The Shots Against Us (Golden City #2)
Prologue - Brooke
There are two places I feel trapped in this world—my parents' dinner table and inside of a pair of sheer fucking stockings.
I knew I should have ditched them and gone bare underneath my red strapless dress, but it's cold as balls outside and I've always been a girl who's more mini skirt than full-length gown.
If my mother were here, she'd say it was a nod to my poor choices, and Dad would simply agree. As for my older brother, Blake… well, he would try—and fail—to hide his smirk, knowing damn well that his white picket fence, beautiful daughter, and high school sweetheart don't help my case.
But despite the bitter winter winds tonight, this satin number just screamed Spark the Flame gala with its color that twinkles like embers from a fire. So, common sense—and my mother's nagging voice—be damned, it had to be this dress.
Now, I have to deal with the constant tug-of-war going on underneath its hem.
It's as if the nude material doesn't know if it wants to fall down or ride up, and I'm stuck dealing with the aftermath of its indecision.
The crotch is too low, but the waistband is squeezing in all the wrong places.
I've barely made it to the ballroom's double doors before I decide my first stop—after a much-needed drink—will be to ditch the nylon covering my legs.
Thank God I followed my Aunt Ivy's advice and shaved every inch, just in case.
As if this wasn't bad enough, the start of my night was no better than my current fashion crisis—my tights and my job apparently both on my bad side. I’ve been at The Gilded Pub for nearly a decade, waiting tables and occasionally slinging drinks behind the bar.
What started out as a way to make good money while I figured things out, as my mother put it, has quietly turned into my long-term job.
And truth be told, I don’t always hate it.
Tonight was a particularly shitty shift though.
Our expo called out, which left me checking for dipping sauces and adding pickles to plates in addition to taking orders.
And as always, I helped behind the bar. On top of all that, the Diet Coke button on the soda machine was jammed…
again. So, not only did I have to hear customers whine, but I myself had to go my entire shift without the comfort of my work-beverage of choice.
Add in that I was slighted in tips more than once by patrons with greasy fingers and shallow wallets, and you have yourself the customer service trifecta.
I’ve never been one to believe that a paycheck should come bundled with misery.
I'd spend double the time making half the cash sitting behind a desk somewhere else, and for what?
To slowly watch my life dissolve into pencil skirts and microwaveable lunches?
No thanks. The idea of spending the next twenty years observing the seasons change through the flowers in a cubicle vase sends shivers down my spine.
I don’t know exactly what I want to do long-term, but I sure as hell know what I don’t, and settling just to appease my parents isn’t on the list. According to them, thirty is the age where all the clocks start ticking—career, marriage, babies—deadlines disguised as milestones.
I never understood that pressure. Never felt the need to satisfy some sort of checklist. They just can't wrap their heads around that. Most people can't.
Except Ivy—wild, unapologetic Aunt Ivy. She's the only one who never flinches when I say I’m still figuring it out. She doesn’t believe in ticking clocks. She believes in timing—and that’s not the same thing.
So I'm here.
At a notorious gala.
Tell me that's not an accomplishment, Mom.
Who would have thought that my best friend Alex Bennett, lifestyle blogger and single mom to my twelve-year-old bonus nephew, would find herself at an event for the Golden City Flames—one of the NHL's hottest teams right now.
Not only that, but her son Cooper is being recognized as a spotlight player for their outreach program that works with youth hockey teams in our community.
As if it could possibly get better, the guy in charge of all this—hot, rich, super sweet, professional coach, Levi Montgomery—is the dream guy she's banging.
Talk about going against the grain. God, I'm so jealous.
But I love this for her.
Walking into the dimly lit room, accented in red back light that streams up from the floor, dozens of people wander around, spirits high like the cocktails in their hands are not their first of the night.
I missed the main event. I knew I would.
But at least I'll still get to show my support for my two favorite people.
Scanning the room, I don't see Alex anywhere.
Knowing her and Coach McHottie, they're probably finger-banging in a bathroom somewhere.
