The Midnight Defensive (Alexandria Dominion Hockey #2)

Chapter 1

VIVIAN

There are few choices in life I regret more than making eye contact with a man holding an oat milk latte.

Unfortunately, that is exactly how I now find myself trapped.

“…and the antifungal cream didn’t even touch it,” he’s saying, gesturing vaguely toward his shoe like we’re in a courtroom and his foot is Exhibit A. “Which, honestly, feels like a metaphor for how I’ve been treated in relationships.”

Of course it does.

I blink at him over the rim of my coffee cup, buying myself three seconds of silence. Three seconds of peace. Three seconds where no one says the word fungal in a public setting.

Downtown Alexandria moves with the morning around us—car doors slamming, a dog barking somewhere down the block, the low murmur of conversation drifting from other tables. Normal life. Free life. A life I was living approximately twenty-three minutes ago before—

“Vivian, are you even listening?”

I lower my cup slowly.

This is where the lie happens.

“Totally,” I say, nodding with what I hope reads as empathy and not the existential fatigue of a woman who has just learned too much about someone’s toenail. “That sounds…really frustrating.”

It sounds like something that should have stayed between him and a licensed professional.

Across from me, Brent—Brian? Brett?—leans forward like I’ve just invited him to continue.

Which I absolutely did not do.

“I think it all started with my ex,” he says, settling in. “She never really saw me, you know? Like, truly saw me.”

Oh, I see you. I see you so clearly, I wish I didn’t.

I glance down at my book resting on the table beside my untouched croissant. A safe haven. A better conversation. A man in chapter twelve who, notably, has never once discussed his feet.

This—this right here—is why I don’t date. Or, more accurately, why I don’t date again after the first attempt. Technically, this is not even a date. This is a hostage situation with pastries hosted by a man I had met for coffee—one time and one time only—six months ago.

“I just feel like vulnerability is my strength,” he continues, pressing a hand to his chest. “Like, I lead with it.”

You also lead with fungus, but sure.

I shift in my seat, subtly angling my body toward the edge of the table. It’s a move I’ve perfected over the years—Step One in the Exit Strategy. Create distance. Prepare for lift-off.

The problem is, Brent-Brian-Brett has mistaken my politeness for interest. A fatal error on his part. Truly.

“I mean, not a lot of guys would open up about something like that,” he adds.

Little does he know that there is a reason for that. I offer a tight smile, already calculating my escape routes.

Option one: Fake a phone call.

Option two: Sudden, urgent shop emergency.

Option three: Simply walk into the street and let fate decide. I said what I said.

“Anyway,” he says, leaning in again, lowering his voice like we’re about to discuss state secrets and not dermatology, “have you ever dealt with anything like that?”

I freeze.

This is it. This is the moment.

The exact point in time where a perfectly reasonable woman becomes a flight risk.

I set my cup down with care, because I am still, somehow, a person who was raised with manners.

“Br—” I start, then trail off before committing to a name I’m only sixty percent confident in, “I’m going to stop you right there.”

He blinks, hope flickers in his eyes. It is wildly misplaced.

I glance at my watch, feign surprise tinged with shock and horror. “Oh! Well. Would you look at that.” I’m on my feet in less than two seconds flat. “I forgot, I need to go meet…”

I let the words trail off, because I’ve got nowhere to be, but I really want to be anywhere else but here.

“Oh, it’s fine,” he says. “I’m in no hurry.”

I give him a tight smile that probably looks more like a warning label and pivot toward the door, weaving through tables like my life depends on it—which, at this point, feels only mildly dramatic.

I figure if I can get out of here fast enough, he may even forget I was here.

Hopefully he’ll turn to the next person and start talking to them about an open sore I hope never to see.

But it does not deter him. Not one little bit. This one is like a dog with a bone. Or a fungal infection. He’s on his feet, and following right behind me as I navigate my way to the door.

“It’s good for me to walk, you know,” he announces as we step out onto the sidewalk. “Helps with circulation.”

This really cannot be the hill he’s going to die on.

“I really should…”

“Fresh air is good, but walking is so important,” he continues, nodding like we’ve mutually agreed on this plan. “Even more so when you’re dealing with—”

We are not circling back to the foot. We are not.

I pick up my pace just enough that, one would think, someone might take the hint. Enough that anyone with even a passing awareness of social cues would observe, Oh, she’s trying to leave.

