CROSS-CHECKED

Boston Rebels Series

Book 3

JULIA CONNORS

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 Contents

Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
GOAL LINE
Books by Julia Connors
Acknowledgments
Afterword
About the Author

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© 2025 Julia Connors
All Rights Reserved

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This is a work of fiction. Names, people, characters, places, corporations or business entities, and
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For anyone who ever girl-bossed so hard
they forgot to have a life…

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 Author’s Note

Cross-Checked deals with topics that may be sensitive for some readers,
including infertility, past emotional abuse, and cheating. For a full list of
content warnings, please visit my website: juliaconnors.com/cross-checked

Please note that, for the sake of the story, some liberties were taken with the
teams and timing in the playoff rounds, as well as the timing for voting on
the GM of the Year award. And, due to various trademarks, the actual
names of the annual pro hockey awards were not used.

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 Chapter One
AJ

“A ndmanager
what do we think about the rumors that Alessandra Jones, general
for the Boston Rebels, may be a finalist for the GM of the
Year award?” The voice of Ted Deveney, one of the country’s most
beloved sportscasters, has my head snapping up from the contract I’m
reviewing. Now, with my heart pounding, my attention is entirely focused
on the TV on the opposite side of my office.
“I’d say it’s long overdue,” Stefanie Flowers, Ted’s co-host, responds,
and I let out a small sigh of relief. “She’s taken that organization from
consistently breaking the hearts of their fans, to consistently being one of
the top teams in the entire league.”
“That’s true,” Ted says, his trademark white mustache flattening into a
straight line as his lips curve up and he chuckles.
“Division champions four out of the six years she’s been GM,
conference champions twice, and Stanley Cup champions once. I’d say
she’s earned at least this nomination, if not the actual award.”
As one of the few female sportscasters covering the NHL on the
national level, I’m thrilled that Stefanie is showing the same passion I have
about seeing a female GM do well.
“And,” Ted adds, “with one win already under their belt in this second
round of playoffs, and Boston basically outperforming Carolina in every
way, I’d say they’re off to a good start securing a fifth division
championship.”
 “We’ll see what happens in Game 2 tomorrow night, and then as Boston
heads down to Carolina later this week,” Stefanie says. “With most of their
lineup already in place for next year, and minimal changes in the roster, the
team really seems to be jelling.”
“The latest news from the Rebels is that Aidan Renaud will be coming
off the IR in time for next season.”
“I’m sure they’re excited about getting Renaud back. But the question
remains,” she says, and I groan internally, because I already know where
this is going, “whether Ronan McCabe will be staying next year.”
“Sounds like a classic case of a star player and his team not being able
to agree on what he’s worth,” Ted says, an air of nonchalance in his voice.
“Well, we’re all eager to see how that works out. It’s hard to imagine the
Rebels without McCabe leading them, but we’re also hearing rumors that
he may be interested in potentially moving to another team.”
I can feel my nostrils flare. Given that we haven’t reached an
agreement, I know his agent must be starting to look at other teams. But the
fact that we’re still in season and he’s not being more discreet about it
pisses me off. And we haven’t reached the free agency interview period yet,
so no actual conversations should be happening.
Sometimes, it feels like McCabe wants to leave. The number of times
he’s tried to step down from being captain, and his obvious distaste for me,
make it seem like he has one foot out the door and is just waiting for me to
beg him to stay. And I’m not the type to do that, no matter how good he is.
“They still have a few weeks to come to an agreement, but it’ll be
interesting to see if that happens, or if McCabe becomes an unrestricted free
agent,” Ted adds.
“Yeah, interesting is one word for it. If he continues to perform in the
playoffs as well as he has all season, it would be crazy for the Rebels to let
one of their star players go. But I personally can’t wait for this round of
playoffs to conclude, so we’ll finally know who those GM of the Year
finalists are.”
“You holding out for the first female nomination in the history of
professional hockey?”
Stefanie’s smile is broad as the camera zooms in on her. “You know it,
Ted. I think we’re watching history unfold.”
The knots in my stomach tighten, and I close my eyes, taking a deep
breath and releasing it slowly. I want to relish this moment, when the
nation’s most well-known hockey sportscasters are talking about my
success, but all I feel is the overwhelming pit of dread at the thought of
letting people down.
Straightening my spine, I remind myself that Frank Hartmann, owner of
the Rebels, took a huge risk bringing me to Boston six seasons ago—and all
he’s ever asked of me is that I rebuild this organization with players who
care about our fans and bring home the Cup. He didn’t ask for me to win
awards, he asked me to focus on the team. Doing that may have made me a
stand-out GM, but this has never been about me. It’s always been about the
team.
I relax my shoulders and open my eyes, almost jumping out of my seat
at the sight of my Director of Marketing and Communications, Lauren,
standing on the other side of my desk.
“Where the hell did you come from?” I ask as I exhale the breath that
just caught in my throat.
One of her arms is folded as it holds her laptop against her chest, and
the other reaches to pull out a chair. “I assume that’s a rhetorical question,”
she says with a laugh as she sinks into the seat across from me, “since you
put this meeting on my calendar.”
“But I didn’t even hear you sneak in,” I tell her as I pick up the remote
on my desk and mute the TV.
“Yeah. You were so focused on that amazing news coverage that you
didn’t notice me knock at your open door or walk in here.”
I let out a tight laugh, and Lauren raises her eyebrow in response.
“You okay?” she asks.
Pressing my lips together, I nod. “Never been better.”
Lauren looks at me like she sees right through this the pressure doesn’t
bother me charade. And she probably does. Over the last year and a half
that she’s worked for me, she’s gradually become my best friend as well.
“It’s a lot of pressure.”
I appreciate how she understands that every single decision I make is
viewed through the lens of “the first female GM in the history of the
league . . .” It’s a privilege to serve in this role. And yet, sometimes the
pressure is stifling.
Over the last six seasons, we’ve set pretty much every individual record
in Rebels history—most shutouts, highest number of goals scored in a
single season, most goals scored by a defenseman, most assists by a single
player, highest save percentage, and the list goes on. If we can win the
conference championship this year, we’ll be the winningest team in Boston
hockey history.
That pressure isn’t on my shoulders—I’ve done everything I can leading
up to and during this season to put the team in a position to bring home the
Cup again. Now, it’s up to them. But if it doesn’t happen, I already know
I’ll hyperfixate on what I could have done differently to set them up better.
And one of the questions I’m sure I’ll be asking myself is whether it
was a mistake to bring Frank Hartmann’s son, Luke, to Boston as our
newest goalie. I did it against his wishes because while he was concerned it
would look like nepotism, my primary concern is finding a replacement for
our top goalie, Colt, who will likely retire at the end of next season.
Luke is fresh and young, a player who I knew would work well with
and learn from Colt. He came here with no ego. He’s the kind of selfless
team player we need, and I wish some of our veteran players—particularly
our team captain Ronan McCabe—were more like Luke Hartmann.
And while Hartmann did well in the regular season, now that we’re in
the playoffs, he isn’t playing at the level I need him to be. I remind myself
that he’s still growing, that this is only his third season in the pros and his
first time making the playoffs, but the self-doubt creeps in, making me
question myself and my past decisions.
“What the hell is going on, AJ?” Lauren asks. It’s only then that I
realize I’m so lost in my own head, I never responded to her.
“Nothing. It’s a lot of pressure is all, just like you said.”
“Are you doing okay with everything?” Her sweet voice carries notes of
empathy.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that this damn award is adding a whole other
level of stress to an already overwhelming time.”
“It’s like Stefanie said, though. It’s long overdue. You’ve earned this.”
The finalists for the award are voted on by every general manager in the
league, plus a few league executives and a few members of the media. The
stats for our team—the way we’ve grown and improved over the six
seasons I’ve been here—would have had any other GM nominated years
ago.
And yet, I’ve never been a finalist.
I could speculate on all the reasons why, but I’ve been down that road
before, and it doesn’t end well for my mental health.
 “You turned this team around, AJ,” Lauren reminds me. “And whether
you’re a finalist for this award or not doesn’t change that. Not when you’ve
already come this far.”
I lean back in my chair, relaxing for the first time in too long. “I know
you’re right. And I know that carving out a space for women in such a
male-dominated sport is an uphill battle⁠—”
“One you’ve already won, by the way,” Lauren chimes in.
“—and I’m not doing it for the recognition, you know? I’d never tell
anyone else this,” I say, glancing at the open door to make sure no one’s
outside my office, before I drop my voice lower. “But for once, it would be
nice for the men who hold the same position I do to look at the work I’ve
done here and to finally say ‘good job.’ Frank took such a huge risk
bringing me here, and I’m honored to have been the first female GM in the
league. I just want to make sure I’m not the last, you know?”
I want my legacy to live on. It sounds so selfish and cliché when I say it
in my head. But I don’t want this for my own ego. I want this so that other
women know they can do this, too.
But I keep the thought where it belongs—in my head—because I don’t
know how to say that without it sounding like it’s about me.
“You won’t be the last, AJ. But it’s a huge honor to have been the first.
And even if you had sucked at it,” Lauren says with a laugh, “which
obviously you haven’t, you still wouldn’t be the last female GM. Because
now that you’ve done it, even more women are going to set their sights on
upper management.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Like you?”
She laughs again and holds both her hands out in front of her like she’s
pushing the thought away. “No, I have my hands absolutely full at the
moment. I couldn’t take on any more responsibility, even if I wanted to.
Which I don’t, so stop trying to put ideas in my head.”
Lauren’s got three-year-old twin girls, and this summer she’s getting
married to one of the best men I know. Jameson Flynn is not only one of the
most well-respected agents in hockey, he’s also incredibly loyal,
trustworthy, and fair. He’s brought me talent I didn’t know I needed, and
helped me rebuild his former team behind the scenes. The fact that he also
introduced me to Lauren when she was looking to get back into sports
marketing has only made me like him more.
“You sure?” I tease. “Because I’d love to have a female VP on staff.”
 “Listen, I’m not saying never. I’m just saying no time soon.”
“So now you’re handing out promotions without even running them by
me?” Frank Hartmann’s voice bellows as he strides through the door to my
office.
A broad grin splits my face at his teasing tone. One of the things I love
most about Frank, besides the fact that he’s like the dad I wish I had, is that
he isn’t a micromanager. I run things by him out of professional courtesy,
but aside from my decision to bring his son onto our team—which he was
concerned would look like nepotism—he never questions me. He trusts me
to do the job he hired me to do, and that’s been one of the best parts of
coming to Boston.
“No, no,” Lauren says with a shake of her head. “AJ just promoted me
to my current position. She’s not promoting me again.”
“Have I told you recently that you’re doing a fine job?” Frank asks her.
“Fine like mediocre? Or fine like high quality?” Lauren’s auburn
eyebrows, a couple shades darker than her hair, scrunch together as she
looks over to Frank, who’s taken the seat next to her.
“Which do you think?” His pale eyes practically dance with amusement
above his rounded cheeks. The man is an absolute teddy bear.
“Definitely high quality,” Lauren says with a decisive nod.
“You would be correct. Now, we have a bit of an issue that I need y’all
to deal with in the quickest and most professional way possible.” He
glances between us. “We’ve had three fights break out in the stands during
the playoffs. In every instance, security footage shows that it was our fans,
wearing our players’ jerseys, that started each altercation. I know people get
excited and tensions are high, but we don’t want Boston fans to be known
as aggressive shit-starters any more than we want our players to have that
kind of reputation.”
“So you want us to . . .” Lauren drags the word out. “. . . change the
fans’ behavior?”
“I want you to figure out how this organization can show the fans that
this behavior isn’t acceptable, without coming off as preachy or heavy-
handed,” Frank says.
Lauren sinks her teeth into her lower lip, and I can tell she’s trying not
to laugh. Fighting is part of the game, and I know immediately that she’s
thinking it would be pretty hypocritical for a hockey team to tell its fans
that fighting is wrong.
 “Okay,” I say decisively, because Frank wants solutions. “We’ll take
care of it.”
“How?” he asks, as Lauren turns to me with the same question in her
eyes.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him. “But off the top of my head, it seems
like it would be easy to get a friendly reporter to lob a softball question
about this to one of our players during post-game press, and then have the
player remind fans that the only fighting that belongs at our games is on the
ice.”
“Make sure it’s McCabe,” Frank says.
“Why him?” The question bursts out of me, followed by a laugh. Of all
the players on the team, no one is less likely to engage in friendly banter
with reporters, or ask fans to leave the fighting to the professionals on the
ice, than McCabe.
“He’s the team captain,” Frank says as he stands and shoves his hands
in his pockets, clearly done with this conversation. “It needs to come from
him.”
It takes everything I have not to push back on this, not to tell Frank that
there are other players who are just as respected by the fans and far more
likely to help us out with this.
“Understood,” I say as he turns to head out the door. Because when your
billionaire boss writes your very hefty paychecks and mostly leaves you
alone to do your job however you want, you don’t question him when he
asks for something minor. Even when you know it’s just going to make
your life more difficult.
Lauren leans back in her chair, looking relaxed for the first time since
Frank walked into the office. “Want me to talk to McCabe?”
I look at the ceiling as I bite the inside of my cheek. Everyone knows
that McCabe and I have a contentious relationship on the best of days, but
it’s grown even more tense this season because his contract is up and he’s
making ridiculous demands for us to keep him. Still, I’m his boss, so I can
put on my big girl pants and tell him what he needs to do.
“No, it’s fine.” I shake my head, glancing over toward the wall of glass
overlooking the practice rink. “It should come from me. Just let me know
who the reporter will be, and I’ll tell him what the plan is before our next
home game.”
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 Chapter Two
McCabe

COLT
Where the hell did you go? AJ was looking for you, and I didn’t
know what to tell her.

S
hit. When my nanny called me to say that my daughter was running a
fever and I needed to come home right away, I didn’t even think twice
about leaving the children’s hospital our hockey team partners with,
where a few of us were visiting with sick kids this afternoon.
Since finding out I was a dad nine months ago, Abby has been my first
priority.
I never would have imagined that my ex-girlfriend would just show up
and dump a baby I didn’t know about into my arms, claiming that
motherhood would get in the way of her acting career. It didn’t matter that
she couldn’t act for shit, and had never landed a role outside of a
commercial here or there—Jenna was naive enough to believe that she was
destined to be a star, and selfish enough to not let anything stand in her way.
But from the moment I held Abby in my arms, there was no question
that, for her, I’d be the best dad I could be. The second she wrapped those
impossibly tiny fingers around my thumb, her big eyes staring up at me, she
carved herself right into my soul. I knew at that moment, with Jenna still
standing in my entryway before she turned and fled, that I’d love and
protect Abby, even if it was us against the world.
 Balancing hockey season and single-fatherhood was hard enough, but
lately, with the pressures of the playoffs, I feel like I’m failing more often
than I’m succeeding.
MCCABE
Abby’s sick, I had to head home.

I type out the message as I wait for the elevator in the lobby of my
building, willing it to hurry the hell up so I can get upstairs and see what’s
wrong with my daughter.
COLT
You might want to explain that to AJ because she definitely
muttered something under her breath about you not leading by
example.

I never wanted to be the team captain. I prefer to lead quietly and not be
the center of attention. Being captain has forced me into the spotlight in
ways I’m not comfortable with. The only thing I want my teammates, the
fans, and the media to focus on is how I play. Leading the team in a public
way, that’s the dream for guys like Colt, who have a way of putting
everyone at ease but can still light a fire under your ass when you need it.
However, Colt’s a goalie, so he can’t wear the C on the ice.
When our previous captain retired a few years ago, I was already an
alternate captain and the logical back-up choice. And while no one’s ever
tried to make me feel like it should have been Colt in the first place, I know
the only reason I have this distinction is because league rules prevent him
from having it.
Every year I suggest maybe it’s time to give the honor to one of our
alternate captains instead, but my team and management both seem to want
me in the role. Honestly, I think they don’t want it to look like they’ve taken
it away from me, even though I keep trying to step down.
MCCABE
Will do. Thanks for letting me know.

I appreciate Colt warning me, because my contract is up at the end of

the season, and I’m still in the negotiation phase with the Boston Rebels.
This shit should have been settled long ago, but my agent, Trevor, and my
general manager, AJ, couldn’t come to an agreement over my next contract.
 According to Trevor, AJ insists that my salary demands are selfish and
will prevent her from acquiring new players who will round out the team.
But I’m one of the top-scoring players in the league, and I’m not taking less
for my next contract than I got for my last one. When negotiations broke
down, AJ left it at we’ll revisit this at the end of the season.
So, right now, I can’t afford to look like I’m not invested, even though
my mind is already made up to leave. Partly because management not
settling my next contract during this season feels like a huge fuck you to the
years I’ve spent here—years that pre-date AJ coming to Boston.
Unfortunately, I’ve worked for her almost my whole career—she was
the assistant GM when I played for St. Louis, then she came to Boston a
few years after I was traded here. Other players love her, but I just keep my
head down and try to make sure she doesn’t screw me over again like she
did years ago in St. Louis.
If we can’t come to an agreement after the playoffs, I’ll be an
unrestricted free agent. Trevor is already talking to Nashville, and they’re
interested. Signing with them could be perfect, because my sister lives there
with my nieces. We’re the only family each other has, and now that we’re
both single parents, we’ve been talking a lot about living in the same city.
I’d miss my teammates, many of whom are like brothers to me, but
getting to see my daughter grow up with her cousins and having family
around is worth more than what I’ve built here with the Rebels. I never
thought I’d say that, but I guess fatherhood changes you.
My phone pings again as I step into the elevator, and I glance down at a
text from Colt, followed immediately by another text from my nanny.
COLT
Hope Abby’s feeling better soon. Let us know if you need
anything.

LUCY
Are you almost home?

I often get the sense that my nanny, Lucy, can’t wait to leave, and today
is the perfect example. Abby is prone to fevers, so we’ve been to the
pediatrician multiple times. The doctor always tells us that if there are no
other symptoms and the fever doesn’t go above 102 degrees, Abby’s just
fighting something off and we can relax and treat the fever with infant
acetaminophen. But instead of following those orders, Lucy called me and
insisted I come home.
She came with amazing references—the kind that are apparently too
good to be true, since she’s proven to be flighty and unreliable.
At least this is just a summer gig. As soon as I know where I’m playing
next season, my first order of business will be to find a new, more reliable
nanny.
I glance back up as the elevator closes, and in the quickly diminishing
space between the doors, I swear I see AJ walking into the lobby of my
building. Her head is bent as she glances at her phone, but even across the
wide marble space, and without seeing her face, I’m confident it’s her.
What the hell is my boss doing in my building?
I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I wonder if she’s
here to check up on me after I left the children’s hospital early. No, I assure
myself, she’s not the kind to make house calls. And even if she were, we’re
barely on speaking terms, so she’d know better than to show up at my door.
What the hell is she doing here, then?
My phone buzzes again as Lucy puts a question mark on the message
she sent five seconds ago because, clearly, it’s taking me too long to
respond.
MCCABE
Yes, I’m almost home.

I resist the urge to add a snarky comment, which is exactly the kind of
sarcasm I typically employ when I think someone is overreacting. But I
need her to keep showing up until the end of our postseason, so I can’t
afford to piss her off.
When the elevator doors open, I stride down the hall. My condo is at the
end, the last door on the left. It’s a nice corner unit with walls of glass on
one side, and floor-to-ceiling glass sliders leading out to a full-length
balcony along the other.
The condo across the hall from me—the last door on the right—was for
sale last month, and I halfway considered buying it since it’s a mirror image
of mine, taking up the corner opposite me. Our condos share a wall from
the end of the hallway all the way to the balconies along the exterior of the
building.
 If I’d bought it, I could have opened the wall between the two units and
made an incredibly sweet six-bedroom, four-bath place for Abby and me.
But it didn’t make sense to purchase it since I don’t even know if I’m
staying in Boston.
So the condo sold, and the people who lived there moved out without so
much as a goodbye. I’ve never even met my new neighbors. The anonymity
of living in an insanely expensive building in a big city used to be
something I loved. I could come and go without anyone bothering me. I
could bring home women whenever I felt like it, and there was no one to
judge me. I could retreat in solitude when that’s what I needed, but the
lights and parties of the city were right outside my doorstep if that’s what I
was looking for.
Now that I’m a dad, it all grates on me—the bustle and the noise
outside, and how quiet and lonely it is inside once Abby goes to sleep. I
want to live in a place where I have family close by, where I can sit on my
front porch and know the people living in my neighborhood, and where my
daughter can learn to ride her bike on the street in front of our house.
And that condo across the hall with the nameless, faceless neighbors—
who, if the sound of the door opening and shutting is any indication, come
home late and leave early in the morning—has gradually become the
perfect example of why I want to move.
With a quick glance at the 1706 on their door, I turn toward my condo,
number 1705, and push my key into the lock. When I make it to the living
room, I find Lucy is sitting on the couch with Abby curled up against her
chest. Lucy’s eyes are closed and they’re both breathing steadily, and for a
moment, I’m taken back to the first time Lucy met Abby, when she came to
interview for the summer nanny job.
She seemed like she loved babies when I first met her—the perfect
person to fill in for the summer, between my last nanny leaving to move to
a new state, and the new nanny I’ll hire once I know where I’m playing
next season. Now, I know what she loves is that I pay well enough that she
can hang with her rich boyfriend and his trust-fund friends as if she actually
comes from money herself.
I clear my throat, and Lucy’s head whips to the side. “Oh good,” she
says quietly, hugging Abby to her chest as she stands. At least she’s trying
not to wake her. “You’re here. She needs her dad.”
 I eye Abby, whose cheeks do look a little pink, but it could be thanks to
the heavy blanket Lucy has her wrapped up in like it’s the middle of winter.
“She looks okay to me,” I say, not because I don’t want to be here with
my daughter, but because I’m annoyed that Lucy had me rush home.
Management already knows I hate doing PR shit off the ice—the visits
to hospitals and schools, the media appearances, the charity work—and the
last thing I want in the midst of contract negotiation is to act in a way that
reinforces the narrative that I’m not a team player. And this doesn’t seem
like the emergency she claimed it was.
“Well, she’s not. I’m going to let you take over from here because I
need to go pick up my boyfriend.”
Lucy’s boyfriend lives in a penthouse condo that makes mine look like a
hovel and drives a sports car that costs more than my first year’s salary as a
hockey player in the AHL.
“He couldn’t just drive himself?”
“My car’s in the shop, so I have his car,” Lucy says, and it occurs to me
that, because I left my car with the valet so I could get up here as quickly as
possible, I didn’t see his car parked in the spot beside mine that I let Lucy
use.
If that prick doesn’t have more than one car, I’d be shocked. And I know
he has access to a driver, or could just grab a ride through a rideshare app,
the same way any of us do.
He doesn’t need her to come get him; she wants to go.
“I see.” I fold my arms across my chest. “And would needing to go get
him have anything to do with why I had to come home?”
“What?” She sounds shocked, her eyebrows pinching. “No, I just told
him that since you’re coming home, I could pick him up before we go out
to dinner. Oh, and”—she reaches her arms out to hand me my sleeping
daughter—“not this weekend, but next, I’m going to need a couple days off
to go to Nantucket with Tim’s family. It’s his grandmother’s birthday, so not
something we can miss.”
I take Abby and bring her up to my chest, where she opens her eyes and
fusses for a moment. Snuggling her into me, I sway back and forth from
one foot to the other, humming her favorite song as I breathe in her baby
scent. She settles right down, closing her eyes. Her lips are turned up at the
corners, like she’s realized Daddy’s home and she can relax.
God, I hate being away from her.
 “Uhh, that’s not how this whole nannying thing works, Lucy. That
weekend will be the start of Round 3 of the playoffs, and I’ll need you here
with Abby,” I tell her. Even though we are just starting this series, we’re
already dominating.
Our goalie, Colt, just broke Carolina’s best player’s nose so he’ll be out
for at least a couple of games. If we don’t wrap this series up while we’re in
Carolina this weekend, I’ll be shocked. But even if we have to play into
next week to clinch the division title, I can’t fathom a situation in which
we’re not moving on to the next round.
“Okay,” she says breezily. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
“The only way it’ll work out is if you’re here when I need you to be
here.” I don’t want the words to come out in the low, almost menacing way
they do, but I can’t help it. I don’t have anyone else to watch Abby, not even
during the day while I’m at practice, much less overnight, and she knows it.
“Okay, I’ll find out the details and let you know,” she says, giving me a
broad smile, like she just knows she’s going to get her way. I don’t think
she understands that work is supposed to come first, especially when your
job is caring for a baby.
“Alright. I’ll see you back here tomorrow, right?” It makes me nervous
that I even need to ask this. She’s staying here with Abby for the next five
days. After tomorrow afternoon’s game, we’re flying south to play our next
two games against Carolina at their home arena.
“Yeah, of course. But what if she’s sick?”
“Then you’ll need to take care of her, and maybe take her to the doctor.
You can handle it. You’ve taken her to the pediatrician before.”
She inhales a shaky breath, and not for the first time, I wonder if I made
a huge mistake hiring a college kid to take care of my baby on her summer
vacation. A month ago, she seemed like she was going to be perfect. Now
I’ve got serious reservations, but no alternative.
I absolutely hate feeling like I might not be doing what’s best for Abby,
but I have a contract, and I have to be there to play. I’m the leader of that
team, and showing up for work seems like the bare minimum, especially
when so many of my teammates also have kids. None of them are single
dads, though.
“Okay,” she says, heading for the door. “See you tomorrow.”
I really hope she shows up.
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Three
AJ

“C angrumble,
someone please tell me why the hell we haven’t taken off yet?” I
wondering why we’re still sitting on the tarmac. I need this
plane in the air so I can get my laptop on WiFi. I don’t have time to
waste sitting here doing nothing.
“We’re waiting on McCabe,” Charlie Wilcott, our head coach, says
from across the aisle. He must see something on my face, because he adds,
“He’ll be here in five minutes. It’s fine.”
“Why wasn’t he on the bus from the arena after the game, like everyone
else?” In the cabin behind us, Walsh is blasting the song the team always
plays after a win, and the guys are singing along at the top of their lungs.
“Apparently, his nanny’s car is in the shop and she borrowed someone’s
car, so she didn’t have Abby’s car seat. Since he’s gone for the next five
days, the nanny needed him to bring her the car seat he had in his car.”
I sigh.
McCabe had texted me last night to let me know that he’d needed to
leave the hospital early yesterday because his daughter was sick, and now
he’s delaying our flight. I’m a “family first” kind of general manager, and I
know he’s a single dad and all, but I can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t
think it’s a big deal that he left early yesterday and is making the whole
plane wait for him today. Or maybe it really is his nanny’s fault in both
cases. With him and his entitled attitude, it’s hard to tell.
 Ronan McCabe is the kind of player who seems to think I pay him
millions of dollars a year to play hockey but shouldn’t expect anything from
him off the ice, even though he knows that’s not the kind of organization
I’m running.
As captain, he has no problem holding other players accountable for
stepping up like I’ve asked, but he doesn’t seem to hold himself to the same
standard. And when he does step up, it’s with equal parts attitude and
resentment.
I glance over at Wilcott. “And they couldn’t have figured this out before
the game?”
Charlie just shrugs, like What can we do?
I focus my eyes back on my phone, where I’m reading today’s
headlines. And when I hear McCabe come through the door to the jet,
several rows behind me, loudly apologizing to his teammates as the music
comes to a stop, before rushing up front to apologize to Coach Wilcott, I
close my eyes and pretend to sleep.
Next to me, he explains that he would have just ordered a new car seat
with overnight delivery, but he didn’t trust Lucy to install it correctly, so he
had to return and switch his into her loaner car to make sure it was safe. I
assume Lucy must be the nanny? He’s making her sound awfully
incompetent, which, in turn, makes me wonder why he’d leave his baby
with her.
When he’s done explaining the situation to Charlie, he turns toward me
—I can feel him staring down at me. But I take slow, steady breaths, even
as I hear Charlie chuckle like he knows exactly which avoidance strategy
I’m using.
It might not be the most mature choice, but we’re in a tough negotiation
period right now, and the last thing I need is any sort of confrontation with
him, especially in front of everyone else.
We’ll save that for behind closed doors, like we always have.

I ’m sitting at the upscale hotel bar the next night, enjoying the overly
heavy pour of a delicious Cabernet Sauvignon the bartender gave me,
when Charlie walks up.
 “The guys are all going to dinner together, with strict instructions to be
back in their rooms by 10 p.m.,” he tells me. “Larry and I are going to grab
something at a restaurant down the street. You want to join us?”
“Nah,” I say. “I’m good. But thanks for the invite.”
“Please tell me you’re not having wine for dinner.” His voice has that
overly concerned tone I’d expect from a father figure—someone like Frank
Hartmann—not one of my employees. It’s probably my own fault for
insisting the entire Rebels organization is one big family.
“I just ordered a steak. Does that meet your approval?”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t kill you to go out and eat socially, with other
people, you know.”
I tend to stick to myself on road trips, except for the very rare occasion
when I can convince Lauren to come, too. There’s no real reason she needs
to be on these trips, and she hates leaving her girls, but every once in a
while, there’s a good reason for her to tag along—like a potential sponsor
we can meet with while we’re on the road.
“Tonight is the only time while we’re here that I have any downtime,” I
say, and watch as the bartender’s head turns toward us. I don’t know if he’s
eavesdropping or just looking over to make sure I don’t need anything, but I
drop my voice a little lower either way. “I plan to enjoy having a couple
hours to myself. Besides, we’re having lunch together tomorrow,
remember?”
He lets out a low grunt of acknowledgement. He’s as pleased as I am to
have to share a meal with the coaching staff, GM, and owner of Carolina’s
team. But Frank is old friends with their owner, and he insisted.
“Yeah, Frank said he wants the captains there tomorrow too,” Charlie
says, “so I told them they’d need to come with us after our practice skate in
the morning.”
“Absolutely not.” My tone invites no disagreement, but I suspect
Charlie doesn’t want his players forced into this lunch, either. Every hockey
player has his own pre-game rituals, and almost all of them include an
afternoon nap, followed by a series of superstitious behaviors they have to
run through. Even though, obviously, they’ll all need lunch anyway, they
shouldn’t be forced to sit through this ridiculous charade—especially
because our goalie Colt just broke one of their player’s noses, so tempers
between the players are bound to be high. “I’ll talk to Frank about it.”
Charlie just laughs and shakes his head. “Good luck with that.”
 “I don’t need luck. Frank may own this team, but he pays me very well
to manage it. And he’s always trusted me to know what’s best for our
players.” Am I really this confident that he’ll see it my way? No. But am I
certain that I can convince him? Yes.
“Alright. Well, enjoy your dinner and I’ll see you tomorrow. Should I
tell our captains that they don’t need to be at that lunch?”
“I’ll let you know once I have confirmation from Frank.”
“Alright then.” He gives me a nod before turning to leave.
I scroll on my phone for a few minutes, ignoring what I sense are the
curious eyes of two men farther down the bar. And when the bartender
finally brings over my plate, which has a filet artfully arranged over some
asparagus and mashed potatoes, my stomach grumbles so loudly I’m pretty
sure the whole restaurant heard it. I can’t help it; this smells fucking
fantastic, and I was on a series of calls all day, meaning I only had time for
a protein bar for lunch. If we were back at the office, my assistant, Colleen,
would have ordered me something so I didn’t skip a meal—because, let’s be
honest, I get hangry and no one should have to deal with me when I haven’t
eaten.
The bartender smiles as he sets the plate in front of me, and a row of
perfectly straight teeth sink into the right side of his lip like he’s holding in
a laugh. “It does smell good, doesn’t it?”
“Honestly, I’m so hungry I was about to eat my own arm. You could
have brought me a bag from the closest fast-food joint and I think my
stomach would have reacted the same way.”
“Luckily for you, you’ll probably enjoy this more.” He gives me a wink
as he licks his lower lip, and it occurs to me that this man who looks like he
was a child yesterday is flirting with me.
“Maybe I prefer fast food.”
He looks me up and down, taking in the dark hair that’s kept the perfect
shade of brown with my monthly hair appointments, the smooth face that’s
kept wrinkle free from regular visits to my aesthetician, the large pearls that
adorn my earlobes, and the silk blouse beneath the burgundy blazer. “That
would surprise me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You seem like a woman who . . . knows what she likes.”
“I do know what I like,” I tell him, letting my lips curve up at one side.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer a greasy hamburger over a filet.”
 He crosses his arms and leans forward, resting his elbow on his side of
the bar. “So why are you here having a seventy-dollar steak, then?”
“Seems like a waste of a perfectly good food allowance from my work
if I go to McDonalds, you know?” I say as I unwrap my cutlery from the
napkin and lay the cloth across my lap.
“So what do you do for work?”
I don’t know why I still haven’t found a good way to answer this
question. I’m not the kind of person who throws around my job title to
impress people, nor do I want to invite the questions it inevitably generates
from perfect strangers. “I work in sports.”
Leaning in a bit closer, his eyes focus on my lips as I lick them—a
nervous habit I’ve never quite gotten over. “Tell me more.”
I pick up my fork and knife, sinking them into my steak as I flick my
eyes back up toward him. “No thanks.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Are you always hesitant to talk about
work?”
Yes.
“No. But you just watched me turn down dinner with my colleagues, so
obviously I’m not looking for work talk.”
I watch as his pupils dilate, his eyes lingering on my mouth. I know that
my lips, and the wide smile they afford me, are the physical feature I’m
most known for. So his intense interest in them shouldn’t surprise me, but it
still does. He’s a damn baby compared to me.
Then he stands, spreading his hands along the edge of the bar. His
forearms are dusted with blonde hair over his tanned skin. The color
matches the natural highlights in his slightly overgrown waves, giving him
a touch of southern surfer boy charm.
“So what are you looking for?”
Such an open, honest invitation. And in the past, right after my divorce,
I’d have probably taken him up on it, even though he’s easily fifteen years
younger than me. But I grew tired of that long ago. Now, I just want peace.
My job is stressful—hell, my whole life is stressful—and honestly, a good
night’s sleep sounds way better than sex.
“Just to eat my meal alone.” I give him a sympathetic smile to soften the
blow.
His lips turn up into a half smile as he nods, before turning and heading
down the bar to flirt with the much younger lady at the other end. As I take
the first bite of my steak, then wash it down with my wine, I know I made
the right choice. Because the only thing worse than the loneliness of being
divorced and forty, is the empty feeling I’m left with after meaningless, and
often mediocre, sex with a stranger.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Four
McCabe

I
walk into the rink exhausted because I couldn’t sleep last night.
Lucy called me after Abby was down for the night to tell me that
even with the acetaminophen, she was still running a fever. She didn’t
have any other obvious symptoms of being sick, but since she’s still an
infant, it’s not like we can ask her how she’s feeling. It could be a sore
throat or stomach pains or anything, really. Lucy said she’d call the
pediatrician when they open in the morning and try to get an appointment.
I tossed and turned all night after that, worried about Abby, hating that
I’m not the one there with her, and praying that Lucy will take good care of
her.
Though I love Abby unconditionally and am trying so hard to be the dad
she needs, I can’t help but think that maybe I’m not enough. Maybe what
she really needs is a parent who can be there with her all the time, not a
different nanny. Maybe what I need is a partner.
Unfortunately, most of the women I meet are interested in me primarily
because I’m a professional hockey player—none of them seem like they’re
ready to settle down with a kid who isn’t theirs.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Drew Jenkins asks after I push open
the door to the locker room and stalk inside. He’s new to our team this year
and having himself one hell of a season. He only had one year left on his
contract when we acquired him in a trade from Colorado last summer, and
AJ has already re-signed him in a six-year deal. Unlike with me, she had no
problem increasing his salary, even though my stat line is more impressive.
I like Drew, and I’m glad we’ve locked him down. But it’s yet another
reason this whole contract negotiation has left a sour taste in my mouth
regarding AJ—this isn’t about the money. She doesn’t want to keep me on
the team and is hiding behind the salary cap as an excuse.
She’s gone and made this personal.
Which she might not have done if I hadn’t fucked up eight years ago.
Beating the shit out of her then husband wasn’t my smartest move, but I
have zero patience for men who verbally abuse and physically intimidate
women.
It doesn’t matter that she, as assistant GM, was technically his boss, or
that he, as my assistant coach, was technically my boss. That shit’s not cool,
and when I called him on it, he told me to mind my fucking business and
that he’d speak to his wife however he damn well pleased.
I probably shouldn’t have hit him the first time . . . or thrown any of the
ten punches I delivered after that. But he was an asshole, and I was standing
up for her. And she fucking traded me because of it.
Once I was playing for Boston, my contract was renewed with a no-
trade option before she signed on as GM. So this is the first time we’ve had
to negotiate since the incident.
“Slept bad.”
“Is that code for ‘I stayed up too late fucking some random chick?’”
Colt asks.
“Unlike you before Jules, I don’t sleep with someone new in every city
we’re in.” It’s a bit of a shit thing to say to someone who’s a long-time
friend, but I’m tired and my give-a-fucks for people’s feelings aren’t
showing up today.
Besides, there’s nothing inaccurate in that statement. Colt was the most
notorious fuckboy in professional hockey until he started secretly dating his
best friend and agent’s younger sister, Jules. Now they’re happily engaged,
and Drew is engaged to Jules’s sister, Audrey, so they’re going to eventually
be brothers-in-law.
Colt snorts. “Yeah, because you’re a fucking saint, McCabe.” His voice
drips with sarcasm. I never had a reputation like his, so I know his
statement is just because he gets testy when he’s away from Jules for too
long. Which is funny because, until a few weeks ago, none of us even had
any idea they were dating, much less secretly engaged.
“Alright,” Walshy says, clapping his hands together. Our alternate
captain, Patrick Walsh, has a big mouth on the ice, but off it, he’s a total
peacemaker. It’s probably part of why he’s so happily married. “Let’s get
ourselves ready for our practice skate, and save this energy for our
opponents tonight.”

“M cCabe, a word?” AJ says after I’ve navigated the long hallway

where we walk into the arena. I tried to put on a happy face because
I know everyone wants to see the players dressed up before the
game—but today it was more of a struggle than normal. Even our peppy
social media manager, Tatum, couldn’t get me to smile for the camera.
After practice, I went to lunch with my sister, Sloane, who’d surprised
me with a text a few hours ago, telling me she unexpectedly had to come to
Raleigh for work. I’d teased her and asked if she was sure she didn’t miss
me so much she hopped in the car to come visit, before she smacked me
upside the head and told me it was too bad I didn’t know some geography
in that “big history nerd brain” of mine. Because, apparently, Nashville to
Raleigh isn’t a “hop in your car on a whim” kind of drive.
It was great to see Sloane for the first time in months and only
confirmed that trying for the trade to Nashville is the right decision. But I
was late getting back to the hotel for my pre-game nap, and I desperately
needed the sleep after the way I’d tossed and turned last night. Then my nap
was cut short by another call from Lucy after she and Abby returned from
the pediatrician.
Turns out, Abby has hand, foot, and mouth disease, which was easy to
diagnose because right before they headed to the doctor’s office, the fever
broke and she developed a rash on her feet.
Lucy was eerily chill about the whole thing, and the fact that she wasn’t
freaking out is the only reason I didn’t immediately look for a flight home
after tonight’s game.
But I’m tired as fuck, and AJ is the last person on this planet I want to
talk to.
 “What?” I bark out. I don’t know why I let the mere sight of her rile me
up like this; it only fuels the fire.
She raises her eyebrows. “Seriously? That’s how you address your
GM?”
“Our history—our professional relationship—is too fucking long for
these games, AJ. What do you need?”
“I need you to keep your team under control tonight. I don’t know what
got into Colt in the last two games, but it can’t continue.”
“Lester’s still out for this game,” I say, referencing the player whose
nose Colt broke in Game 1 of the series, “so Colt will be just fine.”
“Like in the last game?”
“Hey, that was Carolina’s players coming after him in Game 2.”
“Yeah, and tensions will still be high, especially now that we’re in their
arena. After two losses and an epic fight, their players will be out for blood.
We need to be smart, not reactive.”
“I’ll pass your message along.” My voice is flat, because even though
she’s right—even though I actually do agree with her—the thought of
admitting that turns my stomach sour.
“You need to be the one to convince them to settle down out there,
McCabe.” She leans against the wall, crossing her arms under her chest.
The thin white turtleneck she’s wearing creases right between her breasts, a
fact I wish I didn’t notice—but she’s got curves for days and is
unfortunately attractive, no matter how much I hate her. “You’re not a
fucking parrot passing along my message. If I wanted it to come from me,
I’d say it to the team myself. I want you to be the leader they need, and tell
them to get their shit together and stop being so reactive.”
Grinding my teeth together, I try not to let her get under my skin.
Maybe I need to talk to someone about all this anger? Zach Reid has a
sports psychologist he raves about, and Drew started working with her
earlier this season, too. Maybe I should get her name from one of them?
Then again, if I’m only with the Rebels until the end of the season, I can
put up with AJ for that long.
“Understood.” The word comes out through clenched teeth, sounding
more like a growl than any tone that would be appropriate to use with your
boss.
Her cheeks grow pink, something I haven’t seen happen in the six years
she’s been in Boston. Back in St. Louis, though, I saw that look—
embarrassment mixed with anger—quite often.
Somehow, I can’t make myself care that I’m seeing it again. Or rather, I
can’t let myself care. Because the last time I did, she kicked my legs right
out from under me.
Turning away from her, I push through the door to the locker room, and
almost run smack into Coach. “Hey. Thanks for getting us out of that lunch
today.”
Wilcott rolls his eyes and says, “You’re so damn lucky you didn’t have
to be there. It was painfully awkward. But you don’t need to thank me. AJ
was the one who got you guys out of going. She’s always looking out for
you.”
Well, fuck.

I skate back toward the crease as the ref takes the puck to one of the face-
off circles in our defensive zone. “I told you before the game,” I say,
narrowing my eyes at Colt, “not to fucking antagonize Carolina.”
I broke down and had the talk with the team that AJ asked me to. But
Colt keeps chirping the Carolina players every time they say something to
him, and if that shit doesn’t stop, another fight’s going to break out like it
did in the first game of the series.
“Not my fault they keep running their mouths. It’s not like I’m going
after them. They keep coming at me.”
“You’re the one who broke Lester’s nose. Of course they’re pissed. He’s
their best player.”
Colt shrugs before turning his body toward the circle where players are
getting into position. “Too bad for them.”
“Just fucking knock it off,” I say, my tone stern. “You don’t have to
respond to every stupid thing they say. You’re smarter than that.”
I skate forward to line up for the puck drop, and when Drew manages to
get possession of it and passes it over to Walsh, I skate around one of
Carolina’s players to surge forward. But before the puck even heads my
way, I’m checked from the side, right into the glass.
As the ref blows his whistle, I calmly turn toward the guy who hit me. I
don’t think he even did it on purpose; I think he thought Walsh had passed
the puck back to me.
“Thanks for the power play, asshole.”
As I skate backward, away from him, Zach comes up on my other side.
“Nice job there.”
I know exactly what he means. If I’d reacted, I would have been sent to
the sin bin too, thus negating the benefits of the power play. “Thanks, I took
a page out of your playbook.”
Zach is known as one of the smartest players in the league. The mind
games he plays on the ice are brilliant—the way he eggs an opponent on
until they lose their fucking mind, but then skates away before a fight can
start—and make him a formidable opponent.
We learned earlier in the season, the one and only time I’ve ever seen
him fight in his professional career, that he avoids fights because he’s
actually a black belt in Aikido. The man is absolutely deadly with his hands.
I’m just thankful that we’re on the same team now, because playing against
him is torture and, like most players in the league, I’ve fallen victim to his
head games before.
“Fine work, grasshopper,” Zach says, dropping his voice low so he
sounds like a wise, old martial arts master.
Given that I’ve got almost a decade on him, that has me chuckling as I
turn to skate back to the same face-off circle we just left. And as I get in
position, my eyes flick over to the bench to see if Coach is setting up a line
shift, but the woman standing directly behind him, on the other side of the
glass, steals my attention. Her dark blue power suit is cut to her curvy
figure, and the off-white turtleneck she wears beneath it frames her face
between the jacket and her dark hair.
Even from across the ice, I can see the smug smile on her face. Her lips
turn up at the corners with the self-satisfied look of someone who just got
their way.
Because I just did exactly what she asked me to tell my teammates to
do: I didn’t react, I didn’t let my temper get the best of me or let myself be
goaded into a fight.
I want to tell her I did that because it was the smart choice in the
moment, not because of what she said earlier.
I didn’t do this for her, I did it for my team.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Five
AJ

“I ’m so glad you ended up coming,” I tell Colt’s fiancée, Jules, as we

stand outside the locker room after the Game 4 win. We officially won
our division and are moving on to the conference finals.
She laughs lightly. “You’re just saying that because he had a stellar
game.”
“Not gonna lie, I’m convinced he plays better when you’re here.”
With a teasing roll of her eyes, she brushes her long blonde hair over her
shoulder. “I mean, I’m not saying I’m his good luck charm . . .” She gives
me a little wink.
Jules is a complete boss, and having known her since before she and
Colt were “dating,” I can confidently say she’s the last person I’d ever have
expected to give someone with his reputation a chance. But a strange twist
of fate has them engaged—something only her family and I know is fake—
and now . . . it’s starting to feel very real. Especially since she flew down
here for this game to surprise him, is wearing a tank top with his name sewn
over a heart across her chest, and will be coming home on our team plane.
“I know you’re joking, but I’m not.” I lock eyes with her so she’ll know
I’m 100% serious. “You may need to travel with us for the rest of the
season.”
Her laugh is tight. “AJ, I have a job and a life, and I’m not dropping it
for a man. Not even for Colt.”
“But you know how superstitious hockey players are, right?”
 “Were you a hockey player?” she asks. “Because you really seem like
you’re buying into the idea of these superstitions.”
“Yeah, I’ve played my whole life.”
Her eyes widen. “Do you still play?”
“No, there’s not really time. But I’m on the ice whenever I can be.” I
don’t know why I admit this to her . . . it just kind of slips out. I’m normally
incredibly secretive about this, using our practice rink early every morning,
before anyone else is there. The only one who knows I still skate is Gerard,
the morning janitor, because he’s the only other person who’s there that
early. I’m sure if there was ever a reason to review the security footage, my
secret would be out. But I’ve managed to keep it under wraps for years.
“That’s amazing. I’ve never been very good at skating, I always left that
to Jameson and Colt.”
“Speaking of, if Colt gets it in his head that you’re his good luck
charm⁠—”
“Please, don’t put that idea in his head. Seriously. We have a waitlist a
mile long at Our House, and I’m already behind because I went up to
Montreal with him a couple weeks ago.”
“Yeah, about that . . . Remember earlier in the season when I was telling
you I had just moved into a new place, but I wanted to live with it a bit
before doing renovations . . .?” I trail off, hoping she’ll jump in and offer to
help, but she just told me how behind she is, so I’m not surprised that all
she does is nod. “I wasn’t kidding about wanting you and Audrey to work
on that renovation. I love the idea of supporting a female-owned and
operated business, and I really want it to be you two.”
“How do you even know that you’d like our work?” Jules asks, her big
blue eyes flicking toward the locker room like she can’t wait to see Colt.
And if the way he was looking at her during warmups, when she surprised
him at the glass, is any indication, I’m sure he can’t wait to see her too.
He’ll be the first one out of the locker room, no doubt, even though goalies
normally take forever.
“Because I sort of stalk your social media. It’s so well-done. Like it’s
curated enough that I have a sense of your design, but I also love that you
guys post a bit of personal stuff there as well.”
“That was all Morgan,” Jules says.
“Lauren’s cousin?”
 “Yeah. She’s really good at it, and neither Audrey nor I want to be
responsible for it.”
Morgan’s in her mid-twenties and came to Boston with Lauren when
she moved here a year and a half ago. Since then, she’s become close to
Audrey and Jules, but I had no idea she did that type of work. “I thought
she was Petra Ivanova’s personal assistant?”
“She is,” Jules explains, “but Petra’s closing her event planning
business now that the TV show has really taken off, and since the studio
already has a personal assistant for her, there’s not as much for Morgan to
do these days. She basically runs Petra’s online presence, and she’s started
her own social media consulting business on the side.”
Petra Ivanova is one of Lauren’s best friends, so I’ve gotten to know her
a bit over this past year. She’s a powerhouse of a woman and the face of the
award-winning talk show And Yet We Rise. Every week, she interviews a
woman who overcame great obstacles to redefine success in her field. The
show is both inspirational and aspirational—exactly the type of show I wish
had existed when I was younger. It doesn’t surprise me at all that it’s taken
off the way that it has, but it sounds unfortunate for Morgan.
“I had no idea. I should see if she can do some consulting for us. Our
social media manager, Tatum, is sweet, but she’s not doing anything as
innovative or trendy as I see some of the other teams doing.”
“Yeah,” Jules says, but her head is turning away from me and her whole
face lights up because Colt is walking down the hall toward us. “You should
talk to her.” And then she’s off, barreling down the hall toward him before
she jumps into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and nuzzling
her face into his neck.
I turn away, not to give them privacy so much as to prevent myself from
being sick at how in love they seem. I remember the early days with my ex,
the way it felt when he walked into a room, his gaze landing on me. You
could have lit the Eiffel Tower with how I radiated from his attention. And
look where it got me . . . cheated on and divorced.
Not that I think Colt, or really anyone else who isn’t a narcissistic
asshole, would have reacted the way Chet did in our situation. But still,
seeing two people so in love, especially in the early days, still hurts.
I just want to get on that plane and sleep while we fly home. I’m always
exhausted by the end of the season, but this year it feels particularly intense.
I’m not sure if it’s because early yesterday morning I caught a flight home
for Lauren’s bridal shower, and convinced Jules to come down for Game 4,
before flying back last night. Or if maybe I need to see my endocrinologist
about adjusting my medications?
I’m about to pull out my phone to shoot her a message when Charlie
walks up. I congratulate him on a good game, and we chat a bit about what
the next week should look like now that we don’t have to play Games 5, 6,
or 7. Round 3 of the playoffs won’t start until the following week, and it
feels like a gift for all of us to have a whole week without games or travel.
“The guys will be well-rested compared to either Philly or New Jersey,”
Charlie says, and I nod in agreement. Their fourth game finished up in
Philadelphia only minutes ago, and the teams are tied 2-2 in the series, so
they’ll be playing at least two more games next week, if not three. Whoever
wins, we’ll take on in Round 3 and hopefully our week off will give us an
advantage.
“I know you’ll want to practice,” I tell him, “but make sure not to
overdo it. They need to conserve their energy.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Charlie says as we walk out into the
humid evening air and across the parking lot to the bus.
I glance behind me, looking for Jules, because I’d offered her the seat
next to me on the plane home. But she’s tucked under Colt’s arm, and I
have a feeling he’s not going to let her go. Turning back toward the door of
the bus, I laugh to myself about how Drew, who normally sits next to Colt,
is going to lose his seat. But then the laughter dries up when I realize that
might mean Drew ends up next to me on this flight, as I’m the only one
who normally has a free seat beside me.
Whatever, we’ll all be sleeping anyway.