Those two can't keep their hands off each other, and something about a toilet and a sink seems to really do it for them lately.
I do, however, spot Cooper seated with a few men in suits in front of a plate full of food.
Deciding I should say hi to the guest of honor before caving to my growing need for alcohol and naked legs, I deviate from my beeline toward the bar and walk up behind Coop.
"Hey, there he is," I say, placing both hands on his shoulders and leaning over him so he can see it's me.
He turns in his seat and attempts a smile, his mouth full of what I assume from the mound of meat and glistening buns on his plate, are the remains of a slider. "Ha Aun Book," he makes out through full cheeks.
Rolling my eyes playfully at his lack of words—and manners—I grin politely at the rest of the table. "Hi, I'm Cooper's Aunt Brooke."
The gentleman to Coop's right, with glowing dark skin, a trimmed beard, and a plate that matches my nephew's, offers me his hand. "You're Alex's friend, right? Erik."
My palm connects with his in a hearty handshake. "That's me. And you're Levi's assistant coach?"
He nods. "Yup, me and Gavin over there." He points to a man across the table, so engrossed in showing his phone to the person next to him he doesn't even notice Erik's gesture.
To be fair, his screen displays the most adorable puppies, and if it weren't for the way I suddenly feel eyes on me, I would pull up a chair and ditch everything else to see those little fur balls.
"Very cool," I answer, suddenly distracted. Someone's gaze is burrowing through me. Pulling back from Cooper and the guys, I scan the room.
Almost instantly, I lock eyes with the source of my branding sitting two tables over.
The culprit is looking at me, drinking me in—studying every inch.
He seems familiar, but I can't quite place him in his cobalt blue suit and crisp white button-up that pulls across his chest. His overgrown hair is swept back away from his face, and his light eyes are steady on me. He's fucking gorgeous.
Tearing away from his admiring gaze, I lean down to Coop. "Hey, congratulations, buddy. I'm going to grab something to drink and walk around a little. You okay?" He nods, still chewing.
I wrap my arms around him, and he does the same to me. "I'll be back."
Releasing him, I turn to Erik. "It was nice to meet you."
He shoots me a warm smile and nods. "Likewise."
It takes everything in me not to glance back, but I need alcohol, like, yesterday.
Spotting the bar nestled in the far corner, I head in that direction.
It's your typical reception setup with the drink selection sitting out on display and no stools in front to keep the line moving.
There are only a few other people waiting, which I take as my sign from the gala gods that it's time for a hefty glass of wine.
On the short walk to the wooden bar that's painted a stain so dark it almost matches the black outline of the Flames logo behind it, the mystery man's face pops into my mind.
He's smoking hot, undoubtedly younger than me, but there was history painted in his clear blue eyes.
Most guys who spend that much time admiring me have dilated pupils and hooded lids.
But he wasn't undressing me, at least not that way.
He was stripping my layers as if he was reading my soul instead of getting me naked, and that alone made me want to lose these stockings for reasons other than their annoyance.
I run through the names of the people Alex has talked about as I approach the counter.
Coaches, Levi's friends, his brother, but none of them stick out as the one I'm now admittedly wet for underneath these god-awful tights.
Something about how he so casually made my stomach flip—how he was sitting so relaxed but made me feel anything but—intrigues me more than I'd like to admit.
A man capable of that must be accustomed to a life like this. I bet his pants aren't driving him crazy. He's probably used to a suit that hugs him in all the right places. I, on the other hand, am more of a ripped jeans and cropped-tee kinda girl.
It hits me that he has to be an athlete.
He's too young to be a coach or in some sort of team leadership role.
He must be a Flame. Growing up only a year younger than Blake, I can hang with the guys better than most girls, but I don't make it a habit of watching sports in my free time.
The only games I've seen lately are those of the hockey team my best friend and her son have been associated with for the last few weeks.
There are athletes from all over Golden City here to support the Flames, but he has to play hockey if he seems familiar.