But this guy, he matches me stride for stride.

Downtown is quieter than usual—Monday quiet. It’s still busy but not quite bustling yet. The kind of quiet I usually love. The kind where the streets feel slower, like the whole world collectively decided to take a breath as it slowly rolled into Monday morning. My kind of vibe. Usually.

Today, it also feels like there are exactly zero witnesses to my discomfort, which is a problem.

I glance toward a boutique across the street—closed. Next door, the little stationery shop I sometimes duck into when I need a reset—dark windows, sign flipped.

Unbelievable. Doesn’t anyone open before noon on a Monday around here? Or just open at all?

This is why I protect Mondays like they’re a personality trait. Because Sundays are a lie. Sundays are “technically closed” but somehow still involve emails and last-minute customers and fixing things that should have been fixed three days ago.

Mondays are mine. Or they were, before I made eye contact.

Beside me, he’s still talking. Something about resilience now. Or healing. Or possibly how those two things connect to whatever is happening inside his shoe.

I stop listening. Instead, I scan.

There has to be an out. A corner I can turn. A person I know. A door I can slip through and lock behind me like I’m fleeing a low-stakes but deeply annoying crime.

Do you know what’s truly frustrating about this? I have a system. A very good system, actually.

Any time I go on a date, I tell one of my girlfriends. We have a deal: twenty minutes in, she calls. No questions asked. It’s an out. A lifeline. A perfectly timed emergency that gets me out of whatever situation I’ve politely walked myself into.

I have both saved and been saved by that call more times than I can count. It’s foolproof.

Except, apparently, when the date-you-went-on-once appears out of nowhere and ambushes you in broad daylight while you’re minding your own business with a book and a croissant.

This—this right here—is why the system exists.

Because this is what happens when you’re single in your early thirties. You go on dates not because you’re desperately searching for a husband, but because it might be nice. Nice to get dressed up. Nice to feel a little feminine. Nice to have someone else take the lead for once.

Nice to not be the CEO of your love life on top of running an actual business.

But no. Instead, I’m speed-walking down a quiet street on my one sacred day off, being followed by a man who has already shared more with me about his body than I have ever shared with my doctor in my life.

I can hear my grandmother now: “Vivian, sweetheart, you just need to let your walls down. Relax. Let someone in.”

Right. Because letting your walls down these days apparently comes with a detailed discussion of—

“So the discoloration started spreading,” he says beside me, completely oblivious, completely unstoppable. “And at first I thought it was just, like, a surface thing, but then—”

And this. This is what happens.

I close my eyes briefly as I walk, just for a second, summoning every ounce of patience I have left.

Which, at this point, is hanging on by a thread.

My hand slips into my bag, fingers curling around my phone like it’s a lifeline.

This is it. Big guns. If the system can’t come to me, I will become the system. Fake call. Urgent tone. Immediate exit.

Beside me, he’s still talking. “…and honestly, I think the biggest issue was that I didn’t catch it early enough…”

I start pulling my phone out, already preparing my voice. Slight panic. Controlled urgency. Believable but not dramatic enough to invite follow-up questions.

Then—laughter. Big. Easy. Unbothered laughter. The kind that cuts straight through everything else.

I look up to find two guys standing outside a building halfway down the block. One of them is doubled slightly at the waist, shaking his head like whatever was just said was the funniest thing he’s heard all day. The other claps him on the shoulder before pushing open the door and heading inside.

The one who stays behind pulls out his phone, still smiling to himself.

I slow. Wait. I know him.

My heart leaps through my chest. I know he’s a hockey player for The Dominion, but I don’t know him well. Not in a “we’ve shared secrets” kind of way. More like…orbiting. Familiar. Same circles adjacent enough that if I waved, it wouldn’t be weird.

Right now? That is more than enough.

“So where do you have to go exactly?” the man beside me asks, suddenly curious, suddenly paying attention to something that is not his own foot.

I glance at him. Then back at the man outside the building. Then back again.

Decision made.

“Oh—right here,” I say, already angling away. I move fast enough that I know I am now committed. Yet, also not fast enough to look like I’m fleeing. It’s a delicate balance.

“Hey—” he starts.

Too late.

“Hey, sweetie,” I call out, my voice lifting into something bright and familiar as I close the distance. “Sorry you had to wait for me outside.”