The Rival Upgrade

Chapter 1

NO BIG DEAL

Camden

Everybody has an annoying trait.

Or three.

And you just have to remind yourself…it’s no big deal.

For my boyfriend, the question he’s asking just happens to be one of those three.

“Hey, babe, where’s my protein powder?”

I look up from the sage-green couch in the living room of my West Village rooftop apartment, where I’m reviewing the final details for the kickoff of my music club next month, and meet Erik’s concerned gaze.

He’s a few feet away in the kitchen, his brow a furrowed line digging into his thick forehead as his gaze darts from the blender on my sleek white countertop, then to the cupboard, then to the blender again.

It’s just one of those things—him never remembering where he left his protein powder.

“The cupboard. Above the stove. Where you left it yesterday,” I say helpfully, since there’s no point getting pissy about it.

He shakes his head. “That’s not my whey protein though. I need the whey for muscle recovery. I just worked out,” he says, flipping open another cupboard as he hunts.

“You left more than one type of protein here?” I don’t ask how many types of protein one needs because I can’t bear another conversation about the differences between egg protein and whey protein and who-even-cares protein.

Erik Karlsson is good at a lot of things—being a sweetie-pie and having great stamina—but wowing me with the fine details of his post-workout regimen is not one of them.

“Yes. I leave all my protein here because one, you’re my girl, and two, I come here after the gym.

The season starts in a month. We have a shot at the Cup finally, but you can’t be a top defenseman in the NHL without working out hard,” he says, like it’s a gift he marks my place with his tools for getting ripped.

I suppose it’s sweet, in a very Erik Karlsson way.

He yanks open another cupboard when I spot a huge white container on the other side of the stove.

“There it is,” I say, my bracelets sliding down my ink-covered arm as I point to the in-your-face treasure he seeks.

“Damn, babe. Look at you,” he says with a big smile, then stalks over to me, cups my face and declares, “You’re the best.”

“Thanks,” I say to my teddy bear of a boyfriend, then adjust my black strappy tank top.

Erik returns to his protein mission, measuring and dumping powder and spirulina and spinach and other get-bigger-faster this and that into my blender, which I’ll need to fumigate later because…gross. But I can manage that annoying thing too.

It’s not a big deal, like the other things aren’t a big deal.

When he’s finally done, he points finger guns at the appliance. “Kapow,” he says. To no one. Or maybe himself.

Okay, fine, that’s another annoying thing. Actually—make that two, if we’re counting both the finger guns and the talking to himself.

Like he’s doing right now as he mutters, “Gotta have better stats than Coleman this season.”

Right, right. That’s his rival. The guy on the other New York team that he’s obsessed with. He can’t stand the fact that some other player makes more money, was picked ahead of him in the draft, and has more points.

But I’m doing my best to ignore both the finger guns and the muttering as I email the general manager for Goddess, the new club that I funded with the proceeds from my platinum album, letting her know the plans for the launch are not only approved but that they’re goddess-level beautiful.

When I close my laptop, Erik’s lounging against the counter, downing some of his shake—a white, milkshake-y line above his lip.

His phone buzzes on the coffee table, and he lowers the tumbler.

“Oh! Can you grab that? My agent’s booking an interview for me on a lifestyle show,” he says, lips curving in a satisfied grin.

“You don’t see Coleman getting those opps, do you? ”

I smile placatingly. “No idea.”

“You don’t, babe. Because your boyfriend is the hottest fucking commodity. Especially since sports talk gurus are saying the New York Red Hawks are going to go all the way this season.”

Okay, that’s a little annoying too. The way he’s his own hype man. But I ignore that as well, grabbing his phone as I pop up from the couch, then I startle. Blink. Stare.

The hair on my neck stands on end. What the hell is this on his screen?

A photo from the neck down of a woman in a red-lace baby-doll nightie with a demi-cup bra? Next to a bunny avatar and captioned with the words: Are we on for tonight?

My smile disappears. I grip his phone so tightly I could break it. “Does your agent want you to wear some sexy lingerie for the interview, Erik?”

His tongue pauses mid protein-mustache lick. Oh shit flashes in his blue eyes. He gulps, but his guilt lasts only a few more seconds. He straightens his spine. “Babe. I can explain.”

“Is it part of your muscle recovery to wear a baby-doll nightie?” I march into the kitchen, brandishing the evidence, waving the phone at his face.

“No, obviously,” he says, quickly recovering, and I guess that powder does work since the next words from his mouth are: “It’s from my…publicist.”

Wow. That was scarily smooth. But also, I’m not fooled. “You don’t have a publicist,” I point out, my tone icy.

“Camden, babe. I just hired one.”

“Did you now?” I seethe as I spin around and stalk the other way. “Let’s see what sort of image advice she’s giving you.”

“Cam,” he sputters, and maybe, just maybe, he’s not so smooth.

I scroll down the thread as I race into the living room.

He follows, darting out a thick, muscled arm, reaching for the phone.

He’s bigger and stronger than me. But I’m madder, so I win the first round of keep-away as I weave around the coffee table with the same take-charge attitude I possess when I strut across the stage during a concert.

I scroll through the text chain. “Counting down till I see you tonight. Can’t stop thinking about the way you taste.

