Playing Dirty (Snow Leopards #6)

Chapter 1 Colt

Colt

I've always said there are exactly two things a hockey player should never have to do alone.

One is rehab. The other… is breakfast.

I kill the engine to my vehicle and lean back to take in the sight in front of me.

The Leopard Den is like a shot of pure adrenaline straight into my veins, with those enormous windows reflecting the snow-capped mountains, and two giant bronze Leopard statues flanking the entrance, frozen mid-snarl, fangs bared in eternal rivalry.

Morning frost still clings to their whiskers, and I step out of my SUV to take a long breath, unable to stop smiling.

God, I've missed this place.

It's been twenty-one days since I graced this parking lot.

Twenty-one days of staring at my apartment walls, eating alone, and slowly losing my fucking mind after being side-lined by my own damn teammate.

I barely remember what happened, but I can still see the blur of movement, barely a flash before pain scorched my face and my skull cracked back against the concrete.

The world went sideways and then just… dark.

A small shudder runs through me as the memory circles all over again.

I spent a week in that hospital bed. Put there by a friend. A teammate.

But if my parents, in their relentless, well-intentioned, over-the-top-nice way, hammered one unshakable truth into my skull, it was this: you don't get to feel sorry for yourself.

Not ever.

The world doesn't stop because you're hurt. The game doesn't pause because your head is ringing.

No.

You smile for the cameras, you thank the medical staff, you rehab like a demon… and you get back out there before anyone has time to wonder if you're replaceable.

So today… I'm back, baby.

I swipe my keycard against the entrance door. The light blinks green.

"Well, well. Green light," I say, smiling and pushing the door open. "Guess Big Mike hasn't shredded my contract yet."

Stepping inside the warmth, I'm immediately met by the gleaming Snow Leopards crest shining on the concrete floors beneath my sneakers. The sight is so good, I swear to God, I could drop to my knees and kiss the damn floor right now.

This is where I belong.

Not locked up in my silent apartment, under strict 'rest' instructions while I laid there wondering if my brain's ever going to stop feeling like scrambled eggs.

I pause at the memorabilia case in the corridor, catching my reflection in the glass. The bruise around my eye has finally faded from 'horror movie extra' to 'slightly hungover raccoon,' which I'm counting as a win.

The stitches above my temple left a faint scar. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make me look like I've got a cool story to tell.

Which usually, I love. I'm always the guy in the locker room with a tale to tell.

I just don't love telling this particular one.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I already know who it is before I look.

Mom: How's the first day back, sweetheart? Remember to hydrate! And smile for the cameras! Love you!

Classic Mallory Lane. Three exclamation points, and zero acknowledgment that her son got his skull cracked open by a teammate three weeks ago.

But that's the Lane family way, isn't it?

Dust yourself off. Smile pretty. And get back on that fucking ice before anyone notices you were bleeding.

I type back a quick All good! and shove the phone away before the hollow feeling can settle.

Not today, brain. We're doing happy today.

I round the corridor, and somewhere deeper in the building, past the framed jerseys and the giant photograph of Samuel Voss — Snow Leopard's captain and eternal hardass — looking stiff as hell, I can hear the sound of blades cutting ice and the sharp crack of pucks meeting sticks.

The muffled shrill of a whistle rings out, followed by the thunder of the Snow Leopards running their morning practice drills.

Without me.

Three weeks ago, I was out there with them… flying down the right wing, threading passes through traffic, making defenders look stupid and loving every second of it.

Now I'm standing in a corridor in my tracksuit, preparing to grovel and bargain my way through a medical assessment just to be allowed back on the roster.

I flex my fingers at my sides, rolling my shoulders the way the physio taught me.

Everything still aches. Like my entire body is a house that's settling after a storm, and every joint and muscle is reminding me that hey, remember when Gabe Devereaux rearranged your skeletal structure? Good times.

But as I pause in the corridor, one hand on my hip, it's not just skates that I hear. There's a pulsating thump of bass bleeding from the locker room, too.

“Oh, for the love of…” I mutter to the empty hall. "No way."

The music bleeds through the entire building, from the locker room all the way along the corridors. My smile instantly falters.

That’s not my playlist. That’s not my pre-practice pump-up mix I spent an embarrassing amount of time on.

