache radiates from my core, a direct line to the memory of three nights ago.
His hands, huge and rough and warm, spanning my hips as he lifted me against the hotel room wall the second we burst inside. The moonlight guided us to the bed, and for one night, and one night only, I let myself feel alive.
I had a plan. A beautiful plan.
Arrive in Beachside, soak up the sun, find the good coffee and figure out which way the ocean was so I’d stop walking the wrong direction every morning.
Then I would get the fuck to work and become the most undeniable woman a sporting franchise in this country has ever seen.
Instead, I went to a bar, met a stranger, and haven’t left this room since.
Well, except for the occasional desperate sprint to the lobby for more of those tiny berry tarts. They're delicious.
I copy the last of the sunrise yoga session, free of charge from where I'm standing, because I'm nothing if not resourceful.
When the session ends, I straighten up with the grace of a ninety-year-old, one hand pressed to my lower back. I thought yoga might help stretch out the soreness.
I’m not injured-sore. I’m thoroughly-fucked-sore.
I stalk into the bathroom and lean close to the mirror, fingertips prodding the pale, fading bruise just below my collarbone.
The hickey.
I’ve been coating it in concealer for three days, praying to every skincare god I know for it to vanish. It’s stubborn. Like a little purple souvenir from the best, most ill-advised, night of my life.
My reflection stares back, green eyes wide. "Who was he?"
I don’t know his name. If he’s married. If he thinks I do this all the time.
I don't even know if I even care about any of that.
I tug my collar up and sigh and stare at my reflection.
"Who are you?"
Because the Josie Whitfield I knew did not pick up handsome strangers in bars. The Josie I knew got told her whole life that she was too much, too sporty, too weird, too not-like-her-sisters.
And she absorbed it like a sponge. She did not do reckless things.
But this Josie? The one staring back at me?
This Josie did things she didn't know her body could do. She did things she didn't know she could do.
And honestly? That was the entire point.
I moved here to be different. To feel different. To become every single thing my mother spent twenty-six years sighing about. And what better way to christen my new life than seducing a tattooed beach god without so much as a name?
"Boom. Next level unlocked." I wink at myself in the mirror. "Now go eat breakfast."
I step back into the suite the Bears hockey franchise is covering for my first thirty days in Beachside. A perk I did not argue with, because if I were footing this bill, I'd be sleeping in my car and showering at a gym.
Instead, I have room service.
And those little complimentary chocolates on the pillow.
The sun spills across the white sheets on the unmade king-sized bed, and on the counter by the suite's kitchenette, a breakfast spread that has arrived at exactly the same time every morning since I arrived, is laid out for me.
A silver carafe of coffee steams gently beside a little plate of berry tarts, glistening like jewels, the pastry so flaky I know I'll eat every last one.
There's a bowl of fresh fruit, filled with strawberries the size of my fist, mango sliced into golden ribbons and to top it all off, a single white orchid sits in a glass vase, because of course.
I pour a coffee, wrap both hands around the warm cup, and step onto the balcony.
The ocean stretches out forever, the breeze carrying salty air and the distant scream of seagulls fighting over spilled fries. A surfer carves a wave and I let the warmth of the sun warm my bare shoulders.
Do I deserve this?
Hotel rooms like this. Jobs like this. A life where someone hands me a key card and says 'welcome to paradise' like I've earned it.
Except I haven't. Not yet.
"Today is the day," I tell the Pacific. "New job. New life. Prove them all wrong."
My phone buzzes against the table with a FaceTime call. The screen flashes with my sister's name: Meghan.
My middle sister. The one with the husband, the two perfect kids, the mortgaged house with the wraparound porch.
I almost don’t answer. But twenty-six years of conditioned response is a powerful thing.
I swipe accept.
“Hey, Meg.” I force a breezy smile.
“Hey!” Meghan’s smiling face fills the screen.
She’s in her kitchen, sunlight streaming in. I can see a little hand-painted magnet on the fridge behind her that says 'World’s Best Mom!'
