Three Pucking Words (On Ice #1)

Prologue

Honor

The phone screen in front of me is on its last twenty percent as I stare at the unanswered text message.

Honor: Do you know when you’ll be home?

It’s a simple question that Max shouldn’t get stumped on, but it was delivered an hour ago and read thirty minutes after that with no response.

I’m not mad at my husband being out with his friends, since it’s common occurrence whenever there’s a hockey game on.

Usually, they go to a pub, like this one, and watch it on the big screen with at least fifty other drunk sports fans.

But he told me this afternoon that his coworkers got tickets for them to see it live, and not to wait up for him.

Fiddling with the pop socket that I’ve spent far too long toying with, I heft out a long sigh and turn my screen off. The game has been over for at least an hour according to google, which is the only reason I wanted to know when he’d be home so I can pay for my tab, get a taxi, and meet him there.

But after a long day at work and a disappointing evening of cancelled plans with my neighbor, I can’t seem to gather the energy to be upset with my husband for not getting back to me. What’s new anyway?

Rubbing my temples to try massaging away the headache I’ve had all day, I weigh my options. I could go home to an empty house and worry about Max getting home safely, or I could stay here and let the noise of the people lingering at the bar distract me.

I’m startled out of the thought when a tall, thin glass of dark amber liquid is set onto the table across from me.

I’d chosen a spot in the furthest corner from the door, nestled into the shadows and far, far away from the televisions that were all broadcasting tonight’s game for an enthusiastic crowd that has since died down once the Blackhawks lost to the Rangers.

Since the dive bar is nestled in the middle of Chicago, it was a crushing defeat that most of the patrons did not take kindly to.

I spot the other glass full of something clear as it gets pushed toward me.

My eyes move from the water up the long, tan arm with thick veins to a broad set of shoulders where a very attractive head sits.

The stranger is tall and muscular in ways that I can’t fathom.

He’s the exact opposite of the man I married—blond hair to Max’s brown.

A firm, square jawline to my husband’s soft rounded one.

And his eyes… I swallow as I study the beautiful shade of blue that are locked on me and nothing like Max’s brown color.

“Uh…” I glance around, wondering if he meant to sit here. “Hi?”

His lips quirk up at one side. “Hi.”

All I can do is blink. Does he think I’m someone else? Maybe he’s here to meet up with a blind date. The bar isn’t well lit, and the girl could have given him a generic description of herself. An honest mistake.

“I think you—”

“The bartender said you were drinking water,” he says, dipping his chin toward the glass he set in front of me. “Looked like you were almost out.”

I close my mouth and stare at him, still confused about what’s happening here. “Thank you?” It comes out as a hesitant question, which makes his smile grow.

It’s a pretty smile that lights up his whole face.

He’s got long, blond hair that looks a little damp, like he just got out of the shower.

It goes to his shoulders, which look like they want to rip out of the T-shirt he’s wearing that seems loose around his torso but tight everywhere else. And hello biceps.

Maybe he works here? Although, if he did, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be drinking on the job. When he lifts his glass to his lips, it barely hides the bemusement dancing in his eyes.

“Has anyone told you that you look like Chris Hemsworth?” I ask him, cocking my head as I imagine him in a Thor costume.

The image I conjure is way too good.

His chuckle echoes in the glass before he lowers it. “A time or two.”

We fall to silence as he traces the rim of his glass. It’s beer, I realize. An IPA if I had to guess. Probably something on tap.

I lower my gaze to the water he got me, frowning at it.

“What? Did you want something else?”

Wetting my lips, I sit up straighter in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know you. You could have drugged this or something.”

He offers me an understanding nod. “Fair point,” he replies, his eyes dipping to my chest for a moment before reaching over and taking the glass. He guzzles half of it without coming up for air, then he sets it down in front of me. “See? Not drugged.”

He extends his hand out to me. “I’m Bodhi,” he tells me, waiting for me to return the shake.

Brows knitting together, I stare at the size of his hand. It’s huge. His fingers are long, and his nails are trimmed and clean. Can hands be nice? Because his are.

Swallowing, I let his massive palm engulf my own. “Honor.”

“That can’t really be your name,” he muses, still holding onto me.

I quirk a brow. “Why would I lie about that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

We’re both silent.