“I ’m sorry, but what the actual hell do you think you’re doing?” I say to
McCabe as I glance up at where he stands next to me, eyeing the seat
next to mine.
“Drew lost his seat to Jules, so I gave him mine,” McCabe says before
using one of his long legs to step right over me and toward the window seat
when I don’t move out of his way.
 “Why would you do that?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low, so I
don’t attract Charlie’s attention. He’s deep in conversation with our
assistant coach, Larry, and I’d love not to cause a scene. “You better not be
trying to talk to me about your contract.” Players aren’t allowed to negotiate
directly with management, and I don’t want it to look like anything
unethical is going on here.
“Relax, AJ. I’m just planning to sleep, and this is a nicer seat than what
we have.” He’s right; the seats up in this section are first-class, whereas the
rest of the plane is retrofitted with business class seats. Ours fully recline,
which is the only reason I can normally sleep on these flights.
“Fine,” I grumble, pulling my Kindle out of the seat pocket in front of
me.
“But I did have a question for you.”
“No. No questions, McCabe—not here. If you want to talk about your
contract, or this team, or anything else, drop by my office with your agent.”
He knows better. He knows the only conversation I can have about his
contract is with his agent, and we’ve already agreed to wait until the season
is over. Too damn bad for him if he’s having second thoughts now that
we’re headed into the third round of the playoffs. If he hadn’t wanted to
wait, he should have negotiated instead of throwing out such ridiculous
demands.
“Oh, so we’re at the not being able to talk without a mediator stage?”
His gruff voice has a hard, sarcastic edge like it always does now.
“No, we’re at the I’m exhausted and want to go to sleep, and not talk to
you stage.”
“Fine,” he says. “Answer one question for me, and then I’ll leave you
alone.”
I roll my eyes as I glance up at him, and I’m surprised at how bright
green his eyes are up close, even in the dim light. The practically permanent
scowl he wears usually has his eyebrows dipping low, and his green eyes
aren’t really able to shine like they used to when he was a fresh, young
player who I brought up to the NHL from our AHL affiliate.
Did I do that to him? Did I dim that spark when I traded him to Boston?
It’s not the first time I’ve wondered this, but I’ve never had the nerve to
ask. Man up and stop being such a scaredy cat, I hear my Dad’s voice, even
after all these years of trying to get him out of my head.
“Fine.”
 The plane starts taxiing toward the runway, and I glance down when I
sense McCabe’s fists tighten on the armrests on either side of him. But he’s
glanced out the window and I’m relieved he doesn’t see me looking, both
because I don’t want to be caught staring at him and also because if he’s
scared of flying, I’d be the last person he’d want to admit that to.
He turns back toward me, and his face is a mask. There’s no trace of the
fear I sensed a moment ago as he asks, “What were you doing in my
building the other afternoon?”
I have literally no idea what he’s talking about. “Your building? Like
where you live?”
He nods.
“I have no idea where you live, McCabe.” Why would I know anything
more than the fact that he lives in the city? Unlike some of the other
players, it’s not like he’s hosted big team events at his place.
“That seems unlikely, since I watched you walk into my lobby five days
ago.”
Five days . . . My eyebrows scrunch as I do the math. Five days ago was
right in between Games 1 and 2. We were at the children’s hospital that
afternoon, and I left right before it wrapped up because I needed to get
home and order takeout before my brother and his girlfriend arrived. They
tend to stay at my place when I’m out of town, both because it’s more
comfortable than their tiny apartment, and also so they can cat-sit my
extremely unfriendly cat, Tabitha.
“The only lobby I was in that afternoon was my own,” I say flippantly,
as the plane takes a turn onto the runway and begins increasing speed. What
is he on about?
“No, I’m pretty sure you were in my lobby.”
We look at each other, in a stalemate of sorts, because obviously only
one of us can be right in this instance. “Okay, so where do you live then?” I
ask, confident I can prove him wrong.
“89 Ashburn Street.”
This isn’t happening. I do a long, slow blink as the plane accelerates and
I feel the front wheels lift off the ground, but when I open my eyes, we’re
still on the plane and he’s still sitting next to me. How is this my life?
“Bullshit.”
“I think I know where I live, AJ.”
 Turning my head toward him, I open my eyes as I level him with a
glare. “That’s where I live.”
“Nooo.” The word is a low growl coming from between his clenched
teeth, and our eyes are locked like we’re each trying to convince the other
this isn’t possible.
“What unit are you in?” I ask.
“Why? You planning on visiting?”
I huff out a small laugh. “Making sure I can avoid you, is more like it.”
“1705.”
I press my eyes shut tightly. This isn’t possible. If this man lived across
the hall from me, surely I’d have seen him sometime in the last couple of
months since moving in.
“You?” he asks. His voice is tight, like it always is when he speaks to
me. Grumpy is McCabe’s default, but I’ve occasionally seen him relax
enough to look like he’s enjoying himself. Just never when he knows I’m
around.
“1706.”
I glance down in time to see his fists tighten on the arm rests again, and
now that we’re airborne, I know it’s not because of the takeoff.
“Well, this is awkward,” he says as he reclines his seat, closing his eyes
and resting his head against his headrest.
I guess this conversation is over?

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Six
AJ

O
rdinarily, I can’t wait to get home and into my own bed after a road
trip. This return trip is different—my body is jittery with nerves as I
approach my building.
I drive down the ramp into the underground parking garage and my eyes
are scanning the reserved spaces for McCabe’s black Range Rover. When
the elevator doors open, I half-expect him to be inside. And when I walk
down the hall of the seventeenth floor to my condo, my eyes flick over to
his door.
How is it possible that he lives right on the other side of the hall?
I wonder if I will feel this keyed up every time I come home now, or if
it’s just because this is new information?
My heart races as I step through my door, and I let out a deep sigh of
relief as if I narrowly avoided running into him. Even though I’ve lived
here for months and never seen him, now that I know that we’re not only in
the same building, but also just across the hall, I can’t help but expect him
to be everywhere.
Standing there with my back against the front door, I catch sight of my
asshole of a cat, Tabitha, who hisses at me as she arches her back, her black
fur standing on end, before she runs toward the doorway across from my
bedroom.
Just then, my brother steps into the hallway in nothing but a pair of
jersey shorts, and Tabitha snakes her way around his ankles, rubbing against
him like he’s her best friend. I’m not sure why she hates me, or if maybe
she just prefers men?
“Shit,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Did I wake you? It’s not even five
yet, I’m sorry.” I always try to be as quiet as possible when we get home
from a road trip, because the worst possible way to thank my brother and
his girlfriend for cat sitting is to wake them up at the ass crack of dawn.
“I was half-awake,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because Nicole had wine last night.”
The laugh comes from the back of my throat and sounds almost like a
snort. One of the first things Nicole and I bonded over when my brother
started dating her a year and a half ago was how much we both love red
wine, but how it makes us snore if we drink too much. Now that I’m not
sharing my bed with anyone, it’s not something I worry about, but my
brother’s always a little bitter when she chooses to drink it.
Taking a few steps forward while I roll my suitcase behind me, I step
out of the small entryway and into the living room. My eyes scan the space,
and I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Everything is organized, and it
looks lived-in, with no trace of the moving boxes that have been my
roommates for months.
“What the hell?” My gaze flicks over to my brother, where he’s rubbing
the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous.
“We made an executive decision while you were gone. You’ve lived out
of those boxes long enough. It’s time you were settled.”
I’ve been saying I’d “unpack the rest soon” or I’d “unpack once the
season’s over.” Nicholas obviously knows me well enough to know I’d
probably still be living out of those boxes next season too.
“So . . . what? You guys finished unpacking for me?”
He clears his throat as he bends to pick up Tabitha, and she cuddles into
his arms, closing her one eye and letting her front leg hang over his arm.
“Uh, we sort of hired a professional organizer to unpack and organize
everything.”
“You didn’t have to do that!” As a college senior who is working as a
waiter for the summer, he definitely doesn’t have the money for that.
“Well . . . please don’t be mad.” He widens his eyes in a silent plea. “I
sort of used your credit card for it.”
My chest shakes with laughter. “Of course you did.”
 I’m not mad in the least. The lightness I feel walking into this space and
not seeing evidence of all the things I have to do makes it worth whatever
was spent.
“Now you can just relax when you’re home.”
“That’s . . . really thoughtful, actually. Thank you.”
“You don’t even want to know what you spent on this?”
“Nope. I’m just glad it’s done.”
“Okay.” He releases a whooshing breath. “Nicole thought you might be
mad.”
“Nah,” I say. “I probably would have still been living with those boxes
when next season starts. It takes some weight off my shoulders not to have
to think about how I should be unpacking them. Plus, now when I need
something, I can just hunt through drawers and cabinets to figure out where
my shit is, instead of having to open up boxes.”
Truth be told, when I couldn’t find something I knew I already owned, I
usually ended up buying a new one. Because which is easier: buying a new
can opener, or rifling through five unopened boxes of kitchen stuff to find
it?
I’m not normally big on avoidance or wasting money. At work and in
my personal life, I’m more of a take-the-bull-by-the-horns kind of girl. But
for some reason, the weight of everything I still had to do to finish moving
in was crushing me. I couldn’t feel settled until it was done, but I also
couldn’t force myself to do it. Time was certainly a factor, but it was also
like I couldn’t allow myself to feel settled in this new place, and I’m still
not sure why.
“I’m relieved you’re not upset,” he says. “But you look exhausted. Did
you not sleep on the flight?”
I can normally sleep in any moving vehicle, but on last night’s flight—
with McCabe sleeping next to me after learning that we’re neighbors—I
don’t think I slept much, if at all. I’d close my eyes, but then thoughts of
running into him in our building kept haunting me. I fell asleep at one point,
because I dreamt that I was leaving very early to go to work and when I
opened my front door, he opened his too and was standing there in nothing
but a towel.
It was nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times in the locker room. But
something about that sight in my own building, and the way we locked eyes
and stood there staring at each other, jolted me awake. And after that, there
was no hope of going back to sleep.
I’ve never dreamt about one of my players before. Never allowed
myself to picture any of them in a state of undress, even though it’s a sight
I’m so used to. I don’t allow my eyes to go below shoulder level when I’m
in the locker room.
I’m a goddamn professional, and there’s no chance I’m ever looking at
one of my athletes as anything but the hockey players I hired them to be.
So why did I dream about McCabe in nothing but a towel?
“Yeah, I had a hard time sleeping,” I tell my brother. “I think I’m going
to head to bed and see if I can get a couple hours in.”
“You going to work today?”
“Maybe for a little bit,” I say. No one expects me to work on the
weekends, yet I find myself in my office most days.
“You promised you’d slow down once the trade deadline passed,” he
reminds me, needlessly. I’m a workaholic, and he knows that will never
change. But taking care of each other is just what we do.
When I don’t reply, he says, “Okay. Well, Nic and I are going to head
out early because she has a big test this week, so she’s going to the library
all day.”
“How long is this summer class she’s taking?”
“Six weeks.”
I let out a low whistle. “That must be intense.” Nicole is a nursing
major, and she’s taking one class this summer while also doing an
internship in the NICU at the children’s hospital.
“It keeps her pretty busy.” He doesn’t sound resentful, just like he
wishes he could have more time with her.
“What are you doing today?” I ask. “You’re not working until tonight,
right?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take care of some grocery shopping and errands so
Nic can study in peace.”
“She hit the lottery with you. You know that, right?”
He winks at me. “You trained me well.”
In truth, he hit the lottery with her too. Nicole is not only naturally
beautiful inside and out, she’s also low maintenance, incredibly smart, and
unequivocally kind. She thinks my brother walks on water, which, after the
upbringing we both had, is exactly the kind of partner he deserves. He treats
her like a queen, and she responds in kind. It’s the partnership every woman
wants, and they found it in their early twenties. I’m thrilled for them, even
while I’m a bit jealous that I’ve never had that.
“Let’s do dinner one night this week,” I say, moving my suitcase in
front of me. “I’ll cook.”
“Ugh . . .” The hesitation comes through loud and clear.
“I found a new recipe I want to try.”
“Do you remember what happened last time you cooked for us?” he
asks, slightly cringing.
I roll my eyes. “It was a tiny fire. Stop acting like I burned the place
down.” When I overheated the oil and it caught on fire in the pan, I froze
for a second while trying to figure out what to do. My brother raced in and
threw the lid on it, and the fire died out in seconds.
“How about you get the ingredients and I’ll cook,” he suggests.
“You don’t even know what I want to make.”
“So send me the recipe. We can make it together if you want. It’s never
too late for you to learn,” he says, but his voice betrays him. He sounds
doubtful, like he knows you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
Our seventeen-year age difference has never felt greater.
“Fine,” I say. “How’s Wednesday night?”
“I think we’re free,” he says, as I start heading across my living room
toward the hallway to the bedrooms. “I’ll check with Nic and let you
know.”
“Alright,” I say. “Goodnight. Or . . . whatever time of day it is.”
In my room, I fall into my bed fully clothed. The guys change into
sweats or more comfortable clothing once we’re on the plane, but I never
feel comfortable getting that casual around them. Luckily, I’ve managed to
find nice-looking dress clothes that are comfortable, too. And as I snuggle
into my pillow and pull the blanket that lays at the foot of my bed over me,
I’m so tired that changing into pajamas never even crosses my mind.
Unfortunately, thoughts of McCabe climbing into his bed across the
hall, trying to get a few more hours of sleep before his baby wakes up,
permeate my thoughts and keep me awake.
What the hell is happening?
I haven’t spent this much time thinking about McCabe since he punched
my now ex-husband eight seasons ago, dislocating his jaw and forcing me
to trade him.
 And you’re not going to start thinking about him now, damn it.
But telling myself that and actually doing it are two different things. It
seems I can’t stop my mind from racing through all the possibilities of how
things could have gone between us in the past. And try as I might, I can’t
come up with a single scenario that doesn’t end with him hating me.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Seven
McCabe

“W ith the Rebels sweeping Carolina in Round 2, news of their general

manager, Alessandra Jones, being voted into the top three finalists
for GM of the Year, and their first game of Round 3 at home
tonight . . . you’ve got to imagine that the team is feeling the pressure,”
sportscaster Ted Deveney’s voice carries through my living room. I glance
over at the TV from where I lie on my living room floor, flat on my back
with my arms extended above my head as I hold Abby above me, flying her
through the air like she’s a superhero.
Her giggles almost drown out Ted’s voice, but I still take note of his
mention of AJ being a finalist. That shouldn’t add pressure on our team, but
it does. Because AJ is the first woman to hold her position, she’s also the
first to receive this nomination. And the fact that she’s a finalist means that
it’s down to only her and two other men when they do the final round of
voting during the Stanley Cup finals.
Despite my personal feelings about her, professionally there is not a
single doubt that she deserves this award—and has deserved it for years.
Everyone in the Rebels organization, from the players to the owner, wants
to see her win it almost as much as they want to raise another Stanley Cup
banner at Liberty Arena at the start of next season.
We all feel the need to win this next series, to prove that AJ deserves
this award—that we’re the team we are today because of her.
 I played for the Rebels for a season and a half before she became our
GM, and that team didn’t have a shot in hell at the Cup. Now, we’re on the
road to possibly winning it for the second time since she arrived.
In those first couple of years, she hired a new coach, reorganized
management, and began building our team with the exact players we
needed to become a cohesive team instead of a group of hot-headed athletes
that were only in it for themselves. And we’ve been reaping the rewards
since.
“Or,” his co-host, Stefanie Flowers says, “they’re feeling super
confident as they open this series at home. After sweeping Carolina like
they did, I wouldn’t be surprised if we see them come into this series with
the explosive energy we saw in the last one. Especially since they’ve had a
week off to rest, while Philadelphia was battling it out in the second round
right up through Game 7.”
“Maybe,” Ted says. “I guess we’ll find out tonight. Tune in at 7 p.m.
when Boston takes on Philadelphia at home.”
I glance at the clock in the corner of the TV screen, noting that Lucy
should have been here a few minutes ago. Shit. Where is she?
While flying Abby through the air above my head, I’m contemplating
whether it was a mistake to give Lucy the week off to go to Nantucket. She
was pissed she would have to miss tonight’s party for his grandmother, but
this way, she got to be there for the week with his family. It felt like a good
compromise at the time.
Abby is teething and all that drool is getting precariously close to falling
onto my face, so I bring her in for a landing that has her squealing with
laughter. Setting her up with some toys on the floor, I’m hoping she’ll sit
still long enough for me to grab a burp cloth to wipe her face and find my
phone so I can make sure Lucy didn’t text me that she’d be late or anything.
Now that Abby’s crawling, I can’t take my eyes off her for a second—
but seeing her move around on her own is also pretty amazing. I’m not
ready for her to start walking yet, even though I know that’s the next big
milestone.
She’s almost ten months old, and I’m already feeling like the old adage
is true: the days are long, but the years are short. There have been days that
I thought would never end, and yet, looking back, I don’t know where the
time has gone. It feels like just yesterday she was a newborn with diapers
the size of my palm, and now she’s already pulling herself up to standing.
It’s hard to prevent my mind from jumping to her first day of kindergarten,
her first date, her wedding day.
My grandma used to tell me that I need to live more in the present and
less in the future. That’s never felt truer, and I’ve never wished she was still
here more than I do now. She would have loved meeting Abby. She would
have known exactly what to do in every situation, whereas half the time I
feel like I’m stumbling my way through parenting with no one around to
help me.
After wiping Abby’s face and quickly scrolling through my messages, I
see Lucy hasn’t texted me since before she left for Nantucket earlier this
week. There is, however, a message from Walshy in our team chat.
WALSH
Marissa thinks we should take AJ out tonight to celebrate her
nomination for GM of the Year. Who’s in?

Because I don’t have a wife or a serious girlfriend, alternate captain

Patrick Walsh’s wife, Marissa, acts as the “Head WAG.” She loves
organizing all the wives and girlfriends, and planning things like team
social events and playoff jackets. But she’s never suggested a social event
that crosses the line between players and management. We save that for
things like team-sponsored charity events and the annual Christmas party
the Hartmanns host. But taking our boss out for a beer? Never.
The enthusiastic replies of my teammates indicate that I’m the only one
who has a problem with this. Which makes sense. Everyone knows AJ and I
don’t get along, but I’ve never told anyone what she did to me in St. Louis.
People can love her as a GM if they want. I did . . . until she betrayed me at
the worst possible time in my life.
I wish she wasn’t so damn present, though. I wish she wasn’t
everywhere I turned at work. I wish I didn’t now know she lives across the
hall from me. I wish I could forget the moment back in St. Louis when I let
my attraction to her make me act without thinking. I wish that she’d grown
less attractive over the years, instead of more.
Fuck. Get it together, man.
I’m not the naive twenty-five-year-old I was then. I’m old enough to
know better than to be attracted to someone so damn infuriating. Not to
mention she’s screwed me over once before and seems willing to do it
again.
 MCCABE
Sorry, I can’t. Have to get home to the baby right after the
game.
DREW
Don’t you have a nanny?
MCCABE
Yeah, a fucking unreliable one who isn’t even here yet and I
was supposed to leave ten minutes ago.

God, I miss my old nanny, Stacy. She was perfect at her job, but I knew
when I hired her in the fall that she was moving in May. I’m lucky I had her
as long as I did, but Lucy is in no way a suitable replacement.
I sit on the floor next to Abby, and she crawls up into my lap, standing
on my legs and stretching up toward my face. Tilting my head down toward
her, I pucker up for what I know will be a sloppy kiss. And the girl doesn’t
disappoint. I have what feels like a gallon of drool on my lips and chin. A
year ago, that would have made me want to throw up, but now it just leaves
me with the goofy grin I can never get rid of when Abby does something
cute.
A few minutes later, the grin is gone. Lucy’s now half an hour late. I
pick up my phone, watching Abby standing on her knees and swinging her
favorite stuffed puppy around by his floppy ear as I dial Lucy.
She sounds both surprised and confused when she answers with a
startled, “Hello?”
I pause, noticing the music in the background. “Where are you?” I ask
the question, even though I’m afraid I already know the answer.
“I’m at Tim’s grandma’s party.” Her voice still carries notes of
confusion, like I should already know this and she’s not sure why I’m
calling.
“You were supposed to be here half an hour ago, Lucy. I have a game
tonight.”
“No, I texted you three days ago and told you I wasn’t going to make it
back to Boston until tomorrow. I said to let me know if you wanted me to
see if one of my friends could watch Abby, and I didn’t hear back, so I
figured you were all set.”
“What the actual fuck are you talking about?” I ask.
Lucy knows I needed her here. When I offered her the week off, I made
it perfectly clear that she needed to be back here today in time for me to
leave for my game. She happily agreed, and I’d been able to get a woman,
Tammy, who used to watch Drew and Audrey’s son, to come babysit Abby
the two mornings I had practice. But since I knew Lucy would be back
today, I don’t have anything lined up for tonight.
“I don’t understand.” Lucy sounds genuinely confused. “If it wasn’t
okay for me to stay, why didn’t you say so.”
“I did.” The words come out in a roar that scares Abby, and her lower
lip starts to wobble as her eyes fill up with tears. The last thing I want to do
is upset my daughter, so I scoop her up in my free arm, holding her to my
chest and giving her a quick kiss on the forehead, before lowering my
voice. “I did tell you that. Both times you asked. And then I gave you a paid
week off to make up for you having to miss tonight’s party, and you agreed
to that under the condition that you’d be back in time for tonight’s game.”
“Well, I changed my mind, and I gave you three days’ notice.”
“No, you didn’t. And it wouldn’t have mattered if you gave me three
weeks’ notice, Lucy! I don’t have anyone else to watch Abby, and I’m
supposed to be at the rink, getting ready for my game. This is a job. You
don’t get to just show up when you feel like it. You show up when you’re
scheduled to work, because that’s what I’m paying you to do.”
I can’t even imagine what was going through her head when she made
this decision. This isn’t just about me and my job. Abby is a baby, totally
helpless and dependent on the adults in her life to take care of her. That’s
when it hits me. While, legally, Lucy may be an adult, she certainly doesn’t
know how to act like one. And I’m at fault here because, even though I had
reservations, I hired her.
In the background, I can hear someone say something to her, and Lucy
hums in acknowledgement.
“I don’t appreciate your tone,” she says. “You’re acting like I didn’t tell
you.”
I ignore the comment about my tone because, while I think she deserves
it, I’ve been told before that I’m way too “grumpy and growly.”
“Because you didn’t tell me.”
“Hold on, I’m going to send you a screenshot of the text.” There’s
silence for a second, and then she grunts out, “Shit!” Another pause, then
she’s back and tells me, “The message didn’t send. It has that little failure
notification next to it, which I didn’t see until now.”
 It doesn’t matter what happened; the issue is that she’s not here now.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with Abby tonight while I’m playing?”
“I don’t know, Mr. McCabe, but I can’t do anything about it from
Nantucket.”
I can feel my whole body tensing up, and I don’t want to hurt Abby
where she’s snuggled against me so I force myself to relax. “Here’s a piece
of advice from your former employer. Next time you feel like not coming
into work, make sure you get approval from your boss before not showing
up.”
“My former employer?” she squeaks out. Did she think I’d keep her
after this stunt?
“Don’t have anyone call me for a reference. And don’t expect a
paycheck for this week.”
“But you said I could have a paid week off!” Her voice is awfully whiny
when she doesn’t get her way.
“I said you could have a paid week off, as long as you were back here
for tonight’s game. Which you’re not. Enjoy Nantucket.”
Hanging up, I look down at Abby where her big blue eyes are focused
up on me. Maybe one day we’ll look back on this night and laugh.
“Guess you’re coming to work with Daddy.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Eight
AJ

I
don’t know what I expected when Charlie texted me to say, “I need you
in the locker room,” but it wasn’t twenty grown men singing nursery
rhymes at the top of their lungs.
Pausing for a moment outside the door, I let out the giggles that are
rising up at the horribly off-key rendition of “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.”
There’s no way I’m walking in there with a smile on my face—not when
the team is supposed to be on the ice for warmups, but is instead . . . I don’t
even know? Reverting to childhood revelry?
When I push open that door, I’m greeted by the uniformed backs of my
players, who are standing shoulder to shoulder in a circle. They’re lightly
bouncing up and down on their skates, and they’re all doing the hand
gestures as they sing “. . . down came the rain and washed the spider out!”
I push between two of the players, and my presence inside the circle has
a hush gradually falling over the team. The last man singing is Colt, who
looks like a giant standing at least six and a half feet tall with his skates on.
He’s got one arm across his stomach with a baby girl sitting on his forearm
facing out, and he’s holding her back against his chest with his opposite
hand.
The minute the singing stops, she bursts into tears.
“Ahhh, come on, AJ,” Luke Hartmann says, “we just got her to stop
crying.”
 I want to laugh at the ridiculous scene in front of me. When Charlie
texted me, I figured something must be wrong. I never expected that the
boys were too busy babysitting to take the ice. So I keep my voice slow and
deliberate when I ask, “Why is there a baby in the locker room?”
The far side of the circle parts, and Ronan McCabe sits at his locker
stall, bent over and lacing up his skates. His head snaps up, and he uses one
hand to brush back the tendrils of dark hair that have fallen across his
forehead.
When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look anything like the angry, annoyed
man I normally see. He looks more like the college kid I drafted back in St.
Louis—the kid with bright green eyes and a cocky smirk, who walked onto
his D1 hockey team and ended up getting drafted to the pros his junior year
—than the pro-hockey player who’s spent the past eight years hating me.
He looks . . . lost.
As he bites his lower lip, I can’t take my eyes off him, and I can’t stop
wishing he hadn’t just done that. I don’t want to notice that full lip or the
row of perfectly straight teeth sinking into it. I don’t want to notice the way
his eyes heat when he looks at me, or the way they sweep from my face
down my body and back up again so quickly I’m not sure it actually
happened. Because Ronan McCabe hasn’t looked at me with this lost puppy
dog look in a very long time, and the last time he did, it ruined my marriage
and almost ruined his career.
Silence stretches on for a few seconds too long as we stand there staring
at each other.
Then his adorable daughter lets out a real wail, and he stands quickly,
rushing over to her. As he holds her tenderly, snuggling her against his chest
and shushing her as he bounces lightly on his skates, I wish I wasn’t seeing
this side of him either.
Because the hard, resentful man who’s played for me the past six years
is easy to boss around and easy to dismiss. But seeing this human side of
him that reminds me of who he used to be? This isn’t going to be good for
either of us.
“Again,” I say once the baby has settled down. “Can someone explain
why there’s a baby in the locker room? And why you’re all in here when
you’re supposed to be on the ice for warmups?”
Charlie clears his throat, but when I look at him, he’s watching McCabe
standing there, bouncing his baby in his arms.
 As my eyes track over to our captain, he says, “My nanny didn’t show
up tonight.”
The other guys stay silent, watching this stare down between us.
“After making you late for our flight in the last series, and now not
showing up, she’s sounding more and more like someone who shouldn’t be
responsible for a baby.”
“Which is why she isn’t my nanny anymore.”
“So, what is the plan for your daughter during this game?” I ask,
crossing my arms over my chest..
He clears his throat and shrugs. “I haven’t gotten that far. But I couldn’t
exactly leave her home alone.”
“Obviously,” I say, unable to resist rolling my eyes. “Alright, give her
here, and get your asses out on the ice.”
“What?” His head rears back in shock, like I’m the last person he’d
leave his baby with.
“I’ll take care of her,” I assure him.
“I’m not expecting you to watch her while I play.”
“Well, someone has to,” I say, looking around. “And every other person
in this room needs to be on that bench tonight. So unless you don’t want to
play, hand her over.”
He eyes me dubiously.
“Alright,” Charlie says loudly. “Everyone else on the ice while McCabe
and AJ work this out.”
“You good?” Drew asks McCabe from beside him, which makes me
wonder if he’s afraid to leave the two of us alone in a room together. That
thought has a laugh slipping out—because if they only knew—and twenty-
three sets of eyes settle on me.
A flush creeps up my neck. “You all are acting like I can’t possibly take
care of a baby for the next few hours.”
“Nooo,” McCabe says slowly. “We’re acting like it’s not your job to
take care of a baby, especially during a game.”
“My job,” I say, a hard edge to my voice as I lock my gaze back on him,
“is to make sure my players are on the ice and ready to play. And if taking
care of your baby in an emergency situation is what I need to do for you to
go out there and win, it’s what I’m going to do.”
“On the ice, boys,” Charlie snaps, as McCabe and I remain squared off
like we’re ready to fight. And as everyone around us filters out of the room,
we stay six feet apart, locked in a battle of the wills.
“I don’t want to be that guy,” McCabe says quietly before pressing his
lips to his daughter’s head while bouncing her in his arms.
“What guy is that?”
“The one who asks his GM, the only female in the room, to watch his
kid.”
Well, that’s unexpectedly thoughtful.
“You’re not asking, I’m insisting. And while I appreciate your attention
to gender roles, in this situation, it doesn’t matter. I need you out there on
the ice tonight. I need you to play. And if being responsible for her so you
can do your job is what’s needed, that’s what I’m going to do. It’s what any
GM should do in this situation—male or female.”
“You know that no one else in your position would do this, right?” he
asks, voice quiet.
“Maybe not,” I admit. But I’m not about to let my pride—the fact that
I’m in charge of an entire hockey organization, and not a damn babysitter—
get in the way of my team winning tonight. “But we need this win, which
means I need you out there.”
“Can’t win without me, huh?” He’s teasing, but I hear what he’s saying
—I need to sign him to a new contract. But for that to happen, he needs to
compromise. Which is a conversation for another time.
“I’d rather not find out tonight. So get out on the ice.”
“She can be really fussy with new people,” he warns and, as if she
understands him, her face scrunches up and she lets out a cry. She looks
pissed off, and I can’t blame her. If I’d been passed around a circle of
hockey players singing off-key, I’d be pissed too.
“We’ll be fine,” I assure him.
“She’s teething.”
“Most babies do.”
“It’s almost her bedtime.”
“She can sleep on me.”
“Are you really sure you want to do this?” he asks with a subtle shake
of his head. “The optics . . .”
“I don’t give a shit about the optics, Ronan!” I say, and his look of
surprise as I use his first name—something I haven’t done in the entire time
I’ve been in Boston—stops me for a moment. “What matters tonight, is
winning. After that, we can focus on finding you a new nanny.”
 His eyebrows dip and he looks at me suspiciously. “Why are you doing
this?”
“Doing what?” I ask on an exasperated breath. He’s acting like I’m
offering him my kidney, instead of offering to help him out with this baby
for a few hours. I can’t go out there and play for him, so I’ll do everything
else that’s within my power to ensure a win.
“Helping me?”
“What part of we need to win tonight isn’t resonating?” This man is
infuriating. It’s like he needs to question everything I say and turn every
conversation into a fight, and I’m already tired of saying the same thing
over and over.
He sighs so deeply it seems to physically deflate him, and then he
places his baby into my outstretched arms. “Don’t make me stop hating you
now.” His words are practically whispered as he watches me take his baby
and turn her so she’s facing me.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply flippantly as I hold his little cuddle bug
against my chest. She settles immediately, no trace of the fussy baby who
was being passed around the circle minutes ago. I run my fingertips up and
down her back, and her head grows heavy on my breasts. “Does she have a
name?”
I already know her name, of course. I take my job as GM seriously, and
make sure I know my players’ families. Too bad I never thought to
memorize their home addresses. It could have saved me from buying a
place across the hall from McCabe.
“Abby.”
“Hey, Abby,” I coo down at her, and her eyes flutter closed, long
eyelashes resting against her chubby cheeks. I glance back up to find him
watching us closely. “Do you have one of those baby carriers so I can strap
her onto me?”
He presses his lips together and turns, walking over to a stroller I didn’t
even notice off in the corner near the door to the athletic trainers’ room.
Bending down, he pulls some sort of canvas backpack-looking thing from
the storage space beneath the seat.
“Help me get her strapped into this,” I tell him, “and then I need you out
there warming up.”
His eyes close briefly—a long blink that someone else might not even
notice, but it says a lot to me about how hard it is for him to accept this
help.
Standing in front of me, he lines the baby holder up against Abby’s back
and then asks me to hold it in place before moving to stand behind me.
Reaching around my hips, I can sense how tense he is, how careful he’s
being not to touch me. But when he slips the padded straps under Abby’s
legs, his forearms graze my hip bones before he brings the straps up around
my waist, lifting my blazer as he clips them together behind me. There’s no
way for him to avoid touching me as he tightens the waist strap.
“You just need to slip your arms through these shoulder straps,” he says.
“My jacket will get bunched up and uncomfortable like this,” I say as I
hold one arm out. “Can you pull this sleeve so I can get my arm out?”
He holds the end of my sleeve with two fingers, like he’s touching trash
—really, I just know he’s avoiding touching me. And I pull my arm out,
then slip it through the shoulder strap, before pushing it back into the sleeve
of my blazer. After repeating the motion on the other side, Abby’s secured
to me and already half asleep.
“Such a fussy baby,” I say, rubbing Abby’s back through the soft carrier.
His head snaps toward me, but his face relaxes when he realizes I’m
teasing, and then his entire expression softens when he sees how
comfortable Abby is with me.
I’m not sure why, but babies love me. It’s a cruel trick of nature, I guess,
to give a woman who can’t have kids the ability to calm any baby she
comes into contact with. The unfairness of it all used to get to me, but now I
just embrace this gift and snuggle everyone else’s children any opportunity
I have.
“I’m not sure why, but she seems to like you,” he says.
A laugh bursts out of me and startles Abby, her arms and legs flying out
quickly. But I wrap my arms around her, shushing her and saying, “Don’t
let your dad’s grouchiness get to you, babe. We’ve got this.” Then I level
him with a look, and using my bossiest voice, I say, “Can you please go do
your job now?”
“Are you sure you’re okay with her?”
“I’m positive.”
“You’ll come get me if you’re not?”
“I won’t be coming to get you, because we’ll be fine. Now go out there
and play, and don’t think about us again until the game is over.”
“Where are you sitting?” he asks.
 “I’ll be in the owners’ box with the Hartmanns,” I tell him. “And I’ll
probably stop by and see the Flynns, too.”
“Behind the bench, right?” he asks, as if everyone on the team hasn’t
given Drew endless shit this season about the way he can’t take his eyes off
Audrey every single time he comes off the ice.
“Right. But for real, you don’t need to check on us. We’ll be fine. Now
go do your job.”
“Okay. There’s a diaper bag in the bottom of the stroller with extra
diapers, wipes, and a changing pad, and there’s a bottle of water and
formula in there too if she needs it.”
It’s obvious how uncomfortable he is leaving Abby with me. But he
brushes his fingertips across her head before turning to pick up his gloves,
and then walks out the door just the same.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Nine
AJ

I
take a moment in the empty locker room to practice walking around with
Abby. I’ve got plenty of experience holding babies, but not while
walking around a crowded hockey game in three-inch heels. Once I feel
more steady on my feet, I walk out into the empty hallway, taking it slowly.
The last thing I need is to insist he trust me with his child, and then have
some sort of mishap.
The noise from the arena isn’t that bad right now during warmups, but
once they take the ice for the beginning of the game and the arena is full of
screaming fans, music, and the announcers, it’ll be a different story. I feel
like Abby needs those little baby noise-canceling earmuffs. Then again, she
probably won’t be at another game, and it’s unlikely this one experience
could damage her ears.
Plus, I think babies tend to sleep best with noise, and he did say that it
was her bedtime. With any luck, she’ll sleep through this whole thing.
“Something you’re wanting to tell us, Miss?” Ralph, the nighttime
security guard for this floor, jokes as he sees me walking toward the
elevator with a baby.
“Did you miss my whole maternity leave?” I wink at him. With my
high-profile role in this organization and my no-nonsense attitude toward
my job and my team, no one is going to expect to see me walking around a
game with a baby strapped to me tonight.
 Little do they know that, once upon a time, I wanted nothing more than
to be a mother. I’d have left everything behind, scrapped my entire career, if
it had been possible. But it wasn’t. And that’s when I learned that my
husband, the same man who’d initially been attracted to my drive and
ambition, basically only saw me as a vessel for his future children, which I
was unable to have. It was all downhill from there.
“Whose baby you steal?” Ralph asks.
“McCabe’s.”
Ralph eyes me like he’s about to ask why McCabe’s baby is at work
with him, but most players’ kids come to at least the beginning of home
games with their wives or nannies, or both, before going home to bed.
Instead, he just nods and extends his key card to the electronic pad on the
wall to call the private elevator for me.
“You have a nice night, Miss.”
For the first three seasons I was here, I constantly asked Ralph to call
me AJ instead of Miss. But eventually it stopped feeling like he was calling
me out for being, at the time, the only woman in management, and I
accepted that because my position in this organization is higher than his,
addressing me with a title was just how he was raised. “You too, Ralph.”
He continues down the hallway as I stand waiting for the elevator, and
when I step into it, I’m surprised to find Lauren standing there. Her mouth
drops open as she takes me in.
“You have a baby. At a hockey game.”
I chuckle at her perplexed expression. “This is Abby.”
“McCabe’s daughter?” she asks, leaning in to get a closer look.
“Yep.”
“Is this a kidnapping? Do I need to stage an intervention here?” She’s
teasing me rather than asking the question I know she’s really wondering:
what circumstances could possibly result in him handing over his child to
his boss, a woman he so clearly hates?
“His nanny didn’t show up tonight. Former nanny, I guess. Sounds like
she’s been pretty unreliable.”
“Ahh,” Lauren says, nodding knowingly. “Yeah, he had Tammy watch
her this week during practices.”
“Tammy, your old nanny?”
“Yeah,” Lauren says with a little laugh, because she retired from being a
preschool teacher, only to wind up as a nanny for Audrey and Drew’s son
for a few years, and then for Lauren’s twins until they were old enough for
preschool. “Now that she’s officially retired, she had some time to help out
this week while his nanny went to Nantucket.”
“Sounds like maybe she didn’t come back,” I say as we ride the elevator
up.
“Hey, speaking of McCabe, did you ever speak to him about the
fighting in the crowd like Frank asked you to?”
“Shit, no. I was supposed to talk to him before tonight, since this is our
first game back on home ice.” I’m relieved that Lauren mentioned this
before I see Frank in a couple of minutes.
Maybe he’ll be so distracted by the baby that he’ll forget to ask me
about it. He was born to be a grandfather, but unfortunately for him, none of
his boys are ready to settle down and give him grandkids—a fact he
reminds them of far too often. In the meantime, he loves spending time with
the players’ kids and will probably already know who Abby is the second he
sees her asleep on me.
“Well,” she says as the elevator stops and we step out on the club level.
“Let’s see if he says anything.”
“You’re headed there now, too?”
“Yeah, he asked me to stop by before the game.”
“That’s weird.”
“Maybe I’m getting fired?” Lauren says with a shrug, and I laugh,
because we both know there’s no way she’s getting fired. If anything, he
probably wants to give her more responsibility. If there’s one thing Frank
Hartmann excels at, it’s the business-side of hockey—knowing what people
are capable of, and making sure they’re in a position to be successful. But
he wouldn’t do anything without telling me first, which makes me think
he’s just trying to get her comfortable with the idea of taking on a bigger
role, so that she’ll be ready when an opportunity arises.
I ignore the looks shot my way as we walk through the private floor
that’s only accessible to people with box seating or season tickets in the
club level below the boxes. Most people around here know who I am, even
if I don’t know them, and I’m sure they’re all equally shocked to see the
GM of the Boston Rebels walking around a game with a baby on her.
For a split second, I wish Abby was my baby, because I’d love to be the
one to normalize women in sports bringing their babies to work. But that
ship sailed a long time ago.
E ven though my back is killing me from carrying Abby on me for the first
period, I head down the steps toward the Flynn’s sixth row seats as the
team skates out onto the ice for the second period. Lauren said they had an
empty seat tonight, and if McCabe spends one more second of this game
looking up at the stands for Abby, I’m going to fucking throttle him. He’s
playing okay, but he’s distracted, and I want one hundred percent of his
focus to be on the ice.
“Here, we left you the aisle seat,” Lauren says, gesturing to the seat next
to her as I reach their row.
“Thanks.” I say hello to Lauren’s fiancé Jameson, his sisters Jules and
Audrey, and Audrey’s son Graham before I sink into the cushions, thankful
the seats on this club level are padded. Abby’s been great tonight, as long as
I’ve been moving. The constant din of noise hasn’t bothered her at all, and
she’s slept most of the first period, only startling awake if there’s a sudden
loud sound—or if I stop moving.
But I didn’t think about what it would feel like to have twenty pounds
strapped to my chest for this long, while standing in heels. My lower back
aches, and my shoulders and upper back are sore as hell, too. And we’re
only a third of the way through the game. She’ll probably stay asleep if I
keep patting her back like this.
I watch the players circle the ice before skating to the bench, and
McCabe comes in last—probably because his eyes are cast up to the stands,
and when they land on me, sitting there with Abby, they widen before the
corner of his lips turn up in a half-smile. It should be illegal for a guy to
have eyes that green or black lashes that long, not to mention a legendary
scowl that turns into a grin that fucking melts women’s hearts.
Not mine, though. Definitely. Not. Mine.
The entire crowd makes a collective “oooo” sound, and that’s when
Lauren’s elbow meets mine, and I glance up at the Jumbotron. McCabe’s
stupidly handsome face is plastered there, head tilted back and his huge
green eye staring up. Next to him, in big white block letters, it says, “Who’s
McCabe looking at?”
I glance down at Abby before the camera can pan to me, because even
though I know it will anyway, I don’t need to see myself enlarged up there
as well. Hopefully, all they’ll focus on is his baby, not me.
 “All clear,” Lauren whispers a few seconds later, and when I glance up,
the video on the screen is showing the players lining up for the first face off
of the second period.
“How long was I up there for?”
“Just a few seconds. Saved by the start of the period.”
Shit. I probably should have stayed in the owner’s box. Because now I
see what McCabe was talking about in the locker room—his GM watching
his kid during a game is likely not something that would ever have
happened if I was a male.
There’s no doubt it was the right call, the necessary move in the
moment. But I can’t help wondering how the public will perceive it, or how
my colleagues will view it when it comes time for the final votes for GM of
the Year to be cast.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Ten
McCabe