"Just checking in. You've been quiet for days. What are you up to?"
"Oh, you know." I sip my coffee, breezy as anything. "Just looking around."
Her eyes narrow slightly, scanning whatever part of my face and balcony she can see. "Have you found a place to live yet?"
I take a slow sip, buying time.
The truth is I've extended my hotel stay another two weeks, because I keep telling myself I'll find an apartment once the job settles down. The truth is I'm the new PR manager for a professional hockey team.
But I haven’t told them that.
My family’s version of 'support' was buying me gift cards to Ann Taylor when I asked for tickets to the Stanley Cup finals. My mother’s voice was endlessly sharp with disappointment: “Men don’t want a woman who knows more about sports than they do, Josie.”
So I stopped telling them.
This job, this move, this entire life I’ve built in secret… it’s mine.
And mine alone.
“Still looking,” I lie smoothly. “The market’s… brisk.”
“Well, as long as you’re happy, I guess.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Mom’s worried you’re just running away from things.”
I am. From you. From all of you.
"It's called freelancing, Meg. I'm not running away. I'm being a functional adult."
"You know what she's like." Meghan’s voice softens into that tone. The we’re-all-just-worried-about-you tone. "We just worry about you, Jo."
And God, I almost tell her.
But I swallow it down, every word. "Well. I'm fine. Thanks for calling."
I hang up before she can say anything else.
I stare at the ocean a long, long moment.
I will tell them. One day. When I have something to show for it. When I can point to a thriving sports franchise and say, See? Women DO belong here.
My phone reads 8:12.
The job starts in… one hour.
"Oh my God." I bolt upright, sloshing coffee everywhere. "Move, Josie! Move!"
I shower and slide into the outfit I laid out three days ago like the deranged little planner I am. Beachside Bears team polo. Dark-wash jeans. Fresh white sneakers, topped off with a stylish high ponytail.
Professional. Approachable. Capable.
I grab my bag and pause at the door, turning to look at the unmade bed. The sheets are still tangled from my restless sleep. I can almost see the ghost of him there, the indent of his head on the pillow next to mine.
Best sex of my life with a man whose name I don’t know. Check.
Now it's time to get to work.
I step out into the Beachside sunshine, the ocean at my back, and walk toward The Bear Cave.
The town is waking up around me. A jogger passes with a cute collie on a leash, both panting happily. A food truck is setting up near the boardwalk, the smell of fresh coffee drifting on the breeze.
I pass a converted surf shack café that has a line already forming outside. A chalkboard sign promises WORLD FAMOUS COOKIES BACK IN STOCK and I make a mental note to come back later.
If I survive today.
The sidewalk transitions from weathered wood to smooth concrete as I get closer to the arena district. The beach is still visible on my left, surfers dotting the lineup, and ahead of me, rising from the coastline like something out of a dream—
The Bear Cave.
I stop walking for just a second, staring up at it.
Holy shit.
The arena rises from the coastline like a wave frozen mid-crash, with the reflective surfaces mirroring the cloudless blue sky. It's a proper hockey arena, a real stadium.
My stomach does a little flip.
This is it. This is my shot.
Two massive bronze bear statues flank the main entrance, each one standing on a carved wave base, mouths open in silent roars. The plaque between them reads: Built on sand. Forged on ice.
I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, and push through the heavy glass doors.
And holy hell.
The concourse is a cathedral of hockey. Soaring ceilings, polished concrete floors stamped with bear paw prints that lead off in every direction.
I walk further, my sneakers squeaking on the flawless floor. The walls are lined with enormous backlit banners of player portraits in dramatic black and white, their eyes and jerseys popping with color.
I don’t look long enough to recognize any of them yet, but I will. I’ll know their stats, their backgrounds, their favorite fucking breakfast cereal if it helps me prove my worth.
The whole place is beautiful. It’s everything I ever dreamed of.
But…
It's empty.