On the Defense (Brookhaven Lake #4)

Chapter 1 – Brianna

“Do you think you should slow down?” Alexa eyes me warily as I knock back my third tequila shot. Her fingers curl around her own untouched glass as she watches me.

She knows as well as I do that I don’t drink.

Like, ever. Even back in college, when we were both drowning in biology textbooks—her dreaming of vet school, determined to save the world one broken animal at a time, and me fantasizing about becoming a top surgeon, like Izzie Stevens from Grey’s Anatomy (complete with the passionate love affair except without the tragedy of the handsome patient dying).

We were too focused. Too disciplined. Too…

innocent for partying. And I guess, despite life taking us on some unexpected detours, not much has changed about that.

I still dream of experiencing a deep, all consuming, intoxicating love while putting injured bodies back together through rehab, and she’s still saving the animals.

But not tonight.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and shoot her what I hope is a reassuring I’m-not-even-drunk smile.

“It’s Halloween. I’m only letting loose tonight because of the holiday.”

Alexa gives me a look. The kind that says you’re full of shit and she knows the real reason behind why I’m knocking back shots of liquor like they’re water without needing to say a word.

I adjust my white t-shirt, the one that reads Daddy’s Little Monster across the chest, though the irony is not lost on me.

Tonight, I am my daddy’s little monster, even if I’m about as far away from a Harley Quinn fan as one can get.

I’ve never even seen Suicide Squad because it just looks way too chaotic for me.

It seems more focused on action and drama than romance, and that usually loses me pretty fast.

I prefer movies that make me feel something real.

The kind that make you believe in love, angst, longing, and magic.

Give me all the yearning, a little heartbreak and lots of romance.

Pride I just need to get back on track.

And that’s why I’m here at twenty-seven years old, practically begging my father to pay for the remainder of my doctorate degree in physical therapy.

Because my degree is the one thing I have left that connects me to my mother.

It brings meaning to my life. And it’s the only reason I’m standing here tonight in this city.

A city I swore I’d never set foot in because it always felt like it belonged to him.

I’m starting to realize New York is everything I’m not.

It’s cold and impersonal, always moving too fast. I crave small moments of magic in my routine, the kind I make for myself, like drinking coffee from holiday mugs year-round or leaving little love notes for my friends.

Or the kind you stumble into by accident, those quiet, beautiful moments that make being human feel special.

But here I am anyway, stuck in the most unromantic place on earth, counting down the months until I can escape back into nature.

Or wherever I decide to go next. Permanency feels like just an illusion when your heart has left this earth.

I have one semester left of school. Then one entry level clinical internship this summer.

I’ve spent my entire career carefully avoiding basketball—my dad’s sport in my head, and I’ve been successful.

Ironically, that’s not the sport that I ended up finally caving on because my final internship will be in hockey.

It’s the only sport my father is willing to approve of if he’s going to fund the rest of my degree.

Because I’m not just interning with any hockey team, I’m interning with his team.

That’s right. The same man who spent his entire life playing for the National Basketball Association league, retired, turned around, and bought a whole professional hockey franchise.

And not just any hockey team, but the top-ranked one in the country currently: The Manhattan Mayhem.

I don’t know much about hockey, but I do know this: I’m at the top of my class at NYU.

I’ve worked with elite athletes in football, soccer, baseball, and rugby.

I’ve helped top athletes recover from injuries they should have never bounced back from.

This should be easy. I will crush this internship.

The challenging part will be avoiding my father.

“What’s your plan here?” Alexa hisses in my ear as I hop off the barstool, gripping my ridiculous, baseball bat prop.

It’s the same bat a pro player from the San Diego Shore league signed and gave me after I rehabbed his knee so well that he landed another fifty-million-dollar contract.

He also tried to thank me by asking me out, but I politely declined.

I added the spikes myself afterward. You know, very Harley Quinn of me.

“My plan?” I smile, tossing back my wild, strawberry red hair that’s currently in two pigtails off my shoulders. “My plan is to bang a player from the Manhattan Mayhem tonight.”

Alexa chokes on her drink. “That’s not like you, Bri. And it’s a little extreme, don’t you think? What if your dad finds out that you slept with one of his players?” Her eyes widen.

Maybe it is a little reckless. I guess there’s always a small chance that someone could find out my last name and somehow link me to my dad despite him never claiming me publicly.

She’s also right. I don’t do casual hook-ups.

But I’m just tipsy enough not to care about any of that.

I’ve run out of financial aid. My father is forcing me to join his world so that my last semester of my degree will be financed by him even though he knows I don’t want to work in hockey permanently.

The least I can do is cause a little mayhem of my own.

“But what if you have to work with one of them during your internship next year and they recognize you?” Alexa asks, voice laced with skepticism as she watches me scan the crowd for my target.

“I’m sure I will work with them,” I say, unfazed. “But that’s months away. Also, do I look like this normally?”

I gesture dramatically to my ridiculous get-up, the smeared red and blue lipstick across my mouth, the ripped fishnets, the Daddy’s Little Monster crop top that’s about two sizes too tight and so low in the front that my breasts are practically spilling out over the top. I look nothing like me right now.

Alexa giggles, shaking her head. “No. Never.”

“Exactly.” I flash her a wild grin, fitting for the character I’ve fully committed to, and wink. “Follow my lead. You’re getting laid tonight too.”

I blend in seamlessly with the crowd of people dancing and drinking tonight, my outfit a perfect excuse to be bold, reckless, and completely unrecognizable.

I scan the room, eyes flicking over the sea of costumes.

It’s exactly how I expected it would be.

There’s a mix of guys who barely tried (a lazy bowtie here, a half-assed cowboy hat there) and guys who really committed to the holiday. Face paint. Full ensembles. The works.

I knew the team would be here. My new boss the head of the physical therapy department for the Mayhem made it clear that tonight’s event was mandatory for players but not employees.

Drinks at this tiny, hole-in-the-wall pub in Manhattan that has a long history of supporting the team with their colors and jerseys strung around the place and hockey reruns playing across the big screens.

Costumes required. A locals only kind of situation.

Most of the guys are chatting with each other or already have women on their arms. The bar is loud in the way that only a packed Halloween crowd in New York City can be.

There are bodies everywhere; the bass from whatever playlist they're running vibrates in my sternum.

The whole place smells faintly of cheap beer and someone's overwhelming cologne.

Orange and black streamers hang from the low ceiling alongside actual Mayhem jerseys, the team colors bleeding into the decorations like the bar couldn't tell where the holiday ended and the hockey obsession began. It's chaotic and a little overwhelming.