“I need you for the press,” AJ tells me when I’m walking down the hall
toward the locker room after a tough loss tonight. I didn’t play my
best, and I know I was distracted—a point that was made abundantly
clear when AJ came down to the glass before we cleared the bench at the
end of the second period and read me the fucking riot act. In front of my
teammates. In front of the crowd.
“Not tonight.” I barely get the words out through my clenched teeth.
I’m pissed—a little at her for calling me out publicly, but mostly at me for
letting myself get distracted like that during a game.
She assured me that Abby would be fine with her. But I spent so much
of the first period trying to get my eyes on them, to see for myself that Abby
was okay, that she had to come down and sit in the stands just so I could
focus on the game.
And every single time I glanced over after that, Abby was contentedly
snuggled into AJ, probably asleep. I wish I could say that I kept glancing
over because I was worried about Abby, but the truth—a truth I will never
reveal to a single living soul—is that I couldn’t stop looking at her holding
my baby.
Seeing AJ with Abby was like seeing a whole other side of her. A softer
side that I hadn’t seen her reveal in years. I want to forget what she used to
be like, before her asshole ex-husband hardened her, before she had to seal
herself off because now she’s everyone’s boss.
 Because that version of AJ—the one I saw when she was the scout who
recruited me to the NHL, and the one I still saw glimpses of after she was
promoted to assistant GM in St. Louis—that’s the version of her I could
have had feelings for, if she wasn’t married at the time.
“Listen,” she says, one hand on the stroller as she pushes it back and
forth. I glance down to see Abby sleeping peacefully, no trace of the
fussiness she normally exhibits around strangers. “You need to be in there
because there was another fight in the stands tonight. It’s the third home
game in a row that this has happened at, and it’s always our fans, and
they’re always wearing your jersey.”
“I don’t have control over how the fans act, AJ.”
“You have a lot more influence than you realize. And this organization
needs you to say something about what’s acceptable behavior for our fans,
because this reflects poorly on Boston . . . on our players, our fans, our
arena. Every aspect of this organization suffers from shit like this. You have
to see that.”
“Sure.” I shrug. “But I’m not our fans’ behavior police.”
“I don’t need you to be the behavior police. I need you, when asked
what you think about the recent fights that have broken out in the stands, to
say something about appreciating the fans’ enthusiasm, but that fighting’s
not acceptable behavior at games, except between players on the ice.”
My fists clench and I pause for a brief second, wondering if she’s
intentionally goading me. Because the last time I got in a fight off the ice,
she traded my ass so fast I was left wondering what the hell had happened.
“I don’t need the fucking reminder that off-ice fighting isn’t okay,” I tell
her, hating how I can feel my cheeks burning. I live with that reminder
every day. My heart still breaks every single time I think about what I
missed out on when I was traded to Boston. “But neither you nor I have
control over what fans do in the stands.”
“See, you keep saying that, but I don’t think that’s true. These are grown
men who idolize you because you’re living the dream they never achieved.
You tell them to change their behavior, and I bet they’ll fall in line.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “We’ll never know, will we?”
“You have ten minutes to change and be in that pressroom. I’ll see you
there.”
I glance down, wanting to stroke my daughter’s cheek but afraid I’ll
wake her. “What about Abby?”
 “Lauren’s going to stay and watch her so I can be at the press
conference.”
“Making sure I fall into line?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, so she might
think I’m teasing. But I’m not, and I’m sure she knows it.
“Someone’s got to, McCabe.”
I take a small step toward her. She’s tall, but she still has to look up at
me from this distance. “And you think it’s going to be you?”
The question is bordering on flirting. It’s the kind of thing I’d have said
to her eight years ago, and I need to shut that shit down. Because no matter
how attractive I find her, and it’s even more so after seeing her with Abby, I
know that nothing comes before hockey for AJ.
She not only traded me, but she demoted her own husband after that
fight, sending him back to the AHL as a head coach and calling it a
promotion. No one was fooled, because clearly an assistant coaching job in
the pros is a step up from a head coaching job in the minors.
She squares her shoulders, and I have to wonder if the bead of sweat
that falls from my hair down the side of my face is from the game I just
played, or from sparring with her.
Her dark eyes narrow. “It’s either going to be me, or it’s going to be
your next GM. I guess it depends on how badly you want to stay in
Boston.”
I swear ice runs through her veins, because this woman can be painfully
cold. I don’t know why I like that side of her so much.
“I guess we’ll see, then,” I say, before turning and heading into the
locker room to get changed for a press conference I don’t want to attend.
When I take my seat at the table in front of the microphones, Walsh on
one side of me and Colt on the other, I wish we’d had time to shower.
Because it’s hot as hell in this small room, and even the clean t-shirts we
changed into and the Rebels hats we threw on to hold our sweaty hair out of
our faces are doing nothing to hide the stench of three guys who just played
their asses off and still came up short.
The first few questions are about the game—about what we could have
done differently, whether we got just a little bit cocky after sweeping
Carolina in the last series, and what we plan to do differently when we take
Philadelphia on again in two days. Our answers are the same, bland answers
we always give because we can’t say anything about strategy, our players’
strengths, or the other team’s weaknesses.
 And the longer we sit there, avoiding their questions, the more annoyed
I am that we constantly have to play this stupid game with the press. We’re
never going to give them the answers they’re looking for, but we have to sit
here pretending after every game. All I want to do is hop on the bike and
move some of this lactic acid out of my legs, which are already starting to
cramp up, and then get Abby home and in bed.
So when the question comes, I’m already in a bad mood. And even
though AJ told me how she wanted me to respond—maybe even because
she practically dictated my response and then threatened not to renew my
contract if I didn’t act accordingly—I do the exact opposite.
When the friendly question is lobbed my way, asking what I think about
the fact that so many fights have broken out at our home games lately, I say,
“I don’t think about it.”
Beside me, Colt clears his throat, clearly telling me that wasn’t the right
answer.
“In every instance, the fans involved were wearing your jersey,” the
reporter says. “What would you say to those fans? Do you condone their
actions?”
My eyes flick to AJ where she’s standing in the back of the room, her
face unreadable—just how she seems to like it. I don’t take my eyes off her
when I respond. “Hockey can be a violent sport. But being the captain of
my team doesn’t mean I’m in charge of the fans. So I don’t have anything
to say about their behavior.”
I hear the low groan that rattles out from both Walsh and Colt, too
quietly for the microphones to pick up, but I don’t give a shit. All I care
about is the fire I see brewing in AJ’s eyes. I like that way more than the
impassive expression she was wearing a moment ago.
“Was your daughter in the stands tonight?” The question rings out from
a reporter I most definitely didn’t call on, so I should probably ignore it. But
when I get riled up, I have a hard time controlling my mouth.
“Why is that your business?” I ask as my head snaps to the young
woman who’s new this year.
“Well, when your general manager is the only female up for the GM of
the Year award, but then appears to be babysitting your kid at a game”—she
looks around at the other reporters—“we naturally have questions about
that.”
 I scoff, about to respond with a very sarcastic, “Naturally,” when AJ’s
voice takes over from the back of the room.
“I’d like to take that question, since it’s about me,” she says, taking the
steps down the side of the room until she’s on the same level as the table
where we’re sitting. “I was not asked to watch McCabe’s daughter tonight; I
insisted on it. And I don’t like the implication that it’s because I’m a
woman.”
She levels the young female reporter with a look that has her shrinking
back in her seat. “When you’re the general manager of a team, you make
hard decisions. But helping a player out when his nanny doesn’t show up
isn’t one of them. That decision was easy. He needed to play, and I had the
power to make that happen.” She folds her arms under her chest and lifts
her chin as she adds defiantly, “If there’s another GM in the league who
wouldn’t have done the same in that situation, maybe he doesn’t truly have
the best interests of his team at heart.”
It’s mayhem as everyone throws more questions out, but AJ remains
eerily calm as she says, “Thanks so much for your questions, but we’re
going to let our players wrap up their night. See you again after our next
game.”
She turns and is the first one out the door, but when Walsh, Colt, and I
follow her into the hall, she grasps my forearm. Looking up at me with
searing intensity, she says, “My office. Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”
And then she’s off down the hall, her hips swaying beneath her blazer in
a way that has me entirely too focused on her ass.
“Shit, man,” Colt says once AJ is out of earshot.
“We were even told we were getting that question ahead of time,” Walsh
says. “How’d you fuck it up so bad?”
“I didn’t fuck it up,” I tell them. “I said exactly what I told her I was
going to say.”
“Why are you always trying to piss her off?” Colt asks, eyebrow lifting
as he looks at me.
“I’m not.” It’s a lie. “Nothing I said was untrue. Being the captain of the
team doesn’t mean I have to babysit the fans.”
“Just like being GM doesn’t mean AJ has to babysit your daughter,”
Walsh says, his disappointed dad tone ringing out in his voice. “And yet she
did, because it’s what was best for the team. Leadership requires sacrifice,
my friend. It means that you put the good of the whole above any personal
feelings you might have.”
“I fucking know that,” I say with a bite. But even as the words leave my
mouth, I know that I didn’t act that way tonight. I let my history with AJ get
in the way of doing what the team needed me to do. Maybe I wanted to piss
her off, or maybe I’m subconsciously trying to make sure she doesn’t renew
my contract—I don’t even know. What I do know is that I don’t think
clearly when she’s around.
“Do you, though?” Colt asks.
“I assume you’re not coming out to celebrate AJ’s nomination tonight?”
Walsh asks as my head snaps toward Colt. I’m sure he’s trying to interrupt
what could easily turn into an argument.
Fuck, why am I fighting with everyone these days? This isn’t who I am.
These are my teammates. They’re practically brothers to me. I need to
unstress my fucking life so I’m not always so agitated.
“No. Not only do I have to take Abby home,” I say as I see Lauren at
the end of the hallway wheeling the stroller toward me. “But I highly doubt
AJ would want me there anyway.”
“Probably not tonight,” Walsh agrees.
Pissing her off felt good in the moment, but it feels childish now. Damn,
this woman turns me into a fool.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Eleven
AJ

W
hen I get to my car after that disaster of a game and an even worse
press conference, I’m still fuming.
The parking lot is mostly full, as the majority of players left
their cars here when they headed out to the Neon Cactus, the unofficial bar
of the Boston Rebels that’s walking distance from Liberty Arena where we
play our home games. I’ve never set foot in that bar, or gone out with the
players after a game.
Walsh’s wife, Marissa, has planned a little celebration tonight to honor
my award nomination. I know it would be an asshole move if I didn’t show
up. And as hard as I’m trying, I cannot seem to muster the emotional energy
to care.
I lean against the driver’s side door of my car and pull out my phone. I
need to make my apologies to Marissa, and also let Lauren know I’m
canceling since Jameson was going to head home to the twins while she
came out with me. She’ll probably decide to go home with him if I’m not
going out tonight.
AJ
Hey, so sorry to do this, but I’m not going to be able to make it
tonight. I’m exhausted and just don’t feel up to it.

I’ve no sooner hit send on the text to Lauren than she walks out the side
door. “Hey, there you are! You ready to go?” Her voice is so light and full
of excitement.
“Uh, I just sent you a text, actually. I think I need to cancel. I just don’t
have the energy to go out.”
She crosses her arms and raises one of her auburn eyebrows. In the
yellow haze of the flood lamps that bathe this parking lot in light, her dark
red hair glows a fiery orange. “Bullshit.”
“No really, I’m exhausted.”
“Are you sure you’re not just headed home because you’re pissed we
lost the game and that McCabe didn’t do what you asked him to?”
“I mean”—my sigh is so large it feels like it deflates me—“that’s part of
it, for sure. And I think all the travel is catching up to me.”
I don’t mention that one reason I’m exhausted is because I flew down to
Carolina for Game 3, then flew back to Boston for Lauren’s bridal shower,
before returning to Carolina the same day, because I don’t want her to feel
bad. Or how that was compounded by my lack of sleep on the plane after
Game 4, when I found out McCabe is my neighbor.
Lauren’s one of my closest friends, but I like to keep my personal
life . . . personal.
“Well, given how excited Marissa is about getting everyone together,
and that Audrey and Jules are coming out specifically to celebrate you, I
think you need to show up for at least one drink. Plus, Jameson left a while
ago to relieve Morgan, who was babysitting for us, and she’s going to stop
by too. I think Jules said you wanted to talk to her about some social media
consulting for the team?”
My god, those four really do talk about everything. Is that what it’s like
to have sisters, and sisters-in-law, and cousins? The longing for close
female relationships like that hits me unexpectedly hard, like a sucker
punch that has my stomach clenching in anticipation of something I’ve
always wanted but never experienced.
“Fine, but just for one drink. Otherwise, I’ll probably fall asleep at the
bar.” I’m not joking. The physical toll of carrying Abby for hours,
combined with the emotional toll of watching McCabe self-destruct at the
press conference like that, has me just wanting to crash into bed. Thanks to
my messed-up hormones, my body’s response to acute stress like I
experienced tonight is almost always an exhaustion phase where I feel
steamrolled by fatigue for a day or two.
 We head over to the Neon Cactus, and I’m thankful it’s only a few
blocks away and that Lauren’s yapping for the entire walk. My feet feel like
lead and my eyes feel like if I closed them it’d be impossible to reopen
them for at least eight hours. Everyone’s already there when we arrive, and
I’m just thankful that McCabe doesn’t have childcare tonight, so I don’t
have to worry about him showing up.
After saying our hellos to the team, Lauren and I head to the bar to grab
a drink, and I take a moment to look around. Neon Cactus is known for its
variety of tequila, and I’ve heard you can get a hundred-dollar margarita
here, but it looks like we walked into a dive bar. The walls are lacquered
wood panels, with a variety of neon and metal signs covering most of the
surfaces. There are Christmas lights strung up around the top of the bar like
someone put them up years ago and never took them down. In the very
back, there are pool tables, but the rest of the bar is full of pub tables with
booths around the perimeter.
Walsh shows up next to us as we wait for the bartender to deliver our
order. “Hey, boss,” he says. “Just wanted to say how happy I am for you
about this nomination, and how sorry I am that our captain was such a dick
tonight. I’ll talk to him.”
Walsh is such a genuinely good guy. You’d never know it to watch him
play, because he chirps the opposing team non-stop and lands a dirty hit in
almost every game. But he’s a leader among the players, a fantastic husband
and dad, and one of those people who just seem to exude warmth and
energy.
He’s not originally from Boston, but he’s always looking to give back to
the community that welcomed him and his family with open arms years
ago. If I ever need a player to show up for something, he’s the first to
volunteer. If I had asked him to say something at tonight’s press conference,
he would have done it happily. He’s a team player, through and through.
He couldn’t be more different from McCabe. Maybe he deserves to
wear the C on his jersey, instead of the A he’s sported for several years now.
“Thank you, on both accounts,” I say. “But you don’t need to talk to
him. I’ve already got a meeting scheduled with him tomorrow morning.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Of course you do. Try to go easy on him,
maybe? He’s really struggled this season to balance being a single dad and
team captain. I don’t know how I’d be a parent without Marissa”—I swear
his eyes do this sappy thing when he looks over at his wife, and it has me
imagining cartoon hearts flying out of them—“or without our nanny, Katie.
With all the travel . . . well, I don’t have to tell you how hard it is.”
Not every GM in the league goes to every away game, but my
philosophy has always been that I need to be where my players are. If they
can do the non-stop travel during the season, so can I. Besides, after playing
college hockey, followed by coaching college hockey, then scouting for St.
Louis, travel is just a part of my life.
“I appreciate that you’re looking out for him,” I say, and next to me,
Lauren’s rumble of laughter slips out like she already knows what I’m
going to say. “But he’s a big boy. He can stand up for himself.”
Walsh laughs then, too. “Against you? I’m not so sure he can.”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or if he truly believes that a 6’4”
professional hockey player, who once beat the shit out of my ex-husband,
would have a problem standing up to me. Of course, no one here knows
about him assaulting Chet, so there’s that.
“Lauren!” A woman’s voice comes from behind us, and we turn to find
Morgan barreling in our direction with Jules and Audrey right on her heels.
She’s visibly upset, her face flushed and her eyes full of tears.
“Oh my god, Morgs! What’s going on?” Lauren asks, her expression
and tone both full of worry.
Morgan’s gaze shifts to me. “Hi, AJ, Walsh. I’m so sorry, am I
interrupting?”
“Of course not,” I tell her.
At the same time, Walsh says, “Nah, it sounds like you ladies have
important stuff to talk about. I’ll see you later.” He turns to leave, giving
Morgan the privacy she needs to share whatever’s wrong.
“I just . . .” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and as she does,
the tears roll down her freckled cheeks. When she opens her eyes again, it’s
clear she’s embarrassed to be crying in a bar.
“Hey, there’s a free table over there,” I say, nodding to a booth in the
corner at the same time the bartender sets our drinks on the bar. I hand him
my card and tell him to keep the tab open and then follow this close-knit
group of women over to the table, feeling a bit like an outsider.
When we slide into the booth, I somehow end up sandwiched between
Morgan and Lauren, with Jules and Audrey taking the seats on the outside
of the rounded booth.
 “Alright, what’s going on?” Audrey asks Morgan the second we’re all
seated.
“I parked at my place on Newbury Street when I came home from
Lauren’s,” Morgan says, “and then I was walking over here when Carter
called.”
I have no idea who Carter is, but Lauren, Jules, and Audrey are all
nodding.
“And he . . .” she stutters as a sob wracks her body. “. . . I think he
broke up with me?”
“You think?” Jules asks bluntly, as Audrey and Lauren immediately
jump into sympathy mode, giving Morgan supportive squeezes and cooing
their disappointment.
“Yeah . . . I don’t really understand what just happened. He said he
thinks I’m more into him than he is into me, and maybe we need to ‘pump
the brakes’”—she uses air quotes and an eye roll to emphasize his words
—“on this relationship.”
“Wait, this is the same guy who has been all in since the minute you two
started talking a month ago?” Audrey clarifies. “The one who flew you to
Miami with him when you’d been together for, like, three days because he
couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing you while he was traveling for
work? The one who introduced you to his family after dating for a week?
Who sent you non-stop gifts and couldn’t go a night without seeing you,
even if it meant staying on FaceTime with him all night?” Her voice is
rising in anger with each point she recalls about their short relationship.
“What a fucking love-bombing asshole,” Lauren says with a huff.
“God, it’s like you just can’t trust guys today,” Jules adds. “Most of
them just want a quick hookup, and here you found one who was all in right
from the beginning, and then he pulls this shit?”
“You guys are so lucky you don’t have to deal with this anymore,”
Morgan groans, folding her arms on the table in front of her, and resting her
forehead against them with a loud groan of frustration. “I used to think I
liked being single. But watching all my best friends get engaged has me
rethinking things.” She lifts her head again and glances from Audrey to
Lauren to Jules. “I want what you all have.”
Jules’s laugh is low and throaty, her words quiet. “You know my and
Colt’s engagement is fake, right?”
 “Like hell it is,” Lauren says. “That man is down bad for you, just like
you are for him. It might have started out fake, but there’s no way you can
convince us it’s not real now.”
“The feelings are real,” she confirms.
“You’re still wearing his ring,” I point out. “You’re still living with him,
and you’re still coming to his games wearing his name on your back.” My
eyebrows raise as I glance at the WAG playoff jacket she’s wearing. The
fact that she’s even in the WAG group chat and sporting one of their jackets
shows me exactly how serious Colt is about her, because players don’t take
that shit lightly.
“Because she’s in lovvvve.” Audrey drags out the word, playfully
teasing her sister. “And besides, he said the only way this was ending was if
you broke up with him. You planning on breaking up with him?”
It’s a rhetorical question, asked only to emphasize that their relationship
has become very real. Jules just rolls her eyes.
“I can’t see any other outcome than you marrying him,” Lauren adds.
“He wouldn’t survive without you at this point, and I’ve never seen you
happier.”
Jules sticks out her lower lip and blows out a puff of air, ruffling the
waves of blonde hair that fall on either side of her forehead. “Yeah. I kind
of can’t see any other outcome either.”
I feel Morgan’s pain. Even though I’m not super close with these
women, except Lauren, I’ve still watched as my players and my friend have
fallen in love with them. I’d never begrudge anyone their happiness, but it
makes me wonder if I’ll ever have that kind of joy in my own life.
Of course, I’d have to open myself up to the idea of falling in love
again. And I’d probably have to stop working eighteen hours a day and start
dating. I’ve built a comfortable, safe life for myself in Boston, but it’s
starting to feel more stifling than safe lately.
As if she can sense my thoughts, Morgan turns and says, “What about
you, AJ? Any special guy in your life?”
I snort a laugh. “I’m already married to my job. I don’t have time for a
man.”
“You sound like Paige,” Morgan says, and when I dip my eyebrows, she
reminds me, “Lauren’s sister. She’s married to her job, too.”
Lauren looks like she wants to say something, but presses her lips
together. Then she says, “AJ does give excellent relationship advice,
though.”
My brow furrows. “I do?”
She knows about my divorce, my infertility, and that my husband
cheated on me. I’m hardly the right person for relationship advice.
“Yeah. One of the first real conversations we had,” she tells her friends,
“was right when I found out Josh was leading a double life, and AJ popped
into my office. You remember?”
She’s looking straight at me. Of course I remember. It was the first time
I felt like someone I worked with could also be my friend. I nod.
Lauren continues. “AJ told me that when a woman is beautiful, strong,
and successful, she’s a triple threat. And that weak men don’t like to be
threatened, so they’ll find any way to undermine and invalidate you—to
make you feel small, like you’re nothing without them. But a strong man
will encourage and support you, will want to see you shine and be
successful in all aspects of your life, not just where it relates to him.”
Lauren pauses and laughs before saying, “And then she offered to help me
bury the body if I needed.”
“What body?” Audrey says with a laugh.
“I believe the offer was that if I needed to kill ‘the other woman,’ she’d
show up with shovels.”
Now I’m laughing. “Hey, we women need to stick together. Look at you
all,” I say, my eyes flicking to each of them. “The men in your lives are
lucky to have you. And you know what the best part about that is?”
“The sex?” Jules offers, and Audrey swats at her from across the table.
“I mean, sure.” It’s been so damn long since I’ve had good sex, I can’t
even remember what it’s like. “But I was thinking that the best part of it is,
they all know how lucky they are.”
“So it’s just us with the sucky love lives then, huh?” Morgan says,
leaning over and resting her head on my shoulder. I don’t think she’s even
thirty yet, and with her strawberry-blonde hair, freckles, and cute upturned
nose, she looks even younger.
I reach my hand up and pat her head. “I guess we’ll just have to keep
killing it with work. I hear you started your own social media consulting
company?”
She sits up, clearly surprised. “You did?”
“Yeah, Jules mentioned it. I’d love to talk to you about that at some
point. I think our team could use some social media advising.”
 Her eyes widen. “I . . . I’d love to talk more about that. But first”—she
flags down a passing waitress—“I think a round of shots are in order.”
Jules groans. “I’m not doing fucking shots, Morgan. How about a round
of margaritas?”
As we all order another drink, I point at Morgan and tell the waitress to
put an extra shot in her drink. “I’ve already got a tab open. Last name’s
Jones.”
As we sit around that table, laughing and chatting in our booth, I’m
shocked by how comfortable I feel around these women. We range in age
by a decade and a half, but it’s amazing how easily we find common
ground. It makes me realize that there’s something inherently freeing about
having girlfriends you can talk to.
I see it in how well they know the ins and outs of each other’s lives, and
how supportive they are of each other. It couldn’t be more different from
how I saw women treat each other—the backstabbing, the jealousy, and the
competition—when I was growing up.
So while I’m not necessarily spilling any of my secrets, it’s nice to
spend time with a group of women where I feel like, maybe, in the future,
that could be a possibility.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twelve
McCabe

I
show up at AJ’s office the next morning with my metaphorical tail
between my legs. I had a good amount of time last night—while Abby
was up and fussing because her top front teeth are coming in—to think
about my interaction with AJ in the hallway.
Once the infant acetaminophen kicked in, and I’d fed her a bottle and
rocked her long enough, Abby fell back asleep. I wish I had as well, but my
mind was spinning, wondering why I escalate every conversation with AJ
into a fight. Especially after she’d done me such a big favor, and then acted
so graciously about it in front of the press. She could have easily turned it
back on me, about how I’d been unprepared to play or didn’t do a good
enough job lining up childcare for my daughter. But she didn’t.
She’s the consummate professional, always level-headed, impossible to
rile. She faces screaming ex-husbands and irate hockey players with the
same cool indifference. Maybe I just want to see her have some fucking
emotions?
“Come in.” Her voice has the same low, no-nonsense tone it always
does. It makes me wonder if she’s ever squealed in joy with her girlfriends,
or what it sounds like when she drops her voice even lower . . . I bet it
sounds downright sensual.
Fuck me. It’s been years since I’ve thought about her this way. Seeing
her with my kid, and her doing me one favor, shouldn’t have me feeling like
this—like I can’t wait to see her, and don’t want to see her, all at once.
 “Hey,” I say, pushing the door open. AJ’s sitting at her desk in a pale
peach wrap sweater that almost blends in with her skin, her dark hair down
in waves that fall past her shoulders.
“Where’s Abby?” she asks, clearly confused that I’ve shown up without
my daughter after firing my nanny.
“She fell asleep in the car.”
AJ tilts her head like she’s trying to figure out if I left her there.
“Relax,” I say as I shut the door behind me. “I put her car seat in the
stroller and she’s right outside the door, sitting next to Colleen.”
“Ahh,” she says with a knowing smile. “Good luck getting Abby back.
Colleen has total baby fever right now.”
“Baby fever?”
“You know,” AJ says, sweeping her hand through the air, “like she
really wants a baby. Pretty sure I’m going to lose her as soon as that
happens, actually.”
I take a few steps toward her desk right as she stands and starts to move
toward the chairs and couch next to the full glass wall that overlooks the
practice facility.
We both glance over at the seating area, which I’ve always thought is
far too feminine for a GM’s office. There’s a big off-white sofa with a
coffee table in front of it, and two chairs flanking that, facing each other.
There are throw pillows and decorations on the table, and it’s like
something you’d see in a home magazine.
“I wanted to talk to you about—” AJ starts.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I say at the same time.
Her eyebrows dip and she looks like she’s sizing me up, trying to find
the lie. “You are?”
“Yeah. I was out of line.”
“You were.” Her voice is firm, but then she drops it lower, and with a
defeated-sounding sigh, says, “I don’t like doing this with you.”
I don’t know why I take a step closer. I should be keeping my distance,
but somehow, I’m continually drawn to her. Like the other night on the
plane, where it took everything I had to close my eyes and pretend to sleep
when all I wanted to do was lean closer and ask if it was actually an
accident that she moved across the hall from me. I know it had to be—she’d
never have intentionally put herself in a situation where she was living next
to one of her players. But my damn mind was getting the best of me, so I
had to shut that down, quick.
Hating her is the only safe route.
“Doing what?” My voice is as low as hers, but whereas hers sounds
downright sexy, I just sound gruff.
“Fighting with you. It’s like you try anything and everything to piss me
off.”
“I’m not trying to piss you off. I can’t help it—you’re infuriating, and I
just react.”
Eyes narrowing, she puts her hands on her hips. “Really? Because
honestly, Ronan, everyone else likes me just fine. It’s only you who has a
problem with me.”
I make sure not to speak any louder when I say, “Yeah, well, you didn’t
trade anyone else as a punishment for doing the right thing, did you?”
Her voice is a little unsteady when she responds. “I thought we agreed
we weren’t going to talk about that again?”
“I don’t know what you mean by again. We never talked about it in the
first place. In fact, the first thing you did when you got the GM job in
Boston was call me into this office”—I glance around the space, thinking
about how sterile it felt before she took over—“and tell me to get over the
fact that you traded me two years earlier because we were never talking
about it.”
“I—”
“But I’m not over it, and I’m probably never going to be.” Okay, now
my voice is rising, but to be fair, this is a conversation I’ve been wanting to
have for eight years.
“Why? You’re playing a hundred times better for Charlie Wilcott here in
Boston than you ever did back in St. Louis. You never made the All-Star
team in St. Louis, and you certainly wouldn’t have been the team captain or
won a Stanley Cup championship if you’d stayed there. You should be
thanking me for trading you!”
It’s the way she drills her finger into my chest as she says this that has
my blood boiling. That, and the fact that she has no idea what the actual
fuck she’s talking about.
“I’m not pissed because of the hockey side of that trade!”
“Then what the hell are you pissed about?” she asks, dropping her hand
when I step in a bit closer. She tries to take a step back, but finds herself
trapped by her large desk behind her.
“I’d just put my grandma in a nursing home,” I tell her, and I watch the
way her eyes widen and her lips part in surprise.
Everyone knows the story of my upbringing because it was one of those
“feel good” sports stories that the media focused on when I was drafted. My
parents died in a car crash while our next-door neighbor—an older woman
who all the neighborhood kids called Grandma, even though she had no
children of her own—was babysitting my sister and me.
We had no other family. Our parents had met as teenagers in foster care,
and my sister and I would have ended up there too if Grandma hadn’t
become our legal guardian. She didn’t have the means to raise us, and we
barely scraped by for most of my life. She even sold her car to pay for my
hockey expenses once I was a teenager, so we walked everywhere.
When I got my first endorsement deal in college, I bought her a new car.
When I signed my contract with St. Louis, I bought her a new house.
There’s nothing I could ever do to repay her for her kindness—the way she
loved us, sacrificed for us, and gave us a better life when she didn’t have to.
“She was too old to take care of herself.” I continue after a moment of
silence, our breaths the only sound filling the small space between us. “And
my sister and I couldn’t be there all the time to make sure she was safe. The
nursing home was the best option. But she hadn’t been there for two weeks
when I got traded. And then she got pneumonia and died before I could
even get back to see her. So yeah,” I say through a tight jaw, swallowing my
emotions. “I’m still pissed off, AJ, because you made it so that I couldn’t
spend Grandma’s dying days with her.”
Her eyes are watery, and she bites her lower lip before, “I didn’t know,”
slips out in a voice so small and unsure that it doesn’t sound like her at all.
“Well, you made your choice. And now you know the implications of
it.”
“I didn’t have a choice!” A flush creeps up her neck and across her
cheeks as the words ring out.
“There’s always a choice.”
“The choice was either to trade you, or your career was over.”
“Because I defended you when Chet was berating you?”
Sure, he was my assistant coach, and I probably should have treated him
with a bit more respect. But the way he was talking to her, telling her that
not only was she a shit hockey manager, but an even worse wife . . . my
temper flared so quickly I reacted without even thinking. Because she
wasn’t any of those things.
As our assistant general manager, we all loved her. In fact, we liked her
a hell of a lot better than we liked him, which is probably why he felt the
need to belittle her. And she always bent over backward to do things for
him, to make his life easier, to try to make him happy. We all saw it time
and time again on the road.
He didn’t deserve her, and I’m glad she finally left his cheating ass.
“You didn’t defend me,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “You
attacked him.”
“I saw red. Any man who disrespects a woman like that in front of me is
going to be put in his place.” It’s the god’s honest truth, but still, I know
she’s right.
It was like I was looking for a reason to pummel him before I even
threw the first punch. And all the others that followed. I don’t think he ever
got a single shot in before I was being pulled off him by AJ and security.
“You thought you were going to continue playing for him after that?
You would have ridden the bench for the last two years of your contract.
Career: over.”
“Nah, Coach Miller loved me.” Our head coach was always checking in
on me when I first joined the team, making sure I was settling in, helping
me learn the ropes. He had the hockey knowledge and skills—plus the
desire to make his players feel welcome—that set him apart from someone
like Chet, who was only in it for his own glory.
I take in the way she’s crossed her arms under her chest. It’s a defensive
posture, but it’s pushing her tits up into the V-neck of her sweater in a way
that’s disarming me completely. I look back at her face, but I can tell by the
way she’s looking at me that she noticed me checking her out.
“Miller agreed to the trade.”
“Yeah, because you convinced him!” My voice carries the heavy notes
of exasperation I feel. Miller told me himself that he didn’t want me to go,
but that AJ and Chet were right . . . I couldn’t play for Chet after attacking
him like that.
I’ll never admit how much it stung that the choice was to get rid of me,
instead of Chet, who was actually the toxic one. His ego was hurting the
organization.
 “It was what was best,” she insists, pushing out a heavy breath. “For
everyone involved.”
I inch closer to her. “For you?”
My eyes focus on those full lips, and the way the tip of her tongue darts
out to wet her lower lip before she pulls it between her teeth.
Goddamn. I’ve wanted this woman for eight fucking years, and I need
to get over this. Now.
“Yes.” She glances up, meeting my gaze. Her look is one of steely
determination, the same look she wears when she’s taking a player to task
or negotiating a new contract, but her voice is devoid of emotion. “It was a
necessary trade for me, too.”
“Why?” I’m genuinely curious. But also, marginally hopeful. Could she
have needed me gone because she was starting to think about me the same
way I was trying so hard not to think about her?
“Because I was married, McCabe. And you wouldn’t stop looking at me
like I was your next meal. I could ignore that and make sure things stayed
professional, but Chet was noticing. So was Miller. Your little crush was
becoming a thing, and it had gone on long enough. It was getting in the way
of my career, and yours.”
It wasn’t a fucking crush, I want to say. But I don’t, because she’s
probably right. I didn’t know her well enough for it to be anything but a
crush . . . an attraction to not only her beauty, but her brain.
No one knows hockey better than Alessandra Jones. I’d never met a
woman who knew half as much about the sport as I did, so to have her
recruit me when I was in college, and then have these high-level
conversations about my career and hockey strategy when she was the
assistant GM . . . it was a huge turn-on.
“So . . .” I drag the word out. “Instead, you created a situation where I
would hate you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Why would I do that?” Her tone is flippant, but her
expression tells me I’ve hit too close to home.
I inch even closer, fully invading her space to see if she’ll step aside to
increase the distance between us. Instead, her arms move from her chest to
grip the edges of her big wooden desk behind her. “I don’t know, AJ. Why
would you want me to hate you?”
She turns then, like she’s going to step away, but the movement has her
shoulder and arm brushing along the entire front of my body. And when her
knuckles graze my dick, it has heat pooling there, then erupting into flames
that lick through every nerve ending and light me up.
That’s the only reason I can think of to explain the way I reach out and
grab her arm as she begins to step away, pulling her back to me.
And when my mouth crashes into hers, all logical thought ceases to
exist. Because the way she wraps her hand around the back of my neck and
threads her fingers into the hair at my nape, the way her lips part for me and
she lets me invade her mouth, the way her entire body presses up against
mine in response . . . it makes no sense.
Nothing that’s happening here—not the way my fingers toy with the
edge of her sweater before sliding it ever-so-slowly down one shoulder, or
how she snakes one of her legs around mine to anchor me to her—makes
one lick of sense.
But I’m not thinking about what a terrible idea this is. I’m allowing my
body to act on instinct. And my instinct has always told me that AJ and I
together would burn hotter than the sun.
She hums her approval as my mouth travels from her lips, along her
jawline, and down her throat. I lift her hips, setting her on the edge of her
desk, as my mouth trails across her collarbone. And then I’m pulling her
sweater aside, revealing the sheer lace of the bra she’s wearing. Her nipple
is stiff and pressing right against the seam of the cup, and when I brush my
thumb across it, she arches into my hand with another appreciative hum.
Holy shit. She’s going to be the death of me one way or another, so it
might as well be through pleasure.
My eyes flick up to meet hers before I dip my head down to her breast,
laving my tongue against her nipple through the fabric, and then sucking
her between my lips. She moves her hands behind her back, pressing herself
into my mouth as she slides both sleeves off her arms. When I lean back to
look at her, chest heaving, I can’t stop myself from saying, “You’re so
fucking beautiful. Too beautiful.”
And then I slide the straps of her bra off her shoulders, and she pulls her
arm out as I slide it down to her waist with her sweater. Both my hands are
on her breasts, thumbs sweeping across each nipple, as she reaches out and
undoes the button on my jeans.
Her hand pauses on my zipper, and I glance back up at her to find her
staring at me. There’s naked lust written across her face—the way her
pupils have almost taken over those big brown eyes, her lips parted as her
tongue darts out to lick them, her cheeks pink with an exhilaration I’ve
never seen from her.
The thought that she’s actually feeling something here, and that I’m the
one causing that, spurs me on. “Go ahead. I want you to see what you do to
me. And I want to feel what I do to you,” I tell her as I reach down and
smooth a hand up the inside of her thigh where her legs are spread for me. I
keep my eyes locked on her, wanting to make sure I don’t see a single trace
of doubt on her face, and she nods, giving me the go ahead. So I rub my
thumb along the seam between her legs. “You’re fucking soaked.”
In response, she slides my zipper down and reaches into my pants to
grip my quickly hardening dick. My hips shoot forward involuntarily, my
entire length pressing along her palm.
“So this is what I do to you?” she asks, her voice a cross between
teasing and curiosity.
“Yes.” It’s a groan as I pump my cock into her hand, wishing there
wasn’t the fabric of my briefs between us. And then I lean forward to kiss
her, our mouths meeting and our tongues clashing like we’re both trying to
assert our dominance as I hold one of her tits, running my thumb over her
nipple, and slipping my other thumb into her panties where I circle it over
her slick clit.
“Fuck, yes.” She pulls back from the kiss and sighs the words out as she
tilts her hips up to meet my thumb, over and over. “Don’t stop.”
She’s so wet for me, and I’ve never felt as needed or needy as I do right
now.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell her. She slips her hand inside my boxers
and the feel of her skin on mine as she grips my shaft has my mouth
colliding with hers once more. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss, and
my throat rattles in response as I let out a primal growl.
The need to claim this woman, to take control of her body and make it
submit to me, outweighs everything else. I think this whole building could
go up in flames and I’d stay right here, appreciating the way her body
responds to mine.
And then, as if the universe wants to prove me wrong, the wail of a
baby cuts through the sounds of pleasure, and we both freeze.
Fuck. Another loud wail, and I turn toward the door, determined to get
there before Colleen opens the door to find our boss with her tits out, legs
spread, and pussy on display.
 I zip and button my pants on the way, then cast a quick glance at AJ
over my shoulder as Abby really lets loose, one angry scream after another
just as I reach the door. But AJ isn’t looking at me anymore; she’s too busy
getting her bra straightened out and trying to pull her sweater back on.
Slipping out the door and shutting it behind me, my pulse pounding in
my ears, I find Colleen bringing Abby up to her shoulder. “Pew, kiddo. I’d
be crying too if I just did a stinky in my diaper like this,” she says,
bouncing lightly on her feet as she pats Abby on the back.
“Sorry about that.” She spins in surprise, not even realizing I’d come
out of the office behind her. “Here,” I say, reaching out my hands for my
daughter, “I’ll take her.”
“You’re already done with your meeting?” she asks, eyebrows dipping
in surprise.
“We’re done for now.”
And as I take Abby, holding her to me with one arm while I use the
other to steer the stroller to the nearest bathroom, hoping there’s a changing
table in there, I can’t stop the thought ringing in my head: Holy shit, what
did we just do?
I kissed my boss. She definitely kissed me back. Clothes were shed. Her
tits were in my hands, her nipple in my mouth, and her clit throbbing under
my thumb. My cock was hot and hard in her hand.
How do we ever come back from that?

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirteen
AJ

I
open the door to my office, my legs still shaky and my heart still
pounding in my throat, and expect to see him there with Abby. Instead,
Colleen is sitting at her desk in the empty waiting area.
“Where’d McCabe go?” I ask, startling her as I come up behind her.
Did he really just have me half-naked on my desk, about to come, and
then run away like a scared little boy?
“Abby had a dirty diaper, so I think he went to change it?”
And he couldn’t have done that in my office?
“Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know,” Colleen says. “He said your meeting was ‘done for
now.’ Do you need me to get him back here for you?”
“No . . .” I try to think of something that doesn’t sound suspicious,
because she does not need to know that I’m about to chase him down and
demand we talk about what the hell just happened, and why it can never
happen again. “I just thought of something else I need to tell him, though.
Which way did he go?”
She points to her left. “I think he was probably headed to the bathroom
to change her?”
“Thanks.” I’m so busy trying to ignore the pit in my belly as I rush
down the hall that I don’t even have time to prepare what I want to say
before I’m already at the men’s bathroom. Perils of walking so fast, I guess.
 Without giving myself time to think about what I’m doing, or whether
it’s a good idea to go chasing after him, I’m knocking twice and pushing the
door open. He’s standing at the wall of sinks with Abby’s changing pad
spread out on the counter and her tiny feet captured in the air in one of his
huge hands.
“God, that smells terrible,” I say as my head rears back. I’m honestly
shocked that someone so tiny could create such an awful stench.
“Yeah, changing diapers is not the best part of parenthood. Especially
once they start eating real food, and not just formula.”
I cross one ankle over the other and my arms under my chest as I lean
up against the wall, trying to look more composed than I feel while I watch
him attempting to wrestle a diaper on his squirming baby.
“You realize this is the men’s restroom, right?” he asks when I stand
there staring at him long enough that he feels like he needs to say
something.
I swallow down the nerves. “What just happened in my office—” I start,
but he’s speaking at the same time.
“I’m sorry, I should never have done that.” He glances at me in the
mirror, his cheeks growing pink, before looking down at the diaper he’s
wrangling on.
Holy shit, did Ronan McCabe just blush? I can’t reconcile that reaction
with the anger he has consistently displayed since I came to Boston.
“But also,” he says quietly, “why did you kiss me back?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh, my head shaking slightly. And I really don’t.
God, the way I just shed my clothes the second his hands were on me is
downright shameful . . . not to mention wrong. I’m his boss, and we’re in
the middle of a contract negotiation. “You did that thing . . .”
“That thing?” One of his eyebrows is raised as he glances up at me in
the mirror again. I hate the way I’m standing off to his side, with him turned
away from me, as we’re having this conversation. But we need to talk, and
Abby needs a diaper on her, so it is what it is.
“Yeah, like that thing where you go from scowling to smirking.”
“That’s a thing?”
“You must know it is.”
“I don’t spend a lot of time analyzing my own facial expressions,
Alessandra.”
No one calls me Alessandra. Not anymore.
 “Maybe you should, because then you’d know that you’re always
scowling.”
“I’m not always scowling.” His voice is still quiet, but not defensive. I
think maybe he’s teasing?
“Pretty sure you are.”
“I wasn’t scowling when you were kissing me.”
I roll my eyes, and a little voice at the back of my head asks, What if he
only kissed you as a last-ditch effort to persuade you to renew his contract?
I know that this kind of thinking—the assumption that everyone’s trying
to manipulate me—is a function of my upbringing. My formative years
were spent watching my parents barter, like If I go to this gala with you,
then you need to make an appearance at the club’s golf fundraiser next
month. My relationship with my ex-husband was much the same.
It wasn’t until I entered therapy after my divorce that I learned not all
relationships are transactional like that. And since then, I’ve had the
privilege of seeing some wonderful relationships, like the Hartmanns, who
are still very much in love, even after almost forty years of marriage.
But sometimes, old habits die hard.
“Yeah, about that. It can’t⁠—”
“Happen again. I heard you the first time.” He puts Abby’s shorts on
over her diaper now that it’s secured, and as he does, he glances at me in the
mirror again and lifts an eyebrow. “And remind me why not?”
I take a few seconds to study his face . . . the razor-sharp cheekbones
with dark stubble almost covering his skin below, the full lower lip, the
straight nose with a small scar along one side, and those bright green eyes
framed in dark lashes. His eyes were the first thing I noticed about him
when I scouted him years ago.
Some might describe his eyes as piercing, but I thought they looked
hungry. Hungry for success, for victory, for the NCAA championship he
was striving for. I wanted that kind of hunger in a player . . . the kind that
would keep them going when things got tough.
But once he was playing for me, there was an unmistakable, different
type of hunger in those eyes—the kind that couldn’t hide that he wanted
me. He never took a single step out of line, never said or did anything
inappropriate. He knew I was married, and he respected that.
Until he walked in on Chet berating me. I doubt he heard enough to
know why, but the fact that his first instinct in hearing me disrespected like
that was to lay my husband out was proof enough of his feelings. I didn’t
mistake them, and unfortunately, neither did Chet.
Not that I ever would have done anything about that back then—not
when I was married, and his boss, and he was still practically a child. And I
shouldn’t do anything about it now, either.
He’s still younger than me, and I’m still his boss.
But standing here looking at him, watching the heat in his eyes and the
open desire in his gaze, has the part of me that should stay frozen melting
for him instead.
“Because I’m your boss and we’re in a contract negotiation. It’s not just
inappropriate, it’s unethical.”
As if she agrees, Abby lets out some fussy sounds, kicking her feet and
clearly wanting to be held.
“Here,” I say, reaching my arms out, “give her to me.”
His eyebrows pinch, but when he lifts her and Abby reaches her arms
out to me, too, he hands her over.
Holding her facing out, so she can see him, I dip my head toward hers.
“See that scowl, baby girl? You’re going to need to learn how to ignore it
when your daddy does that.”
I glance at him in time to see the way he bites his lower lip like he’s
trying to hold in a smile.
“I’m not scowling,” he grumbles as he gathers up the changing pad and
wipes, tossing them in the bottom of the stroller before he puts Abby’s
diaper in a small bag, ties it off, and tosses it in the trash. It’s all done with
practiced efficiency, and before I know it, he’s nodding his head toward the
door.
I lead the way, with Abby in my arms and him following behind with
the stroller. And when we exit into the hallway, Ralph is walking toward the
bathroom and giving us an inquisitive look.
“That was a nasty diaper change,” I tell our security guard. “I wouldn’t
go in there if I were you.”
“There’s not even a changing table in there.” He looks at McCabe.
“Why would you⁠—”
“Don’t you dare ask why a man would need to change his baby’s
diaper,” I say. “The better question is, why aren’t there pull-down changing
tables in the men’s bathrooms like there are in the women’s?”
He holds his hands up. “I wasn’t saying . . .”
 “It’s a problem that will be rectified soon enough.” I turn back toward
my player, my voice oozing professionalism. “McCabe, let’s finish that
conversation in my office. Now.”