Your mouth is fucking heaven.” I pause, then bite out: “You use the same lines on her as you do me!”

“That’s just…no. That’s just me telling her how much I love you.”

“Of course. Your publicist ought to know how much you love me.” I read more of his greatest hits as red billows from my eyes. “Your body is insane. The way you feel under me drives me fucking wild. You said all this to me. You’re not even original!”

Erik works his jaw back and forth, his eyes flickering like he’s trying to figure out how to play this unexpected bust. He drags a hand through his frosted blond tips, then blows out a breath.

“Look, I can’t fucking help it—being this in demand.

And I definitely can’t help if you were so into my dick you let me keep two containers of protein powder here just because you like climbing me.

Consider yourself lucky, Cam. Most women would be seriously grateful to get even one night with me in their lifetime. ”

Forget seeing red. I am the fire of the sun as I hurl his phone against the door. It lands with a loud smack, then clatters to the floor. “Get out, and take your stupid protein powder too.”

Erik tuts. “That’s not very nice,” he says, scrambling for his phone. “That was a new screen protector.”

I rush into the kitchen and grab his dumb protein containers myself, then chuck each one at the door.”

Grabbing them with an aggrieved sigh, he says, “You’re giving crazy-ex-girlfriend vibes right now. But it doesn’t have to be this way. We can still fuck.”

I breathe fire. “Go fuck the baby-doll-nightie woman!”

“Her name is Tiffany. And you know what? She wasn’t mad at me for blessing you with my dick too. She knew it was her only chance to get with a hockey star. I figured you knew the same.”

That’s enough. “I was faking it! Every single time. Now go.”

That’s not true. I have way too much self-respect to fake an orgasm. Besides, I like to help myself along with my fingers. Life is too short to have O-less sex even if you need a little assistance. But his ego wouldn’t believe they were all real thanks to me.

The way his eyes turn to ice tells me I’ve hit below the belt though. “Not cool, Cam. Super not cool.”

“I bet Coleman doesn’t cheat on his girlfriend,” I throw out, since why not hit even lower.

Erik groans like he’s been wounded, but then comes back with, “Coleman wishes he could pull like I do.”

“Doubtful. I bet his girlfriends don’t have to fake it,” I say, though of course I know nothing about this other player. He might be married. He might be gay. No clue.

With his free hand, Erik grabs the door handle and sears me with a stare. “I will always do better than him. And I’ll do better than you. I was faking it too.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, you fake came on my tits. Go fuck a protein shake, Karlsson.”

“You’ll regret saying that.”

“I won’t,” I say, crossing my arms.

He leaves in a huff.

So much for his protein powder obsession being his most annoying trait.

He is his most annoying trait.

Later that night, I’m equal parts enraged and hurt when out with my friend Jules at Gin Joint, drowning my break-up sorrows while also toasting good riddance to my ex.

“Let’s drink to the next guy being hotter, richer, smarter, nicer, and better in bed,” Jules says, lifting her champagne.

I clink my flute to hers. “To upgrades.”

“To upgrades.”

I swallow some of the bubbly, and when Jules sets her glass down, her phone buzzes. She grabs it, then clicks on what looks like a text. She takes a few seconds to read it, her face turning white. “Camden,” she says in a heavy tone that tells me I’m not going to like what she’s looking at.

“Yes?” I ask, warily.

When she raises her face, she says, “Ethan just sent this to me.”

He’s a good friend of ours who always knows things first.

Worry crawls up my spine as Jules spins her phone around and taps a video of…my stomach plummets. It’s Erik’s lifestyle interview. He must have done it a little after he left my place. I can’t hear it above the music in the lounge, but I don’t need to. I can read the captions.

“And how are things going with Camden?” the perky interviewer asks, using only my first name, since that’s what I go by professionally.

She flashes her bright smile, her blonde bob shining under the stage lights.

“You and the rising pop star have been a thing for a couple months now. Will we see you at the opening of Goddess next month?”

“Nah. That little music club that caters to women musicians? Please. Like anyone wants that. She’ll regret having opened it.”

At first, I’m angry. Then later, as I’m walking home, I pass Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium.

A memory flashes before me. I go there most mornings.

I went there most mornings in the spring, too, and there was a guy there who looked familiar at the time.

He had magazine model good looks—the kind of cheekbones that were carved, the kind of jawline that was chiseled, the kind of scruff that made you think dirty thoughts.

The type of body that made it clear he probably played pro sports.

And the most interesting brown eyes I’d ever seen. Warm, kind, and soulful.

Some days, he’d look my way as he waited for his order—always an English Breakfast.

But nothing happened, and when spring rolled into summer, he was gone. Didn’t matter much anyway since I’d just met Erik and we’d started dating then.

As I flash back on the coffee shop guy, though, the memory fills all the way in. I’m pretty sure I know why he felt familiar—I’m pretty sure the coffee shop guy is a hockey player too.

But on the city’s other team. The team that won the Cup last season. The New York Ice Kings.

The guy Erik’s obsessed with.

A wicked smile forms on my lips.

I know how to exact my revenge. When the season starts, I’ll get Erik Karlsson’s biggest rival to ask me out on a date.