Penalty Box Kisses (Seattle Knights #2)

1. Ryan

CHAPTER ONE

RYAN

The mahogany table in the Seattle Knights' boardroom is polished to a mirror shine.

I can see myself in it—jaw tight, collar damp.

Someone has sprayed something in here that smells like a department store, but underneath it, there's something else.

Something I recognize from the locker room after a bad loss.

Across the table, three PR suits have a tablet propped between them. One of them scrolls with her index finger, slow and deliberate, the way you scroll when you already know what you're looking at. None of them have looked up yet.

"We can’t ignore this and hope it goes away." The head of PR sets her tablet face-down on the mahogany. "The bar wants us to pay for the damages, and they want an apology from you."

The leather chair creaks when I shift my weight. I open my mouth and then close it. On the ice, when a winger gets in my face, I know exactly what to do with my hands. Here, under the fluorescent lights, I just sit with my collar cutting into my neck while she watches me not say anything.

I used to know which hits to take and which to walk away from.

Somewhere between the trade and Seattle, I stopped being able to tell the difference.

“It wasn't that big of a deal,” I mutter for the millionth time since a fight broke out in The Timeout Tavern. “I didn’t start the fight.” How many times can I explain that I was protecting myself?

Some drunk asshole threw a punch, and I returned the favor.

Coach Radcliff leans back, his face a map of deep lines and disappointment.

He doesn't look at the tablet. He looks at me. “It doesn’t matter. Your off-ice conduct is affecting the team, and we’re running out of patience.

” His words send ice shooting down my spine.

“You need to change your reputation and fast.” I got into one confrontation with a loud-mouthed asshole at a Seattle bar, and the team is acting like I committed murder. Fucking hell.

They say you can’t fight city hall, and that’s exactly how I feel right now. I rub my hand down my face. “How?”

“You need to settle down.” Coach doesn’t raise his voice, but I know he’s about to drop the hammer on me.

“Or at least appear to be settled down. I don't care if you decide to date a monkey at the zoo, as long as you have a girlfriend.

You need to look like you've actually got something to lose, Coleman.

Settle down, or you're off the first line.”

A jolt of fear cuts through me. I feel like the floor just dipped beneath me, sudden as a trap door.

My palms go down flat on the mahogany, soaking up its cool, steady quiet.

I swallow it down, force myself to give a slow, tight nod.

I don't dare open my mouth. Not right now. If I did, even I don’t know what would come out.

"We need a narrative shift," the PR woman continues. "Something wholesome. Something stable. A long-term relationship. We need photos of you in a grocery store, not a nightclub."

I stare at the grain of the wood. A girlfriend.

The word echoes through my mind on a continuous loop.

I barely have time to sleep, let alone navigate the minefield of a real relationship.

I know how to check a two-hundred-pound winger into the boards.

I know how to wake up with bruises I don't remember getting, tape my wrists over the sink, and get back on the ice.

I don't know how to do intimate dinners and dating bullshit.

I rub the back of my neck. Fucking hell.

The rest of the meeting goes on in the same vein. Find a girlfriend and get your shit together. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

By the time I push through the glass doors and back out into the gray Seattle afternoon, my temples are hammering.

The Space Needle is just visible between two office buildings, poking up into the clouds like it's looking for a way out.

I know the feeling. How the fuck am I going to find someone to "date? "

Hours later, I'm standing under the neon sign of The Blue Line, which flickers blue-green over the wet sidewalk in a way that makes my hands look bruised.

Inside, someone has a game on. I can hear the crowd through the door before I even open it, and I push through anyway, into the smell of spilled beer and fried wings, and let the door swing shut behind me.

I slip into a booth at the back, letting the shadows eat me whole. This is the kind of place where silence is cheap, where no one asks questions that you don’t want to answer. The waitress drifts by, and I order what I always do.

"You look like someone kicked your puppy," a voice cuts through, slicing the air around my brooding like a knife. I look up and there’s Mia, sliding into the booth across from me with the same careless grace she’s always had.

She’s been my sister’s best friend ever since Harper moved here to take a job at Seattle General. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

She flashes a sly smile, eyes dancing. I feel a flicker of amusement despite myself. "You have no fucking idea," I grunt, staring into my untouched beer. "Team management is on my ass. They want me to find a girlfriend. Coach told me to date a monkey if I have to. Apparently, I’m a PR disaster."

Mia leans in, her eyes dancing with that annoying brand of sympathy. “Well, a monkey might be a hard sell for the fans.” She picks up my untouched beer and takes a sip. “But they have a point. You're the guy everyone loves to hate right now. And dating a local girl would help your reputation.”

Not what I want to goddamn hear right now. I rub my face with my hands. My palms are calloused, a map of every practice and every game. “I don't have time to fucking date anyone.”

Mia taps her chin, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "What if it wasn't a real girlfriend? What if it was someone who needed a buffer just as much as you do?"

I glare at her, too tired and pissed off to deal with bullshit right now. "What are you talking about?"

"My roommate," Mia says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Her family is a pain in the rear end. They’ve been trying to set her up with every eligible bachelor in Seattle since she graduated. She’s desperate to get them off her back."

"A fake girlfriend," I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue. It sounds like a plot from one of those movies my sister used to make me watch.

"Think about it," Mia urges. "It’s a business transaction. You get the PR makeover, and she gets a reprieve from her mother's 'accidental' dinner guests. Everyone wins. No emotions, no mess."

I look at the condensation on my glass. A business transaction. That I can do. I can follow a playbook.

"Give me her number," I say before I’m able to talk myself out of this crazy scheme. The decision settles in my gut like a lead weight. It’s a risk, but the ice is already cracking under my feet. I have to try something.

Mia grins, already typing on her phone. "I'll let her know you’ll be contacting her."

Am I really doing this? Fuck. Desperation sucks.

"I'll send her a message later tonight," I say, standing up. “Thanks, Mia.”

“You owe me.” She laughs and reaches for my untouched beer. I walk out of the pub, the Seattle air crisp and smelling of rain. For the first time in weeks, the pressure in my chest eases just enough for me to breathe.

It’s a crazy fucking idea, but I’ve done crazier.