“S oholdthat’sAbby,
your solution?” McCabe says, sitting across from me while I
lightly bouncing back and forth where I stand behind my
desk. The six feet of distance and a baby between us have kept things
professional, but there’s no doubt we’re more familiar and friendly than we
would have been before he had me naked. “You think your brother would
be a more reliable nanny than the one I just fired? Even though he’s the
same age she is, with even less experience?”
“Like her experience did you any good” I give him a pointed look.
“Besides, Nicholas is like me with babies.”
“And how’s that?” he asks with a curious tilt of his head.
“Babies love us.” I don’t know why we are both so great with kids,
given our upbringing. “Plus, he’s studying child psychology, and he
volunteers at the NICU where his girlfriend interns. He’s dealt with much
fussier babies than this perfect angel,” I say as I look down at Abby
gnawing on her fist, and kiss the top of her head. She’s still got that baby
scent, and if I had functional ovaries, I’m sure they’d be exploding with the
desire to have a baby just like her someday.
“But has he ever spent a long period of time with a baby? Holding them
for a couple hours in the NICU is . . . really nice of him . . . but it’s not
exactly the same as taking care of a nine-month-old.”
“I think he could handle it. And he lives with his girlfriend, Nicole⁠—”
“Wait, so their names are Nicholas and Nicole?” He lets out an amused
chuckle.
“Yeah, and they’re stupidly cute together, and super easy to get along
with. Anyway, she’s getting her nursing degree, and interning at the NICU,
and taking a summer class, so that all keeps her pretty busy. He’s just
waiting tables for the summer and could easily switch to watching Abby
instead.”
“I’d only need him until the playoffs are over,” he says. “Would it really
make sense for him to quit his job for what could be . . .”
 He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t mention that this could all be over next
week if we don’t win four games. No hockey player is going to jinx it like
that.
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to need him well into June.” I’m confident
these men can take us all the way to the finals, and I’m looking forward to
watching them do it.
“Why would a college-age guy want to watch a baby for the summer?”
“For the same reason a college-age girl might, I suspect: it’s a job. With
better pay than waiting tables. And like I said, babies love him.” He’s come
over to Lauren and Jameson’s with me before, and Lauren’s twins treat him
like he’s their own personal jungle gym, which, somehow, he seems to love.
“I’d have to double-check with him about this, but I know my brother pretty
well, and I think he’d be up for it.”
“Even with all the nights he’d have to stay at my place with Abby?” He
sounds like he can’t imagine a college kid who doesn’t want to go out
partying every night.
“He’s kind of a homebody. Plus, he and Nicole stay at my place when I
travel with the team, so he’s already used to being there while we’re gone.
Staying at your place to watch Abby wouldn’t be that big of a difference.”
As if she recognizes her name, she kicks her feet excitedly. “See how
excited she is about this?”
McCabe unfolds his arms from their resting spot across the t-shirt that’s
stretched over his chest, and drapes them along the arms of the chair
instead. “Why do they stay at your place when you travel?”
“I have an ancient cat who hates people but also goes crazy and pees on
the rugs and tears apart the furniture when no one’s around. I assume she’s
confused and thinks she’s a dog.”
A small smile graces his pale pink lips, pushing his cheeks up and
making the angular lines of his cheekbones soften. He looks good when he
smiles. Not that he ever doesn’t look good . . . but he looks better happy.
“What?” he asks, studying my face.
I lift my eyebrows and put a neutral expression on my face, afraid to let
him know how closely I was watching him. The only time I should be
watching him that closely is on the ice.
“We still haven’t talked about the press conference,” I say, as if that was
the thought running through my head a moment earlier.
 His expression goes hard again as he bites the inside of his cheek. “Let’s
not forget that I already said I was sorry, before⁠—”
“Let’s skip right over that to the conversation we should have had. The
one we were supposed to have after that stunt you pulled last night.” I pace
back and forth behind my desk, bouncing Abby in my arms. She’s not
heavy, but I can tell my arms would easily tire from holding her like this for
too long. My eyes flick to McCabe’s muscular biceps, the lines of which I
can see even while his arms remain motionless.
“I know I was in the wrong,” he says, his voice placating. “I shouldn’t
have said exactly the opposite of what you asked me to.”
“Why did you?” The question feels loaded as it comes out of my mouth.
As if we’re not just talking about this specific instance with the press, but
the way he constantly tries to piss me off.
His eyes trail down, focusing on Abby, like he can’t possibly look me in
the eye. For a moment, he looks like he might open up and give me a real
reason. And then he says, “I don’t know.”
“But we cleared the air about what happened when I traded you, right?”
I push down the guilt I feel now that I know about his grandma.
“Cleared the air? I’m pretty sure you just told me what I already knew,
adding in, ‘but I didn’t have a choice.’”
“McCabe, I had no idea about your grandma, and I’m really sorry for
the role I played in that. You didn’t deserve to get traded, especially because
you were standing up for me. But it wasn’t a punishment. I didn’t do it
because I was mad that you beat the shit out of my husband. I did it because
my hands were tied. Now I’m hoping we can at least work together in a less
hostile way.”
He gives a small shrug of his shoulder and looks at me with a smirk.
“Yeah, maybe.”
My stomach flips. “But maybe not?”
“I don’t know, AJ. I think a lot of things that happened as part of that
conversation . . . changed things. But it’s not something I can talk to you
about while you’re holding my daughter in your arms.”
My chest shakes with silent laughter, and Abby kicks her feet harder,
like she thinks we’re playing a game. “You know she can’t understand
whatever it is you want to say, right?”
“Okay,” he says, huffing a laugh, “maybe I don’t want to talk about it
while you’re holding my daughter.”
 “And why not?” I press, unable to stop myself from taunting him a bit.
That smirk is back already as he comes around my desk, leans in, and
plants one hand on the bookcase behind me. His eyes focus on mine, his
pupils dilating until there’s only a sliver of green surrounding them.
Ohhh. He still wants me.
My heart pounds against my ribcage so powerfully I’m sure he can feel
the vibrations from half a foot away. Why does my body have this reaction
to his?
“Because the feelings I’m having about what just happened aren’t
something I can explore with her in the room.”
“Like I said before,” I steel my voice even while my body wants to
press forward into his. “That can’t ever happen again.”
He pushes off the bookcase, giving me some room to breathe. “If you
say so.” His gaze is still locked onto me, like he’s challenging me to prove
him wrong.
Done. Because if there’s one thing I excel at, it’s compartmentalizing
my feelings and prioritizing work over everything else. And that’s what this
relationship is—work. He’s the captain of the team I manage, and there is
no situation in which it would be okay for me to have anything other than a
purely professional relationship with him. No matter how tempting it is, it
wouldn’t be worth the fallout.
“I do say so.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Fourteen
McCabe

T
he knock on my door startles me, even though I was expecting it. I
don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me—I’m so damn jumpy
today. It’s like the thought of seeing AJ outside of work has me on
edge.
“Let’s go meet the guy who might be your new manny,” I say to Abby,
kissing her on top of her head as I pick her up from where we were playing
with some big plastic cars on the floor of the living room.
I don’t know for sure whether Nicholas is going to be the right choice,
but we have a game tonight and I still don’t know what I’m doing with
Abby during it. The agency I used to find my past nannies said it was
unlikely they’d be able to find someone for at least a few weeks, so he’s my
only option for the short term.
The minute the door opens, Abby reaches her arms out toward AJ, who
gives her a sweet smile as she takes my daughter from me without a second
of hesitation. Maybe it’s the way her dark hair is back in a ponytail with
some tendrils left down framing her face, or that she’s in leggings and a
tank top, but the woman standing in front of me is not the same woman I
work for. She’s . . . casual, and far softer and more feminine than I’m used
to seeing her.
“You must be Nicholas,” I say, extending my hand toward the young
man standing next to her. Unlike AJ, he’s got light hair and sun-bronzed
skin. But their big brown eyes are the same, and he’s got the same wide
mouth as her. That’s where the resemblance ends, though.
“Yes, nice to meet you, Mr. McCabe.”
“Ronan, please,” I say.
“Okay,” Nicholas says with a slight laugh as he drops my hand. “That’s
going to take some getting used to.”
“McCabe is a hockey thing.” In the hockey world, everyone calls me by
my last name as if it were my first name, so it’s always weird to hear
someone call me Mr. McCabe. And honestly, I prefer it when people use my
first name . . . I don’t even know how it happened that I became just
“McCabe,” but I never fought it, so it’s just kind of stuck.
“Noted,” he says, and the clip of his voice reminds me of AJ’s all-
business tone.
“Come on in.” I invite them into the entryway, shutting the door behind
them. “Living room’s that way.” I gesture past the kitchen, and both he and
AJ laugh.
“We know,” she says. “Your place is a mirror image of mine.”
“Good to know,” I say, following them into my condo and trying to
convince myself to stop staring at the way her ass looks in those leggings.
The last thing I need is a hard-on while talking to her brother about
watching my daughter.
I’m starting to wonder why I can’t control the way my body reacts to
hers. I’ve always been attracted to her, but it was never like this—the
physical pull toward her whenever she’s around, this fucking yearning. It’s
like long-buried feelings are resurfacing. Now that she’s no longer married
and my reasons for hating her are mostly invalidated, it’s harder to resist her
than it ever was before.
I sit across from AJ, far enough that I hope my body will stop reacting
to hers. But watching her play with Abby, bouncing her up and down on her
knees while holding her hands and quietly singing a nursery rhyme, is doing
something entirely different to me. I don’t even know how to explain what
exactly it is, but it has my heart feeling like it’s turning to goo right inside
my rib cage.
Fuck, no. She’s my boss—a fact I’ve had to keep reminding myself of
over the last twenty-four hours, but I just can’t seem to make that fact
matter as much as it should.
 Nicholas and I chat for a while about his experience with kids, what
he’s studying in college, whether he can really commit to this position for
the next week or month, depending on how we do. He’s easy to get along
with and seems just as reliable as AJ said he’d be.
Most importantly, Abby seems drawn to him in a way she never was
with Lucy. His voice is soothing, and eventually Abby crawls from AJ’s lap
over to Nicholas’s. I’m shocked at how easily he can carry on a
conversation with me while also playing with her, making her feel
comfortable and cared for. It’s a skill I don’t think I’ve mastered. I never
feel like I can do anything else when I’m with Abby, and I feel guilty if I
give her anything less than my full attention. But he’s a natural at balancing
everything, much like his sister yesterday in her office after Abby’s record-
breaking diaper change.
“Has AJ already shared with you the schedule for this round of
playoffs?” I ask.
“Yes, and the morning skate schedule for the home games. There’s
nothing that I couldn’t cover, except for tonight’s game. My girlfriend
Nicole has a tenuous relationship with her mom, and she’s in town right
now . . . staying with us. We’re taking her down to Newport for dinner
tonight as soon as Nic’s off work, and I can’t cancel on her—both because
she doesn’t drive, and also because I just can’t leave her and her mom alone
together for that long without some sort of huge relationship-ending fight,”
he tells me, and I can’t imagine why she’d want to have a relationship with
her mom if things are actually that bad. “But her mom will be gone by the
time you leave for your away games in a few days, and if you have
anything you need to do before you leave, I can be around to watch Abby
for whatever times you need during the day.”
“Okay.” I explain my commitments coming up over the next few days,
and then sit back in my chair, looking over at AJ. “I still don’t know what
I’m going to do about tonight. Tammy can’t watch her, and Walsh has a call
in to his nanny to see if she knows anyone who could babysit, but if she
doesn’t, I’m fresh out of options.”
AJ glances down at her phone. “It’s fine, I can take her.”
“I wasn’t asking you to do that,” I say, even though I know I probably
don’t have any other options.
“It’s fine. Lauren can help me out if I need it, and Abby will probably
just sleep on me most of the game anyway.”
 “AJ, you can’t do that again. Once was enough . . . The optics are just
not⁠—”
“I don’t give a shit what the optics are, McCabe. I need you to play. In
exchange for me watching Abby, feel free to score a hat trick tonight.” Her
lips curve up at the edges as she nods her chin at me. “It’s been a while.”
Part of me is tempted to tell her I’d be more inclined to score if she’d
renew my fucking contract, but the other part of me knows that kind of
sarcastic remark is both uncalled for, and just not true.
Plus, I don’t want her to renew my contract. I want to become a free
agent so that Nashville can pick me up and I can move closer to my sister
and nieces. Don’t I?

T here are only two minutes left in the third period when I score my
second goal of the night, and before my teammates surround me in
celebration, my eyes fly up to exactly where I know AJ is sitting, right next
to Lauren, six rows behind the bench.
She’s got one arm wrapped protectively around Abby as she stands up
from her seat in excitement, and her other arm in the air, her fist curled
triumphantly. Her smile is wide as we lock eyes, and she mouths, “Good
job!” before Lauren takes her hand mid-air and AJ turns toward her.
Walsh is the first one to crash into me where I’ve come to a stop at the
boards near our bench, but he’s followed closely behind by Drew—our line
is on fire tonight and we’re completely dominating this game against
Philadelphia.
Some angry shouts in the stands quickly drown out the noise from the
cheering, and all three of us turn our heads toward the ruckus. From the ice,
I can see that a few Boston fans in the row behind AJ, and Philly fans in the
row in front of her, are hurling insults at each other. AJ keeps her arm
wrapped around Abby as she turns and looks up, shouting something at the
Boston fans behind her while Jameson moves down the row, trying to
position himself between the two groups and protect AJ and Lauren. But he
doesn’t get there in time, and I watch in horror as one of the Boston fans
leans down to push one of the Philly fans, but his shoulder connects with
AJ, and she goes toppling over backward with my daughter attached to her.
 My stomach drops and I don’t think, I just react. I skate to the glass in
front of them as quickly as I can, banging on the glass to get their attention.
“Hey!” I yell, my voice so loud the fans in the first few rows go silent.
“Fucking stop this shit right now!” The security guards moving down the
aisle toward them catch my eye, and I flag them down. “Help AJ first,” I
call out. “She has my daughter!”
I watch helplessly from the other side of the glass as three security
guards reach the row, one of them holding the Boston fans back and the two
others helping AJ up. It looks like she fell backward, landing on the seats
two rows down, and as the security guards get her back up on her feet, it’s
clear she’s injured. Abby is screaming, but it’s impossible to tell if she’s in
pain or if it’s because she was jolted awake while falling.
I rush over to the bench, hopping the boards and striding straight down
the row. “I’m out for the rest of the game,” I tell Wilcott as I move past him.
“And if AJ or Abby got hurt just now, heads are gonna fucking roll.”
With my heart racing, I don’t stop to listen to his response. I just run
into the tunnel, trying to figure out where security will take them. They’re
probably on the next level up, so I step into the elevator, and as I ride it up
to the Club Level, I glance down at my stick still in my hand and my skates
still on my feet.
And sure enough, as I exit the elevator, AJ is standing with two security
guards and one of our team doctors. AJ is patting a still-crying Abby on the
back with one hand while cradling her other arm up against her shoulder
like she’s trying to avoid Abby accidentally kicking it.
“It’s fine,” AJ insists, shaking off the doctor as she tries to examine her
wrist. But the grimace on her face gives her away—she’s not fine, and we
can all see it. Glancing up at me as I approach, her brow furrows as she
asks, “What are you doing up here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here?” I step closer to her. “You and
Abby were just attacked. Did you think I’d still be down there playing?”
Everyone stares at me like I’m crazy, and that’s when I realize my
mistake. I didn’t say I was up here for my daughter. But fuck it if I’m going
to pretend that she’s not one of the reasons I walked away from my job
tonight, especially since she was hurt trying to protect my baby.
“I’m fine,” she tries to assure me. “And so is Abby.”
I hand my stick to one of the security guards as I unhook the top of the
baby carrier. “I’m going to take Abby out. Can you move your hand behind
your back so she doesn’t hurt you more than you already are?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out between gritted teeth, but she bends her
arm and moves her hand behind her back. Abby’s face lights up as I lift her
out of the carrier, and she snuggles into my chest pads, unphased with
everything going on around her.
“The EMTs will be here in about three minutes,” one of the trainers says
as he runs up to Dr. D’Angelis. “They’re coming to the door in the back
parking lot, so we can get them out without walking through the main
entrance to the arena.”
“We don’t need to go to the hospital, Olivia,” AJ says to Dr. D’Angelis,
using that bossy voice she does so well.
“I disagree.” Dr. D’s voice is equally firm, and she crosses her arms
over her chest the same way AJ does when she’s putting her foot down
about something. “And I won’t clear you to come back to work until that
hand is X-rayed and we make sure you didn’t sustain any other injuries. We
need to make sure the baby wasn’t hurt in the fall either.”
Abby has stopped crying, so I know she’s not in pain. Her cries were
probably more from fear than anything.
“Stop questioning the team doctor, AJ,” I say. “This is literally her job.”
“Olivia,” she says to the doctor, eyebrow raising, “I’m not one of the
players.”
“And yet I still won’t clear you to return until you’re checked out.” Dr.
D’s face and voice both soften when she says, “Let me do the job you hired
me to do, AJ.”
AJ lets out a dramatic sigh, but doesn’t say anything. There’s no chance
she and Abby aren’t going to the hospital right fucking now, and there’s
even less of a chance that I won’t be with them.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Fifteen
AJ

“M ost people wear clothes in the hospital, you know,” I say, in pain
and annoyed at everything about this situation, and apparently
deciding that verbally sparring with McCabe is the best way to get
out my frustration.
He turns from where he was standing next to the plastic bassinet on
wheels that they brought in for Abby when he’d asked if there was
somewhere she could sleep.
Taking the few steps across the small ER room, he says, “I hope you
know I like it when you’re feisty.” That damn smirk that drives women
crazy graces his lips.
I never understood why anyone would go for the whole grumpy, growly
bit . . . but maybe I’m starting to get it?
“Can’t you, like, find some scrubs or something?”
My wrist is in so much pain, and so far, all they’ve given me for it is
some ibuprofen. Something about not being able to give me actual narcotics
until they know if I’ll need surgery?
Screw surgery—we’re leaving for an away game the day after
tomorrow, and there’s no way I’m missing it. Especially not after the way
Philadelphia came back in the last minute of tonight’s game to tie it up, and
then won in overtime.
Now we’re 0-2 in a series that should have been 1-1, and probably
would have been if McCabe had stayed. Not that I blame him for wanting to
make sure his daughter was okay. Plus, I’m sure the EMTs wouldn’t have
let her go to the hospital without her dad coming along, anyway.
He steps closer to my hospital bed, wearing nothing but the
compression shorts he had on under his uniform. I get why he wanted to
take his uniform and pads off, especially with how sweaty he was by the
end of the game, but he’s dried off now, so couldn’t he at least slip his
jersey back on or something?
“Does it bother you seeing me half-dressed? Because you’ve been in the
locker room plenty and it never seemed to bother you before.”
I hate the way my stomach flips at his gravelly voice, the way those
words seem to reach out and caress my skin, making it prickle with
goosebumps.
“Ronan . . .” I warn, before glancing over at the bassinet. Even though
we turned off the overhead lights and he’s playing some sort of white noise
app on his phone, I still don’t know how Abby fell back asleep after that
fall. I don’t think I’d ever close my eyes again if I was sleeping peacefully
on someone’s chest and then found myself upside down.
Thankfully, as I was pushed backward, I was able to hold on to her with
one arm and break our fall with the other. The impact on my wrist when the
heel of my hand connected with the cement step of the row below us,
however, was excruciating. The way my ribs crashed into the tops of the
seats and my head collided with the shoulder of the person sitting in the row
below is also going to leave some bruises.
It could have been worse, but as my wrist throbs in my lap, I realize it
could have been a whole lot better, too.
The important thing is that the doctor already confirmed that Abby was
unharmed—a fact her father hasn’t let me forget. He’s been looking at me
like I walk on water, like I’m some sort of angel that saved his kid instead
of a woman who did what any normal person would do in the situation.
He could have taken her home already, but he refuses to leave until he
knows that I’m okay, too. It was much easier to ignore the tension in the
room when we were both so focused on Abby. Unfortunately, now that she’s
asleep, all his attention is on me.
“Careful, Alessandra,” he says, practically purring my name like it’s
some sort of exotic foreign word as he stares down at me from the side of
the bed. “You wouldn’t want someone to overhear you calling me by
anything but my last name.”
 He’s right. I make sure to maintain the strictest professional boundaries
with my players. It’s a hazard of being the only female GM—people always
seem to want to put me, and everything I do, under a microscope. So I make
sure that my image is as squeaky-clean as possible.
It’s yet another reason why yesterday’s activities in my office can never
happen again.
I open my mouth to respond, but he leans forward, planting one hand on
the mattress behind my head. With my bed inclined to a sitting position,
he’s only partially leaning forward, giving me a good look at those pecs up
close.
I don’t understand how a man with such thick almost-black hair on his
head, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow even when he’s freshly shaven,
has so little body hair. Aside from a smattering of hair across his chest and,
I note as my eyes glide down his abdomen, a trail of hair from his belly
button down into his compression shorts, the rest of his abdomen is hairless.
With my eyes now focused on his crotch, I don’t miss how his dick stirs in
those tight-ass shorts.
With a gulp, I glance up quickly, but his eyes are amused when they
meet mine, and my cheeks flush when I realize it’s because he knows I was
just checking him out.
What the hell is wrong with me? We’re in the hospital because I’m hurt
and his daughter was nearly injured too, and like two horny teenagers, we
can’t keep our eyes off each other.
“I—” I start to say, intending to respond, but finding that I’ve
completely lost track of what we were talking about.
The knock on the open door has both of us turning our heads. I’m
expecting to see the doctor, but instead Lauren stands there, holding a big
Rebels duffle. It’s too small to be a hockey bag, so I assume it’s some piece
of swag she snagged from the marketing offices.
“Hey,” I say quietly, noting how she looks worried that she just
interrupted some private moment between the two of us. “Come in. We’re
just whispering so we don’t wake Abby. She’s not hurt or anything, just
sleeping.” I nod toward the bassinet against the wall.
The grunt McCabe lets out is half-laugh, half-sigh.
“I brought you some clothes,” Lauren tells him, “since you left in your
uniform. And some shoes, because Olivia said you left in your socks?”
“Yeah, I took my skates off, but there wasn’t really time to change.”
 “Yes, there was.” I roll my eyes. “You could have changed and then
driven yourself to the hospital. You didn’t need to come in the ambulance.”
There wasn’t even room for him in the back, especially not with all his
pads on, so he sat up front with the driver.
He rolls his eyes right back at me before reaching out for the bag and
mumbling his thanks. And when he heads over to the chair next to Abby’s
bassinet to rifle through it, Lauren steps up to the bed, taking the seat next
to it. “You okay?”
“I’ve been better. I just need the orthopedist to look at the damn X-rays
so I can get out of here.”
Lauren glances down where my lower arm rests in my lap, splinted with
an ice pack on either side of my wrist. “Do they think it’s broken?”
“Yeah. They also took some X-rays of my ribs to make sure they’re
okay. I definitely feel like I pulled some muscles in my back, or bruised it
badly or something. But I think it would hurt worse if I broke any ribs,” I
explain, then quickly change the subject to what I’m most interested in
knowing. “So, what happened after I left? Did they kick those fans out?”
“Yeah, security took them out and had the police waiting for them. It
was mayhem for a couple minutes there. It’s a relief you and Abby weren’t
more seriously hurt, but I’m sorry about the outcome of the game.”
“Were the guys distracted? Like by me getting hurt, or McCabe rushing
off the ice like that?”
“I mean . . .” Lauren pauses, her eyes flicking over to where McCabe
stands, his back to us as he steps into the sweatpants he’s pulled out of the
bag. “I’m sure that’s not why they lost.”
I press my lips together and nod, but I know she doesn’t actually believe
that any more than I do. Part of the game is tuning out any distractions, but
this wasn’t just something that happened in the stands; their captain rushed
off the ice and out of the game.
I’m not blaming him—it is what it is. But it’s silly to pretend like there
was no impact. I glance back at Lauren. “I guess we’ll never know.”
“We’ll get them in the next game, AJ.” McCabe’s low voice carries
across the room.
Just as I’m about to respond, there’s another knock at the door and the
doctor’s back, with a clipboard in hand and a nurse following close behind
him.
“Well,” he says, “you got lucky.”
 My heart soars with hope. Maybe the pain and the swelling will subside
and I’ll be good as new!
“You’ve got a distal radial fracture,” he tells me, slapping the X-ray film
up to a light box on the wall. Pointing to the lower part, he traces his finger
across the image as he says, “What that means is, your radius—this bone
that runs along the inside of your lower arm from your wrist to your elbow
—was broken in the fall. But the good news is that it’s only a fracture, not a
clean break. You won’t need surgery to repair it. We’ll splint it for now, and
you’ll need to be very careful with it so you don’t aggravate the injury.
When the swelling goes down in a week or so, we’ll put your arm in a cast
to let it fully heal.”
Thinking about what my life will be like with my right arm in a cast, I
ask, “That’s getting lucky?”
“Since the alternative would have been a much worse break, and
surgery with 6-12 weeks of recovery time . . . yeah.” The last word is
clipped, and I can tell he’s annoyed that I’m not happier about this news.
But unlike me, he isn’t thinking about what it’ll be like to live on my own
with an unusable right hand—the one I use to do everything. How will I dry
my hair? Do my laundry? Shift while I’m driving? Actually, do I know how
to do anything one-handed?
“What about her ribs?” McCabe practically growls at the doctor.
“They’re not broken, and the X-rays don’t show bruising on the bones
either. You’ll probably get a fair amount of superficial bruising because of
the impact, but again, you’re lucky because the fall didn’t damage the
bones. Jenn will go over your care plan with you.” He continues, nodding
toward the nurse at his side. “And then we’ll get you discharged, and your
husband can take you home.”
A laugh bursts out of me as he glances over at McCabe, whose face is
an unreadable mask, where he now stands at the foot of the bed. The pain
that shoots through my back as I laugh has me wincing, instead.
“He’s . . . not my husband. We just work together.”
The doctor must not be a hockey fan.
“Okay, so who is taking you home and helping you out for the next
week or so? You won’t be able to do much of anything without help. Even
things as simple as getting dressed will be a challenge, and you’ll need help
managing everything. You need to keep your wrist totally immobile until
it’s casted—treat it like it’s glass—or you risk worsening the fracture and
needing surgery instead.”
“Uh . . . I can just ask my brother to stay with me, I guess,” I say
tentatively.
McCabe presses his lips together, but doesn’t call me out on my lie. He
knows that Nicholas can’t stay at my place right now because Nicole’s mom
is here and staying with them. Even as much as my brother loves me, he’s
not going to risk World War III by leaving Nic and her mom alone. And
we’re leaving the day after tomorrow for our away games. There’s no
chance in hell I’m not going to those games, and Nicholas can’t come with
me, because by then he’ll be staying with Abby.
“Alright. Which of you,” the doctor asks, nodding back and forth
between McCabe and Lauren, “is taking her home tonight?”
“I can do it,” McCabe says quickly, and Lauren’s eyes basically pop out
of her head as she glances over at me in surprise. “We live near each other.”
I appreciate the way he doesn’t say we live across the hall from each
other, since I haven’t mentioned that fact to Lauren yet.
The doctor nods, and as he turns to say something to the nurse, McCabe
tells us, “I’m going to Uber back to the arena and get my car, since we’ll
need it for Abby’s car seat. Are you two okay here with her until I get
back?”
“I brought your car, actually,” Lauren says, pulling her long red hair
back into a ponytail. “I hope you don’t mind. Your keys, phone, and wallet
are in the side pocket of that bag. Basically, everything that was in your
locker. And Abby’s car seat is in the back seat, and her stroller is in the
trunk.”
His jaw drops open. “Thanks?”
I’m a little shocked that he doesn’t sound more appreciative, but then he
shakes his head and says, “I . . . I would never have expected someone to do
that for me.”
There’s a small tug at my heart when he admits that. I mean, I don’t
have a huge network of people in Boston, but I’ve got my brother and
Nicole, Lauren and Jameson, and I’m getting closer to Jameson’s sisters,
Audrey and Jules. But still, I wouldn’t be shocked if any of them, or anyone
I work with, for that matter, stepped up to help me in this situation.
“It was no trouble,” Lauren says with a soft smile. “And it was Colt’s
idea, actually. He was going to swing by with your stuff, but he had to hit
the bike and shower first, so I offered since I could come right away.”
“So, your discharge plan,” the nurse says, handing me a whole stack of
paper as she launches into the aftercare information for managing the pain
and swelling. When she finally takes a breath, Lauren excuses herself and
says that Jameson is waiting downstairs in his car for her, and they have to
get home because their babysitter needs to leave.
McCabe offers to head down with her so he can grab Abby’s car seat,
while the nurse gives me some additional information about scheduling a
follow-up appointment with the orthopedist and reads me the riot act about
not using my right hand to do anything. By the time she’s helped me out of
the gown and back into my sweater, McCabe is walking back into my
hospital room with an empty baby carrier in his hand.
He says nothing about my lie regarding Nicholas staying with me until
I’m seated in the front of his SUV and we’re pulling out of the parking
garage. As we turn onto the dark, empty street to head away from the
hospital, he says, “Don’t for one second think that I’m letting you stay at
your place without someone to help you.”
“Yeah,” I say with a small scoff, “because I have so many other options
for people to just move in with me.”
“You have at least one other option.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
“You’re moving in with me.”
My laughter rings out sharply, filling the silent car, and for a second,
I’m afraid I’ll wake Abby where she’s sleeping in her car seat behind me.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“You can’t live by yourself,” he says. “Doctor’s orders.”
My entire body tenses at the thought of being in that close proximity to
him, even if just for the next few days. “I’ll get a friend to stay with me,
then.”
“Fine. Until a friend shows up to stay with you, you can get settled at
my place.” He knows he’s calling my bluff, because I literally just told him
I didn’t have any options.
I want to ask if he’s always this bossy, but instead I say, “There’s no
way I’m staying at your place.”
“Well, there’s no way you’re staying alone. And it feels like it would be
a lot easier for you to move into my guest bedroom for a short time than for
Abby and me to move in with you. But whatever you prefer.” He says it so
casually as he makes the turn into Government Center that I have to wonder
if he’s kidding.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yep, my place is very comfortable,” he says.
“I meant I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Easily arranged,” I mutter under my breath.
He chuckles, and as I glance over at him, I can’t help but notice how
that smile lights up his face. Even though his eyes are trained on the road
and I can only see half of it, I can still tell how different he looks. How
relaxed. Happy even.
“I’d like to see you pull off this one-handed murder,” he says, and I bite
the inside of my lip to stop myself from smiling. It’s better for everyone if I
seem unaffected by his charm.
He shouldn’t be this comfortable with me. He shouldn’t be driving me
home, joking around with me, or offering to take care of me. He definitely
shouldn’t be insisting I move in with him. But somehow, I still like it that
he’s doing all of these things.
“I’m not moving in with you.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “I’ll probably have to take Abby’s crib apart to
move it into your place, but it shouldn’t take that long.”
I groan. “You’re not moving in with me.”
“So you’ll stay with me. Perfect.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Sixteen
McCabe

E
arly the next morning, I sit in the kitchen feeding Abby some rice
cereal mixed with sweet potato for breakfast, when I hear a grunt of
pain from the guest bedroom. It’s all the assurance I need that forcing
AJ to stay with me was the right call.
I’m pretty sure the only reason she relented was that she needed to pee
badly when we got back to our building, and didn’t have time to fish out her
key and open her door left-handed, so she agreed to use my bathroom.
When she was unable to redo the button on her pants left-handed, I think
she finally realized that living on her own with her dominant hand
immobilized wasn’t possible. At least not yet.
“You okay?” I call out, thankful the guest bedroom is the closest to the
kitchen so she can hear me.
“I’m fine.” Her words are grunted too, because she’s most definitely not
okay.
Goddamn, this woman is stubborn. “Do I need to come in there?”
She clearly doesn’t miss the amused tone, because she calls out, “Don’t
even think about it.”
I’m guessing she’s trying to change her clothes without help—exactly
what the doctor and nurse told her she couldn’t do. Now the images of her
undressed body are filling my head, which is just so wrong, given that I’m
sitting right across from Abby. Still, I can’t stop my brain from going there.
“Oh, I’m thinking about it!” I call back.
 Reaching forward, I tickle Abby under her chin to get her to open her
mouth so I can shovel in another spoonful of rice cereal. It’s not that she
doesn’t like it. It’s that she wants mealtimes to take as long as humanly
possible, and I’m not going to lie . . . feeding her is kind of boring. I’m
committed to avoiding distractions while doing it. I don’t go on my phone
or watch TV while I do anything with her because we don’t get that much
one-on-one time with my travel schedule, and I want to make our time
together count. But the sooner she eats, the sooner we can move on to
something more fun.
“Dada,” I say, pointing to myself.
“Daaaaaaa,” she repeats.
She’s so close to stringing multiple syllables together, and I’m pretty
damn determined that “Dada” is going to be her first word.
“Shit!” The yelp of pain accompanying the curse has me setting the
bowl on the table and handing Abby the empty rubber spoon so she can
chew on it in her highchair while I investigate what’s going on in the guest
room.
I knock twice before I enter, and when she spins around, it’s clear why
she’s in pain. She’d insisted on sleeping in her clothes last night because
she didn’t want me to help her get undressed, and now she’s decided to take
matters into her own hands. As a result, she’s got her good arm out of her
sweater, but her splint has snagged inside it.
“Can I help get you untangled?”
“I’m freaking undressing. Why are you barging in here?” She’s annoyed
and feisty, and I don’t know why, but I really like that. Still, I don’t want to
be a creep and make her uncomfortable.
I hold up my hands and look at the ground. “Because you’re not
supposed to be doing that by yourself. It’s why you’re here, and not across
the hall in your own place.”
She makes a sound that’s like a growl rattling around in the back of her
throat. “I hate feeling helpless like this.”
“You’re not helpless,” I say with a sigh, “you’re injured. Come here. I’ll
help you get out of that sweater, and I promise I won’t even check you out
while I’m doing it.”
“Oh yeah, because you’re such a gentleman.”
“I am, actually,” I tell her, not even chuckling at the slicing glare she
sends me in response. “Come here, let me help.” I don’t move toward her.
She needs to make this decision because she’s willing to accept my help,
not because I’m standing over her and demanding it.
“Fine.” Her chest deflates with a big sigh as she steps toward me.
Reaching inside the arm of her sweater where it’s tangled around her
shoulder and biceps, I spread the knit fabric enough that she can pull her
splinted arm out without snagging it. Then I reach down and grab the t-shirt
I’d offered to help her put on last night where it sits on the dresser, and hold
it out with my fingers spreading the shirt sleeve so she can slide that arm in
first, before I pull it over her head and she slides her other arm through.
“You going to put the shorts on too?” I ask.
“Yeah. I hate hard pants.”
“You . . . what now?” I ask with a laugh as I grab the pair of boxer
shorts off the dresser.
“Hard pants. You know, like with zippers and buttons and stuff.”
“As opposed to soft pants?”
“Yeah, like leggings and sweats.”
“Huh. Yeah, me too, I guess.” I never thought about it that way, but it
makes sense.
She reaches down with her good hand and lifts the front of the t-shirt to
undo the button and zipper of her navy-blue dress pants with her other
hand, while I stand there wondering why she almost always wears trousers
to work if she hates the feel of them.
“Can you pull these off for me, please?”
Squatting, I grab the fabric at her knees and gently tug down until the
pants pool at her feet. It’s not until I look up at her that I notice my face is
right at the level of her crotch. I know I said I was a gentleman and all, but
that doesn’t mean I don’t imagine this scene playing out differently—me
lifting that t-shirt and sliding her thong down her legs before tasting her.
But because I’m not a creep, and because I can hear Abby babbling
away in the next room, I hold the boxers out at AJ’s feet so she can step into
them, and then pull them up to her knees, letting her take them with her
good hand.
“I’m going to finish feeding Abby breakfast. Are you hungry?” I ask,
turning away so she can get the boxers on under the t-shirt without me
watching.
“I don’t eat breakfast. But I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”
 “All this talk of killing people last night and this morning . . . I didn’t
know you were so violent,” I tease.
“That’s because you don’t know me, McCabe.” Her voice is hard, and I
can feel her trying to put distance back between us . . . the kind of distance
that should exist between a general manager and her players, yet seems to
disappear when we’re alone.
I should let those walls go back up. Nothing she told me the other day
about her reasons for trading me changes anything. I still missed out on the
last couple of weeks of my grandma’s life because of her.
By the time I got the call that Grandma was sick and I needed to come
home, she was already on a ventilator . . . and she never came off. I never
got to tell her how much I loved her. How she saved my life and gave me a
future, all because she was so wonderfully selfless.
I should have been there for her at the end, when she was sick but still
lucid. And I would have been, if I’d still been playing in St. Louis. I would
have been able to stop by every day we weren’t on the road. But instead, I
was in Boston.
And yet . . . I can’t bring myself to blame AJ anymore. Because she’s
right—I’m the one who beat the shit out of her husband right before the
trade deadline, and there was no way I was going to play for him after that.
I didn’t leave the team much of a choice but to trade me.
I turn back toward her, happy to find that she’s managed to get those
shorts on under the t-shirt. Not that she even needed them, since my shirt
comes down to her mid-thigh. “I’ll go get you some coffee. Still like it
black?”
Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth as she scrunches her face
up. “Why do you know that?”
I shrug and give her a wink before I turn to head back to the kitchen,
where I can hear Abby getting fussy in her highchair.
She follows me into the hallway, walking beside me. “Just because you
know my coffee order doesn’t mean you know me, McCabe.”
“If you say so.”
I’m a quiet guy by nature, reserved in a way that has people thinking
I’m grumpy or pissed off. But it’s not because I don’t like people, it’s
because I’m fascinated by how much you can learn about others when you
simply shut your fucking mouth and listen.
 The world is full of people who just want to talk, who aren’t
comfortable with silence and want to fill every moment with conversation
—usually about themselves. I prefer to observe, and to speak only when I
actually have something worth saying.
One of the reasons I was first drawn to AJ is that she does the same
thing. She has an ease around people that I don’t have, but she leads quietly.
Unlike a lot of people in her position, she’s never been self-aggrandizing.
Her predecessor here in Boston thought he walked on fucking water, which
he most definitely didn’t, and he never let you forget it. AJ isn’t like that.
She puts her head down and does the work, and attributes any and all
successes to the team, not to herself. That’s why people here like her. She’s
the kind of GM that makes you want to put in the effort and do your damn
job the best you can, just so you can earn her approval.
Despite everything that happened between us in the past, even when I
hated her, I never stopped observing.
“Good,” she says, plopping down in the seat across from Abby and
making faces at her before she turns toward me where I stand at the
cupboard about to get her a coffee mug. “So stop trying to act like you
know anything about me.”
“You always get punchy and defensive like this when you’re afraid
someone might be getting close? Might actually see you as something more
than a woman in charge of an entire hockey organization?”
The whoosh of breath that leaves her as her jaw falls open tells me I’ve
hit a little too close to the heart of the matter.
“But no,” I say with a healthy dose of sarcasm as I pull a blue Boston
Rebels mug off the shelf. “Of course, I don’t know anything about you.”
She turns her attention back to Abby, covering her face with her hands
and popping up from behind them, saying, “Peek-a-boo!”
Abby shrieks with delight each time, and I can’t help but smile as I
listen with my back turned to them while pouring AJ a cup of coffee.
“Here you go,” I say, crossing the kitchen to hand her the mug. I’ve got
it cupped in my hands, holding it from the bottom, so she can easily grab
the handle with her left hand. “I’ll take over with her so you can drink your
coffee.”
“Pfft.” She lets out an adorably dismissive snort. “I can drink my coffee
and chat with Abby at the same time.” Then she turns back toward my
daughter, and her voice completely changes. She’s practically cooing as she
tells Abby, “Girls are excellent multitaskers. You’ll see. Besides, we’re
going to be good friends. And when you’re older and your dad is being a
grouch, you can sneak across the hall, and we’ll have juice boxes and watch
Barbie movies together.”
I know she’s just babbling to keep Abby entertained, that she doesn’t
really plan on developing this relationship with my daughter. She’s
probably just trying to annoy me by making me think she and Abby are
going to team up against me someday.
But for reasons that don’t even make sense, that thought doesn’t annoy
me at all. In fact, it has the opposite effect. It makes me think of my own
parents, and how much I’ve always wanted what they had. The teasing and
the laughter, but also the deep trust, respect, and affection.
That’s not something I can ever have with AJ—not only because I’m
probably moving, but also because, even if I stayed, she’ll always be my
boss.
And she’s made it clear that’s a line she won’t cross again.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Seventeen
AJ

“Y ouweekly
sure you’re doing okay?” Frank asks after we wrap up our
check-in. Normally, I love that he’s the type of owner who’s
around and available, but today, I’d really prefer he was sitting
somewhere else counting his billions instead of asking me personal
questions.
Sitting in McCabe’s kitchen early this morning, I thought I was doing
okay, all things considered. But my body has gotten progressively more
sore as the day has gone on and Frank obviously hasn’t missed how I’ve
been shifting in my seat, trying to get comfortable.
“I’m fine. Just tired. I don’t even remember what time it was when we
got back from the hospital last night⁠—”
“We?” Frank moves his bushy eyebrows up and down in a way that
draws a laugh out of me. He probably thinks I’m seeing someone, and as
much as I’d like an excuse to avoid all the men he tries to set me up with, I
don’t want to risk stirring up any rumors.
“No, don’t get your hopes up. It’s not like that. McCabe gave me a ride
home after Abby and I were cleared by the doctor.” At the beginning of our
meeting, I’d given him the brief rundown of my experience with the fight
and the hospital visit—which had led into a conversation about how this is
exactly why McCabe was supposed to tell the fans that the fights needed to
stay on the ice in the first place.
 Would things have turned out differently if he’d reacted differently at
the press conference? I don’t know. But when Frank showed me footage of
last night’s fight, there was no denying that the Boston fans behind us were
responsible for what happened. And they were both wearing McCabe
jerseys.
“Speaking of, you’ll talk to him about that again, right? I need him to
make a statement or something about what happened,” Frank says.
“I’ll talk to him. But you saw what happened last time. I don’t know
what his deal is,” I admit. “His agent is making outrageous demands⁠—”
“Which we’re not agreeing to.”
“I know. And McCabe knows what our salary cap is. I don’t know why
he’s getting greedy all of a sudden, but I wonder if his refusal to speak out
about this at the press conference is because he’s pissed about the
negotiations breaking down?” It’s incredibly frustrating that I can’t just talk
to him about this directly, but management can only discuss contracts with
the player’s agent, not the players themselves. “He’s acting like he has one
foot out the door already.”
“Well, as long as he plays for us, he needs to act like a Rebel. I wish
he’d said something before his daughter took a tumble and you got hurt,
because now his statement will look reactive, like he only cares now
because his daughter was involved.”
Frank’s right, but maybe emphasizing that bystanders were hurt will be
even more effective?
“I’ll talk to him t—” There’s a split second where I realize I’m about to
say tonight, and I consider being honest with Frank about the fact that I’m
staying with McCabe. But as much as he’s like a father to me, there’s only
one outcome that could result from telling him—he’d remind me how
inappropriate the situation is, and that given my position and this award
nomination, I’m already under a microscope. Both of which I already fully
understand. Besides, tonight’s the last night I’m staying with him, because
tomorrow we’re on the road. So there’s no reason to say anything. “—
tomorrow before the flight.”
“Let me know what he says. And if you need to drop my name in there
to get him to cooperate, you can.”
“I won’t. He’s going to do this because it’s the right thing to do, not
because I had to bring in the big guns to get him to comply.”
“You are the big guns, AJ,” Frank says with a laugh.
 “Yeah, but you write their paychecks.”
He gives me a quick chuckle before he returns to that concerned look he
had a few minutes ago. “And you’re sure you’re okay to travel with the
team tomorrow? No one is going to question it if you stay home.”
I stand, hoping that I can relieve some of the pressure on my right hip
and stop my back from knotting up. I wasn’t bruised when I looked this
morning, but I’m afraid of what my body might look like now. Plus, I need
this meeting to end because McCabe texted to tell me he was picking me up
at six, and not to be late. The painkillers and my injury mean I can’t drive
myself, but when I tried to tell him I’d just book myself a ride home, he was
having none of it. Now, I’ve got less than five minutes to get down to the
parking garage. Hopefully, everyone else has left for the day and no one
sees me leaving in his car.
“I’ll be on the plane,” I tell him with a nod. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that,” Frank says, “and somehow, I still don’t believe
you.”