I clear my throat when his thumb swipes along the back of my hand, reminding me we’re still touching. Peeling mine back, I drop it into my lap and try ignoring the sparks tingling under the surface of my skin.

A group of guys start laughing loudly from the other side of the bar, scaring me. They’re yelling at the television as recaps of tonight’s hockey match play on the screen.

I don’t realize I’m making a face until Bodhi asks, “Not a fan?”

I peel my gaze away from the TV, wondering if Max is somewhere with his friends doing the same thing. Despite who my father is, he was rooting for Chicago’s team to win tonight.

“I’m not a sports person,” I admit, lifting a shoulder casually. “I wouldn’t say I hate it, but…”

He sets his glass down, humming. “But you hate it?” he guesses.

I don’t feel like word vomiting my childhood trauma that involves absentee parents—one of them being the NHL’s best coach who tends to get nothing but praise in the media for how he runs his team.

Maybe if he’d put even half as much effort into raising me, I’d feel differently about the sport he loves so much.

I would watch his game as intently as Max, and brag to people about the blood we share.

But he didn’t earn that right.

“You seem…sporty,” I note, taking in his broad shoulders. I’ve never considered myself a shoulder person until now.

His eyes flicker with something that I can’t figure out as he takes another drink. “You could say that I dabble.”

Who ‘dabbles’ in sports? “Let me guess. You’re a big football guy?”

He chuckles. “No.”

I study the top half of his body. He’s got the kind of build that a lot of athletes have. “Do you play soccer?” I guess, shaking my head at my own assumption. “Nah. You don’t look like David Beckham. You’re too bulky.”

His eyebrow raises. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Being bulky or not looking like David Beckham?” I question.

His lips kick up. “Either. Both.”

I sigh, propping a hand on my palm and not touching on the bulky thing. “Beckham used to be my celebrity crush. Mostly because me and my best friend had a thing for the Spice Girls.”

Bodhi clearly doesn’t know anything about pop culture, so I don’t elaborate on who Posh Spice is or the correlation that made me slightly obsessed with her soccer star husband.

“I thought you weren’t a sports person.”

“A girl can appreciate a good butt when she sees one without actually having to watch the sport, can’t she?” I counter pointedly.

Bodhi barks out a laugh. “You got me there.”

I smile, and it feels…foreign. To smile.

To feel carefree for once. After the meeting I had with my boss today, I was looking forward to meeting with my neighbor and having a rare glass of wine while venting about how I’m never going to advance at the studio that Max insisted I give a chance because he knew the owner who specialized in landscape and still photography.

Not my niche or my passion. But I accepted the job because there was promise to grow.

“It’s better than you sitting at home alone all day waiting for me to come home,” he says, not bothering to look at me as he pours himself a drink and sits back down at his laptop at the kitchen table.

I had a plan after graduating college with my degree in photography and minor in business. I was going to start my own studio focused on portraits and people. I want to capture emotion and life, not fields and fruit bowls.

Max and I bonded over wanting to become business owners, but when it came down to focusing on which venture we wanted to spend more time on, he decided that his could afford us a better life.

He isn’t wrong. His brought us to Chicago where we rent a nice house in a cute cul-de-sac next to great neighbors.

A home I spend far too much time alone in, thinking about the studio that has yet to happen and a job that I dread going to every single day.

“We need to wait until the game launches before we even consider a second business,” Max says dismissively. “I don’t have time to help you with your hobby right now.”

That hobby is what I spent four years in college studying. I won competitions at art shows with my photographs. I was featured in the New Yorker once. I sold a picture at an exhibit for over two thousand dollars. And where did that money go? To Max, for his game.

Yet, he still calls it a “hobby” as if he’s forgotten.

“What’s the long face for?” Bodhi asks, reminding me I’m in a bar with a complete stranger who is not my husband.

My temples ache as I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Work. Life.” Marriage. I don’t add that part in for reasons I’m not sure of. “Have you ever felt like everything piles up on you at once? Like it’s one thing after another and the weight of it all feels…”

“Suffocating?” he finishes for me, polishing off his drink.

Biting on the inside of my cheek, I nod. That’s the perfect way to describe it, actually. “I take it you know how that feels?”