No, that bassline is aggressively synthetic. The beat is something you’d hear in a nightclub. A nightclub that serves drinks with tiny umbrellas and charges twenty-seven dollars for the privilege of stepping on their sticky floors.

And there’s only one musical terrorist in this building who would dare mess with my music choices.

Cade Jensen.

That asshole has absolutely, one-hundred-percent hijacked my goddamn Bluetooth speaker.

“That's it. It's time to reclaim my kingdom,” I announce to my reflection, adjusting my purple Leopards jacket.

I stride towards the medical wing, ready to get the all clear and wage war on Jensen's terrible taste in music, when I round the corner and nearly collide with a rolling cart loaded with bakery boxes.

"Oh my God. Colt?!"

Zoey Morrison stops mid-step, one hand steadying the cart, the other brushing a loose strand of dark hair from her face. She's wearing her signature green Butter Batch apron over a sweater, and there's a smudge of chocolate on her collarbone that I absolutely do not stare at.

Okay, I stare a little.

"What are you—" She gives me the once over with those big beautiful eyes. "I didn't know you were coming back today."

"Surprise!" I spread my arms wide, flashing my most charming grin. After three weeks alone… God, that feels good. "Miss me?"

She doesn't answer that. Instead, her gaze traces the fading bruise around my eye, then moving slowly to the thin scar I'm fairly certain the girls are going to go wild for.

"You look…" She pauses, searching for the right word.

"Devastatingly handsome? Ruggedly heroic? Like a man who's been through war and somehow emerged even sexier?"

"I was going to say vertical." She pops a hip. "Which is an improvement from the last time I saw you."

Ouch.

But Zoey can pretend all she wants. Because I know the truth.

She visited me.

Multiple times while I was in hospital.

I remember the smell of vanilla and brown butter cutting through the antiseptic while I was laid out on that fucking bed. I also remember thinking I must be dreaming… because why did Zoey care so much?

My own damn parents didn't even bother to show up.

"Well," I say, stepping closer, "if you checked your Instagram messages once in a while, you'd have known I was making my triumphant return today."

She tucks that strand of hair behind her ear again.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Between Morgan and the bakery, I've been…" She trails off, shrugging. "Busy."

Right. Busy. The single mom's excuse for I'm keeping my distance.

"Busy," I repeat, watching her carefully. "That's what you're going with?"

Her eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." I shrug, mirroring her casual posture even though nothing about this feels casual.

"Just that you found time to sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair for three different visits, but you can't find thirty seconds to text back a guy who was literally unconscious and somehow still thinking about you. "

For one electric second, I see something crack in her composure as her lips part with surprise.

Then she recovers, and pastes on a fake smile.

"You were thinking about me?" Her voice is lighter now, deflecting. "Must have been the painkillers."

"Must have been," I agree, even though we both know that's bullshit.

I reach across and snag a blueberry muffin from her cart, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Her eyebrow arches again. "Well, for what it's worth Colt… you are not my favorite customer. You're a menace, and you know it."

"Oh, Zoey." I press a hand to my heart. "You wound me."

I take a bite of the muffin, and holy hell, it's good. Buttery and sweet with that perfect crumble on top, blueberries bursting against my tongue.

"Seriously though," I say, chewing slowly. "How's Morgan? She still planning world domination, or has she moved on to something more reasonable?"

That gets a real laugh. If there's a way to get Zoey Morrison talking, it's to bring up the love of her life: her ten year old daughter.

"She's good. She asked about you, actually."

I lean against the wall to block the cart she keeps trying to push past me.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She wanted to know if your brain was still broken." Zoey adjusts a box on the cart, meeting my eyes with her own smug look. "Don't look at me like that. They were her words. Not mine."

"Then you tell her it was always broken. The concussion just made it official."

Zoey shakes her head, but she's smiling now.

And fuck, it transforms her entire face. It softens those tired lines around her eyes, lights up the warm brown of her eyes until they glow like those delicious caramel bites she sells at her bakery.

Oh yeah.

This woman is beautiful.

"Well," Zoey says, gripping the cart handle. "I should get these to the staff kitchen before Coach Ashford sends a search party."

I glance at my watch and nod. "Yeah. I should probably get going too. Big medical to get signed off. Gotta prove to the docs that my brain's still firing on all cylinders."

"Brain?" Zoey sticks her tongue out at me.