“I didn’t really picture you as such a good cook,” I tell McCabe as I blot
some of the pasta sauce I can feel coating my lips with my napkin. I
don’t normally eat this late, but McCabe whipped this up after Abby
went to bed, and it smelled so good, I agreed to have some. The sandwich
I’d had in the late afternoon before my meeting with Frank didn’t exactly
feel like it was going to tide me over for the night.
His eyes flick up from his plate, and his lips quirk at one corner in that
goddamn smirk that does things to me I wish it didn’t. “Oh yeah, so how
did you picture me, then?”
“I guess I just assumed you probably ordered out more than you
cooked.”
“You sound like you’ve given this some thought?” One eyebrow lifts,
like he’s trying to get me to admit that I spend a lot of my time thinking
about him. Which is not the case, at all.
Or at least, it wasn’t until the other day in my office. Now I feel like I
keep reliving that moment over and over, and it’s doing funny things to my
body, my mind, and my moral compass.
 Unethical. That word bounces around in my head, even though I know
there’s nothing in my contract about being involved with a player. It’s
probably not something anyone would have thought necessary with a male
GM. Though, let’s face it, that shouldn’t be off the table either.
Regardless of what my contract says, I’m still his boss. The power
dynamic is still there, even more so due to the new contract we’re trying to
work out. No one would look at what happened in that office and think it
was okay. Not even me.
“The only time I spend thinking about you is when I’m trying to figure
out why you’re so obstinate.”
“Ohhh, pulling out the big words now, aren’t we, Sunshine?”
My laugh escapes like a snort. “Sunshine? What the fuck, McCabe? I
may not be as grumpy as you are, but no one has ever accused me of having
a sunny disposition.” I’m far too much of a realist for that.
“Nah, I think it fits. You don’t know what this organization was like
before you became GM.” He tears off a piece of his bread and uses it to
mop up some of the pasta sauce on his mostly empty plate. “It’s like you
brought the light with you.”
“That’s . . .” I lick my lips as I think about what he means, my chest
warm and tingly. “. . . oddly sweet.”
He shrugs and reaches for his water glass. “Just telling it like it is.”
Releasing a breath, I try to change the subject. “In any event, back to
you being obstinate⁠—”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course. You can’t just let me distract you with a
compliment?”
“Not gonna happen, McCabe. You had the opportunity to say something
at that press conference about the fans leaving the fighting to the
professionals on the ice, and you didn’t. In fact, you said it was not your
place to have an opinion on that. So now that I was injured and your
daughter was almost hurt as well, what’s your plan?”
“Have someone ask me again after our next game.”
“After the way you responded last time?” I ask with an incredulous
laugh. Like I’d trust him again. I’m not even sure I want him in front of the
media after what happened in the pressroom a few days ago. But, as team
captain, it’s kind of expected.
“Trust me,” he says, as if such a thing was possible. “Have someone ask
me again.”
 I press my lips together between my teeth, wondering if it’s worth the
risk. The right statement from him could help, but if he goes off script
again . . . “Not unless you get some coaching on what you’re going to say
first.”
“I don’t need fucking coaching on what to say.” Letting out a huge sigh,
he sits back in his seat.
I follow suit, but the second my shoulder blade makes contact with the
back of the seat, I wince. I try to hide it, but he’s quick to ask what’s wrong.
“Just sore,” I say breezily.
“Are you bruised from the fall?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve looked at my back since getting dressed
this morning.”
“You weren’t bruised then,” he confirms.
“I thought you said you were keeping your eyes closed?” He’d
promised he wouldn’t look at me while he helped me get my dress on today.
It had been easy for me to get into the short-sleeved dress; he’d just needed
to zip up the back for me.
“I said I wouldn’t look while you were putting the dress on. I didn’t say
I was going to zip it up with my eyes closed. Anyway, I didn’t see any
bruises, but the dress was covering most of your back.” He stands, rounding
the table toward my seat. “Let me check.”
“What?” I shrink back in my chair, which is foolish because the minute
my full back hits that seat, I yelp in pain. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no need.” I keep my words breezy so he won’t notice
how my entire body is heating up at the thought of his hands on me. I need
to keep the boundaries between us clear—something he doesn’t seem to
know how to do.
“I’m going to have to unzip your dress later on so you can change,
anyway,” he says. “You’re done eating, so why not now?”
“Because . . .” I say, but I can’t think of any good reason except that I
can tell there’s bruising and I don’t want him to see it. He already has some
sort of a martyr complex about helping me recover since I saved Abby from
injury. I don’t need that complex to get any stronger when he sees what
shape my body’s in after that fall.
“Stand up, Alessandra, before I haul you out of that chair.” His words
are low, but they’re not threatening. They’re a caress, a promise that he’ll
get his way but he’ll be gentle in doing so.
“You wouldn’t.”
He puts his hand on the back of my seat, easily turning the chair so I’m
facing him. “I would. So I highly suggest you stand on your own, or you’re
going to end up over my shoulder.”
I’m so tempted to test him, to sit here stubbornly, just to see if he’d
actually do it. But that feels like a line I’m not willing to cross, so instead, I
stand.
“There, happy?” I huff.
He looks down at me, and there’s a heat in his eyes that shouldn’t be
there. His voice is low and raspy as his breath coasts along the top of my
head. “Good girl. See how easy it is to do what you’re told?”
I close my eyes, gulping as I tilt my head down, away from the sound of
his sexy-as-hell voice. There’s no reason those words should have my
underwear already damp, but that’s what’s happening. I should be telling
him to check himself, but my body is having an entirely different response.
Stop it right fucking now, I tell myself, willing my good sense to return.
Whatever it is he does to my senses, and the way my body responds to
him . . . it needs to stop.
“Just unzip me, McCabe. I can look at my own back in the mirror in the
bathroom. I don’t need your help,” I say, too quietly, and he looks at me like
he knows I’m trying to hide from him even while we stand toe to toe.
He brings his knuckles under my chin, tilting my head back so he can
see my face, and goosebumps erupt along my chest and down my arms.
“What is it you don’t want me to see?”
Me, I want to scream. Because right now, with him staring down at me,
this whole situation feels too raw, too vulnerable. Like not only will he be
able to see how bruised and battered my body is, but maybe he’ll even be
able to see that my heart is in the same condition.
“I’m your boss,” I say, because I feel like maybe we both need that
reminder.
“Like I could forget,” he says, eyes searching mine. “But you’re also the
woman who saved my daughter from getting injured, and I’m going to take
care of you until you’re recovered.”
I exhale, relieved that’s all this is to him—he’s only taking care of me
because he feels obligated, given that I protected Abby.
“You don’t need to do that. I’m fine.”
 “Really? Then let’s see.” He rests his hands on my shoulders tenderly,
like he knows I’m in pain and wants to make sure he doesn’t hurt me, then
turns me so my back is to him.
I suck in a breath when his fingers skim the skin over my spine, and
exhale slowly as he grips the fabric at the top of my dress with one hand,
then slowly pulls the zipper down with the other.
When I feel the zipper pass my bra, I try to step away, knowing I can
unzip it the rest of the way one-handed. But his palm snakes around to the
front of my neck, pulling me back to him gently. This beast of a man is
cradling my body in his—his rock-solid chest barely touching my
shoulders, one arm wrapped around me and cupping my neck in his hand—
and I can’t fucking breathe from how turned on I am.
I try to exhale to make room in my lungs for new air, but it comes out
sounding a whole lot like a moan.
“You’re going to let me see what’s going on with your back.” His words
are a low caress. “So are we doing this the easy way, or the hard way?”
While I know the easy way is to just let him look, my imagination is
captivated and my body thrums at the idea of finding out what the hard way
looks like. But my confidence fails me at that moment.
“Easy,” I squeak out.
His hips settle against my lower back as his hand trails around to the
nape of my neck, then down the bare skin along my spine. Knuckles
pressing against me, he slides his hand into the dress and holds the fabric
together as his other hand tugs the zipper the rest of the way down in one
fluid motion.
He dips his head so his lips are right next to my ear. “Good girl. Now
show me where it hurts.”
My entire core clenches in need, my hips flexing back against him
without my permission. What the hell was that?
I’ve never in my life wanted to be treated like someone’s fucking pet.
Yet here this man is, his deep, gravelly voice melting me with his words of
affirmation.
With my left hand, I slide the dress off my right shoulder, and he sucks
in his breath so sharply it sounds like a gasp.
“What the fuck is this?” He pulls the dress farther down my arm to bare
more of my back to him, and then traces his fingers ever-so-lightly across
the tender flesh. I all but stop breathing, but it’s not because of the pain. It’s
because of how this gruff man is so tender when he’s touching me.
“I’m fine,” I assure him.
“Like hell you are. I want this dress off so I can see what else is hurt.”
My shoulders shake with laughter. “Yeah, sure that’s why you want this
dress off.”
“There is no question that in other circumstances, I’d want your dress
off for other reasons. But right now, I honestly want to see how badly
you’re hurt. Nothing more.”
The erection he’s pressing against the curve of my spine says otherwise.
“I’m not taking my dress off in the middle of your condo,” I say,
nodding my chin toward the walls of windows at the corner of the room,
which are uncovered. Outside, the light is fading fast as we approach
sunset, and anyone in one of the surrounding buildings could see in here.
“Fine. My room, then.” With his hand on my lower back, he steers me
toward the hallway to the bedrooms. “I’m just going to double check on
Abby first.”
Earlier tonight, while I was across the hall feeding Tabitha and packing
the suitcase he’d laid out for me on my bed in preparation for tomorrow’s
trip, he put Abby down to sleep and made us dinner. After collecting my
suitcase and bringing it over to his guest bedroom, he fed me.
I don’t know who this man is—I want to think that this caretaking side
of him is only because he feels guilty and wants to make it up to me, but
what if this is just who he is? And worse, what if I like this side of him a
little too much?
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. He’s not letting this go without seeing what
condition I’m in, and after that huge pasta dinner with the carb-loading
hockey player, I’m getting tired. I just don’t feel like fighting him on this.
I’ll show him my back and my hip, and then call it an early night by
retreating to the guest bedroom.
That feels like a safe plan.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Eighteen
McCabe

A
s I expected, Abby is still fast asleep, but her pacifier is on the floor
so I place it back in her crib, hoping that if she wakes up tonight,
she’ll use it to self-soothe. Like some sort of a miracle, that worked
last night—when I heard her fussing and grabbed the video monitor to take
a look, she was chewing on her pacifier and then she popped it in her
mouth, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
She’s sleeping through the night about fifty percent of the time now, but
I’d love to get to that being the norm every night—I’m a much better dad
when I’m not sleep deprived. I hate being away from her when I travel, but
at least I get to catch up on sleep when I’m on the road. My teammates all
think I’ve turned into an old man since Abby came into my life, but the
ones with little kids understand.
It’s only been a minute when I get to my bedroom, and I’m surprised to
find AJ standing there in the middle of the room, looking lost.
“I thought I told you to take that dress off.”
She puts one hand on her hip while her injured arm hangs limp at her
side. “I’m not going to stand around in nothing but my underwear. Besides,
I wasn’t sure how to close your shades.”
“Here.” I step over to the wall of glass doors that lead out to the same
balcony that runs across my living room, and pull back the curtains to show
her where the remote is mounted on the wall.
 “Oh, fancy,” she says as the light-filtering shades descend. “I should get
some like this. I don’t love having my curtains closed during the day
because then it’s dark, but I also hate the thought of people in other
buildings being able to see into my bedroom.”
“Same,” I tell her as the shades hit the lower lip of the sliding glass
doors. “Now let’s see those bruises.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” she says as she turns her back to me. “I’m
only letting you look because I don’t feel like fighting with you. Take a
quick peek, and then I’m going to sleep.”
“It’s nine o’clock.”
“And I’m exhausted. I don’t even remember what time we got back
from the hospital last night.”
“Like 2 a.m.,” I say as I hook my thumbs under the neckline of her
dress, and watch the shiver run down her spine.
Sliding the shoulders of the dress down each of her arms, I let it stop at
her waist. The right side of her back is covered in angry purple bruises. Her
entire shoulder blade is a grayish purple color, and it extends over to her
spine. There’s a fainter line of bruises, not quite as bad, leading from her
shoulder blade down to her waist. I push the dress down, exposing the curve
of her ass, and in the relative silence of the room, I don’t miss the way she
sucks in a breath as my fingers trace the dark line that runs horizontally
from her sacrum over to her right hip, directly below the strand of lace
holding her thong in place.
In the pattern of bruises, I can see exactly how she landed—her hip and
ass connecting with the back of one row of seats, and her shoulder blade
and spine connecting with the next row down. It’s amazing she didn’t break
her back, along with her wrist.
My hands rest lightly on each of her hips, but it’s like I’ve been
immobilized. I stand there, forcing myself to breathe as I look at her
battered body, while every cell inside me is threatening to explode—from
both anger and gratitude. I’m angry at the fans who started this fight, yes,
but I’m also angry at myself. Maybe I couldn’t have stopped this from
happening, but I could have done more to prevent it—I could have just
done what she’d asked, and spoken out against fighting happening in the
stands.
We’re so lucky that she wasn’t hurt worse, and I’m immensely grateful
that she was able to prevent Abby from injury. I can never repay her for the
way she kept my daughter safe.
I’m such a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions right now.
“So?” she asks, breaking me out of my trance.
I rest my forehead on the crown of her head, and breathe in the sweet
scent of her shampoo. “Fuck, Alessandra.” I breathe out her name
reverently. “I’m so sorry this happened.”
My fingertips move to connect over her abdomen so my hands are
practically circling her waist. All I can think about is that I want to kill
whoever caused her this pain. But then my fingers meet stickiness.
“What’s this?” I ask, pulling my fingers free where they’re lightly stuck
to the sticky spots on her skin.
She tilts her head down to look at her stomach, and that’s when her
dress falls past her hips and pools at her bare feet. My god, she has a
delicious ass—rounded and muscular, sitting atop absolutely ripped thighs.
Her body is all hard lines and flat planes . . . and I’m left wondering how
she’s so muscular. It’s like she’s curvy, but it’s all muscle.
There’s not an ounce of softness anywhere on her body, which is kind of
perfect because there’s not an ounce of softness in her personality, either.
Except when she’s with Abby, and then it’s like seeing a whole different
side of her.
“It’s from those sensor things they stuck to me yesterday when they
were running some tests,” she says, then looks over her shoulder and
catches me staring at her ass.
“Eyes up here, buddy,” she says, her voice sarcastic. She doesn’t sound
mad that she caught me checking her out.
“Sorry,” I say as I lift my chin to look her in the eye. “But I mean,
you’re standing in front of me in a tiny thong, so you can’t blame a guy for
looking.”
“I can, actually,” she says. “You said you wanted to see the bruises, not
check me out.”
“Hey.” Reaching out, I cup the side of her face, pulling her toward me
in a way that gives her no choice but to turn around. I keep my gaze locked
on her face when I say, “I’m sorry.”
She rests her cheek in my hand, and I stand there wondering what it
means that she hasn’t pulled away.
“You haven’t showered.” The words are out of my mouth the second
they’re in my head. “No wonder you have sticky spots”—I look down at
her abdomen, trying to ignore the curve of her breasts, covered by the thin
fabric of her bra.—“all over you.”
“How would I shower?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I
can’t even use one of my hands, and I’m not allowed to take this splint off.”
I try to picture how she’d squeeze the body wash onto a bath sponge, or
shampoo or conditioner into her hand. It would be impossible to do that
one-handed.
“C’mon,” I say, nodding my chin toward the ensuite bathroom.
Her eyebrows dip. “What?”
“I’ll help you.”
Her laughter is the awkward kind that bubbles up when you don’t want
it to. “I’m not showering with you.”
“I’m not offering.” Not because I don’t want that—fuck, my body wants
that so badly I’m about fully hard just thinking about it—but because I
know she doesn’t want that. “But I’ll draw you a bubble bath, so you can
rest your splinted arm on the rim of the tub. And once you’re settled, I’ll
come in and wash your hair for you.”
“You . . .?” She shakes her head, and with her lips parted and her
eyebrows still dipped in confusion, she looks like she can’t make sense of
anything I’m saying.
“C’mon, Sunshine, think how good it’ll feel to be clean. When’s the last
time you took a shower?”
“Yesterday morning.”
I guide her into the bathroom with my hand resting lightly on her lower
back, taking care to avoid the bruised side. And as she stands on the tiled
floor, she turns so her back is to the huge, framed mirror that runs above the
vanity, and looks over her shoulder. “Yep,” she sighs. “It looks about how it
feels.”
“I can’t believe you went to work today,” I say, turning on the tap and
letting the water run into the tub. When I get it nice and warm, I flip the
lever next to the spout to close the drain.
“I never even considered staying home,” she admits quietly, and I get
the sense that this is an important realization for her.
“Why not?” I keep my eyes focused on the tub that’s slowly filling with
water. I’m avoiding looking at her in that sexy thong and bra, trying to stop
wondering why she’s wearing sexy lingerie to work, because I need this
fucking hard-on to disappear before she notices it.
 “I don’t know. Work is sort of . . .” There’s a long pause, and I don’t fill
the silence. I want to know what she’s thinking, and I sense that she’s
working it out in her own mind. Getting to hear her thought process feels
kind of like an unexpected gift. “. . . what I do.”
I pick up the bubble bath sitting on the ledge above the big freestanding
tub. “What do you do besides work?” I ask as I squeeze the liquid into the
tub.
“Why do you have bubble bath?” she asks with a laugh, like the fact
that I said I’d draw her a bubble bath didn’t actually register until she saw
me pouring it in.
“Abby loves bubbles. I hope you won’t mind smelling like coconut?”
“Love coconut. I actually have a candle in my living room called Beach
Day. It smells like coconut-scented sunscreen, and I burn it all summer
long.”
There are so many questions surfacing . . . things I want to know about
her everyday life. But I shouldn’t be trying to figure out what her life is like
outside of work, and she was the first to remind me of that by the way she
tried to change the conversation when I asked.
“You want to feel the water and make sure it’s the right temperature?”
“Sure,” she says, stepping toward the tub. I stand and move away,
otherwise her tits would be right at eye level and there’s no way I should be
looking at her like that. But I do glance over as she bends to test the water
with her good hand, and that’s a mistake. Because Alessandra Jones bent
over in that sexy thong is a sight that has me just about ready to come in my
fucking pants like some sort of middle school boy.
“I’m going to give you some privacy so you can get in the tub when
there’s as much water as you want,” I say quickly, turning away so that she
won’t be able to see the enormous boner I’m sporting if she looks back at
me. “Call me once you’re in.”
And then I rush out the door, and when it’s shut, I rest my hands on
either side of the frame, taking deep breaths and reminding myself that no
matter what I want to happen, she wants to keep things professional.
Trying to convince myself that I’m not just respecting her boundaries
here, but that I actually don’t want anything to happen either, doesn’t pan
out. You don’t even like her, I remind myself. But is that really true? The
years I spent holding that grudge about the trade feel like wasted energy.
 The unmistakable sound of sloshing water as her body sinks into the
bath has me picturing the scene clearly in my head, which is doing nothing
to help the situation in my pants. I try anything that might help . . . I think
about my high school gym teacher who liked to bite his nails and spit them
at us if he thought we weren’t doing sit-ups fast enough, I remember the
time in elementary school when I didn’t notice the maggots in my box of
raisins until I started popping them into my mouth, I think of all the gross
shit I’ve seen in locker rooms over the years. And then, with those
memories and mental images circulating in my brain, I take a lap around
my bedroom, walking back and forth, again and again.
“Alright,” AJ calls from the bathroom. “I’m in.”
God, even the sound of her voice does it for me. How did I go so
quickly from hating her for years, right back to this crush I once had?
But as I walk toward the bathroom, I realize that’s not what this is. This
isn’t the pathetic crush of a guy in his early twenties, lusting after the
powerful but married woman who he knows he can’t have. That crush was
safe—or so I thought, until it ended my career in St. Louis.
But this . . . the way I can’t stop thinking about her? The way I moved
her into my condo with a flimsy excuse the second I saw the opportunity?
The way she is with Abby? All of it makes me want more, and that is the
part that’s dangerous.
It could ruin her career, make her a laughingstock among her peers, and
ensure that she doesn’t win an award she more than deserves.
And for me? She’s already made it clear she’s not trying to keep me in
Boston next season. So getting involved with her? Or worse—letting myself
fall for her? That would be the most wildly stupid thing I’ve ever done.
But do I let that stop me from walking into that bathroom? Sitting on
the edge of the tub and noticing how she’s arranged all the bubbles in the
middle to ensure she’s covered under the water? No, I sure don’t.
Do I let it stop me from dipping the bath sponge into the water, then
adding some body wash to it? Nope.
And when she leans forward so I can wash her back for her, do I stop
myself from slipping my hand along her neck and brushing her hair to one
side before I move that bath sponge along her shoulders, careful not to put
too much pressure on any of the bruised parts? Not a chance.
Because even though I know she’s right, that nothing should happen
between us, I don’t think there’s anything I could do to stop this. There’s no
way I’m not taking care of her while she’s hurt. And when she’s
recovered . . . well, we’ll see.
“I think you’re going to need to dunk under the water to get your hair
wet enough for me to wash it,” I tell her.
“Alright.” The word is spoken so softly. “Will you just hold my arm up
here.” She nods her chin toward the opposite rim of the tub where her
splinted arm rests. “I don’t want the splint to get wet.”
“Sure.” I lean over, cupping my hand where her elbow sits against the
porcelain tub, and she sinks into the water. Trying to remain a gentleman, I
keep my eyes focused on the frosted window that takes up the wall space
above the tub.
She resurfaces a moment later, using her good hand to wipe the water
from her eyes. When I lather up my hands with shampoo and sink my
fingers into her hair, I try to focus on how I’m helping her rather than on
how intimate this is. As I massage her scalp, she tilts her head back into my
hands, letting out a breathy and contented sigh.
The way she’s both tentative about accepting help, but then laps it up
when it’s given . . . it has me wondering so many things about her previous
relationships.
After working the shampoo down to the ends of her hair, I gently tilt her
head back so her hair’s in the water and, holding the weight of her head in
one hand, I use my other to work the suds out of her hair, before sitting her
back up.
“You’re remarkably good at this,” she says, still not looking at me. “Do
this often?”
I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before. Never shared this type of
intimacy with someone. Shower sex? Sure. But nothing like this.
“Only for Abby,” I tell her. “Though . . . her bathtime is . . .” I clear my
throat. “. . . not this.”
Her shoulders shake with a silent laugh, and I reach across the tub to the
ledge under the window and add a few pumps of conditioner to my hand.
“Why do you have shampoo and conditioner over here? Besides Abby’s,
I mean.” She nods her chin to where the baby shampoo sits next to my
bottles.
“Uhh.” Is this a trick question? “For when I take baths?”
“You take baths? And use conditioner?”
 “Why do you sound shocked? I’m sure you can imagine how sore and
stiff my muscles get after practices and games. Sometimes, a hot soak is as
necessary as an ice bath. And yeah, of course I use conditioner.” My hair
isn’t long, but it’s long enough that it gets tangled if I don’t condition it.
The “hmmmm” that rattles around in her throat gives me no indication
of what she’s thinking, so I work the conditioner through her hair in silence,
before tilting her head back again to work the lather out of her hair with the
water.
“Do you want me to use the sprayer to get this out of your hair? Or . . .”
I’m about to ask if she’d rather do it herself, when I realize how difficult
that would be for her.
“Sure,” she says. “I’ll just sit up with my back to you so my hair’s all
the way out of the water?”
“Sounds good.” Why does it sound like I have a frog in my throat?
I busy myself with turning on the water to the handheld sprayer, and
making sure it’s a good temperature while she turns to sit facing the
window. “I need to pull the plug and let the water drain a bit or we’ll
overflow it with this new water.”
“Kay.” The answer is clipped, and she sounds . . . nervous?
I have her tilt her head back and use the sprayer to work any remaining
conditioner out of her hair until it’s squeaky clean, and then I hold her hair
up and rinse off her upper body. “How do you want to . . . rinse the rest of
yourself off?”
There’s no way I can rinse her off without her standing up and being
fully naked in front of me.
She clears her throat, but her voice is still thick when she says, “I think I
can do it one-handed. And then get myself dried off.”
“Alright.” I lean down to put the sprayer in front of her where she can
grab it with her left hand. “There are towels right on the shelf there.” I point
toward the wall above the faucet. “Just call me if you need anything.”
And then I head out, shutting the door behind me, feeling like I’m
barely breathing as I remind myself that there’s nothing physical going on
here. I’m only helping her because she’s hurt. It’s nothing more than that,
and she doesn’t want there to be.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Nineteen
McCabe

“Y ousays,gotta stop following her around like a goddamn puppy,” Colt

turning his head back to me as I follow him onto the plane.
“She shouldn’t be carrying a suitcase with a broken arm.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have rushed over to AJ when she got out of the
private car she insisted on taking to the charter jet terminal our plane is
leaving from. She can’t drive herself right now, and she said it would be
way too suspect if we arrived together, so she wouldn’t let me drive her
either.
“Pretty sure she has two arms,” he replies.
There was no way I was letting her roll that big-ass suitcase over to the
luggage cart, or lug her carry-on suitcase up those stairs to the plane. Not
when she’s injured.
Colt drops his voice lower and says, “Never thought I’d see you go
from hating her to hovering like this. Is this all because of the way she
protected Abby the other night?”
The silent “Or . . .?” at the end of the question hangs there heavily.
“Yeah, I feel kind of indebted to her now. And Abby adores her, so
that’s kind of softened my stance on her, I guess.” I try to play it off like this
is just about Abby, and hope he buys it.
“Good, maybe she’ll renew your contract if you stop being such a dick.”
I laugh, and Colt’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I’m not a dick. She
just pisses me off.”
 “She gave you your first contract in the NHL a decade ago, and took
Abby twice so you could play the first two games of this series. Maybe
whatever happened in that time between those two things doesn’t matter
that much?”
After eight years of playing with Colt, I don’t know why it still surprises
me that there’s more to him than the fuck-boy image he portrayed for so
long. He’s so much more perceptive than he wants people to know.
“Maybe,” I grunt out as we take our seats—me in the aisle across from
Colt, and him next to Drew.
“So . . .” Drew leans forward, looking at me. “You got your childcare all
worked out?”
“Yeah. Found a manny, actually.”
“Like a guy who’s a nanny?” Colt asks, scratching at the back of his
neck like the thought of having to spend four solid days with a baby is
making him break out in a rash.
“Yep.”
“How’d that happen?” Drew asks.
“Little brother of a friend. He’s getting his degree in child psychology
and loves kids. It’s only working because it’s just a summer gig for him.
But at least I think he’ll be reliable through the rest of the season.”
Colt chuckles. “A college guy who’s watching a baby for the summer.
Hope he’s not like either of you guys were in college.”
Colt came straight to the NHL, whereas Drew was drafted after his
senior year of college, and I left after my junior year for the pros. But he’s
right. I was definitely not the kind of guy you’d leave in charge of a baby
back then. And after the way Drew accidentally ghosted Audrey post-senior
year and missed the first five years of his son’s life as a result, I don’t think
he was responsible enough either.
“Stop trying to make him worry,” Drew says, elbowing Colt. “The last
thing we need is for our captain to not have his head in the game.”
“Abby’s going to be just fine with Nicholas,” I say, praying I’m right. I
have such a better feeling about him than I ever did about Lucy. And the
fact that he showed up ten minutes early this morning only confirmed my
intuition.
My phone pings with a text, and I glance down quickly, relieved that
Hartmann isn’t in his seat next to me yet, because no one needs to see AJ’s
name popping up on my screen. I quickly go to her contact and change her
name so that I don’t risk one of my teammates seeing that she’s texting me.
SUNSHINE
Stop treating me like I’m made of glass. I can roll my own
damn suitcase.
MCCABE
You had two suitcases and one good hand.
SUNSHINE
And yet you insisted on taking both my bags.
MCCABE
What can I say? I’m a gentleman.

I’m pretty sure I hear her scoff from the front of the plane, where she
sits twelve rows in front of me.
SUNSHINE
Sure you are.
MCCABE
I was a PERFECT gentleman last night, wasn’t I?
SUNSHINE
That’s debatable. But you were helpful, so there’s that.
MCCABE
I’ll take helpful.
For now.
SUNSHINE
What do you mean, FOR NOW???

Do I type out a message and delete it five times, simply because I like
picturing her biting her lip as she watches those bubbles pop up while she
waits for my response? Yes, I sure do.
I quite like the idea of making her squirm a bit . . . I just wish she was
squirming right over the top of my⁠—
“Dude, who are you texting?” Hartmann’s voice cuts into my thoughts.
Glancing up to where he stands looking down at me, I almost fumble my
phone in the rush to put it in my pocket before he sees AJ’s name at the top
of the screen. Then I remember that I already changed her name.
“Just the new nanny.”
 He purposely presses his ass into my face as he steps over me to get to
his seat, like an impatient teenager who can’t be bothered to wait two
seconds for me to get up and let him pass.
“I can’t fucking wait for Renaud to get back next season,” I grumble.
“You’re a shitty seat mate.”
Aidan Renaud has been my closest friend for the past few years, but an
injury this past summer sidelined his whole season, and he’s spent most of
this past year back in the beach town he grew up in.
Hartmann just laughs. “So, this new nanny. She hot?”
“Relax, Lover Boy,” I use the nickname Walshy gave him when he
joined our team earlier this season. “She’s a he.”
“Your nanny is a guy?”
“Yep.”
“None of my nannies growing up were dudes,” he says, his face getting
serious, like he’s really considering what it would be like to have a male
nanny. “That’s so badass. I bet a guy would have been so much more fun.”
I roll my eyes. “You know Abby’s an infant, right? It’s not like they’re
out playing baseball together.”
“Still, it’s cool for him. He can put her in the stroller and walk around
the city, and I bet he pulls so many girls that way.”
I never feel older than when I spend time around some of these younger,
single players. Was I like this before Abby came into my life? Hopefully,
I’d long since grown out of that phase.
“He has a girlfriend.”
“Hmm. What a waste for him. A guy with a kid is a total chick magnet.”
Is that so? Because that hasn’t been my experience. Only one woman in
my life has ever seemed at all comfortable with my kid. Of course, it’s the
one woman I can’t have.
And. Don’t. Want! I practically scream the reminder in my head, but it’s
useless. I’m not delusional enough to believe myself. I do want her.
Whether she wants me is an entirely different question.

SUNSHINE
Any chance you’re free right now?
W hen the text comes through, I’m half asleep on the bed in my hotel
room after a particularly heavy pasta dinner with the team put me into
a carb coma. The recap of another hockey game is playing on my TV, but
the volume is so low that I can’t even hear what the sportscasters are
saying. Doesn’t matter, I’m not watching for their commentary. I just want
to see what the competition is doing.
MCCABE
Depends.

Her reply comes back almost immediately.

SUNSHINE
On what?
MCCABE
On why you’re asking.

I’m not sure why I like to be difficult when it comes to her. I could have
just said “yes,” but where’s the fun in that?
SUNSHINE
I happen to be on FaceTime with Nicholas, and Abby is trying
to walk.

I fly off the bed, grabbing a shirt off the chair as I frantically type out
my reply.
MCCABE
What’s your room number?
SUNSHINE
Oh, nowwwww you decide to be direct? No leaving me hanging
without responding for hours . . .

Shit. I scroll up on the screen and see that she’s right. I got distracted
with my teammates on the plane and I never actually sent a response to her
earlier message.
MCCABE
Room number.
Now, AJ.
 I’m not missing my daughter’s first steps because you’re pissy I
didn’t respond to your text.

I’m going to assume she’s just teasing me, because I don’t think she’s
actually the type of person who would make me miss a milestone like this
out of spite.
SUNSHINE
407

No. Fucking. Way. What kind of trick is the universe trying to play on
us?
MCCABE
Open your door so I can slip in without anyone seeing me,
please.
SUNSHINE
How soon?

Grabbing my key card off the dresser, I shove it into the pocket of my
shorts as I crack open my door, peeking out into the hallway to make sure
no one is around. It’s empty.
MCCABE
Now.

Her jaw drops when she swings her door open to find me standing in
my open doorway across the hall.
“No fucking way,” she says, and I chuckle as her words mirror the exact
thought I just had. “Did you arrange this?”
“Yeah.” Sarcasm drips from my tone as I take two steps across the hall
and into her room, quickly shutting the door behind me. “Just like I
arranged for you to move in across the hall from me at home.”
Abby’s gurgling baby sounds draw me into the room, where I find AJ’s
phone propped up on the dresser against the TV.
“I muted myself because she was getting distracted any time I said
something to Nicholas,” she tells me, grabbing the phone off the dresser and
handing it to me as we sit on the bed next to each other so we can watch my
daughter.
Abby is standing with both hands on the long bench-style ottoman I
now use as a coffee table because it’s padded and she can’t hurt herself on
it.
“Hey, Abby.” Nicholas must be sitting on the floor below his phone,
because I can just see the top of his head at the bottom of the screen.
Abby’s head turns toward him, and he holds up her favorite puppy,
making it dance around in the air in front of him. Abby takes a tentative
step, still holding on to the ottoman with one hand for balance. I’ve seen her
do this a bunch of times, but so far, she’s never let go of whatever she’s
holding on to. I know she’ll get the hang of walking soon, and part of me
hopes it’s right now on camera so I don’t miss it. The other part of me
hopes she waits until I get home.
Nicholas makes pretend barking sounds, and Abby giggles in response.
She steps one foot toward him, and her free arm flies up to help balance her.
I can tell she’s not ready for multiple steps, but she might actually take one.
The puppy claps his paws together as Nicholas says, “Good job!” And
then lets out another little puppy bark.
Abby laughs again, and leans toward him like she’s thinking about
taking a step.
We lean toward the phone, both of us holding our breaths as if breathing
might cause us to miss one second of this. And when Abby brings her back
leg forward to take a step, she teeters a bit but is able to right herself. She’s
standing, all by herself. I can feel my eyes filling with tears as I watch her
take one more step toward Nicholas.
That’s when AJ’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining tightly as we
both take a sharp, excited breath. “Oh my god,” she whispers.
I clear my throat. I’m not going to fucking cry in front of her.
As Abby reaches out to try to grab her puppy, she falls forward onto her
hands and knees and crawls the rest of the way. Nicholas must pick her up
then, because her head pops up next to his and her eyes light up when she
sees the phone.
“Da!”
Tapping the button to unmute the video, I say, “Good job, boo!”
“Da!”
This is all happening so fast. A few months ago, she couldn’t even sit up
on her own, and now she’s almost walking and talking. There’s a lump in
my throat so thick that I’m not sure I can swallow it down.
Then Nicholas is turning and picking up the phone, holding it out so I
can see both him and Abby where she stands on his thigh. She’s got one
hand on his shoulder, and is holding the top of his head with the other.
“Alright, we need to start getting ready for bed. I let her stay up a little
late,” he says, chuckling. “She got this random spurt of energy and was
bouncing all over the place.”
“Yeah,” I say, then clear my throat again because it still feels clogged
with all the emotions. “That happens sometimes. Reading her a few books
while rocking her before giving her a bottle usually calms her down. Her
favorites are in the stack I showed you⁠—”
“On top of the nightstand,” he confirms with a nod.
“But sometimes when she gets worked up, you have to rock her until
she falls asleep; otherwise, she just stands up in her crib and yells at you
until you come back.”
Nicholas smiles as he looks over at Abby. “Yeah, I could see you doing
that, cutie.”
The whole scene . . . him playing with her on the floor, getting her to
take steps, not balking at the idea of rocking her until she’s too tired not to
sleep . . . I’m just so damn relieved that he’s there with her, rather than
Lucy.
In the corner of the phone screen, I note how AJ’s turned toward me,
watching me closely.
“Alright,” I say, “we’ll let you go.”
He says goodnight and Abby blows some raspberries at the phone, and
then the call disconnects.
Unable to look at her when I’m this emotional, I lean sideways, resting
my cheek against the crown of her head. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Her voice is quiet, and with the sun low on the horizon, the
room is quickly darkening.
“For making sure I got to see my daughter’s first steps.”
“I didn’t know they’d be her first when I texted you.” She pauses for a
beat and says, “And I wasn’t threatening to keep you from seeing them
when I was like, Oh, nowwww you respond . . .”
“I know,” I say.
“Do you? Because I really want to make sure you know that I’m not the
kind of person who would do that. That kind of emotional
manipulation . . .” She sighs, the motion deflating her whole body so that I
have to sit up or I’ll fall over onto her. In response, she looks away, out the
window.
 “AJ.” My knuckles graze the underside of her jaw as I turn her toward
me. Her dark irises blend in with her enlarged pupils so that her eyes are
practically black, but it’s not a look of longing. She looks . . . sad. “Finish
that sentence.”
“I don’t . . . I’m not really sure what I was going to say.”
Like hell she doesn’t. I stroke her jawline with my thumb. “You know
you can tell me, right?”
She closes her eyes, but it does nothing to break the moment. It just
gives me a minute to study those pouty, wide lips, the ridge of her
cheekbones, and the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her hair is pulled
back into some sort of messy bun secured with a clip, and I assume it’s the
best she could do with one hand.
When she opens her eyes again, she presses her lips together and
shrugs. “I spent basically my whole life being emotionally manipulated. I
wouldn’t do that to someone else.”
“Tell me more.” I lean back on one elbow, hoping she’ll get comfortable
too. Because this tense posture she’s adopted as she sits there with
whatever’s going through her mind has her looking like a statue.
She groans and falls back on the bed, looking straight up at the ceiling
like she’s afraid to let her eyes dart over to where I’m poised looking down
at her.
Which is just as well, because the last thing she needs to see is the way
my eyes burn as they take her in, lying in bed next to me. It’s not a sight I
ever let myself believe I’d see.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty
AJ

I
close my eyes and take a deep breath, wondering why I’m even
contemplating sharing anything with him, much less giving him such
personal details.
“This isn’t . . . something I talk about.”
“With anyone?” I ask.
“With anyone who isn’t Nicholas.”
“You two are really close, huh? Even despite the age difference.”
It’s hard not to laugh at that, because I’m old enough to be his mom.
“Yeah, well, my parents treated him like the accident he was, so I had to
step in.”
“Shit.” He breathes the word out on a long exhale. “Maybe it’s because
both my parents grew up in foster care, or maybe it’s the way my ex so
easily gave Abby up, but there’s something about parents abandoning their
kid that never sits right with me.”
“My parents weren’t . . . terrible to him. They didn’t abandon him; they
were just neglectful. I was a senior in high school when my mom got
pregnant, and it was obviously not planned. They’d always wanted more
kids, but by that point, they’d long ago accepted that it wasn’t going to
happen. And then it did. I missed most of his early years because I was at
college . . . ”
“Too busy captaining a championship hockey team?” His voice is
teasing. This isn’t something we’ve ever talked about, so the fact that he
knows I was the captain of my two-time NCAA winning women’s hockey
team means he’s looked into it.
“But I moved back to St. Louis when I graduated so I could be closer to
my family. I didn’t want to not have a relationship with my little brother.
That’s where I coached a D1 women’s team while getting my MBA,” I say,
thinking about how back then, there was no path for women playing hockey
beyond college, so I moved into coaching and earned that business degree
so that eventually I could get into the management side of the sport. “And
as busy as I was, I still managed to spend exponentially more time with
Nicholas than my parents did. I was absolutely appalled at how he almost
didn’t exist in their lives.”
“How’s that possible?”
“They just left him with a nanny all the time while they went about their
lives. International travel, full days of golf followed by dinner at the
country club, weekends away . . . he was never part of any of it.”
When I glance over at him, his eyes are full of sympathy. Normally, I
hate the thought of anyone feeling sorry for me or my brother. But with
McCabe, it feels maybe more like empathy—like he can relate, somehow.
Not because his parents were neglectful, but because he lost them when he
was still so young.
He turns onto his side, elbow bent so he can prop his head up and stare
down at me with that intense green gaze. “Was it like that when you were
younger too?”
“No . . . my mom was never super maternal. All she ever wanted to do
with me was take me shopping, go to high tea at fancy hotels, go to brunch
at the country club, that type of thing. But I was never interested in any of
that. I had much more in common with my dad. He spent every spare
minute with me, shaping me into the hockey playing son he wished he’d
had . . .”
McCabe’s low rumble of laughter shakes the whole bed, and when I dip
my eyebrows in confusion over his response, he says, “Sorry.” His eyes slip
down my body and then back up to my face. “I just have trouble imagining
you as someone’s son.”
“You know what I mean. It was no secret that my dad wanted a boy, so I
put tremendous energy into connecting with him in the same ways he’d
have connected to a son. It’s probably the only reason we had a
relationship.”
 What I don’t say is that it took me years of therapy as an adult to finally
realize that my compulsive need to be the best at everything stems from the
years of trying to live up to what my dad wanted me to be—which was
someone else.
I got lucky in that I really did develop a true love of hockey, but I do
sometimes wonder who I’d be if I hadn’t been trying so hard to fit a mold of
someone else’s creation.
Maybe I’d be the same me, but maybe I’d be someone entirely
different?
“He wasn’t like that with Nicholas, though?”
My single shot of laughter is bitter. “No, once he finally got the son
he’d always wanted, it was like he was no longer interested in being a dad.
He was more like a grandpa . . . the kind that spends all day on the golf
course with friends, but comes by for dinner and slips you a twenty-dollar
bill as he pats you on the head on his way back out the door.”
He lets out a humph that’s half laugh, half contemplation. “I guess I just
don’t have any experience with parents who are so rich they spend all day
shopping and on the golf course. What did your parents do for work?”
“My mom’s family owned one of the largest department store chains in
the Midwest, and my parents inherited it and then sold it for a fortune right
before the advent of online shopping.” The whole company went bankrupt
within a few years after the sale, but my parents and their shareholders
made out like bandits before its demise. I’d like to think I get my business
sense from my dad, who saw which way the wind was blowing and made a
calculated decision.
“So they were what . . . retired by the time Nicholas was born?”
“I guess I’d say they were so independently wealthy that work wasn’t
really a consideration. At that time, I was working hard to carve my own
path. I probably should have taken over caring for him when I finished my
MBA, but I was too focused on getting my foot in the door in hockey. I
don’t know how I would have managed also being a mom to him.”
“How did you end up making the switch from coaching a women’s
college team to working in the NHL?”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I study his face, only a foot or so from
mine. His voice is soft and coaxing, and it hits me that either he really
doesn’t know, or he wants to know if the rumors are true. And suddenly
knowing which one makes all the difference.
 “What have you heard?” I whisper.
He presses his lips together, then twists them to the side like he’s deep
in thought. I don’t know if it’s because he’s trying to remember, or trying to
decide how—or what—to tell me.
“Only the shit Chet said when he was running his mouth.”
Fire runs through my blood at the thought of my ex-husband talking
about me to his players. “Yeah? What did he say?”
“You were there.” He reaches over, resting his forearm along my
breastbone as he cups the side of my face in his hand.
Ohhh, so that time in the hallway.
“He said a lot of shit that day.” I focus on my breathing, because it’s still
hard not to be upset when I think about everything that happened—
everything that changed—in those few minutes in that hallway.
“If I remember correctly, he said you slept your way into your position.”
“Ah, yes. One of his favorite lines.” I roll my eyes to hide how much
that still hurts.
“Why did he think that?”
The laugh that bursts out of me is probably the healthiest response I
could have to that question. “Because he got me my first job in St. Louis.”
His thumb strokes my cheek as his eyes skim over my face. “Yeah?”
“We’d been dating for a while, and a job in operations opened up. With
my experience in hockey and my degree in business, it was a perfect fit. I’d
wanted to apply on my own, but he insisted on putting in a good word for
me. At the time, he said he’d do anything it took to help me achieve my
dreams. Now, I think he just wanted me to feel beholden to him.”
“I’m inclined to think that you’d have gotten the job with or without his
recommendation,” he says, tilting his head with a pensive nod. “And you
clearly didn’t sleep your way to the top once you were there. You earned all
of that. So what I’m hearing is, either he was jealous that you were more
successful than he was⁠—”
“Exactly.”
“—or he was so insecure he actually believed the only reason you were
with him in the first place was to get a job in the NHL. He wasn’t worthy of
you, so it wouldn’t surprise me if that were true, too.”
That thought had never crossed my mind. The idea that his own
insecurity was what triggered that behavior would make a lot of things
make a lot more sense. McCabe is still staring down at me, but the look on
his face has changed.
It almost looks like he’s proud of me? I’m not sure how I feel about
that, but I feel myself softening a bit more toward him.
“I’m not sure. His whole attitude toward me changed so much that
season—” I stop myself somewhat abruptly because, holy shit, was I about
to just tell him the most private thing about me? Something that no one else
outside my family knows?
His fingers tighten on my jaw as I try to look away, and he angles my
face back so there’s no option but to look him in the eye.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing.”
“If he hurt you . . . if he laid a single finger on you . . .”
“Trust me,” I say, “the abuse was entirely emotional.”
His entire body stiffens. “I’m going to need you to say more about that.”
Tell him it’s none of his business, my brain insists. But somehow, the
gentleness I’ve seen from him the past couple of days, combined with his
possessive and protective side, makes me want to spill all my secrets.
Don’t do it . . .
I press my lips together, but even as I do so, I know I’m going to tell
this man everything, even as I wonder why I can’t stop myself . . . even as I
warn myself that it’s safer if he doesn’t know.
Maybe there’s a little part of me, some sick, twisted part, that needs to
know if he’ll have the same response Chet did.
“That was the year I had my uterus removed.”
His thumb strokes my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn’t intend to let
loose.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
The absolute care and concern with which he asks those questions guts
me. It couldn’t possibly be more different from Chet’s response.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I suffered from uterine fibroids, starting in my mid-
twenties. Sometimes they’re painless and people don’t even know they have
them. But I had . . .” I consider how much I want to tell him about my
symptoms, and decide he doesn’t need to know everything. “ . . . significant
side effects.”
His thumb wipes away more tears, and he nods like he wants me to
continue.
 “I had two surgeries to remove them, but both times they came back
within a year. My doctor said that after coming back twice, it was likely that
would keep happening every time they were removed. Apparently, having
fibroids the size of grapefruits lining your uterus will make you infertile,
which meant it was unlikely I’d ever be able to have kids.” I take a deep
breath. “And given how painful they were, and that I’d be facing multiple
surgeries in my future to keep removing them, I made the decision to have
my uterus removed instead.”
His scent, a combination of something earthy like wood, and fresh like
laundry detergent, engulfs me as he leans down and brushes his lips across
my forehead. Curling his arm next to my head, he uses it as a pillow so he
can lay there, facing me.
I shouldn’t turn on my side to face him fully. I shouldn’t let him wrap
his other arm around my back. I shouldn’t continue my story. But when he
asks what happened next, I find that I just want to keep talking.
“Chet didn’t support my decision. He couldn’t let go of the idea of us
having kids one day and was convinced the next fibroid surgery would be
successful.”
“Please don’t tell me you had them removed a third time.”
I think back to the month-long recovery that sidelined me for a third
summer in a row. “I did.”
“And they came back?”
“Of course they did.”
“Was he more reasonable about your choice after that?”
I can tell how sad my smile is by the way his lips turn down at the
corners in response. His face keeps changing expression, and I wish I could
hear the thoughts in his head.
“So what happened then?”
“I went ahead with the partial hysterectomy the following summer, even
though he still didn’t want me to.” I watch his jaw tic. “And then once it
was done, he had this whole narrative about how I always knew I wouldn’t
be able to have kids and I’d trapped him. I know he just wanted to put the
blame on me, because he’d look like the asshole if he left me after all I’d
gone through.”
“He was already an asshole, either way,” McCabe says with a humorless
laugh.
 “He put on a good show at the beginning. We were married for years
before I started seeing his true colors. Honestly, I didn’t even know that
having kids was that important to him. I don’t think it was, actually, until it
was something I couldn’t give him.”
The way McCabe’s hand is sliding down my arm, smoothing out the
shiver that’s rippled through my body at all these memories, has me
practically melting into these sheets.
Why am I so relaxed around him? Why do I want to tell him things I’ve
never told anyone outside my family?
“Is that where your marriage fell apart?”
“Yeah, that was kind of the nail in the coffin, so to speak. My
hysterectomy was the summer before your last season in St. Louis. What
you walked into in the hallway that day, it was one of the many fights we’d
been having about me not being able to give him children.”
“Did you guys consider adopting?”
I make the fakest shocked face I can as I say, “And ruin his perfect
pedigree? The horror.” I release a heavy sigh. “I even suggested a surrogate,
since I’d had eggs removed and frozen during my last surgery, but he
wouldn’t hear of it.”
In reality, I think I’d wanted kids more than Chet did. He just wanted
something to hold over my head. I’d been angry at myself for years after I
finally figured that out. But now, I just feel sad that I wasted so much time
and emotional energy on him, and on trying to save our sham of a marriage.
“And you wanted kids?” He asks the question tentatively, like he knows
the answer but wants to make sure he’s not making assumptions.
I didn’t intend to tell him any of this. It feels way too personal to share
with someone I hardly know. Lying here with him, while the light has faded
and the moon has risen, makes it feel like we’re in our own little world—
one where I’m not his boss, and he’s not a hot-headed hockey player I don’t
even like. Instead, we’re just two people connecting on a deeper level.
I gulp, trying to push down all the emotions rising to the surface. “More
than anything.”
His gaze searches mine, brow pinched slightly. “How did he not see
how much you were hurting, and support you through that?” He shakes his
head before adding, “How do you treat someone you love that way?”
“I’m pretty sure that the only person Chet loves is himself. You want to
know the real kicker in all this?”
 He sighs, and his warm breath mingles with mine in the small space
between our bodies. “Please don’t tell me it gets worse.”
“The day you walked in on us fighting . . . I’d just found out he was
cheating on me. With a woman who had a kid. And after I kicked him out,
he went running straight to her. Ended up marrying her and adopting her
daughter.” I swallow down the thick lump in my throat and press my hand
to my chest to relieve some of the pain that’s gathering there. “It wasn’t that
he didn’t want to adopt, he just didn’t want me.”
McCabe scoops me into his arms, pulling me against his body so
quickly I barely move my right hand out of the way before it would have
been crushed between us.
“He’s a fucking idiot, Alessandra,” he murmurs into my hair. “Don’t
convince yourself that this had anything to do with you. This was him,
desperately trying to have the upper hand when he realized he’d married
someone who was better than him in every single way imaginable.”
With my eyes closed and my forehead resting against the hollow space
at the base of his neck, secure and warm, wrapped in his arms, I feel like a
weight has been lifted. I feel like I can breathe again.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-One
McCabe

W
hen I open my eyes, AJ’s still wrapped up in my arms where we
must have fallen asleep last night. But now she’s got one leg slung
over my hip, and in my sleep, my body must have felt hers pressed
up against me, because I’m fully hard in a way that has my dick screaming
to be taken care of.
Frozen in place, not waiting to wake her up, I take a few minutes to
study the light smattering of freckles dusting the tops of her cheeks, right
under her eyes. I’m guessing they’re normally covered by makeup, but with
the bright early morning light streaming in the windows, I can see them
now, where last night’s low light hid them from me.
I’m trying to determine the best way to extricate myself from her
embrace without waking her, so I can figure out what time it is and how
soon I need to leave for morning skate, when I hear banging in the hallway.
“C’mon, McCabe, we don’t have time for this!” Walsh’s voice carries
into AJ’s room.
I press my eyelids together. Fuck, this can’t be happening.
He bangs a few more times on the door across the hallway, which has
AJ stirring. Holding a finger to her lips before she can speak, I sit up,
looking for my phone. It’s behind me, face down on the bed, where it must
have landed after falling out of my pocket.
When I tap the screen, I have a dozen texts and two missed calls from
Walsh. Fuck, I fell asleep and didn’t turn my ringer on last night, like I
always do when I’m on the road in case there’s any kind of emergency with
Abby.
I shoot off a quick text.
MCCABE
Sorry. Went on an early morning run and lost track of time. Just
got back. Give me two minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.
WALSH
Fuck that. You’re already ten minutes late. I’m waiting at your
door so I can make sure you get down to the bus.

Shit. I need him out of this hallway so I can get over to my room
without him seeing me coming out of AJ’s room.
MCCABE
Just go downstairs. I swear I’ll be two minutes behind you.
WALSH
Well you need to think up a better excuse by the time you get
on that bus, especially after you were late to the plane last
week.

I glance at AJ as she sits up next to me.

Fuck my life. I wouldn’t trade last night, and having her fall asleep in
my arms, for anything. But why couldn’t I have remembered to set an
alarm? Or even just woken up fifteen minutes ago?
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, in case Walsh is still in the hallway. “I
overslept and the team is waiting for me to go to morning skate.”
“You’d better go, then.” Her words are kind, but emotionless. I can’t tell
at all how she’s feeling. She doesn’t look worried that I’m late, or sad that I
have to go. But she also doesn’t look like she regrets the conversation we
had last night or the way we fell asleep together, so that’s a plus, I guess?
God, I wish she was easier to read. The aspects of her personality that make
her so good at her job are the same ones that make her impossible to figure
out.
You don’t want to get close to her. You want to move to Nashville.
At this point, reminding myself of these things feels a little ridiculous.
Yes, I want to live closer to my sister, but that doesn’t in any way, shape, or
form, mean I don’t also want to let myself grow emotionally and physically
closer to AJ.
 In fact, I don’t want any boundaries between us at all. I want to know
her inside and out. I want to be there for her like no one else ever has. I
don’t even know what that looks like; I’ve never had that type of
relationship with anyone. But I want to, with her.
“I know,” I say. But I make no move to get up.
“McCabe. Go. And when you get down to that bus, please have an
excuse for being late that doesn’t involve accidentally falling asleep in my
bed.” A small smile plays at the corner of her lips, and I’ve never felt so
relieved in my life.
“I went on a run this morning and lost track of time. Got back to the
hotel late.” I shrug. “Oops.”
She puts her hand on my lower back and pushes. “Hurry the hell up.”
“Fine,” I grumble, standing and then turning to look down at her. I bend
to kiss the top of her head, then say, “Don’t think we’re not finishing that
conversation from last night.”
She looks down at the floor. “There’s nothing left to say.”
Tilting her chin up so she’s looking at me, I take in the worry in her
eyes. “Like hell there isn’t. But I have to go before I get fined for being
late.” I couldn’t give a shit about the fine, but I do care about playing
tonight and don’t want to be on Coach’s bad side.
“Good luck tonight,” she says, putting a hand on my hip and pushing
me toward the door.
I glance over my shoulder as I walk away, trying to memorize what she
looks like sitting there in her shorts and a Rebels t-shirt, hair a mess and
still looking half-asleep. God, I could get used to this view.
When I peek through the viewfinder, I don’t see anyone, so I pat my
pocket to make sure I still have my room key, then crack the door open and
peek out. Walsh definitely isn’t standing there anymore, so I swing the door
to AJ’s room open and take a step across the hallway to my door. And as I
hold the keycard up to the reader, I peer down the hallway by the alcove for
the elevators—and that’s when I see Walsh, standing there watching me.

I sink into a stretch on the ice right next to Walsh. Too close to him, if I’m
being honest, but I’d like our conversation to remain private. “That
wasn’t what it looked like, this morning.”
Around us, the stands are starting to fill in with the fans here to watch
warmups. I’ve been trying to talk to Walsh all day, but he’s clearly avoiding
me. He’s like our team dad, and I hate feeling like I’ve disappointed him.
“Oh yeah? What did it look like?”
“I’m not sure, honestly. Probably like I was shacking up with some
chick in the hotel last night, and that’s why I was late for practice?”
He gives me the side-eye but doesn’t say anything.
“That’s not what happened,” I insist.
“So what did happen, exactly?”
I thought long and hard today about what I wanted to tell Walsh, and
Grandma’s words kept running through my mind: Oh, what a tangled web
we weave, when first we practice to deceive. I can’t be fully honest with
him, but the less I lie, the easier it will be to keep track of my story. Still,
that doesn’t mean I have to tell him everything.
I glance around to make sure we’re not within earshot of anyone else.
“First of all, that was AJ’s hotel room.”
His mouth hangs open, and he seems to have forgotten how to form
words.
“Again, it’s not what it looks like.”
“Good to know. So, what is it then?”
“I’m just helping her out because she hurt herself protecting Abby at the
last game. With her dominant hand unusable, there’s a lot she can’t do. Like
lift and open her suitcase, for example. Since I happened to be across the
hall from her, I was just helping.”
“Oh yeah, and what did she need this morning?” he asks. The tone of
the question implies that he doesn’t believe that whatever’s going on is
platonic. Which is fair, since from my perspective, anyway, it’s not.
“She couldn’t get the ironing board set up with one hand.” This feels
like a realistic reason she’d need someone with two functioning hands to
help her, and it’s a small lie that I can keep track of.
“Who uses a fucking iron these days?” Walsh asks with a laugh.
“You’ve seen her, right? I assume that’s why her suits look that crisp
even on the road.”
“I can’t even imagine seeing her not looking all buttoned up,” Walsh
says. Until a few days ago, neither could I.
 She’s such a rock-solid figure in this organization. But I’m learning that
her tough exterior isn’t all there is to her. Now, I practically live for those
moments where she’s casual, relaxed, and more open than I’m used to
seeing her.
And then, there was last night. Holding her while she cried after
opening up to me about her failed marriage—it broke something in me, too.
If the feeling was just physical attraction, I could deny myself what I
want with her like I’ve always done. But now?
Now that I know she’s not just stunning and great with my daughter, but
she’s also vulnerable—she’s suffered, loved and lost and, most importantly,
is willing to be open with me about it? Whatever lock I was keeping on my
feelings has fully broken open.
“Yeah,” I say, the word clipped. “It’s hard to imagine that she doesn’t
wake up with her makeup on and her hair done, and wearing a perfectly
pressed suit. Maybe she’s human after all.”
Walsh’s laugh is more like an annoyed huff. “Given the way you’ve
always treated her, it’s not a huge surprise that you thought she was some
sort of professional robot or something.”
I’m about to ask what the fuck that’s supposed to mean when I realize
that he’s right. I never hid my dislike very well. “Yeah, well, I can admit
when I’m wrong.”
Walsh nods as he rises so that he’s standing over me. “Good. Now let’s
try to win this game without you rushing off the ice at the end.” He pokes
me in the shoulder with his stick and gives me a nod of his chin to indicate
he’s just giving me shit. “Okay?”
“Yeah. It’s time we turn this series around.” And when we head back to
the locker room after warmups, that’s exactly what I tell my teammates. I
say all the things I should have said last time AJ asked me to talk to them. I
give them the pep talk they need from their captain instead of the few
grumbled words I normally say.
I lead by example, not just in the locker room, but when we take the ice.
It’s a textbook-perfect game on my part, and after my hat trick—the one
that AJ had said it’d been too long since she’d seen—I look for her in the
stands and find her standing right behind the bench like she so often is.
She’s not celebrating like she was when I scored in the last game.
Instead, she’s narrowing her eyes on me, like she’s trying to figure out why
I’m on fire tonight.
 I raise both eyebrows at her and think: Maybe I just found my good luck
charm.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Two
McCabe

I
’m nursing my third and final beer of the night, when AJ finally
responds to the text I sent her an hour ago.
MCCABE
You doing okay? Need anything?
SUNSHINE
I’m fucking fantastic.

I tap on the photo that comes through. It appears to be a glass bottle,

shattered in a puddle of liquid on a tile floor.
SUNSHINE
How about you?
MCCABE
What happened?
SUNSHINE
I was trying to open this bottle of makeup remover one-handed,
and it slipped and broke. Now I’m cleaning it up with a towel.
MCCABE
Need help?
SUNSHINE
No, I’ve got it. I’m just frustrated that I STILL can’t use my
damn hand.
 MCCABE
It’s been three days. You heard the doctor, you need to give it
time to heal.
SUNSHINE
Easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying to do everything
one-handed.

I glance up then, and the entire table of my teammates are staring back
at me.
“What?”
“Dude,” Zach laughs. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
He and Drew exchange a glance. “You were just so lost in whatever
message you were sending that when the waitress came up and asked if you
wanted another beer”—he nods toward my almost empty pint glass on the
table—“you didn’t even acknowledge her.”
“So, who’s Sunshine, anyway?” Walsh asks from beside me.
Have we always been this fucking nosy about each other’s lives? Thank
god I changed her name in my contacts, because if I’d just been that lost in
a texting conversation with my boss, there’d be a lot of questions.
“It’s my nickname for Abby,” I say, while mentally chastising myself
for the lies. If I keep piling them on, it’s going to be hard to remember
them. “That’s just a text thread with her nanny. He was updating me on the
day.”
They don’t need to know that I already talked to Nicholas when he
FaceTimed me earlier this afternoon so I could see Abby before I left for
my game.
Walsh nods, but from his expression, it’s clear he doesn’t believe me.
Drew, Zach, and Colt look less suspicious.
“Anyway, I have to go. He needs to talk to me about . . . an appointment
she has tomorrow.” I scoot out of the booth and say, “Let me know what I
owe for my drinks, and I’ll send someone the money.”

S hestomach,
leans against the partially open door, her arms crossed over her
as she asks, “What are you doing here?”
 “Well, that’s one way to congratulate me on the win tonight.” I hold up
the pharmacy bag with one hand and push the door open with the other. “I
got you something.”
Backing into the room as I step inside, AJ looks up at me with a lifted
eyebrow. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”
“Seemed prudent not to stand in the hallway where anyone could see
me.” As the door clicks shut behind me, I hand her the paper bag.
She reaches into it and pulls out a small glass bottle. I’m not one
hundred percent sure it’s the same one she had, but it’s a glass bottle with a
black lid like the one I saw in the picture.
“You . . . got me makeup remover?”
Is it my imagination, or does she sound touched? That thought pisses
me off, because replacing something she accidentally broke feels like such a
minor thing—yet I don’t think she’s ever had someone to do that for her.
Not a guy, at least. I’ve never wanted to punch Chet in the fucking face
more than I do right now, and that’s saying something.
Setting the bag aside, her eyes meet mine, and I see the war raging in
her gaze. She doesn’t want to want me here, but she does.
I understand the feeling completely.
I shouldn’t want her. I shouldn’t be here with her. It makes every single
thing about my life more complicated, and I don’t do complicated. But no
matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to convince myself that I don’t want her.
And now, I’ve decided to stop trying.
If she doesn’t want me in return, she can be honest about that, and I’ll
respect her decision. But I’m pretty sure we’re in the exact same boat here.
“Would you like me to leave?” I ask her.
She works her lower lip between her teeth like she’s considering my
question, and I step closer.
“You need to stop doing that.” My voice is low, almost feral with the
longing that courses through me at her proximity. No one else has ever
made me feel so damn needy, so desperate for her attention and affection. I
would have thought I’d hate this feeling, but I don’t hate it. Not at all.
Her look is coy as she releases her now-glistening lower lip. “Doing
what?”
I turn toward her, and she takes a step back, right into the wall behind
her. The quick grunt of pain she lets out as she winces reminds me that her
entire back is bruised.
 “Fuck, I’m sorry,” I say, pressing my hand against the wall next to her
head as I lean in. “Are you okay?”
“McCabe.” Her voice holds that warning tone that turns me on. “You
shouldn’t . . .”
“Be here. I know.” My throat bobs as I swallow, and her eyes focus on
the motion, but she doesn’t respond. “Tell me to leave.”
As she glances up at me this time, her tongue darts out, running along
the line of her upper lip, but still, she says nothing.
I lean in closer, my face a breath away from hers.
“You smell like beer,” she says.
“That’s because I just had a few with the guys to celebrate our win.” I
trail the bridge of my nose along her cheek until my lips reach her ear,
relishing the way her breath catches. Dropping my voice even lower, I say,
“Tell me to leave, AJ.”
Her responding whimper has my entire body wanting to press into hers.
But I’m not going to kiss her up against a wall without an open invitation to
do so.
Not even when her hands rest on my chest before sliding up to my
shoulders. Not even when she toys with the hair at the back of my neck. Not
even when she parts her lips and sighs as she meets my gaze.
“Or tell me to stay.”
One way or another, I need this woman to put me out of my fucking
misery.
“Stay.” The word is so quiet it’s practically inaudible.
“Say it again, Sunshine. Nice and loud, so we’re both clear that you
want me here.”
“Don’t be a dick,” she says, her fingers tightening in my hair and
holding me in place when I try to step away.
“I’m not being a dick,” I assure her, as I wrap my hand around the back
of her neck while my thumb strokes the space where her jaw meets her ear.
“I want to make sure that there’s no miscommunication at all. Because once
is an accident, but if I stay here with you again tonight, it’s not an accident,
and it’s not a mistake. It’s a choice.”
Her sigh is stuttered and halting, like the magnetic pull we’re both
experiencing makes it hard for her to even exhale. “We shouldn’t . . .”
“I know we shouldn’t.” Dipping my head back toward her, I graze my
lips over her forehead. “But are we?”
 She tilts her head back against the wall and focuses on my face. The
pink spreading across her cheeks, the ragged breathing, the way her eyes
are practically black with desire . . . everything I’m seeing tells me she’s
feeling exactly the same way I am.
“Yes.”
I don’t know who moves first—we’re tangled together so quickly it’s
impossible to tell. But her lips part instantly as she lets me invade her
mouth, her tongue slanting against mine with utter possession. This is no
languid kiss; this is the release of pent-up longing that’s been locked away
for far too long. I know how long I’ve wanted her, but this makes me
wonder how long she’s wanted me back.
She moans into my mouth as she presses forward, her entire body flush
with mine. Bringing both my hands to her waist, I anchor her against me,
pressing my cock into her stomach as my fingers slide up her sides under
her shirt. I run my thumbs along the waistband of her shorts, while the tips
of my fingers toy with the seam of her bra.
I’m so keyed up I feel like I might explode as she moans into my mouth
again. When I pull back, breaking the kiss and giving my body a few inches
of distance from hers, her eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
My voice is raspy when I say, “I need a second to breathe, to collect
myself, or I’m not going to be able to take it slow.”
She lets out a small huff of a laugh. “What in the world would make you
think I wanted you to take things slow?”
“AJ . . .” I move my hand so I’m cupping her face in my palm as I give
her the reminder we both need. “You’re injured. The last thing I want to do
is hurt you more.”
“How about you let me be the one to decide what kind of pain I can
endure? Because sometimes . . .” Reaching down, she cups her hand over
the zipper of my pants, and as my balls tighten up, I’m afraid I’m about to
embarrass myself. “. . . a little pain is . . . just . . . fine.”
Holy shit.
“Well, I was going to take it easy on you, but sure, we can do things
your way . . .” I slide my hands under her ass and pick her up so fast she
gasps, laughing and wrapping her legs around me as I step into the
bathroom because that’s got the closest horizontal surface.
She’s always beautiful. But a laughing Alessandra Jones? She’s
unbelievably gorgeous.
 I set her on the counter, next to the sink, then step between her legs as I
unbutton my dress shirt. In the pale glow of the light emanating from
behind the large mirror, she watches my every movement carefully, like
she’s trying to memorize everything about my body the same way I did with
her this morning while she slept.
When I toss my shirt on the floor outside the bathroom, she reaches out
to undo my belt, then shakes her head when she remembers that one of her
hands is splinted. I take that arm by the elbow, raising her hand to my lips.
“I’d never have wanted you to get hurt like this. Never. But is it wrong that
I’m the tiniest bit grateful that it led us here?”
“I don’t know yet,” she says, her voice breathless. “Why don’t you take
your pants off and make it worth my while?”
My chuckle fills the entire bathroom as I set her hand back in her lap.
“You literally can’t wait to get me naked.”
Defiance takes over her face. “Don’t tell me the same isn’t true for
you.”
“Oh, Sunshine, I’ve been waiting for you for a fucking decade. I could
wait longer . . . I would wait longer, if I had to.”
Her lips part with a soft sigh. “Why do you have to keep saying things
like that?”
“Because they’re true.”
“Ronan . . .”
God, I fucking love it when she uses my first name.
She stares up at me like she doesn’t know what she wants to say next, so
I plant my hands on either side of her and lean in close.
“Yeah, Sunshine?”
She clears her throat, and whatever sentimental thought she was having
disappears. “You’re wearing entirely too many clothes.”
“As are you,” I say, then grasp the hem of her t-shirt, lifting it over her
head and carefully sliding it over her injured arm after she’s pulled her head
and her other arm through. Beneath it, she’s wearing a nearly sheer bra with
underwire cups. There’s a ribbon of lace that runs from the center, across
each breast, to the strap, and beneath it, her nipples are so hard they’re
pulling the lace away from her skin.
Hooking my thumbs under the fabric, I slide the cups down under her
breasts so those pretty pink nipples are exposed, rubbing the rough pads of
my thumbs up and over them. She’s biting her lip as she moans out her
pleasure, and her legs come around behind me, circling my waist and
pulling me to her.
Dipping my head, I trail my tongue across one of her nipples while I
continue toying with the other, then suck it into my mouth with a long pull
that elicits another deep moan. Moving to the other side, I repeat the motion
as she tilts her hips up, grinding her center right along my cock.
“Fuck,” I groan as I pull back and take her in—how her nipples are wet
and glistening where I hold her tits in my hands, the way she’s anchored
herself to my dick, how she’s panting with longing. “You look good when
you want my cock.”
She glances down at where our bodies meet. “And you’d look a lot
better without those pants on.”
I unbuckle my belt slowly, watching her face as she focuses on my
hands. I wonder if she even realizes how she’s licking her lips in
anticipation? I kick my shoes off, then hook my thumbs in my waistband,
sliding both my pants and boxers down my thighs and letting them fall to
my feet, where I kick them out the door into the hallway.
“Is this more to your liking, Sunshine?”
She drags her gaze up to mine like it’s taking a lot of effort to tear her
attention away from my cock, but the small smile on her face lets me know
she likes what she sees. “I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you plan to do with that thing.”
I step back between her legs until my thighs hit the countertop and my
dick is pressed up against her stomach. “Alessandra.” Leaning in close, I
cup her breasts in my hands again, sliding my thumbs over her nipples and
making her squirm as I say, “My plan is to ruin you for every other man,
forever. You just have to ask.”
There’s a momentary look of doubt that passes over her face, like I’ve
pushed her too far and she’s unwilling to ask for what she wants. And then
it occurs to me that maybe no one has ever asked her what she wants.
Maybe sex has never been about pleasing her. I hope that isn’t the case, but
given some of the things she opened up about last night, it wouldn’t surprise
me if that was true in her marriage, at least.
“I want you to make me feel good. I want to forget that my wrist hurts
and that my ex-husband was a spineless dick and that we’re still down one
game in this series.” She reaches up and presses her good hand to my
breastbone before trailing her fingers down between my pecs and along the
groove between my abs straight down to my waist. And when she wraps her
fingers around my throbbing hard cock and runs her hand up and around the
head before sliding back down to the shaft, my eyes roll back. I have to
force myself to take a deep breath through my nose before I fucking pass
out. “Go ahead.” She nods and raises her eyebrows like she’s challenging
me. “Ruin me.”
My mouth crashes into hers with a tortured moan and, like always, she
meets my energy. But the long pulls of the kiss, the soft and eager sounds
escaping her throat, combined with the way she’s working her hand up and
down my shaft, have me way too close. So I pull back, lifting her hips and
sliding her thong down her legs, then dropping to my knees on the cold tile
floor.
She lets loose a hiss that turns into a sigh as I bring my arms under her
thighs, smoothing my hands over her hips and then resting my palms on her
lower abdomen as I use my thumbs to spread her pussy open in front of me.
Her silky pink skin glistens with her arousal, and when I lean in to taste
her, she releases a shuddering breath. As my tongue works circles around
and over her clit, she gasps once and then once more before sinking into the
sensation, her hips beginning to move to the rhythm I’m setting. A small
moan escapes her parted lips, and when my eyes flick up to hers, she
clamps her lips between her teeth like she’s embarrassed by her reaction.
“No way, Sunshine,” I tell her. “Those sexy moans belong to me. I’m
working for them, and I want to hear them. I need to know what this does to
you, and you’re going to tell me . . . or I’m going to stop.”
“Oh my god,” she says on a gasp as she leans back, resting her
shoulders and head against the mirror. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
“Then don’t hold back.” I lean forward again, licking her from the
bottom of her pussy up to her clit, and back. “Tell me what you like.”
“This,” she pants, and I return to lavishing her clit with my undivided
attention. And when my chin is soaked with the evidence of her arousal, I
change the angle of my face so I can press two fingers to her entrance.
Her gasps and moans, her sweet scent, the warmth of her body—they all
consume my senses, and I swear I’ve never been more turned on by a
woman in my life. I think I might die if I don’t get to see her come undone
for me.
 “Yes,” she encourages, looking down at me. “I want to feel you inside
of me.”
I slide my fingers into the tight space, and the way her pussy clenches
has me moaning, too.
“Fuck yes,” she says, then whimpers, “I’m so close. Oh my god . . .”
She’s meeting my fingers thrust for thrust, the silky walls of her cunt
clamping down on them so hard that I can’t wait to know what she feels
like on my cock. But first, I want to know what she feels like coming on my
fingers and my face, so I curl my fingers inside her slightly, feeling the
telltale ridges that I know will give her even more stimulation while
clamping my lips around her clit and sucking her against my tongue.
“Oh fuck! I’m . . .” she trails off, words lost as she cries out while her
muscles contract against my fingers and her legs shake where they rest over
my shoulders. The almost inhuman sounds coming out of her mouth while
she rides the waves of her orgasm have me on the verge of coming, but I
hold back because there’s no way I’m not feeling myself slide into her after
this.
When she’s done, her back slides down that mirror and her hips press
forward into my face. It’s like someone’s taken all the bones out of her
body, and she chuckles in response, saying, “I can’t move. I think you broke
me.”
I rise, standing between her legs and leaning over her where her back
and head now rest against the deep counter atop the vanity. “I’m pretty sure
you’re not broken. Seems like you work just fine.”
I wrap one hand beneath her neck and my other arm beneath her lower
back so I can bring her up to sitting. Moving my hand from behind her neck
to cup her jaw, I say, “Kiss me. I want you to taste yourself on my tongue.”
“What?” The word barely squeaks out as her eyes widen.
“You’ve never tasted how sweet you are?”
“No. That’s . . .” For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse me, but
then she wraps her hand around my neck, pulling me to her. The kiss is
tentative, like she’s not sure what she’s going to find when her lips part and
she meets my tongue with hers. But I deepen the kiss, holding her against
me, rubbing my cock along her abdomen and feeling the way her nipples
scrape along my ribs. And when she wraps her lower legs around mine, her
calves pulling me into her even harder, that’s when I know she still wants
more.
 Tilting her head back, I break the kiss and enjoy her resulting whimper.
Her face is pouty, like I’ve just taken away something she wants. I’m living
for this side of her—where she’s not trying to hide how she feels about me.
I lift her hips, setting her on the tile floor and turning her to face the
mirror. Standing behind her, I move her hair off her back, sliding it over her
left shoulder so I can dip my head down to her ear. Without breaking eye
contact in the mirror, I ask, “Have you ever watched anyone fuck you?”
Her jaw drops open slightly, and then she glides her tongue along her
upper lip. Out of pure instinct, my fingers curl around her hip bones as I
press my cock into her lower back.
“Because I want you to see how fucking magnificent you look when
you come.”
Her eyebrows scrunch in question, creating an adorable divot between
them. “But I already came.”
“And you’re going to come again, this time on my cock.”
The vibrations of her shaky exhale ripple against me, and I press my
hips forward into her again.
“I can’t . . .” she pauses, and I wait her out. “. . . come that way.”
“You’ve never come that way, or you can’t?” I ask, but either way I’m
determined to prove her wrong. She can, and she will.
Her eyes lock with mine in the mirror, and with a roll of her eyes, she
says, “Same difference.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Three
AJ

“N o,” he says, his voice hard as he grinds the words out between
clenched teeth. “It’s not.”
I hate the way my cheeks turn pink as I watch us in the mirror, so
I turn my head away as I explain, “Lots of women can’t have an internal
orgasm.”
His hand slides from my hip up my abdomen and between my breasts,
his forearm grazing my nipple, before he settles with his hand around my
throat. I like the possessive feel of his hand there—hell, the feel of his
hands everywhere—maybe more than I should.
With his palm still cupping my throat, he uses two fingers on my jaw to
turn my head so I’m facing the mirror again.
“Just because you can’t have an internal orgasm doesn’t mean you can’t
orgasm during sex,” he says. I know my face conveys my confusion
because he shakes his head and adds, “My god, has no one ever taken care
of you?”
There’s a lot of emotion in his words, and I wish I was better at reading
him. I can’t tell if he’s mad at that idea, or sad about it. My mind runs
through all the ways he’s taken care of me in the past few days—physically,
emotionally, and sexually. Before him, though . . . not so much.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “You’re going to come on my cock, and
it’s not going to be a one-time thing. Do you trust me?”
 In the quiet bathroom, my gulp is audible, and I watch myself give him
a single nod. I don’t know why I trust him, when all the men in my life
disappoint me.
That’s not true, I remind myself, instead focusing on the positive
relationships I have with men who don’t suck: Nicholas, Jameson, Frank.
There are plenty of guys on the team who are good, standup men too. Don’t
let your father and Chet destroy your trust in half the species.
McCabe said he was going to ruin me for all other men, and after that
earth-shattering orgasm he just gave me, I believe him. Clearly, he’s a man
of his word. If he makes me come again, during sex, he truly will have
achieved his goal, because no one else has ever done that for me.
But since I can’t be with him in any other way than these stolen
moments, ruining me for anyone else feels like maybe I’m inviting a
lifetime of sexual frustration?
“What’s going through your mind right now?” he asks, and that’s when
I realize that even though I gave him the go ahead, he hasn’t moved. He’s
still got one hand wrapped around my throat possessively and his lips
pressed to my temple.
In the mirror, I watch the way my chest heaves, certain he can feel the
thumping of my heart beneath his forearm where it’s pressed against my
breast.
“Nothing,” I whisper.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Alessandra. Not when you’re standing here
naked, wrapped in my arms. If you’ve got any doubts about us having sex,
we’ll wait.”
I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished. “It’s not that.”
His other hand comes from my hip to toy with the ends of my hair, the
backs of his fingers moving against my breast where it lays. “What is it,
then?”
How do I tell him that I’m afraid sex with him will be too good? That
instead of getting it out of my system so I can stop thinking about him, it’ll
make me crave him even more?
“When you said you were going to ruin me for all other men, forever?
I’m afraid you might not have been exaggerating.”
His chest shakes against my shoulders with a low rumble of laughter.
The timbre of his voice is a soft caress when he says, “I wasn’t
exaggerating. Why? Do you plan to sleep with other men after me?”
 My gaze locks on his in the mirror, breath catching as I take in the
vulnerability in his eyes. “How could this ever work between us?”
Without breaking eye contact, he presses another kiss to my temple.
“How could it not?”
It’s a crazy thing to say.
Isn’t it?
Because there’s no way this can work, and we both know why. But at
this moment, I’m having trouble recalling all the reasons. They feel like a
problem for future me to deal with, because the way his hard cock is
pressing into my back and his hot breath is warming my skin, the way he’s
cradled my entire body in his embrace—the only thing I feel . . . is safe.
This is a man who will take care of me. And after a recent injury and a
lifetime of mediocre sex, I could use a man who knows how to make me
feel good.
My hips arch back into his as longing ripples through my core, and I
take his hand that’s toying with my hair and move it to the apex of my
thighs. And when the pad of his finger ghosts over my clit, still swollen and
sensitive from my last orgasm, my entire body shudders.
“Taking care of your needs feels like the bare fucking minimum,
Alessandra. And if doing that ruins you, then prepare to be spoiled
senseless.”
I want to ask him what he means, because this is just sex. But the way
he’s dipping his finger inside me and using my cum as lubricant to slide his
finger over my clit has my good hand flying to his forearm, grasping it as I
press my head back into his chest and look up at him with wide eyes. How
am I already turned on again this quickly?
He presses his lips to mine in a firm kiss, and then asks, “Do you want
me to use a condom?”
He knows I can’t get pregnant—something no guy I’ve slept with after
my ex-husband needed to know, because I never let a relationship get
serious enough that I’d share that information.
“Are you positive you’re safe?”
“Yeah,” he grits out as he flexes his hips forward, his cock sliding along
my lower back. “But if you’d prefer, we can use one. I’ve never not.”
My eyes search his. How is that possible? “But . . . Abby?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Sometimes condoms break. And I’ve been
tested, just in case. But again, we can use one if you’re more comfortable.”
 His finger is still gliding over my clit, slowly working me up, and I
press my teeth into my lower lip as I try to think clearly.
“Goddamn, you’re so sexy when you bite your lip like that. You do it all
the time, and it drives me fucking insane.”
Letting go of his forearm, I slide my hand between us and grip him
firmly, enjoying the grunt of pleasure he lets out as I move my hand up and
over the fat head of his cock. I’m honestly not sure how this thing is going
to fit inside me, but I’m looking forward to finding out.
He slips two fingers inside me and says, “Or we can do it this way. I’m
pretty sure I’m going to last about two seconds anyway. I’ve got a fucking
decade of pent-up sexual frustration when it comes to you, and you’ve
already got me so turned on I’m about to explode.”
“I want to feel you inside me.” I give him a sassy little wink as I add, “I
think you promised to make me come on your cock?”
“Put your hands on the mirror.” It’s a demand, not a request.
I lick my lips as I lean forward, putting my good hand against the mirror
and resting my splinted hand on top of it. And then I look over my shoulder
at him and say, “Don’t make me wait.”
He presses harder against my clit, and a strangled moan escapes from
the back of my throat as I watch him spread his legs to line himself up with
my entrance. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
I’m so worked up I can only nod in response. And when he notches his
cock at my entrance, sliding in slowly, I straighten my good arm and push
myself back onto him, gasping as he stretches me. I’m so fucking full;
every inch of space is filled with him until I feel like I can’t breathe.
“You’re doing so well. We’re almost there.”
Almost? What the hell is this man talking about? There is no room for
any more of him.
He bends forward, trailing kisses along my shoulder. “C’mon, you can
take all of me. Just relax.”
“I. Am. Relaxed,” I grit out between clenched teeth.
“Listen, Sunshine,” he says, pulling out slightly and then sliding right
back in. The sensation of his length gliding along my inner walls eases
some of the pain from being stretched so full. “I wanted to take this slow.
You’re the one who decided to impale yourself on my cock.” He plants one
hand next to mine on the mirror, and wraps his other around my hips,
anchoring me to him. “So why don’t you let me take over here?”
 My eyes widen at his domineering tone, as I meet his lust-filled gaze in
the mirror. “Don’t be condescending when you’re inside me.”
He tilts his chin down, his lips resting right against my ear so his words
are like a low growl flowing into me. “I get that you like having control,
that you’re used to being in charge.” He pulls out and slides back into me
again, and my eyelids flutter shut for a moment as my lips part, because the
feeling is just too good. “But for once, I need you to let me be in charge. I
promise, I will take very good care of you.”
My whole body relaxes, like it realizes it can trust him. And now that
my shoulders aren’t so tense, it allows my back to arch more and my hips to
loosen.
“Such a good girl,” he says, straightening up and using his hand to trace
patterns around the bruises on my back. His touch is feather light, so instead
of causing me pain, it makes me shiver.
And then he’s slowly moving inside me, setting a pace that only makes
me want more. The drag of his skin against mine, the crude sound of our
bodies slapping together, his soft grunts and my quiet moans—it’s the
sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, staring down at where our bodies meet.
“Taking me so well, just like I knew you would.”
I rock myself back onto him, trying to increase the pace because he has
me feeling like I can’t get enough of him. I can’t get enough of him being
inside me, but I also can’t get enough of the way he’s looking at me—it’s
hunger and adoration combined. He’s worshiping my body as he moves his
hand from my hip back down to my clit, gently pressing as he moves his
finger over it again and again. It’s then I realize that he’ll do whatever it
takes to make me feel good.
And that realization is the thing that allows me to finally let go. To give
up any control I’m clinging to, to bring down any barriers I’ve put up, to
fully enjoy the moment without worrying about what it means or what
comes next.
“That’s right,” he praises, his teeth clenched and the words barely
audible over my moans of pleasure. I watch my breasts bouncing as I sink
back onto him, his one hand focused on my clit as he brings the other to the
base of my neck, squeezing just enough to give me a thrill.
I’m panting and needy, letting out more sounds I don’t recognize each
time he bottoms out in me, letting the sensations roll through my body as he
fucks me in a way I didn’t know was possible—in a way that’s all about my
pleasure.
There’s an ache building inside me, an electric feeling I’ve never
experienced before. And as if he knows exactly what I need in order to turn
that current up all the way, he brings his hand from my neck to my breast,
rolling my nipple between his fingers. Sparks shoot through me, like
lightning in my veins, until I’m practically screaming.
He reaches over and slams the bathroom door shut right before I tip
over the edge, moaning out his name and god’s name, plus several
expletives, interchangeably, as he buries himself deep inside me. With the
sexiest groan I’ve ever heard, I feel his release shooting against my inner
walls as he comes, because there’s no room for it inside me. And as he pulls
out and presses back in one more time, his cum runs down my leg.
It’s the most erotic and dirty thing that’s ever happened to me, and I
know without a doubt that I need this again. I had no idea sex could be like
this, and I need more of this—more of him—in my life.
His upper body falls forward, his hand bracing him above me as he
kisses the crown of my head before whispering reverently, “You’re fucking
spectacular, you know that?”
“That felt spectacular,” I murmur, closing my eyes because I’m
absolutely spent.
He gathers my hair in his hand and presses a kiss on the back of my
neck. “You didn’t do what you were told, though.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, in a daze.
“Yeah. I told you to watch, so you could see how you look when you
come. But you closed your eyes when you got there.”
“I couldn’t help it.” I’m still unable to open my eyes or lift my head. “I
was . . . overcome.”
“Next time,” he says, leaving more sweet kisses on my skin, “I want
you to watch.”
“Next time, huh?” My words are teasing, but we both know there will
be a next time. How could there not be when it feels that good?

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Four
McCabe

M
y heart pounds so hard and fast I can feel it rattling against my
ribcage. My breath is coming in short, deep pants, and my entire
body is on high alert as the blood races through my veins.
“Hey,” a sweet, soft voice soothes as I feel a warm hand press against
my cheek. “Hey, it’s okay.”
What the hell?
I open my eyes, and even in the darkness, I can see AJ lying next to me,
her face only inches from mine. She swings her leg over my hips, pulling
me to her in a full-body hug.
“What . . .?” I exhale.
“You were having a nightmare.”
And then it all comes tumbling back—standing on the ice, the glass
separating me from the crowd as I watched AJ get pushed forward with
Abby strapped to her.
“I . . . In my dream, we were back at that game when the fight broke out
in the stands, but instead of you falling backward, you fell forward and
landed with Abby underneath you.” I woke up right as they hit the seats in
front of them, but my body’s reacting like I just watched my child get
crushed between the hard seat backs and AJ’s body.
Realistically, I know she might have been able to break that fall without
injuring Abby because her hands would be in front of her, but all I can
picture in my mind is Abby getting crushed. That fall could have had a
catastrophic outcome, and my mind clearly can’t let go of that, even though
Abby is safe and AJ’s injuries were much less severe than they could have
been.
Leaning forward, she kisses my forehead while smoothing the furrowed
line of my brow with her thumb. “Everything’s okay. Abby’s just fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re not,” I say, running my hand down her arm until I get
to the splint that’s around her wrist.
“I’m fine, really.” Her voice is vulnerable in the quiet, and it’s such a
turn-on to see this other side of her, when she’s not wearing the armor she
shows up in every day. “The swelling has mostly gone down, and when we
get back to Boston, they’ll put a cast on. I’ll be good as new once it’s
healed.”
I’d traced the bruises on her back last night while buried inside her,
thankful she wasn’t hurt worse but also feeling the double-edged sword of
guilt, knowing that if she hadn’t been injured at that game, then we
probably wouldn’t be here, together.
Or maybe we would be? This thing between us was set in motion when
I kissed her in her office, but her injury definitely accelerated things—gave
me a reason to see her more, gave her less of an opportunity to push me
away.
My voice is still gruff from sleep when I tell her, “It shouldn’t have
happened in the first place. I should have spoken up about the fans’
behavior when you asked me to⁠—”
“I doubt that would have prevented what happened.”
“We’ll never know because I didn’t do what I should have. But I will.
You just need to have someone ask me about the fighting again.” There
were no questions about it after last night’s game, which could mean a lot of
different things—either people have already forgotten about it, or the
reporter who asked at the home game wasn’t at our away game, or AJ
meant what she said about not asking me again until I’d gotten some
coaching around what to say.
When I ask her about it, she says, “I think that you need to talk to
someone in PR about this before you’re asked again.”
Pulling her tight against me, I kiss her forehead. Outside, I can hear the
low thrum of a city on the verge of waking up, while the soft orangey light
of sunrise filters through the slit where the heavy hotel room curtains meet.
“It’s early. Let’s go back to sleep and we can talk about it later.”
 She murmurs her agreement and rolls over, snuggling her back into me
so I’m spooning her. I lie there, my thoughts still running wild as I listen to
her breathing slow and become more rhythmic, until I’m certain she’s
sleeping.
My body is often restless when I first wake up, like it can’t wait to start
moving again. I know there’s no way I’m falling back asleep, so I cuddle
her until I can’t stay still any longer. When I roll away from her and stand
up, she doesn’t move. So I pull my clothes back on quietly, grab my phone
off the nightstand where I left it last night, and slip out of her room almost
silently.
I’m thankful it’s early enough that I don’t run into any of my teammates
in the hallway. I bet most of them are sleeping off the partying from last
night. With a big win yesterday and no practice today, everyone celebrated
—even Colt, Drew, Zach, and Walshy, who rarely go out after the games
except to grab some dessert.
I change and then shoot her a text so she’ll know why I’m not in her bed
when she wakes up.
MCCABE
I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I’m going to the hotel gym. If you
don’t have plans today, don’t make any.

I’m half an hour into my workout when Colt and Drew amble into the
small exercise room in the hotel. They’re mid-conversation as they open the
door, chatting about Colt and Jules’s engagement, and freeze when they see
me.
“You’re up early,” Colt says as he takes the bike next to me, while Drew
heads to the treadmill. Running is my nemesis . . . something I do only
when forced to.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, but as I reach for the towel hanging on the
handlebars and bring it to my forehead to wipe away the sweat dripping
from my hair, I catch a whiff of AJ’s scent—sweet but musky—on my
hand. I press down the memories of last night that resurface at the smell of
her, and focus on the way Colt is rambling about how he can’t sleep
anymore without Jules.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I joke.
“You’ll see,” he says. “Someday, you’ll meet that person you can’t live
without. Everything changes then, and you’ll wonder how you survived
before.”
I glance sideways at him, afraid to turn toward him because I’m not sure
what he’ll see on my face. Because in my head, I’m thinking: Is AJ that
person for me?
For as long as I’ve harbored this attraction to her, I never truly
envisioned a scenario where things could work out for us. Not until
recently.
Suddenly, I don’t want a life where I don’t get to see her chatting away
to Abby in her highchair in the morning while she sips the coffee I made
her, where I don’t get to bury myself inside her every night while telling her
how fucking magnificent she is.
But I don’t know if that’s what she wants.
“Dude,” Colt laughs, the low rumble rolling out of him from beside me.
“Something you want to tell us?”
I glance up, and though the treadmill is facing the wall, Drew’s
watching our conversation in the mirror with interest. That’s when I notice
his headphones are still around his neck, so he’s clearly listening as well.
Thank god Walshy isn’t here, because given what he knows about AJ and
me, it would be easy for him to assume there’s something romantic going
on.
I bark out a laugh, like the idea of me having feelings for someone is
ridiculous. “Yeah, like I have time to have a woman in life.”
“You dated that chick, what’s her name . . . ”
“Annabelle,” Drew chimes in, and I’m not even sure how he knows
that.
“Yeah, that’s the one. You dated her in the fall,” Colt reminds me.
“Which is when I realized the only girl I have time for is Abby.”
What I actually realized in dating her was that most women aren’t
interested in a guy who already has a kid with another woman.
Colt looks like he’s holding in a laugh as he nods. “Okay. Sure.”
“You know you could tell us if you were dating someone, right?” Drew
says.
“I’m not dating anyone.”
“Yeah,” Walsh says from the open doorway, and our heads all swing
toward him. How is he so fucking stealthy? “McCabe has too much on his
plate right now for a relationship.”
 But from the look in his eyes, I can tell that he’s starting to connect the
dots. Fucking hell.
“Speaking of,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I’m supposed to
check in with the nanny before he takes Abby to the sing-along at the
library this morning.”
Hopefully, none of them knows that the library doesn’t even open for a
full hour. But given that Walsh has several kids, I’m sure he suspects I’m
just trying to get out of this conversation—and out of this room—as quickly
as I can.

never in a million years would have imagined that this is how I’d be
“I spending my day off,” AJ says, pulling her sunglasses onto the top of
her head as we come to a stop on a covered bridge. When I told her to
be ready for a day of sightseeing, I neglected to mention that we were
leaving the city in a rental car, or that it was a convertible. She’s windblown
and her cheeks are pink, even after spending the last hour walking through
the mostly shaded trails of Valley Forge.
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a history nerd and a national park enthusiast.”
Her shoulders shake with laughter. “Yeah, I got that from how riveted
you were by the intro video we watched at the welcome center. And then
the way you dragged me through several historical buildings, looking like a
kid in a candy shop.”
“Hey,” I say, stepping up behind her and fully boxing her in against the
low wall of the bridge as she looks out at the creek below us. It’s quiet at
the park today. We’ve barely seen anyone on the trails leading from one site
to another, probably because it’s a weekday. “You can take the history nerd
out of the classroom . . .”
“I forgot that’s what you were studying in college.” Looking up over her
shoulder at me, her eyes search my face like she’s running through the
memories of when she scouted me all those years ago. “Didn’t you say that
if hockey didn’t work out, you wanted to get your PhD and become a
professor?”
“Yep. Why do you look so amused by that idea?”
 A scoff rattles around in the back of her throat. “I can totally imagine
how packed your classes would be . . . all those girls wanting to fulfill their
history requirement with the hot, grumpy professor who growls at them
when they don’t know the answer.”
My bark of laughter echoes against the hillsides. “So you think I’m
hot?”
She chuckles. “I think that’s your only saving grace, given the less
charming aspects of your personality.”
The smirk gracing her lips lets me know she’s teasing, so in response, I
trail my fingertips up her thigh under her dress, pressing her back into me
so she can feel how I’m already growing hard from just her proximity.
When I reach her waist, I toy with the top seam of her underwear. “Really?
That’s my only saving grace?”
She drops her voice even though no one is around. “I mean, I guess you
give me decent orgasms as well.”
I let my fingertips creep along her skin until I can feel the curls right
above where her legs meet. “Decent, huh?”
Pressing her head back against my shoulder, she whispers, “We
can’t . . .” and then takes a gasping breath when I slide two fingers over her
clit and slip them into her. “We can’t do this here.” She’s panting as I work
my fingers inside her and she lets me continue just long enough that I don’t
think she’s going to stop me.
“No, really,” she says, her hand flying to my arm. “I want to. But I
can’t. Not out in the open like this.” She pulls my arm away from her so
that my fingers slip out.
I hold her tighter against me, lowering my voice. “This morning at the
gym, when I went to wipe my face with my towel, I found I still had the
scent of your cum on my hand.” I press my now rock-hard cock into her
lower back. “All I’ve wanted to do since then is touch you again . . . make
you come so hard you forget how to speak.”
She reaches her arm up, sliding her hand back around my neck and
pulling me even closer. Then, in a low, sultry voice like the one I dreamed
she might have, she says, “You don’t like it when I talk?”
I tilt my head to the side so I can meet her gaze as she looks up at me
over her shoulder. “Let’s get one thing straight. I think you’re fucking
brilliant, and I love talking to you. But I love it even more when I’ve
brought you so far over the edge that the only word you remember is my
name. And I’m going to take you over that edge again, ideally right fucking
now.”
“If we’re caught . . .” I can tell her eyes are darting back and forth to the
paths that lead to either side of the bridge.
“We’ve hardly seen a single person out here.”
“Yeah, but if we did. I don’t have the luxury of being wanton like that in
public. If I’m caught, I could lose everything—the reputation I’ve built, the
award I’m nominated for, and possibly even my job.”
I let her words sink in, let myself fully understand her worries. She’s
worked so hard and broken every stereotype to get where she is in this
industry and with this team. I don’t want to ruin that for her. But I also don’t
miss how “everything” for her is really just work.
“Come here,” I say, taking her hand and leading her across the bridge.
“Where are we going?” She’s struggling to keep up with me in her cute
little fashion sneakers. I didn’t tell her we’d be hiking, but to be fair, I didn’t
know at the time. I thought we’d stop by the visitor’s center and see some
of the historical buildings. I didn’t realize I’d be so desperate to be alone
with her that I’d suggest we “take a walk” on what turned out to be actual
hiking trails.
“There are some ruins up this trail,” I tell her. “I suspect we can find
somewhere more private.”
“You really can’t wait?” Her voice is teasing, but also, she sounds
surprised. She deserves to feel wanted, to know what it’s like to have a man
in her life who’s desperate to be with her. And the fact that she’s been
married—and yet hasn’t experienced that before—pisses me the hell off.
I spin so I’m facing her and pull her toward me, my eyes scanning the
trail below to make sure there’s no one within earshot. And then I take her
good hand, bringing it between us and pressing it against my cock. She
sucks in a breath when she feels how hard I am.
“Does it feel like I can wait, Sunshine? Because I feel like I’m about to
die if I don’t get to touch you again right now. And from the way you were
dripping all over my hand, I’m thinking you don’t want to wait, either.”
She lets out a small whimper of longing while she strokes me, and I take
a small step backward, breaking contact.
“Oh my god.” The words are practically a whisper as they fall from her
lips, and the way she’s looking at me with those glassy eyes, dark with
desire, there is no doubt that she wants me as badly as I want her—even
though we’re in the middle of a national park.
“But if I’m wrong, and you want to wait, we will.” I hold my hands up
in mock defeat.
A strangled gasp leaves her—as if she now can’t stand the thought of
waiting, even though a few seconds ago, she was suggesting it—and she
steps toward me. Raising onto her toes, she wraps her arms around my
shoulders and kisses me, right in the middle of the path. And my mind
races, considering the quickest way to get her alone and naked, before
determining that my suggestion of the ruins is, in fact, probably the best
option.
“Come on.” I nod my chin up at the hill. “Let’s find somewhere more
private.”
As soon as we crest the top of the trail, the stone walls of the old
bottling factory come into view. I recognize it from the video at the
welcome center, and I’m even more thankful that I paid attention.
We take the stone steps up, and AJ murmurs, “Are you sure we’re
supposed to go in here?”
“The ‘watch your step’ sign makes me think it’s okay,” I say. “But
hopefully no one else wants to explore this area for at least the next five
minutes.”
She snorts a laugh. “Only five minutes, huh?”
“We’re going to have to be quick,” I tell her, keeping my voice low
because I know how sound can carry through the valleys carved between
these rolling green hills.
“No multiple orgasms this time?” Her whispered teasing makes me wish
we had all the time in the world, but I’m not willing to risk getting caught.
“I’m going to make you come so many times tonight that you’ll lose
count. But today, I’m going to fuck you so hard and quick you’ll come
faster and harder than you ever have.”
“Jesus.” She exhales the word with a sigh, and when I look over my
shoulder at her, I’m captivated by the swell of her breasts in the scoop neck
of her black tank dress, and her pebbled nipples showing through the thin
fabric as she stands there at the top of the steps.
I pull her around a corner and against a solid stone wall so we’re
blocked from the view of any hikers on the path.
 AJ’s hands are already on my belt, unbuckling it and then working on
my button. “Hey, you shouldn’t be doing that with your hand hurt like it is,”
I say, bringing my hand over to cover hers. I’m thrilled that she’s not in so
much pain that she can’t use her fingers, as was the case a few days ago, but
I also don’t want her to do any damage. Instead, I undo the button and
zipper, sliding my pants down my hips and letting the waistband rest on my
thighs where they’ll be out of the way just enough.
I don’t expect her to drop to her knees while telling me to pull my
boxers down, but the sight of her there removes any lingering concerns I
have about what we’re about to do.
Because watching Alessandra Jones take me in her hand while she
circles the head of my cock with her tongue before wrapping her lips
around me and taking me all the way to the back of her throat is one of the
sexiest things I’ve ever seen. The quiet gagging sound she makes, and the
way she pulls back and then takes me even deeper so I’m sliding into her
throat, has my balls already tightening up.
“AJ,” I hiss on a pained whisper, because if she doesn’t stop, I’m going
to come right down the back of her throat—and as much as I love that idea,
I want to feel her coming on my cock even more.
She tilts her head up to look at me while she works her hand around my
shaft, but she says nothing, instead raising one eyebrow like she wants me
to continue.
But words are failing me, so all I manage to grit out is: “Up. Now.”
A small smile plays on her lips. “Yes, sir.”
Oh, fuck me. Is there anything in the world hotter than the most
powerful woman in hockey calling me sir? I think not.
When she stands, I slide my hands up her thighs, curl my fingers around
the thin straps of lace, and jerk my hands apart quickly. The ripping sound
of the fabric is barely audible above the rustling of the leaves in the gentle
breeze and the birds chirping in the dappled sunlight.
Jaw dropping open in surprise, AJ stares at me with those huge brown
eyes. I could get lost in the kaleidoscopic of browns, amber, and gold I see
there. But I won’t, not now anyway. Because I’m too busy bringing that
thong up to my nose, inhaling her scent as I tell her, “I fucking love the way
you smell when you’re turned on.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers before licking her lips and leaving them
parted like she can’t breathe without her mouth slightly open.
 I stuff her underwear in my pocket before I pull her dress up around her
waist, slide my hands around the back of her thighs, and lift her up against
that stone wall. I don’t even check to see if she’s ready for me; I just assume
she is, and as I step forward, lining my cock up with her entrance, I’m met
with the signs of her arousal. “I love the way you’re always dripping wet
and ready for me, Sunshine.”
With a moan, she closes her eyes and leans her head back against the
stone wall.
“I want access to your tits.”
“Jesus, Ronan,” she says, as she moves her hands from my shoulders to
the straps of her tank top, pulling down and to the sides so her breasts slip
out. The way they’re held there by the bra and the edges of her top have
them pushing together, looking bigger than they actually are.
She’s a perfect handful, and that’s all I need, but the slit of her cleavage
where they’re pressed together has me telling her, “Someday, I’m going to
fuck these breasts.”
Her eyes fly open at my words, and I tilt my hips up, notching into her
sweet, hot pussy.
“God, you’re so fucking wet for me.”
“Only for you,” she says sweetly, bringing her hands back to my neck.
She threads her fingers into my hair, giving the strands a tug. “Now fuck
me, please.” As she drives her hips down, I slide into her a bit more. “Don’t
make me beg.”
“The thought of you begging me to fill you . . .” I groan, pushing into
her another inch. “. . . has me harder than you can even imagine.”
“Please, Ronan.”
And that’s it. The sound of my name rolling out of her with a breathy
sigh has me pulling her down onto my cock hard and fast. Pinning her
against the wall, I rail her while I dip my head forward and suck one of her
nipples into my mouth, circling it with my tongue and taking a few long
pulls that have her moaning.
I look up at her, and pull back enough to say, “Quiet, Sunshine. You
don’t want us to get caught, do you?” And then I scrape my teeth lightly
around her nipple before sucking it back into my mouth, testing her ability
to hold back her pretty sounds.
Her lips are clamped together now, but the groan that rasps in her throat
as I slip into her over and over, combined with the delicate drag of my cock
against her inner walls and the crude sound of slapping skin every time our
bodies meet, has me on the edge of coming.
“I need you to touch yourself,” I tell her, and she brings two fingers to
my lips. I pull them into my mouth, running my tongue along and around
her fingertips, loading her up with my saliva. If I weren’t so close, I’m
confident I could make her come without the additional help. But that will
have to be a goal for another time. Right now, we need to finish before
anyone else wanders up this path.
She sucks her stomach in to make room for her hand between us, which
has her pussy clamping down on me even more. “Fuck,” I whisper. “This is
too good.”
Biting down on the corner of her lower lip, she smirks at me. “Too good
will be when you make me come.”
“Try to be quiet,” I say, and then I take her other nipple, drawing it into
my mouth with a not-so-gentle suck that has her hips pushing forward to
meet mine while she chants “Yes, yes, yes” on whispered sighs.
She increases the speed while she uses her good hand to circle her clit
and rests her splint on my shoulder in order to tug at my hair. The slight
amount of pain pushes me closer, and I feel the telltale signs of my orgasm.
But I don’t want to come before she does.
“Now, Alessandra,” I growl between clenched teeth.
“I’m not there yet,” she says breathily.
“Like hell you’re not.” I pull her nipple back into my mouth roughly,
sucking hard and leaving her moaning. Then I adjust one of my hands that’s
holding her up and press my middle finger against the opening of her ass. I
meet her gaze as I apply a light pressure, not entering her, but wanting to
make sure she’s okay with being touched there.
Her mouth parts with a sharp inhale, her eyes widening as she stares
down at me. As I press a bit harder, her eyes widen even more. She’s
breathing hard, her hips moving into me at a frantic pace, and she gives me
a little nod. So I slip my finger into her, just barely, and her mouth drops
open as she pushes her head back into the stone wall so hard her back
arches. I feel her pussy clamping down on me as a choked cry escapes her,
her muscles moving in rhythmic waves as my orgasm simultaneously
moves through my body and nearly has my legs buckling from the intensity.
Faint voices ring out in the distance, and I lift my head, taking her
mouth in mine and kissing the hell out of her as she works through her
climax. Not only do I not want to risk her making a sound, but also, I’m
feeling emotions I’ve never felt before.
It’s not just the desperate need to be with her, to be inside her. It’s also
the realization that I never want to feel this with anyone else. And that
thought is both terrifying and reassuring at the same time.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Five
AJ

N
icholas’s name pops up on my caller ID right as we’re driving back
into Philly. I debate not answering it, but I don’t want him to think
anything’s wrong.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask, pressing the phone to my ear so I can
hear his response over the noise of the traffic and the wind whipping around
us.
“Nothing. Abby’s down for a nap, and I just wanted to see how you
were doing.”
I glance at McCabe, who’s focused on the road. With his aviator
sunglasses on and his dark hair blowing in the wind, he’s relaxed in a way I
rarely see. Is this just a side of him I haven’t seen because of our boss-
employee relationship, or is he loosening up and showing me who he
actually is?
“I’m doing great. Big win last night, which we really needed,” I say, and
next to me, McCabe chuckles. He’s probably thinking about after the game
because getting me to come with him inside me, after also giving me a
mind-blowing orgasm with his mouth—that was a big win too. “And then I
did some sightseeing today.”
“Oh yeah, where’d you go?”
“Valley Forge. There’s a national park there, so I walked around for a
bit. And then I stopped at a huge mall near there and did a little dress
shopping.” I still can’t quite get over the mental image of McCabe
following me around, holding all the gowns I picked out to try on. He didn’t
complain once, not even when I’d loaded him down with twenty different
dresses. And then he humored me when I wanted to buy Abby some
adorable pink high-top sneakers that we saw in a shop window, helping me
find the right size so she could wear them now.
“You’re really going to go to the gala?” Nicholas asks. His voice is
disapproving at best.
“I mean, I kind of have to.”
“No, you don’t. There’s no need to spend one second with those
assholes, especially since you know Chet is going to be there.”
My childhood was far from perfect, but it was still much better than
what Nicholas got.
“It’s more work to not go, you know? I can suck it up and show up for
two hours since I’m going to be in St. Louis anyway⁠—”
“Oh, you’re that confident about this series?” Nicholas teases. Yeah,
we’re down 2-1, but we plan to rectify that tomorrow night. We’re a better
team, and I’m confident we can beat Philadelphia in the end. I’m equally
confident that St. Louis is going to win their current series, given their
current standings, which will put us in a position to be playing them two
weeks from now.
“Pretty much. If I’m there anyway, what’s my excuse for not going?”
“Work. It’s your excuse for everything else.” There’s an edge to his tone
that has the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Next to me, McCabe reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh. I
know he can only hear my side of the conversation, but I appreciate that he
recognizes my defensiveness and the subtle way he tells me he’s here for
me.
His palm presses into me, his fingers giving me a supportive squeeze
along my inner thigh—right where we’d had to use my thong to wipe up his
cum as it dripped out of me only an hour earlier. The memory has me letting
out a sigh, forgetting I’m even on the phone.
“You don’t need the big sigh, AJ,” Nicholas says into my ear, jolting me
out of my stupor.
That jerky movement has McCabe chuckling next to me again, like he
knows exactly what his touch does to me.
 God, this relaxed version of him—the way he takes things in stride, the
smile he reserves only for me— he’s like an entirely different person, and
it’s addicting. He could be addicting.
“I just meant,” Nicholas continues, “that you’ve used work as your
excuse to get out of things you didn’t want to do plenty of times before.”
“Do you feel like I’ve used it to get out of doing things with you?” I
ask, concerned about that edge I hear in his voice.
“No. You’ve always made time for me when I needed you.”
I hear what he’s saying, and previously that would have been enough for
me.
“What about when you didn’t need me?”
Nicholas’s voice is softer, quieter, when he asks, “What’s going on with
you? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I don’t know . . .” I look up at the sky as we take the offramp from the
freeway to head into the city. “I guess I’m just re-evaluating my priorities?”
What I’m really wondering is whether working this hard to get where I
am—literally devoting every waking moment of almost every single day to
hockey—was necessary to end up here? Or was it an excuse to get out of
having an actual life? Was I singularly focused on taking professional risks
so I didn’t have to take personal ones and risk getting hurt again?
“This feels like . . . a shift,” Nicholas says, and when I glance over at
McCabe while we wait at a stoplight, he’s looking at me with the same
curious gaze I imagine my brother is probably wearing right now.
“Nah, just the musings of a middle-aged woman,” I joke, swallowing
roughly. “Anyway, I’ve got a few extra seats at my table. I’d offer them to
you and Nicole, but you’ll be watching Abby.” Not like he’d want to come.
Since he was still a kid when we lived in St. Louis, he’s never had to attend
these kinds of events that make up a significant portion of my family’s
social life.
“You bought a whole fucking table? For your own family’s charity
event?” Nicholas’s full-bodied laugh makes me pull the phone away from
my ear.
“Seemed like the safest way to avoid sitting with Mom and Dad.”
“Must be nice to have money to throw away like that.”
“Hey, you can’t put a price on sanity,” I say, chuckling. “And I’m
bringing Frank Hartmann with me, so he can serve as a buffer.”
“Ah, Second Dad will be there? I love that guy!”
 “He really is the best,” I say as we pull through the intersection. In front
of us, there must be someone double-parked or something, because
suddenly there are horns honking and people yelling out their windows.
“Where the hell are you?” Nicholas asks.
“In a car coming back from shopping. There’s something going on up
ahead,” I say as a driver lays on his horn and doesn’t let up. “I better go.”
“Alright, see you tomorrow night when you get home.”
“See you then.”
I set my phone down in the cupholder, not missing how McCabe’s hand
still rests on my thigh, his thumb still stroking the skin there. Closing my
eyes, I lean back against my seat.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I ask, not bothering to open my eyes.
“Whatever this gala is with your family, and why you need to bring
Frank with you as a buffer?”
“It’s nothing, just an annual charity event . . .”
McCabe huffs a laugh and asks, “You go to a lot of those?”
“Not as many as I used to.” I think back to the years when I still lived in
St. Louis and my social calendar was peppered with these types of events.
I had a charmed life growing up, from the outside anyway. But the
mansion and the cars and the fancy vacations didn’t offset the emotional toll
of being raised by parents who wanted me to be someone I wasn’t.
The constant pressure to be successful, combined with never living up
to the socialite my mom wanted me to be and the son my dad wished I was,
gave me a serious type-A personality and a work ethic that’s turned me into
a perfectionist driven to succeed at any cost. And no amount of therapy to
help me understand the root causes of my issues has allowed me to change
these ingrained parts of my personality.
“You don’t want to go, though?” His concern is evident in the tone of
his voice.
“Not particularly. Chet’s going to be there⁠—”
“Why the fuck is your ex-husband going to be at your family’s event?”
I love that he’s angry on my behalf, but my laugh lacks humor when I
tell him, “He’s the one they kept in the divorce.”
McCabe takes a sharp turn onto a side street, brakes squealing as he
slips into a parking spot, the quick action making my stomach flip. He turns
toward me, his face all hard lines. But that look warms me, because he cares
enough to be pissed.
“What the fuck do you mean, he’s the one they kept?”
I shrug and look down at my lap. “Chet’s a family friend. His dad and
mine have been golf partners my whole life. We grew up together . . .”
He reaches across the space and uses his fingertips to gently turn my
face toward him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“My parents wanted me to look past his cheating and stay married. In
front of my parents, Chet was begging me to forgive him, promising to do
anything to make it right. I knew there was no way I’d ever get past what
he’d done, but my parents acted like this was just a part of marriage and I
needed to get over it.”
It was enough to make me wonder if that was part of their marriage too
—not that I’d ever ask. Those were not the type of things that were
discussed in the Jones household.
“The fuck?”
I appreciate how taken aback he is, because it lets me know that I’m not
crazy for refusing to give Chet a second chance. For a long time, my
parents were big on gaslighting me—trying to convince me that I was the
problem. It’s a relief to have an outsider confirm that I made the right
decision in leaving.
“Yeah. So that kind of tarnished our relationship—you know, even more
than it already had been because of Nicholas. When I threatened to sue for
custody of my brother on the grounds of neglect, that was the nail in the
coffin of our relationship.”
“You did what, now?” His brow pinches as he searches my face.
“When I started talking to Frank about the GM position in Boston, I
realized I didn’t want to leave my brother in St. Louis without me. So I
looked into boarding school options here. Initially, they didn’t want him to
go—though I still have no idea why. It’s not like they ever spent time with
him, unless it was to show him off at some social function.”
“So you brought him to Boston with you?”
“Yeah, I mean, he went to boarding school, but he was only like half an
hour outside of the city. And he’s lived here ever since. St. Louis really isn’t
home for either of us, anymore.”
His thumb slides along my cheekbone, and that’s when I realize he’s
still holding my face. He’s eyeing me like I’m someone he needs to fix.
 “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him, feeling uncommonly vulnerable.
His voice softens. “Like what?”
“Like I’m broken.”
“I don’t think you’re broken. If anything . . . I’m looking at you with
admiration. It’s like the person I see in front of me now is completely
different than the person I thought you were. And I really like who I see.”
“You’re just saying that because now, every time you look at me, you’re
thinking about what I look like when I come.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to take this moment and make it into a
joke. But there’s a heaviness to his words that has my belly flipping over.
There’s a seriousness that terrifies me. I excel at holding people at a
distance, and I don’t know how he keeps breaking through my barriers.
His fingers tighten on my jaw. “No, I’m saying that because you keep
surprising me in the best ways. I’m kind of in awe of you.”
I try to gulp down my emotions, to hold my thoughts in, but somehow,
he always disarms me. Maybe it’s that fiercely protective look in his eyes,
or the way he keeps telling me how he feels. Maybe it’s that I’ve never had
a truly healthy relationship with a guy, and the way McCabe validates me
and supports me like a friend would, while worshiping me sexually, has me
wanting to share parts of myself with him I’ve never shared with anyone
else.
I don’t break eye contact when I tell him, “You keep surprising me in
the best ways, too.”
He leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “At some point, we’re
going to need to talk about what to do with this relationship. It’s getting
harder to hide.”
“Harder to hide?” I laugh. “You mean since last night?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No. I mean since I kissed you in your
office, and since you moved into my place, and since Walsh caught me
coming out of your hotel room, and since the guys were ragging on me at
the gym this morning, wondering why I looked like a lovesick fool.”
A lovesick fool?
“That’s . . .” I gulp, racking my brain for the right way to explain how
I’m feeling, and coming up short. “. . . new information.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t stop thinking about you, and the guys are starting to
notice. I get why we need to keep it a secret for now, but eventually, we’re
going to need to talk about where this is going. Us together is a challenge.
Us sneaking around and potentially getting caught is a problem.”
“Uhh . . .” What is he talking about? We flirted until the flames of
sexual tension turned into an inferno . . . but that doesn’t mean this
is . . . whatever he thinks it is? “I meant what I said last night. I don’t see
how this could ever work.”
I at least halfway believe what I’m saying.
He clicks his tongue in disagreement. “And I don’t see how it could
ever not.”
“You really think that a relationship between a player and his GM is
ever going to fly?” There’s no way. It’s a level of unprofessionalism that I
can’t even fathom myself, much less expect anyone beyond the two of us to
understand.
“I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks, AJ. And the sooner you can
let go of maintaining this perfect image, the sooner we stop sneaking
around. I want a shot at a real relationship with you.”
My mind races at his declaration. This is too fast. This is too sudden.
How could this ever work?
“But . . . it’s been, like, two days . . .” I stumble over the words.
His eyes narrow, like he’s reading my mind and knows I’m wrong.
“Have you ever in your life connected with someone like we’ve connected
over the last few days?”
I close my eyes, hoping that if I can’t see him, I’ll be able to lie to him.
To tell him, sure, all new relationships are like this. But it’s just not true.
“No.” There’s almost no sound as the word rolls off my lips, but I know
he hears me, because when I open my eyes, he’s looking at me with the
self-satisfied smirk of someone who thinks he’s won. “But that doesn’t
mean this can work.”
“Of course it can. We just need to figure out how.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Six
AJ

AJ
I’m exhausted, so I’m going straight to bed. Let’s make plans
for dinner one night this week.

I
shoot the text off to Nicholas as I ride the elevator up to my floor,
feeling anything but exhausted. There’s excitement, because after
another win tonight, we’ve tied our series 2-2. And there’s the thrill of
seeing McCabe again once Nicholas leaves.
I click over to my text thread with McCabe and read the messages we
exchanged on the plane.
MCCABE
You’re coming over tonight, yes?
AJ
Is that an invitation, or an assumption?
MCCABE
Yes.
AJ
You’re getting a little cocky, assuming that I can’t go a night
without you.
MCCABE
If there’s one thing I am, it’s a realist.
 AJ
Is that so? Maybe what you REALLY need is a night alone,
then?
MCCABE
Don’t threaten me, woman. I’ll text you when Nicholas and
Nicole leave.
AJ
I’m too old for booty calls.

I threw the “old” part in there because maybe we both need the
reminder that I’m much too old for him—yet another reason why we
shouldn’t be thinking about anything long term.
MCCABE
You’re not too old for anything. Stop that shit right now. And if
you don’t come over after Nicholas leaves, I’ll just come over
and drag you back to my place. Benefits of living across the
hall.
AJ
How very caveman of you.
MCCABE
You love every minute of it, don’t lie.

I wanted to argue with him about that, but he’s not wrong.
AJ
We’ll see how I’m feeling once I’m home. I might be tired.
MCCABE
After a win like tonight’s? Not likely. But if you’re tired, we’ll
sleep. I sleep better when you’re in my bed.
AJ
I’m not sleeping at your place when I live across the hall.

With my wrist feeling better each day, it’s not like I need his help to do
simple things like getting dressed anymore. So there’s no excuse not to stay
at my own place. Maybe I’ll let him give me another orgasm or two,
because the one he gave me in the shower this morning feels like way too
long ago, but I’m not spending the night. That screams relationship, and I
keep telling him we can’t have that.
 We can’t. I have to keep reminding myself too, because when I’m with
him, I start wanting things I know are impossible.
MCCABE
We’ll see about that.

When I walk into my apartment, Tabitha lifts her head and hisses at me,
then goes back to sleeping on my couch. I just laugh, because she really is
ornery.
The anticipation of knowing I’m going to see McCabe in private in only
a few minutes, after a long day of having to act like there’s absolutely
nothing going on between us, has all my senses heightened.
The whizzing of my suitcase wheels across the hardwood floor, the drag
of clothes as I shed them and leave them on the floor of my bedroom, the
pounding of my heart as I walk into my closet naked, trying to figure out
what to wear over to his place . . . it has me feeling antsy, like I could crawl
out of my skin. Normally, when I’m feeling like this, I pull out my very
lifelike vibrator. Tonight, though, I have the real thing.
I never, ever thought I’d be the kind of person who could barely make it
twelve hours without being railed by a well-endowed hockey player. Yet
here I am.
I chuckle to myself as I glance in the full-length mirror. My body isn’t
what it once was, but I’ve worked hard to maintain my physique. I can’t
wait to get back to skating every morning. The first thing I’m asking the
orthopedist when I see him in two days is how soon I can lace up my own
skates. I’m not worried about falling and hurting myself on the ice, but I
know my hand isn’t in any condition to tighten laces, and since no one else
knows about my morning skating sessions, it’ll have to wait until I can do it
myself.
I’ve just slipped on some satin sleep shorts and thrown a tank top on
when his text comes through, letting me know that Nicholas and Nicole
have left. I glance in the mirror again, taking in my wild eyes and the way
my nipples are already hard from their contact with the fabric of the shirt.
I’m so turned on I can barely stand it, and teasing him feels like a brilliant
idea.
AJ
I fear I may need another minute.
 MCCABE
Why, what are you doing?

I slide my hand down the front of my shorts and find that I’m already
soaked just thinking about him. After my hysterectomy, the doctor warned
me that vaginal dryness might be a side effect. Turns out, all I needed was a
hot younger guy to solve that problem for me.
MCCABE
AJ?
What are you doing?

Collapsing back onto the ottoman in the middle of my small walk-in

closet, I spread my legs wide so the fabric of the shorts doesn’t impede my
access.
AJ
I’m so turned on I can hardly move. I need to take care of
myself before I come over there.
MCCABE
Walk across the hall right now, or I’m going to come bang your
fucking door down.

Giggling to myself, I run my finger over my clit, knowing that it would

feel better if he was doing it with his tongue, but suddenly, even waiting the
thirty seconds it would take me to get to him feels impossible.
My phone rings with an incoming video call.
“What are you doing?” he all but growls when I hit the button to accept
the call.
“I already told you.” My voice is breathless as my fingers swipe through
the slickness between my legs and then circle my clit, lips parting on a gasp
at the contact.
“Fucking hell, AJ,” he says with a sigh. “You look so hot right now. Pull
the phone back. I want to see you touch yourself.”
I do as he says, not because I think it’s a good idea to be fingering
myself on a video call, but because I’m so turned on, I’d do just about
anything to take the edge off.
When I slide my fingers over my clit again, my entire abdomen
clenches in longing. “God, I want you.”
 “I’m right here. Get up and walk across the hallway, and I’ll take care of
you.”
“But . . .” I lose my train of thought as my fingers move faster. I should
have just gone over, because the pressure is building and my pussy is
pulsing, and there’s an emptiness inside me I know he can fill. I’m too far
along to stop now, though. “I . . .”
“Holy shit, woman,” he groans, then sets his phone on his bathroom
counter, propped up so I can see him. “Do you want to see what this is
doing to me? How my body is reacting to this torture?”
“Yesss.” The word is a hiss, and I close my eyes as I throw my head
back while a wave of longing courses through me. When I open my eyes
again, he’s standing with one hand braced on the counter in front of him,
and his dick in his hand. The sight alone has my hips grinding up into my
hand.
“This is what you do to me,” he says, sliding his hand up until it looks
like he’s choking the swollen head of his cock. “You make me so hard I
can’t fucking think straight.” As he strokes himself a few more times, I
circle my clit harder and faster. “I want to be inside you right now. I always
want to be inside you.” He growls out the last sentence like he’s mad about
it. “Do you know how fucking hard it is to pretend like nothing’s going on
between us when we’re working? Like at tonight’s game?” With his hand
moving faster, he grunts out the question.
I lift one eyebrow as I watch the way he’s jerking himself off in quick,
angry strokes. “Pretty hard, by the looks of it.”
“You should be here right now.” He circles the tip of his cock and slides
his hand back down his shaft. “It’s like you’re punishing me . . .”
I dip two fingers inside myself and use the heel of my hand to rub
against my clit with each stroke. “Ever heard of delayed gratification?” I’m
teasing, but now that I’m this close, I’m frustrated with myself. I should
have just gone over, because this would feel so much better if he was the
one making me come.
“I’m going to teach you all about delayed gratification,” he grits out.
“And trust me, it’ll feel like punishment, just like this does.”
I don’t know why the thought of that turns me on so much, but his
words bring me so close to the precipice that I can practically taste my
orgasm before it hits me—it’s a metallic tang on my tongue as goosebumps
ripple across my skin.
 My moan of pleasure has him encouraging me, telling me about his
plans for my body. And the visions of him buried inside me, edging me
toward release and then holding me back, has me tipping right over into
ecstasy. He follows my lead, letting out a string of expletives mixed with
my name as he comes into a hand towel he’s holding in front of himself.
And when I fully finish and lie back on my ottoman, my phone drops to
the ground. I feel like I’m liquid. I’m completely unable to pull myself
together.
Until his voice rings out, filling my entire closet with his growling
demand. “Get. Your. Ass. Over. Here. Now.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Seven
McCabe

S
tanding in the door frame of my open front door, waiting for AJ to
come over, gives me a minute to collect my thoughts after that
unexpected little phone sexcapade we just had.
It was hot, but it would have been better in person. And the fact that she
didn’t come over when I asked has me worried. I know that what’s
happening between us is more than just sex, but still, she holds back.
What I’m wondering right now is if we can figure out a way to make
this actually work—not just sneaking around and having sex whenever we
can, but actually making a relationship work. She wavers between wanting
that, and not, sometimes even within the same minute.
AJ opens her door a crack and slips out, turning and shutting it quietly
behind her. She’s wearing super short sleep shorts that barely cover her ass,
and a thin tank top with no bra beneath it.
“You look like you’re sneaking out.”
She gasps as she turns toward me, clutching her chest as she says, “Holy
shit. I didn’t see you standing there.”
I cross my arms over my bare chest and lean against the door frame.
“That’s because you were looking over your shoulder like you were afraid
your parents might catch you.”
“I was trying to make sure my evil cat wasn’t going to attempt an
escape.”
“Maybe she’s evil because you’re holding her captive?” I wink.
 “When I rescued her, she’d been living on the streets. She had a horrible
eye infection,” she says, stepping toward me, “and the vet had to remove it.
She also had a terrible case of fleas and was so emaciated you could see
every rib.”
“No wonder you wanted her,” I tease.
Secretly, I love that this tells me a little more about her. She collects
strays, I think. She stepped up as her brother’s caregiver when she saw how
their parents were neglecting him, and took in this cat no one else would
have wanted. Under all that armor, there’s a soft heart, and I’m embracing
the glimpses of her true self that she shares every once in a while.
“Yeah, well, she seems to hate me for it. Like, what does she want? To
be back on the streets, starving and in pain? Plus, with only one eye, she’s
not great at seeing things coming at her from her left side, so she could
never be an outdoor cat.”
“Sometimes we want what we want, even if it’s not what’s best for us.”
Am I even still talking about her cat at this point?
She looks up at me, like she’s wondering the same thing. “I’m not going
to turn her loose on the streets, so I guess I’ll have to endure her hissing at
me every time I walk past. Kind of like I endure you growling at me when
you don’t get your way.”
Reaching out, I grab her hip and pull her against me. “That wasn’t me
not getting my way. That was you keeping literal walls between us when
you didn’t have to.” I press my lips to the top of her head when her arms
circle my waist. “And we’re going to talk about why you keep doing that.”
I walk us backward into my entryway and shut the front door behind
her, before pushing her back against it. Her chest is heaving, and as I slide
my hand up her neck, I can feel her pulse thrumming beneath my fingers.
“You like the excitement of this,” I say as I hold her in place with my
fingertips anchored firmly on her jaw.
It’s not a question, but still, she responds with a breathy “Yes.”
I hook the thumb of my other hand into the waistband of her shorts.
“You like the orgasms.”
“Yes.” The word is a whispered pant, and her pulse increases.
“You like spending time with me, and you tell me things you don’t tell
anyone else.”
She steps out of her shorts after I use my free hand to slide them past
her hips and drop them to her feet. “Yes.”
 When she lifts one leg to step out of the shorts, I grab her knee and
bring it up to my hip as I press myself against her. I’m not sure how, but I’m
already growing hard again.
“And yet you hold me at a distance.”
Staring down at her, I wait for her to admit this, too. But she seems to
have run out of “yeses.”
“If all you want from me is orgasms, that’s a very different conversation
than the one I want to have about where this relationship is going.” My
thumb strokes her knee where I’m holding her leg in place. “Is that all you
want?”
“I . . .” She licks her lips, and then closes her eyes as she rests her head
against my door. “I don’t know what I want.”
Dropping to my knees in front of her, I hold her leg up and then loop it
over my shoulder as I lean in and taste her. “Oh yeah?” I look up at her. “So
what’s holding you back from knowing?”
“I can’t . . .” She lets out a shaky breath. “I can’t talk about this when
you have me this turned on.”
“Why?” I ask, before using my tongue to circle her clit. “Afraid you’ll
be too honest with me?”
Another labored breath, and she says, “Yes. No. I don’t know, I can’t
think straight. Every time I’m with you, all I can think about is how much I
want this. And then reality sets in and I realize it could jeopardize one, or
both, of our careers.”
With another swirl around her clit, I apply more pressure as I run my
thumb along her opening. “I bet we can find a way to work it out.”
She releases a sigh mixed with a groan as she pulls her tank top over her
head. “How?”
“Well, first, you need to renew my contract. Because if I go to another
team, I don’t see how this could work long distance.”
Her eyes flare, and I know she doesn’t want to have this conversation.
“I can’t talk to you about this. Not without your agent.”
Hmmm. The murmur of acknowledgement rattles in the back of my
throat as I clamp my lips onto her, and the vibrations against her clit make
her entire body shake with need.
“If we can come to an agreement about me staying in Boston,” I say,
gazing up at her and noting the conflicted look on her face, “are we making
this work between us?”
 It’s not that I’m desperate to put a label on this; it’s that I need to know
she’s at least open to the idea.
“I . . . I think we need to talk about this later. I can’t make important
decisions in the midst of . . . you know.” She closes her eyes as she rests a
hand on my head and threads her fingers through my hair, tugging me
closer.
Nodding, I slide two fingers up into her. “That’s fine, but we will be
talking about it. Right after I punish you for that stunt you pulled in your
closet.” I flick my tongue over her clit, pressing hard even though I know
she’ll be sensitive after coming only a few minutes ago. She cries out in
surprise, and then sighs with pleasure.
“If this is my punishment,” she says with a sly smile, “please continue.”
I can’t help but smirk as I curl my fingers inside her while I continue
pushing her closer to her orgasm. She rocks her hips against my face,
increasing the pace until she’s panting and telling me how close she is.
And that’s when I stop and peer up at her again. “You want to come?”
“Yes.”
Pulling my fingers out of her, I stick them between my lips, sucking
them clean. Then I drop her leg from my shoulder as I stand and put one
hand on either side of her head, boxing her against my front door.
“What . . . what are you doing?” she asks, her voice wavering.
“Delivering your punishment.”
“By withholding an orgasm from me?”
“No,” I say, wrapping one hand behind her neck and pulling her close to
me. “By using you every way I want to before I let you come again.”
Her tongue darts out, licking her lower lip before she bites down on it
like she’s trying to hold in a smile. “Sounds just terrible. Such a horrible
punishment.”
Oh, this is going to be fun.
Gripping the back of her neck, I kiss her hard. She gives it right back to
me, standing on her toes to meet me while she threads her fingers through
my hair again. I don’t know why I like that edge of pain when she tugs on
my hair, but I do. It pulls a sound of longing from my chest, and I half-
groan, half-growl right into her mouth.
“So needy,” she teases, pulling back to smirk at me.
“Yes, I’m quite needy. In fact, right now, I need you on your knees.”
 She drops immediately to her knees with that same smirk, showing me
this isn’t a punishment at all.
“Take my pants off.”
“Yes, sir.” Her chest shakes with silent laughter.
“You’re going to think that’s a lot less funny when you’re gagging on
my cock,” I say, just to see what her reaction will be. I’ve never talked to a
woman this way, but I get the sense she’s enjoying it as much, or maybe
even more, than I am.
In response, she slides my sweats and boxers down my legs. “We’ll
see.”
After I kick my pants off, she stands up on her knees, so her face is right
at my waist, and takes my cock in her hand. I’m not fully hard yet, so she
strokes me with long, hard pulls as she trails her tongue around my head.
The blood rushes to my dick so quickly I have to put my hand on the wall
behind her because I feel lightheaded.
This woman will be the death of me. I’ve never been more confident
about anything in my life. Now I’m just trying to figure out whether it’s
going to be a slow, torturous death, or whether we’ll go down in an
explosion together.
I’m throbbing and hard as steel in her hand in no time, and she hums her
approval against the head of my cock, making my hips thrust forward as I
slide into her mouth. The way her head bobs as she takes me to the back of
her throat has me pulling out and pushing back into her, grabbing her hair
and twisting my hand so it’s wrapped around my fist. Her eyes flick up to
me with a brief flash of panic when I hit the back of her throat and she gags,
so I take my other hand and brush the underside of her chin, telling her,
“You’re doing so well.”
Her moan reverberates along my shaft and my mouth drops open with a
quick exhale as my abs clench. Eyes still focused on me, she takes me
deeper.
“Touch yourself,” I demand, and her splinted arm reaches down
between her legs. “Show me how wet you are.” She holds her fingers up for
me to see. “Now smear your cum on your nipples.”
Another moan around my cock, and I feel like I’m about to pass out. As
I watch her circle each of her nipples before demanding she touch herself
again, I’m not sure which of us is more aroused. Her hips are rocking to the
same rhythm we’ve set as she takes my cock into her throat, and she starts
making desperate sounds that are about to make me come.
“Now stop touching yourself.”
She whimpers in response, but does what I say, looking up at me as she
pulls me out of her mouth, lightly dragging her teeth around the head of my
cock and sending an electrical current across every cell in my body. Holy
shit, I’ve never felt anything like that before.
“I didn’t tell you to stop.”
“We both get to feel good, or neither of us does,” she says with a little
shrug, doing nothing to hide her sass. I know she’s just pushing me, trying
to get to whatever punishment I’ve promised.
Game on.
I tug on her hair, pulling her up to standing, and then spin her around so
I’m behind her. Taking her good hand, I place it low enough on the door
that she’s bent forward a bit, and then I rest her injured hand on top of it,
just like I did in the hotel bathroom the other night. Hovering over her, I
trace the curve of her ear with my lips before sucking her lobe between my
teeth. “Are you going to be a good girl for me, so you get to come?”
“We’ll see,” she hums.
I let go of her hair, bringing both my hands to her breasts, toying with
her nipples until she’s pushing back into me and sliding along my cock.
Straightening, I still roll her nipples between my fingers as I reposition
myself, guiding my dick between her legs so that as she moves she can rub
her clit along my shaft. Every time she gets to the head, she circles her hips
before sliding back.
I can feel her coating me—a combination of her cum from when she
pleasured herself in her closet, and new arousal from being here with me—
as she grinds herself against me, seeking friction.
“Your greedy little pussy is soaking me,” I say, looking down at the
view of the shiny pink skin between her legs. “Tell me what it needs.”
“Youuu,” she moans. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please fill me,” she begs, and the sound of it has a new wave of
longing coursing through me. “Please make me come.”
I grab my cock, holding it in place as I press the head of it against her
clit, rubbing it back and forth over her as she moans again. “Please.”
 Pulling back, I slide into her in one swift movement that takes her
breath away and has me groaning in relief. I bring my hands back to her
nipples, pinching them lightly as I roll them in my fingertips and slam into
her over and over.
Her moans escape on exhales every time I bottom out, until she’s a
frantic mess beneath me. “Touch me,” she begs.
“I am touching you.” I know what she wants, but I continue working her
nipples.
“My clit. Please, I’m so close.”
“Oh, Sunshine,” I say, making a tisking sound with my tongue. “How’s
it feel to be so close, and not get what you want?”
Her only reply is the sound of her panting as I work her closer to
coming on my cock.
“Does it feel like a punishment?” I taunt.
“Please, Ronan,” she grunts out my name as I bury myself deeper inside
her.
I lean forward so my lips are right next to her ear. “I like it when you
beg, especially when you use my name. What I don’t like is when my body
is craving yours, and you spread your legs and show me your pussy over a
video call where I can’t touch or taste you.”
She turns her head slightly, rubbing her cheek along mine. “It seemed
like a good idea at the time.”
Chuckling darkly, I reach between her legs, sliding my finger over her
clit until she’s chanting “Yes” over and over. And when I stop, pulling my
hand away suddenly, she groans in frustration.
Holding her hips as I return to standing, I pull her back on me, hard.
“How’s it feel to want something that’s just out of your reach?”
The way I’ve been edging her, I’m confident her orgasm is going to be
earth-shattering as soon as I let her have it. But in the meantime, I’m
enjoying holding her off, knowing that this “punishment” is going to be
more than worth it in the end.
“I hate you.”
I trail my tongue up the side of her neck and enjoy the way her whole
body shakes with a shiver before I press my lips to the space where her
earlobe meets her jaw, and then whisper, “No, you don’t.”
“I want to hate you.”
 “That’s not even close to the same thing,” I grit out as I bury myself in
her again.
“Why do you have to be so damn perfect for me?” she mumbles, her
voice barely audible.
“I could ask you the same thing.” I could ask her so many things, like
why she’s letting her fear get in the way of this amazing thing that’s
developing between us, or what she thinks is the worst thing that would
happen if people found out about us? “Maybe instead, if you ask me very
nicely, I’ll let you come.”
“Please, Ronan . . . please make me come.”
“Look at you begging,” I practically purr into her ear.
I trail my hand down her abdomen and press two fingers onto her clit.
With my other hand, I pinch her nipple, rolling it between my fingers. In
response, her hips move faster, taking me harder and deeper as she lets out
soft moans and grunts of pleasure.
“Such a good girl.”
Pressing with more intent on her clit, I work her up into a frenzy until
her legs are shaking and her movements are erratic. And as I tilt my hips to
change the angle, I can tell I hit the perfect spot inside her, because the
walls of her pussy are squeezing me, rhythmically moving along my shaft
in a way that has the first feelings of my own orgasm snaking through my
body.
She cries out as her climax rips through her, and my hand shoots up to
her mouth, covering it. “Quiet, now,” I say through gritted teeth as I try to
hold back from coming until she’s done. “Let’s not wake the baby.”
Turning her head, she looks over her shoulder at me as she bites into my
palm while she rides out her pleasure. And that edge of pain as her teeth
sink into my skin has me coming so hard my vision is blurry at the edges
until all I see is her face, and those wide, dark eyes staring into mine. I think
I could handle anything life threw at me if I got to end each day with her,
like this.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Eight
McCabe

W
hen we’re both spent, I scoop her into my arms. I’m fairly sure her
legs wouldn’t work if I asked her to walk, so I carry her toward my
bedroom. “Let me clean you up.”
She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but no words
come out. Then she closes her eyes and sighs, her lips curving up in a way
that makes her look totally content.
Laying her on my bed, I head into the bathroom and wet two
washcloths. After I quickly clean myself off, I bring the other washcloth
back to the bedroom. AJ hasn’t moved from where I set her down, lying on
her side, facing the bathroom, eyes closed, like a picture of serenity.
“You alive?”
She doesn’t open her eyes, just mumbles, “Barely.”
Taking her knee, I lift, rolling her onto her back so her legs fall open.
I’m looking down, focusing on what I’m doing as I use the warm washcloth
to gently clean her, but I can feel her gaze on me.
“I’m just going to . . . rest here for a minute,” she says. “Then I’ll head
home.”
“Stay with me tonight.” After three nights of sharing a bed with her,
there’s no way I want her across the hall when she could be here.
“No, it’s okay. I can find my way back to my place.”
I lie on the bed next to her before she can get up, my arm tightening
around her ribcage, and pulling her so she’s cuddled into me. “That wasn’t a
request.”
Her chuckle is low and sultry. “So now you think you’re giving me
orders?”
“I answer to you in every way, AJ. This is the one and only place where
you can let me be in charge, and I suggest you do if you want me to
continue providing you with orgasms.”
“This was supposed to be a one-time thing.”
“And yet you came back for seconds, and thirds, and fourths . . .” I
tease.
Her annoyed expression only makes me smile. “I’m going home now.”
God, I love it when she’s feisty.
I pull her back to me before she can get up from my bed. “Over my
dead body.”
She tilts her head to look at me, a wild glint in her now very awake
eyes. “If you insist.”
She’s so cute when she starts making threats. “Maybe you should climb
up here and sit on my face . . . try to suffocate me while I give you yet
another orgasm.”
Even though she’s shaking her head, she can’t seem to stop herself from
smiling. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Maybe so, Sunshine,” I say, gripping her hips in each hand as I lift her
up and set her with one knee on either side of my head. “Better sit on my
face and teach me a lesson.”
There’s a moment of hesitation before her smile widens and she reaches
forward for the headboard. And when she slides her knees farther apart so
she can sink onto my face, I’m pretty sure that if she actually tried to kill
me right now, I’d go happily—so long as I died with her cunt spread above
me like this and my tongue gliding over her clit.
Because the sounds she’s making as a result, and the way she breathes
out my name as she gets closer, is exactly the soundtrack I’d want to hear in
the afterlife.

I ’m surprised to find my bed empty and the sun streaming through my

windows when I wake up. I didn’t set an alarm last night because we
don’t have practice today, and I knew Abby would get me up at 6:30 in the
morning. She’s like clockwork in that way.
But when I grab my phone off my nightstand, I’m shocked to find that
it’s an hour past her wakeup time. And when I glance at the video monitor,
her crib is empty.
In a panic, I jump out of bed. My feet are on the floor and my heart is
pounding in my throat before it occurs to me that Abby can’t get out of her
crib, and so AJ must have her. But how did I sleep through that?
When I pad out to the kitchen in nothing but my sweats, AJ and Abby
are sitting on the living room floor. I watch from the doorway between the
two rooms as AJ stacks soft, colorful blocks on top of each other, and then
Abby pops up onto her knees and knocks them over, laughing. I’m sure I’m
grinning like a lunatic as I watch them repeat the process several times—
especially when AJ laughs and tickles Abby under the chin, calling her a
“little monster.”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It feels like there’s some sort of
vise around my ribcage, making it hard to breathe, hard for my heart to
keep beating. But . . . this scene. This fucking scene is just so domestic, so
perfect. And it hits me then that this is what I want for Abby and me—and I
want it with AJ.
I must let out a sigh or something because Abby’s head shoots up,
looking for me, and AJ’s back stiffens.
“Da!” Abby yells before crawling around AJ and toward me. I pick her
up and give her a big hug, kissing the top of her head when she snuggles
into my shoulder. I expect she’ll want to stay there for a while because she’s
normally pretty clingy on my first day home from a trip, but after hugging
me, she’s leaning down and whining. Squatting to set her on the floor, I
watch as she crawls right back over to AJ, who’s staring at me with some
sort of apologetic look on her face.
Moving closer, I sit down next to her. “Hey, what was that look?”
She glances back toward Abby, refusing to meet my eye. “What look?”
I put my hand on her lower back, rubbing circles there as she leans
forward to rebuild the tower of blocks so Abby can knock it down again.
“The one where you looked like you were . . . I don’t know, apologizing?”
“What would I be apologizing for?” Her tone is dismissive, like she’s
trying to find a way out of the conversation.
 After Abby knocks the blocks over and AJ claps for her, telling her what
a good job she’s doing, I reach over and turn her face toward mine. I hate
that I can’t read the look on her face. It’s like she’s put those walls back up,
and I just want to crash through them. “What’s wrong?”
Her gulp is audible. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Don’t lie to me, AJ. That’s not what we have here.”
She takes a deep breath. “I need to go.”
My hand clamps down on her thigh, trying to anchor her here so she
doesn’t get up and leave. “What? Why?”
“I just . . . I have things I need to do today. I need to stop by the
office⁠—”
“On a weekend?”
She looks away, and it feels like she’s avoiding my gaze so she can lie
to me—and possibly herself—more easily. “Yep. There are things that I
need to take care of before this week starts.”
There’s a hard edge to the way she’s speaking, and I know I should let
her go. I should give her some space and time to work through whatever
complicated emotions she’s having about our developing relationship,
spending the night here, being part of this domestic scene this morning.
But I don’t want her to go. I don’t want her to have space or time,
because I’m fucking terrified that if she walks out that door, she might not
walk back through it again. I don’t know if making her talk about this right
now is the right thing to do, or if I need to pause and leave the ball in her
court.
I opt for the latter option, even though it goes against every instinct I
have. I’m acting like a stage-five clinger, and I need to stop.
“Alright,” I relent, as she stares down at my hand where my fingers are
curled into her thigh. I relax them, and she glances up at me. “I don’t want
you to go. But if you have to, you have to.”
The impassive look on her face—the one I usually see at work but not
in private—softens. “I’m sorry. But I do have to.”
I swallow and give her a nod while I sit there wondering what the hell is
happening. I keep following my heart instead of my head when it comes to
her, and it seems like it’s causing AJ to pull away. As I watch her run out the
door without so much as a goodbye, I have to wonder if distance actually is
what she wants?
 hank you so much,” I say, handing Nicholas the baby monitor.
“T Abby’s fast asleep, and hopefully she won’t wake up while I’m gone.
“I really won’t be gone for too long, maybe a couple hours at the
most.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Nicole’s at the library tonight studying for a test, so
I was just hanging around anyway.”
I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to have free time, back when my
life wasn’t ruled by the whims of an adorable ten-month-old tyrant. Not that
I’d want it any other way now that I have Abby, but sometimes, I do miss
just being able to walk out the door when my teammate calls me about
getting a beer, instead of having to scramble to find a babysitter. Thank god
I have Nicholas, for now.
As I head out my door, I can’t help glancing at AJ’s. I wonder if she’s
home? And if so, how long ago did she come back? Is she planning to reach
out? Is she coming over tonight?
The thought of not having her in my bed is painful.
I’m not just desperate for her physical proximity, for the way we make
each other feel when we’re together, but also for the way she opens up with
me, the way she shows me who she is and how she feels in a way that she
doesn’t do with anyone else.
It’s not just the sex. I want her. All of her.
I want her to keep talking to me, to feel safe and comfortable enough
that she keeps revealing parts of herself that no one else knows. I want to
tell her about my sister, and how earlier today she texted me a listing for a
house in her neighborhood, with the message, “Want to live on my street?”
I want to talk about why she’s refusing to renew my contract, when I’m
barely asking for more money than I’m currently making. I know what the
salary cap is. I know what she’s already spending for next year. That’s why
I initially told Trevor to be reasonable in the negotiations, but then AJ
refused even a tiny pay increase despite my stats line and the fact that I’m
the team captain.
The not knowing is killing me. Not knowing whether I’m staying in
Boston. Not knowing how she’s feeling about us, beyond the amazing sex.
Not knowing if she’ll ever want more than sneaking around.
 I know I fucked up last night. I can’t demand we talk about my contract
while I’m licking her pussy, driving her toward another orgasm after
watching her make herself come. In fact, I shouldn’t be talking to her about
it at all. That’s exactly the type of unethical shit she was worried about. But
in that moment, I felt so desperate for her to know that I want to stay. That I
want to work things out between us.
I don’t care that she’s my GM, but I know she cares. She’s poured
everything she has into her career. She’s forsaken a lot in other areas of her
life to be successful in her role. And I understand her fears about how she’ll
be perceived by her peers, her employees, her players, and the media if this
all comes out.
But I don’t give a shit about what anyone else thinks about this
relationship, and I wish she didn’t either.
I’m so lost in my own head, trying to figure out what to do next, that I
don’t see Walsh sitting at the bar until I’ve almost passed him and he
reaches out to punch my arm.
“Shit. Sorry, man,” I say as I pull out the seat next to him.
Unsurprisingly, the bar is pretty empty on Sunday night.
“You look exhausted,” he says. “Abby keep you up all night?”
“No, she let me sleep in, actually,” I tell him, feeling guilty because of
course I look exhausted—I’ve stayed up late the last few nights with AJ.
And the only reason I got to sleep in this morning was because AJ got up
with Abby.
“Then why do you look like shit?”
“Pint of Guinness, please,” I tell the bartender as he slides a coaster onto
the bar in front of me, taking the opportunity to avoid answering Walsh’s
question. Finally, I say, “Didn’t know I looked like shit. Thanks.”
Walsh takes a sip of his beer, eyes focused on the game on the TV, then
glances over at me. “You look like a sad puppy that just got kicked to the
curb. This about AJ?”
I glance at Walsh, wondering if I can trust him. It would be great to have
someone to talk to about this, and I know this is the real reason he called
and said we should grab a beer. As team captain, I’d have done the same
thing if I thought any of my teammates were stepping over a line like this.
Keep your fucking mouth shut, I tell myself.
Coming here was a mistake. I should go home and call Renaud, who is
supposed to be my best friend. But I’ve hardly talked to him this season
while he’s on the IR. And the only person Aidan Renaud worries about is
himself—so I don’t know how much he’d be able to help in this situation.
He’d probably tell me not to tie myself down in such thorny circumstances,
give me some advice about getting back out on the dating scene and finding
any woman who isn’t my boss.
I decide to risk confiding in Walsh, instead. “Can I trust you to give me
good, and confidential, advice?”
It’s not that he’s not a trustworthy guy—he’s one of the best. But his
sense of right and wrong is so black and white; I worry that he won’t be
able to see into the gray areas of this situation.
“Yes, you can trust me not to tell anyone, and to give you my honest
opinion.”
I mull over his offer as I take a long gulp of my beer, draining half the
glass and hoping that the alcohol will smooth out the erratic beating of my
heart and relax my overly tense muscles. Instead, it loosens my tongue.
“I think I’m falling for AJ.”
Walsh doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tenses. Then he picks up his
pint glass, tilts it toward the bartender and calls out, “I’m going to need
another,” before he drains it.
With my heart still pounding, I take another sip of my beer, directing
my gaze to the TV where St. Louis is crushing the third game in their series,
while I wait for him to respond.
“So the other day when you said it ‘wasn’t what it looked like’ and that
you were just helping her iron her suit, that was . . .?”
“A partial truth. A couple weeks ago, we realized that we actually live
across the hall from each other⁠—”
“How the fuck did you not know that?”
“Because I’d never seen her in my building. I guess she moved in a few
months ago, but I think she’s always at work. And it’s not like my schedule
has a consistent pattern either. So anyway, when she got hurt and couldn’t
use her right hand, I was helping her out a lot.”
I don’t mention how I moved her into my place, helped her get dressed,
took her clothes off to look at that bruise on her back, bathed her, and then
fucking jerked off in my room thinking about how she was just down the
hall. Because looking at it from his perspective, I know there’s no way any
of that wasn’t crossing a line.
“Um hm,” Walsh says, like he knows exactly where this is going.
 “And she helped me out by getting her little brother to be my nanny
until the end of the season.” That wasn’t exactly the order of things, but he
doesn’t need to know that.
“Your manny is her brother?”
“Yep. And the night before you saw me coming out of her hotel room,
she’d texted me to tell me she was on FaceTime with him, and that Abby
was trying to take her first steps. So I rushed over there so I didn’t miss it,
and before you ask, no, we didn’t realize our hotel rooms were across the
hall from each other until then.”
“The universe has a funny sense of irony,” Walsh says, chuckling.
“You’re telling me.” Slightly relaxing, I take a sip of my beer. “Anyway,
we were chatting and eventually we fell asleep. Nothing happened. I wasn’t
lying about that.”
“Yeah, because people always fall asleep chatting when they’re not
already laying down together.”
He has me there. “I already feel bad for your kids when they’re
teenagers. Nothing gets by you.”
Lifting an eyebrow, he turns to take his second beer from the bartender.
“So then . . .?”
“So by then, I was getting to know her. Not just the side of her she
shows us when she’s at work, but the real her.”
“There’s another side of her?” He asks the question ironically, calling
me out for previously thinking she was a one-dimensional person.
I dip my head and laugh into my beer as I bring it to my lips. He does
not want to know about the sexy side of her that I’ve explored, and I’d
never tell him anything personal about her past that she’s shared with me.
“Yeah.”
“So…what? You guys are seeing each other?”
“I mean, it’s only been a few days. Maybe a week if you count the few
days before we went to Philly, when I was seeing her a lot more than
normal.”
“Are you sleeping with her?” he asks, and my stomach twists.
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“But you’re falling for her?”
I lick my lips as I try to think of how to explain it. “When you and
Marissa were first together, what did it feel like?”
 He tilts his head as he assesses me, and I know he wasn’t expecting me
to compare my feelings for AJ to his for his wife. “Like I wanted to be with
her every second of every day. She was oxygen and I needed her to breathe.
Gotta be honest, still feels like that.”
“All these years later?”
I don’t know if the thought of always feeling this addicted to AJ is
appealing, or fucking terrifying. All I know is that it doesn't matter, because
there's no way I want to live without her in my life.
“Yeah,” Walsh says. “Even after all these years. I think that's how you
know you have a good thing, because even though life changes, you still
love being with that person.”
“I think . . .” I press my eyes closed, before admitting, “. . . I think AJ is
my person.”
Walsh scoffs. “I never, not in a million years, thought I would ever hear
you say that.”
Our eyes lock, and we both laugh, because there’s no getting around it.
She and I are quite possibly the world's most unlikely pairing. And yet
somehow, it just works.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Walsh asks, eyebrows pinching.
I pause, thinking about what my options are. “I don't know. Everything
feels so uncertain at the moment. Like, I don't even know if she's going to
renew my contract.”
“You guys haven't talked about that?” Walsh asks.
“That would be unethical. Not only because she's not supposed to talk to
me about stuff like that without my agent present, but also because I'm not
using this relationship as a bargaining chip. I want to stay in Boston,” I tell
him, wondering exactly when that changed, and realizing that I need to
have a conversation with my sister about that. And I should probably let my
agent know. “But ultimately, it isn't up to me.”
“I’m not sure how the guys are going to take this news. Are you
planning on telling people?
“I don't know,” I say. “I have to talk to AJ about it. I don't even . . . I
don't even know for sure that she feels the same way.”
“Shiiiiiit.” Walsh grinds out the word. “You're talking to me about it and
you haven't even talked to her?”
“Oh, she knows how I feel. But every time I try to talk to her about
where this is going, she shuts the conversation down. She's convinced that
there's no way this can work.”
“And you're convinced there's a way it will work?” The doubt in his
voice says a lot.
“It can’t work the way that it is right now, with us sneaking around all
the time. But also, I can't imagine a situation in which it doesn’t work out in
the end. So we have to find a way.”
“And what does that way look like?” Walsh asks, sounding more
curious than doubtful this time.
“I still have no fucking idea.”
“You guys have to figure this out before everyone else sees what’s
going on here. You’re lucky it was me you ran into in the hallway, and not
someone with a bigger mouth.”
“I know,” I tell him, pressing my lips together. “And I appreciate your
discretion while we figure this out.”
“Are you prepared for . . .”
“Spit it out,” I say when he trails off.
“Are you prepared for the reality that she might not want to go down the
same path you want to go down?”
“I don't know,” I tell him, trying to imagine how I would feel if AJ
doesn't want this. A wave of nausea rolls through me.
“This is a dangerous game, and she’s the one who stands to lose the
most in this situation. You need to seriously consider whether this is worth
it. Because if you get in any deeper and she isn't in it with you . . . dude,
you’re going to be wrecked. You're already so fucking far gone over her,”
he says, a breath whooshing out of him. “And as much as I like her, I don't
want to see her ruin you over this.”
I huff out a laugh, but we can both tell how fake it is. Because he's right.
If this doesn't work out, I'm going to be a fucking mess.
Is pursuing a trade actually the smartest option? Maybe she's right, and
this can't work out while I play for the team she manages. Maybe the only
way I can have her is if I don’t play for the Rebels. But how would it
possibly work out if I lived halfway across the country?
I’m starting to see why she thinks our situation is hopeless.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Twenty-Nine
AJ

“A re you positive you're okay?" Lauren asks.

I glance over to her from where I've been staring out the wall of
windows along one side of my office, overlooking the practice rink.
Below us, the players are on the ice, getting ready for tomorrow night's
game when Philly comes to Boston.
I've been so focused on McCabe that I've literally lost track of our
conversation. I’m too busy worrying about how he’s dealing with me
walking out yesterday, and not responding to his text last night asking if we
could talk.
As I watch this practice, it’s clear that something’s off with him. And
the way Charlie’s arms are flying and his mouth doesn’t stop moving while
McCabe stands there hanging his head, I’m worried about whether it will
affect his game, too.
“Yeah,” I say with a small laugh and a shake of my head. “I guess I'm
just thinking about our next game.”
Lauren eyes me skeptically, like she knows I'm not telling her the truth.
“What's really going on, AJ? You're not yourself.”
Shit. And here I thought I was doing such a good job hiding my
feelings, but I guess I'm not. “Nothing's wrong.”
“You're never distracted like this,” she says. “You’ve had this vacant
look on your face half the time we’ve been chatting. Like, you're physically
here, but your mind is elsewhere.”
 Laughing to myself, I’m thankful I'm able to hold it in because, yeah,
my mind is certainly elsewhere. Mainly thinking about all the ways in
which I've probably already screwed up this thing with McCabe.
Yesterday morning, I rushed out of his condo because I was overcome
with emotion. The way he was looking at me while I sat on the floor
playing with Abby, and the way my heart ached for a life I once thought I
could have—a life full of children, a loving husband, and something to
fulfill me besides my work.
It was just too much, because that's no longer my reality.
Sitting there on that floor, though, with Abby on one side of me and
McCabe on the other, I had this moment when I wondered if that life was
still a possibility. If maybe I was being given some sort of a second chance?
A do-over?
But I needed space so I could figure out if the complexity of our
situation is too much of an obstacle to overcome.
“AJ.” My name is a sharp reprimand coming off Lauren’s lips. “You're
scaring me right now.”
It's only then that I realize I haven't even responded to her. “I’m sorry. I
really am just lost in my head.”
“Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?” she asks.
God, do I want to talk about it.
And while I know that I could tell Nicholas and my secret would be safe
with him, I also know that the advice he would give me might not be as
right for me as the advice Lauren could give. As an employee here, she will
understand the nuances of this situation more than Nicholas would. As a
woman who decided to take a second chance on love after roiling from the
turmoil of betrayal, she’ll understand why I’m so hesitant to believe that
this could work.
“I do want to talk about it,” I say with a sigh. “But the problem is,
Lauren, I can’t.”
“Why not?” Her eyebrows dip with confusion and concern. “Is it too
personal to share?”
I take in the way she looks a tiny bit hurt at that idea. Like she thought
we were close enough that I would confide in her, but is now realizing we're
not. And I don't want her to feel that way, because that isn't accurate. She
knows all about my struggles with infertility, Chet cheating on me, and our
divorce. She knows how distant I keep myself from men now, so that I can
never be hurt like that again. She’s the best friend I have, and I trust her
implicitly.
“No,” I tell her, “it's not that. It . . . it has to do with work and it's highly
confidential.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I'm happy to keep your secret. I think
you know you can rely on me not to say anything to anyone. Especially not
here at work.”
I think about how I once offered to bury a body for her, and I’m sure
she’d do the same for me. If I can't even talk to her about this, how could I
ever go public with our relationship?
The reason I'm so fucking conflicted is that yesterday, after I woke up
from some of the best sex of my life and I sat playing with Abby on the
floor, McCabe came in with his hair all disheveled from sleep and that
dreamy look on his face as he stood there in nothing but his grey
sweats . . . looking at me like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I've never wanted anything more in my entire life.
A man who listens to and respects me, who delivers orgasm after
fucking orgasm, who takes care of me when I’m hurt, who has a child I
adore, who’s life I fit into so easily and naturally that it’s hard to picture
myself walking away.
I don’t want to walk away.
“Do you swear you can keep this secret, Lauren? Because it’s a big
one.”
Her eyes widen, like she really didn’t think I was going to confide in
her.
“Yeah, of course,” she rushes out, a small smile playing on her lips. “I
can keep your secret.”
“Okay, so here's what's going on . . .”
Ten minutes later, I'm trying my best to hold back the tears and she's
sitting next to me, clasping my hand and looking at me like she doesn't even
know me.
“AJ, you really have feelings for him, don't you?”
“Yeah.” The word is an admission that comes out with a laugh. Because
this is the most unlikely thing that ever could have happened.
“Why is there even a question in your mind, then?” Lauren asks.
“Because how could it ever work out? How could I ever be with him
when he works for me? How could I ever be with him without ruining
everything I've built for myself? You have to admit, I’ll become a
laughingstock as a GM if I'm dating one of my players.”
“Will you?” she asks as she pushes her red hair behind one shoulder.
“Or are you just worried that you will?”
My eyes narrow. “I’m worried because I know it will happen.”
She just gives me a small smile and questions me once more. “Do you?”
“Lauren, what do you think is going to happen? You think I'm just going
to tell the world that I'm dating our team captain, and everyone's going to be
like, ‘Cool, cool. Yeah, that seems appropriate?’ I've spent my whole life
carving space in this sport for women. I've made this team into what it is,
staked my reputation on honesty and transparency, and I've never once even
thought about crossing any kind of a professional boundary. I've made sure
that I've brought on players who are not just excellent at their sport but are
also good people, because I never want to work with an asshole like Chet
again.”
“So you're telling me, that even though you've done everything you
possibly could to prevent yourself from having feelings for one of your
players, McCabe still managed to sneak right past all of your defenses and
make you fall for him?”
“Yeah, I guess that is what I'm saying.”
“And you're telling me,” she says, looking at me pointedly, “that you
don't know if that’s worth fighting for? This person who knows you, who
you've confided in, who's obsessed with you and has told you he wants
more than just sex, and you don't think that's worth fighting for?” The pitch
of her voice raises with each question. When she puts it like that, it does
sound like maybe I’m focusing more on the obstacles than the possibility,
and perhaps I'm not trying hard enough to find a solution.
“I just don't see any way it can work out . . .”
“No, you don't see any way it can work out without some discomfort.
But is that really the worst thing? So people talk. So people question
whether it's appropriate. If you know in your heart of hearts that this is good
and right, why does any of that matter?”
“I never wanted to be a public figure,” I say with a little laugh.
Lauren gives me a smile. “Perils of breaking the glass ceiling, I guess.”
“Mmhmm. I just never envisioned a downside to this work. Hockey has
always been the singular focus of my life,” I tell her. “And I love that Frank
gave me a chance in this organization. And I love that the team has stood
behind me every step of the way. And the thought of anything that I've built
here being called into question, of my ethics being called into question.” I
have to stop because my throat is thick, and the tears are threatening to fall.
“Yeah,” Lauren says, squeezing my hand. “People might call your ethics
into question. But you know that there's nothing to question. And I know it,
and Frank will know it, and every single person in this organization will
know it. And isn't that what really matters?”
I think about what she's saying and realize that there's a lot of wisdom
there. It’s exactly what McCabe has been saying. His words from our
conversation in the car in Philly keep going through my head. I don’t give a
shit what anyone else thinks, AJ. And the sooner you can let go of
maintaining this perfect image, the sooner we can stop sneaking around.
“I guess I can kiss that GM of the Year Award goodbye,” I say with a
watery laugh. I don’t know why I’m crying. I resigned myself years ago to
the fact that I was never going to get that award, but with this year’s
nomination, it felt so close . . . so possible.
“Maybe,” Lauren says, “but maybe not. You never know, AJ. People
might surprise you.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat, wishing that we lived in a world
where there was any chance of that happening. “Yeah,” I sigh. “I don't think
that will be the case.”
But when I really stop and think about it, does it even matter? So I don't
get this award. I’ve never been the kind of person who needed an award to
tell me I’d done a good job. The satisfaction is always in the work itself, in
winning on the ice. Does not getting an award negate any of the success I've
had here?
In the end, what's going to be more fulfilling? Twenty years from now,
am I going to say to myself, Thank God I gave up on that relationship, but
at least I got that award?
“I think you know what you need to do,” Lauren tells me.
“Yeah.” I nod, taking a deep breath. “But I don't even know where to
start.”
“Might I suggest that you start by talking to Frank?”
“The thought of telling my boss that I'm sleeping with one of my
players has me about to throw up.”
“Maybe it's time you stop letting fear rule your decision making.”
I chuckle at her kind critique and how she winces slightly as she says it.
 “Yeah, maybe. But first, I think I need to talk to McCabe. If this were
any other new relationship, we wouldn’t need to go public about it like this.
I hate that we can’t keep this private and see where it goes.”
“AJ, if this were any other relationship, there’d be no reason to keep it
private. The only reason you’re scared for people to find out is because he
works for you.”
“And because I’m terrified by how quickly and completely I’m falling
for him. This is all happening so fast.”
She gives my hand one last supportive squeeze, like she’s trying to tell
me she believes I can do this. “Fast doesn’t mean bad. Let me know how it
goes with both those conversations.” As she stands, she turns back to me.
“Oh, what are you doing tomorrow night? Paige is finally home from her
last business trip, and we’re going to go out for dinner. Morgan might come
too. You want to join us?”
“I’d love to,” I tell her. I could really use more girl-time in my life, and I
haven’t seen Lauren’s sister, Paige, in months. She’s a business consultant
who travels all the time for work, but we have a ton in common and I really
like her. “But I already told Nicholas he could come over for dinner.”
I’m always happy to see my brother, but I feel a pang of regret that I
can’t take her up on her offer. In my entire adult life, I don’t think I’ve ever
had girlfriends I could trust and talk to until now.
Part of that is my fault. My move back to St. Louis after college, dating
Chet, and ultimately getting my first job in the NHL—in those years I was
either surrounded by the backstabbing social elite I’d grown up with, or
hockey men.
When I moved to Boston, I was so focused on my career that I didn’t
make time for friendships, or any kind of non-business relationships. I was
too busy making sure my brother was adjusting to boarding school but still
knowing that I was here for him, and rebuilding this team into what it is
today.
Immersing myself into work was the easiest way to avoid thinking
about how shitty my parents and my marriage both were. Instead, I’d
focused my attention on the fact that I had broken Nicholas and myself free
of their toxic generational cycles. And I’d relished those victories so much
that I’d inadvertently made work my entire personality.
But the way Lauren has worked to fold me into her friend group over
the last year and hasn’t given up on me even when I’m always working or
traveling; the way she knows that female friendships are hard for me, but
doesn’t let me pull away; the way she shows up for me, like I showed up for
her a year ago when she discovered her late husband had a whole separate
life she didn’t know about—it makes me realize that maybe work isn’t
“enough.”
Maybe my life would be far more fulfilling if I focused more energy on
relationships outside of work.
“You’re cooking?” she asks, like it’s the most preposterous thing
possible, more so even than me being in a relationship with McCabe.
“He’s cooking, just at my place.”
“Okay, well, tell him and Nicole I said ‘hi.’ And if anything changes,
please come out with us.”
“I will. But if not this time, next time, for sure.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty
AJ

I
’m standing outside the locker room after practice, chatting with one of
the equipment managers, Tim, when players start filing out. I’m not sure
what’s going on—they’re not chatting with each other; everyone has
their heads down like they’re trying to mind their own business. The vibe
feels off, and I don’t like it.
I’m trying to pay attention to what Tim is saying about the new supplier
for next year’s jerseys, but I’m highly distracted by whatever just went
down in that locker room.
“That sounds great,” I say to Tim, not even entirely sure what he just
said.
“Perfect, I’ll drop a sample by your office tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, right as McCabe walks through the door, his bright
eyes locking onto mine as he looks at me with such naked longing it’s
impossible to miss.
I clear my throat and he looks away, thankfully before Tim notices him
staring. “Hey, McCabe,” I call out. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” The word is gruff and borderline hostile, just like it would have
been a couple of weeks ago. It’s wholly unlike how he’s spoken to me
recently. What the hell?
I turn toward Tim. “Is there somewhere down here McCabe and I can
chat privately?”
 “Yeah, the stick room is right there.” He nods his chin at the labeled
door. “Everything’s been put away already, so no one will need that space.”
“Thanks. Looking forward to seeing that jersey,” I tell him as I start
walking toward the metal door labeled “Stick Room.” I can feel McCabe
hot on my heels, and as soon as I reach for the door, he’s reaching past me,
pushing it open for me to walk in.
The minute I step inside, I know this was a mistake. Because there are
sticks lining three walls, and as he steps in behind me and closes the door, I
realize there’s barely enough room for the two of us in here.
“You wanted to talk, Boss?” He leans his back against the door like he’s
trying to give me space, but crossing his arms over his chest like he’s
pissed.
“What the hell is that tone?” I ask, eyes narrowing on his.
His jaw tics. He keeps his words quiet when he says, “I don’t know how
I’m supposed to talk to you right now, AJ. One minute, you’re chanting my
name while coming all over my face, and the next thing I know, you’re
running out my door and not returning my texts. So please, tell me what
tone, exactly, would you like me to take?”
Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Which is a mistake, because the only thing stronger than the epoxy smell of
the carbon fiber sticks and the earthy, almost leather-like smell of the grip
tape, is him.
He smells like soap mixed with something more masculine, something
woodsy and musky. I didn’t even realize I knew his scent until I was away
from him. I step toward him, letting my head fall forward so my forehead
rests on his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to figure my shit out.”
“We all have shit we’re figuring out, AJ,” he says, but his voice has lost
its hard edge, and his arms drop so he rests his hands on my hips. My body
relaxes at that simple touch. “That doesn’t mean we run away when things
get . . . I don’t even know, because I don’t know what you’re running away
from. And since you won’t talk to me about it, I’m left guessing.”
“I just needed some time to think,” I admit.
He dips his head, his lips pressing into my forehead at my hairline, as he
asks, “About what?”
“About where we should go from here.”
“Doesn’t that seem like it should be an us decision?” He brings one of
his hands to my chin and tilts my head back so I’m looking at him.
 “Probably. Yesterday morning I got spooked, I guess.”
“Why?” His gaze searches my face, like he’s hoping to find the answers
there.
“Because I don’t know what to do with these feelings!” I’m trying to
keep my voice low so no one walking by outside will hear us. “I’ve spent
the last eight years learning to be okay with being alone and coming to
terms with the idea that I’m never going to have children. And there you
were, standing in the opening to your living room, looking sexy as hell and
staring at me like I belonged there. Like I was meant to be in your and
Abby’s life . . . not just while my wrist heals, but . . . for real.”
I swear his eyes turn a softer shade of green, the color of a vibrant
grassy hillside as the bright sun goes behind a cloud. “Maybe you are meant
to be in our lives.” He brings his hand up and his knuckles glide along my
cheekbone, making me feel cherished by the way he’s looking at me and
touching me. “I know it feels impossible, given that you’re my boss. I
understand what’s on the line for you. But I’m not convinced that makes
this whole thing hopeless. I have to be honest . . .” He tilts his head down so
his forehead rests against mine, and I wrap my arms up over his shoulders
so I can play with the hair at the base of his neck, which is easier to do now
that my doctor put my new cast on this morning. I’ve missed him so much
in the past day and a half, but instead of letting that realization scare me, I
finally let it convince me that it means this—us together—is right. “. . . now
that I’ve had you, I don’t think I can let you go.”
“Now that you’ve had me?”
He can’t mean just the sex?
As if he knows exactly where my mind just went, he says, “Now that
I’ve had you in my life, in my bed when I go to sleep at night, and playing
with my daughter when I wake up in the morning . . .” he trails off as his
lips brush along the bridge of my nose. “It’s not about the sex, Alessandra.
It’s the way we fit into each other’s lives so naturally, like it was meant to
be.”
“Just because it’s easy, doesn’t mean it’s right.” Even as I say the words,
I know they’re a lie. It might be wrong for me to date one of my players,
but nothing about us together is wrong. In fact, nothing has ever felt so
right.
“How could anything that feels like this, anything that we both want so
much, be wrong? I’m not giving up unless you tell me you don’t see any
chance of a future between us.” With his gaze locked on me, his lips meet
mine tentatively, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away. But if the last
thirty-six hours have shown me anything, it’s that I don’t want any more
distance. Before I can really kiss him back, he lifts his head. His green eyes
shine between those dark lashes as he asks, “Is that what you want?”
It hits me then that I can keep trying to back away, but he’ll just keep
finding me, pulling me back to him. He’s not going to let me ruin this for
us.
“I want to see a future between us.”
“Good.” Then, he invades my mouth and we’re a mess of clashing
tongues and tangled limbs. We devour each other like we’re both starved.
Like it’s been two months instead of less than two days since we last had
sex.
His hands work to undo the buttons down the front of my blouse so
quickly that he’s got open access to my breasts in no time, and then they’re
spilling out as he pulls the cups of my bra down so he can run his thumbs
across my nipples. The sensation travels straight through my body like an
electrical current, pulling a moan out of me as my core clenches in need.
“Shhhh,” he whispers against my mouth, and it’s only then that I
remember we’re at work, that anyone could walk through the door behind
him and catch us.
As he drops to his knees, telling me to put my hands against the door
while he undoes the button and zipper on my pants, I find that I’m less
worried about that than I should be. Besides, with me leaning up against the
door like this, and him on his knees in front of it, it’s not like anyone could
push it open.
He drags my pants and underwear down my legs, and I step out of them
with one foot so I can spread myself open for him. When his hot breath
meets my clit, he glances up at me and whispers, “Tell me to stop.”
I press my tongue against the top row of my teeth, then use it to wet my
lips. I feel desperate and out of control, and I know this is probably a bad
idea. And yet I can’t make myself care.
Trailing a finger along the seam between my legs, he brings the
moisture there up to my clit, lightly circling it with his finger. All I want is
more pressure, more friction.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again, “and I will. But if you don’t, I’m going
to make you come, and then I’m going to fuck you like I’m furious with
you for the way you walked out on me yesterday.”
“Are you furious?”
“What do you think?” His finger pushes back, sliding right into my slick
entrance, and there’s a dangerous edge to his voice that I find thrilling.
“Don’t stop,” I plead as he dips his face forward so that his tongue
meets my clit, and he adds a second finger as he works himself deeper and
harder, stroking me in a way that has me nearly breathless.
It seems like only seconds have passed when I feel the telltale signs of
my orgasm—that tingling ache that radiates out from my clit through the
rest of my body, the pulsing that’s starting deep within my core, the
clamping of my muscles around his fingers as he hums a growl of approval
against my clit intensifies everything.
“Fuck.” The hushed word escapes on a pained sigh. I don’t want to be
quiet right now, but I want to get caught even less. “Oh god, don’t
stop . . . I’m so close.”
And when he pulls my clit between his lips with a soft sucking motion, I
know that I’m coming undone for this man—not just in the way the waves
of my orgasm ripple through me, but also in the way my heart pounds like it
only wants to beat closer to his, the way my body curls forward, my hand
wrapping his jaw in my palm like he’s a cherished object, the way my
mouth wants to utter promises of a future together that I’m not sure are
possible. When he looks up at me, meeting my gaze, I see the same feelings
mirrored back at me.
I could spend forever with this man.
But if this relationship doesn’t work out, it could actually break me.
The minute my orgasm subsides, he’s lifting me, spinning to pin me
against the door with my legs wrapped around his hips, and sliding into me.
He sets a punishing pace, fast and hard as he fills me until I feel like I can
hardly breathe.
He nips and kisses up the side of my neck until his lips meet my ear,
where he murmurs, “I once thought that raising a daughter by myself would
be the hardest thing I’d ever do in my life. Turns out, pretending I don’t
have feelings for you is, by far, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t
want to pretend anymore.”
I lean my head back against the door as he kisses his way back down
my neck and to my breasts, teasing one nipple with his mouth and the other
with his hand, working me into such a frenzy that I’m not sure I can hold
my own thoughts in, either.
“I want this, too, Ronan. I really do. But . . . we need to figure out what
a relationship between the two of us can even look like.” I’m breathing
hard, almost unable to form words. Which is probably for the best, because
I don’t want to make promises to him while he’s buried eight inches deep
inside me . . . I want to make them with a level head and a clear heart.
“We will,” he assures me, the whispered words warming my breast.
“First, I’m going to give you another orgasm, like only I can. And then
we’re going to figure out a path forward.”
He changes the angle of his hips, and the delicate glide of his skin
against mine, the sound of our bodies meeting, the thin sheen of sweat
across his forehead and temples—this whole experience has my emotions
overtaking me, right as he says, “Because I don’t want to do this life
without you in it.”
My whole body warms, stomach fluttering. “Yes,” I hiss out the word as
I chase the second orgasm that no one but him has ever been able to give
me. “We’ll find a way.”
That promise has his mouth claiming mine, kissing me like he’s trying
to brand me while his hand dips between our hips. With his palm pressed
flat against my abdomen, his thumb finds my clit.
As he works me closer to that orgasm, he rests his forehead against
mine, and with eyes locked on me he says, “God, I just want to possess you.
I want to worship you and own you at the same time. I want to respect you
at work and disrespect your body at home. I want every last one of your
orgasms, and I want your heart. But I want you to give it to me willingly,
once I’ve shown you that you can trust me with it.”
My physical and emotional feelings are all-consuming, and then I
realize that he’s moved his hand to the base of my neck, pinning me to the
door. The thrill that the feeling of not being able to breathe brings on—the
spike of panic, calmed immediately by the knowledge that he’d never hurt
me—has my release starting deep inside me and spreading so quickly I feel
like I might explode. I clamp my legs around him even tighter, holding his
hips in place so he’s barely moving as I feel my muscles working his
orgasm out of him.
He lets go of my neck and kisses me through our shared climax, like
he’s worried I’ll scream his name if he doesn’t prevent me from doing it. He
might be right.
When every last sensation finishes flowing through me, leaving my
body buzzed and sated, I wrap my arms around his back, pulling him tighter
against me as I cling to him. “We’ll figure this out,” I assure him.
“How?” The word is whispered and vulnerable.
“I’m going to talk to Frank.”
His head rears back and he looks down at me. “You’re sure you’re ready
for that? You don’t want to wait until the end of the season?”
I hear what he’s not saying: After the GM of the Year award is
announced.
“Maybe that’s what Frank will think is best. But I need to tell him about
us, and officially recuse myself from your contract negotiations. I still
won’t be able to talk to you about that, but at least there will be no concern
about me giving you some sort of preference in the negotiation process.”
He snorts in response, but it’s not the sound of him trying to hold in a
laugh. No, this is a fully derisive sound.
“What?” I ask, suddenly uneasy.
“Not only have you never shown me any kind of preference throughout
this process, the contract negotiation thus far made it pretty clear that you
don’t want me back on this team.” His words are measured, but I hear the
sadness and the anger behind them, and that confuses me to no end.
I made a perfectly reasonable counter to his agent’s ridiculous request,
offering him an increase and another three years in Boston. “What are you
talking about?”
“I mean that refusing even a small increase in my pay and saying that
you wanted to see how the playoffs went before you committed to
renewing, was a huge slap in the face. And that’s the only reason I asked
Trevor to start looking into Nashville. Well, that, and my sister’s there.”
Alarm bells are going off in my head . . . not the warning kind like you
might hear after opening your front door before putting in the alarm code,
but the loud, intrusive ones you’d wake up to during a break-in in the
middle of the night. The kind where the police respond, because the threat
is real. Emergency, my brain screams at me.
I put one foot on the floor and tell him to finish taking his boxers off so
we can use them to clean up. I am not having this conversation while he’s
still buried deep inside me and his cum is dripping out onto my ass. And
when I’m done wiping myself up, I hand him his boxers so he can do the
same, while I get my clothes straightened out.
Tense silence blankets the space as I wait until our hormones have
calmed down before saying anything, because nothing about this situation is
okay—neither the sex in the stick room, nor the mention of his contract—
and I need to walk us back before we fully cross an unethical line.
When we’re clothed, I finally meet his eyes and say firmly, “I think you
need a new agent. Call Jameson Flynn and tell him I told you that you need
new representation. We can talk more tonight.”
Then I turn and slip out of the door, thankful to find the hallway
completely empty because I have no doubt I’m wearing my emotions on my
face right now. Not the gooey, love-filled feelings I was overcome with in
that room while we had sex, but the rage I feel at knowing that his agent has
been lying to both of us.
It’s one thing to drive a hard bargain when trying to get your player a
better contract—I’d expect nothing less. It’s entirely another to lie about
what your client wants, and then to lie to your client as well. And something
like this has clearly happened, because the story McCabe is telling himself
about his contract negotiation is not at all what really happened.
Suddenly, this feels like the most important issue to address. I’ve been
telling myself this can never work between us because I was sure he was
intent on leaving Boston, and it turns out that isn’t what he wanted at all.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-One
McCabe

W
hen I wake up, AJ’s not in my bed. Again.
We’d spent most of last night talking and coming to the
conclusion that what’s developed between us is far more serious
than either of us had planned—but that we both want to stick with this
relationship and see where it leads.
Even though we’d broken off the conversation about my contract in the
stick room, we agreed not to discuss it further last night. She insisted that
Jameson would understand what happened and be able to explain it when I
meet with him later today, and as much as I hated not hearing it straight
from her, I had to respect those professional boundaries.
Her meeting with Frank is today, too, which makes me feel like this is a
big day—for me as a player, her as GM, and us as a couple.
So the fact that she’s snuck out this morning has me a bit worried. I
reach over, resting my hand on the indentation in her pillow, and the
warmth there tells me she just got up. Slipping my shorts on, I note that it’s
still before six in the morning, and pad down the hall, hoping to find her in
the kitchen. Instead, I find her about to walk out my front door.
“Hey,” I say, my voice still scratchy from sleep. “Where are you
running off to?”
“I need to head into work.”
I clear my throat. “It’s not even 6 a.m.”
“Yep.”
 “AJ.” I say her name like I’ve just caught her doing something wrong
and need her to level with me.
“Yes?” Her reply is far too sweet to be sincere.
“Why are you really rushing out of here so early?”
“I really am going to work,” she says, but her voice wobbles, betraying
her.
I lift an eyebrow. “Who goes to work this early?”
She sighs as she crosses her arms over her chest, showing off her new
cast. “I like to skate for a little bit before anyone gets there.”
“What?” I don’t mean for the word to come out sounding so harsh, but
the woman has a broken arm, and she thinks she’s skating?
“Hey, my orthopedist told me at my appointment yesterday that, now
that I have the cast on, it’s okay to skate. I just have to be extra careful not
to fall.”
“Did you tell him no one else would be there or even know that you’re
skating? That seems like an unnecessary risk.”
“Really? Would you be okay not skating for months?”
“That’s different.”
“Why?” she asks, and I find that I don’t have a good answer. “Skating is
how I start almost every single day. For me, it’s part of staying physically
and mentally healthy. The rink is where I do my best thinking, and given
that I have that meeting with Frank later today, I really need to think
through what I want to say.”
Last night, she wouldn’t tell me exactly how she planned to approach
the conversation with Frank. Now I’m thinking that maybe she’s still not
sure how to tell him.
“How are you going to lace your skates up with that cast? There’s no
way you’ll be able to get them tied tight enough without hurting your
wrist.” The force she’ll have to put on those laces as she tightens them
could potentially exacerbate her injury. “And if your skates are too loose,
that’ll be dangerous. Let me come and help.”
“What about Abby?” she asks.
“Abby normally wakes up around now anyway. I can get her up and
dressed while you go change, and I’ll bring her breakfast to the rink. She
can eat while you skate.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. You have to be there in a few hours for
practice. Why would you drive there, and then have to bring Abby back
here to meet Nicholas, just to turn around and have to return to the rink
again?”
I level her with a look. “Because then I can be there for you, too.”
Her whole expression softens. “You’d go to all that effort just to lace up
my skates for me?”
Driving halfway across the city to make sure she’s safe while skating
seems to me like a very small sacrifice, yet she clearly thinks it’s a big deal.
Just like when I brought her the new makeup remover in Philly.
Why is she so shocked when people genuinely want to help her? Every
time I realize just how low of a bar Chet set, it makes me want to punch
him in the fucking face again.
“I’m not sure there’s anything I wouldn’t do to keep you safe,” I say,
because I’m afraid that what I really want to tell her, that there’s nothing I
wouldn’t do for her, would freak her out.
“Fine,” she sighs. “I hate to inconvenience you like that, but I really
want to get back on the ice. I feel like part of me is missing when I can’t
skate.”
“How did I not know that you still skate?”
“I keep it pretty well hidden.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, leaning toward the open door like she’s
about to slip out. “I guess when it comes to work, I keep most aspects of my
personal life private. That, and I wouldn’t want you guys to feel bad when I
skate circles around you.”
I let out a hearty laugh at the thought of her skating circles around a
bunch of NHL players. Then I realize that because she’s smaller than we are
and led her college team to a D1 championship, she might not be
exaggerating. “Wait, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Dead serious.” And with that, she says, “Alright, I’m going to get
dressed and pack my work bag, and feed Tabitha. I’ll be back in ten minutes
or so.”

I should have left already. If anyone sees me here watching AJ skate before
7 a.m., this whole charade would be over.
 But the way she’s zipping around the ice, and how she easily handles
her stick, even with her cast on, has me mesmerized. Every single thing
about this woman has me in a state of awe: how she looked snuggled into
me last night before she fell asleep, the way she kept turning around to talk
to Abby as she babbled away in the back seat on our drive over here, and
the way she’s proving to me that she probably could skate circles around
everyone on our team.
Or is it the way my daughter is standing on the wooden ledge at the top
of the boards, wearing the pink high-tops AJ bought her, jumping up and
down in excitement while I hold her waist to keep her upright, and yelling
“Ay Ay” so that her name ricochets across the ice and off the glass on the
other side?
Even though she’s correctly used “Da” to identify me, Abby still hasn’t
put two syllables together to say “Dada.” So the fact that she’s already
trying to say AJ, and is coming so close to getting it right, has a lump in my
throat. Her first word is going to be AJ, and I’m as thrilled about it as if
she’d just said Dada.
AJ speeds by, giving Abby a tiny poke in her belly as she does, and
Abby laughs. It’s the kind of guttural baby laugh that would have everyone
else laughing along, if there were anyone here but the three of us.
Being here, simply watching AJ do something she loves . . . it brings the
kind of quiet contentedness that has a smile permanently etched onto my
face. I can’t wipe it off—I’m trying, I really am.
Is this . . . joy? I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Have I ever
felt like this?
It makes me imagine AJ being the one to teach Abby to skate, and to
play hockey. It’s been less than a year since I found out I had a child, but in
that time, I’ve never once imagined a future that wasn’t just the two of us.
I’d worried about raising a daughter on my own, and I’d never been able to
picture someone else walking that path with me. Until now.

he good news,” Jameson says as he hands me a bottle of water and

“T drops a copy of my contract on his desk before sitting in his chair
across from me, “is that you have a termination clause in your contract.
Otherwise, there’d be no point in us talking.”
“Meaning that I can back out of my contract with Trevor and hire you
instead?” I ask dryly. I love that his first order of business was to check that
my contract wouldn’t prevent me from hiring him.
“Meaning that we can chat about your situation, and you can determine
if you want new representation. Doesn’t have to be me. But I’m not the kind
of person who’d go behind another agent’s back and talk to his client if the
player’s contract didn’t allow for it.”
I unscrew the cap on the water bottle. “Fair.”
“So tell me why AJ thinks you need a new agent.”
I give him the details of Trevor’s negotiations with AJ before the trade
deadline, and his eyes narrow. “That makes no sense.”
“I know. I couldn’t understand why she was digging her heels in like
that⁠—”
“Yes,” he cuts me off. “That’s the part that doesn’t check out. AJ is
extremely reasonable and she’s a smart businesswoman. She wants another
Stanley Cup. Hell, she doesn’t just want one more, she wants one every
year. And getting rid of you would make it more difficult for the team to
achieve that goal.”
“Trevor said my proposed contract would put her over the salary cap.
So I could either take a one-year extension at exactly what I’m making this
year, or leave.”
“I’ve negotiated . . . ” He pauses, and his eyebrows dip as he thinks.
“ . . . at least ten contracts with her in the time she’s been here. I can’t see
her making that offer, not with your stat line and her goals for the club.”
I want to push back and tell him that my agent was the one who was
there, so he’d know. But that’s when it occurs to me that maybe this is why
AJ suggested I talk to Jameson—because he knows her better than any
other agent does.
“Are you suggesting that what Trevor told me about their negotiation
is . . . untrue?”
Jameson chews on the inside of his cheek as he leans back in his chair,
crossing one ankle over the opposite knee as he rolls up the sleeve of his
button-down shirt. “I don’t want to step on Trevor’s toes here. But I will tell
you that in all the time I’ve known AJ, I’ve never seen her be unreasonable
like that. And I’ve never seen her make a move that would hurt the team.
Sure, as GM, she has to make hard decisions, but keeping you seems like an
easy one.”
I exhale a relieved sigh and take another sip of my water.
“If you’re thinking you want new representation, we can talk about that.
But, if you want it to be me, I’m going to need you to level with me about
something.”
“What’s that?”
“Why did AJ know what Trevor was telling you?”
I look at him in confusion, and as I watch his eyes narrow on me, that’s
when I realize . . . Shit. Obviously, the only way she’d know that is if we
were discussing my contract, which is expressly prohibited.
“Can I assume that whatever I tell you will remain entirely
confidential?”
“Anything you tell me as a client would be confidential, but since
you’re not a client yet . . . whatever. I can keep my mouth shut.”
For a second, I wonder if I should insist on an NDA or something, but
then I realize that it probably doesn’t matter. AJ is talking to Frank right
now, and after that, it’s all going to come out one way or another. And if
he’s going to be my agent, Jameson needs to be prepared so he can help me
navigate the publicity aspect of the situation.
“So . . . AJ and I are seeing each other,” I force out, wondering if it’ll
ever get easier to admit that I’m dating my boss.
His mouth drops open, and he says nothing. Jameson’s the kind of guy
who chooses his words wisely, but I’ve never seen him speechless. Not
even when he’s dealing with some of the shit that Colt, his best friend and
most lucrative client, has done.
Skepticism fills his voice when he asks, “And she discussed your
contract with you in that capacity?”
I can tell just by his tone that he doesn’t think she’d do that, and he’s
trying to decide if he’s just lost all respect for her or if I’m lying.
“No, we didn’t discuss it. She’s steadfastly refused to discuss my
contract with me⁠—”
“As she should.”
“—but I made an offhand comment yesterday about how her refusal to
consider even a modest increase in my next contract was a huge slap in the
face, like she was making it clear she didn’t want me back on the team next
year.”
 “And?”
“And the look on her face was . . . confusion? I don’t know, maybe it
was anger? And then she told me I needed a new agent.”
“So she told you to call me, because she knew I’d be able to put the
pieces together,” he says, like he’s working it out in his head. “Okay. And
how are you guys handling this relationship? I assume no one else knows at
this point?”
“I mean, a few select people know. And she has a meeting with Frank
Hartmann about this today. I know she wants to be recused from any part of
negotiating my salary.”
He hisses out a low whistle, but then looks almost pleased as he sits
back in his chair and says, “This is going to be a total shitstorm. The
media’s going to have a field day over this, and your teammates are going
to be up in arms.”
“Yeah,” I agree, wishing that this was easier, even while I’m willing to
walk through this shitstorm if that’s what it takes to be with AJ.
He rubs his hands together. “Well, this will be fun.”
“Fun?” I must be looking at him like he has three heads.
“Yeah. Now that Colt’s turned into a respectable human being, I haven’t
had any crises to deal with in a while.”
“And that’s your idea of fun?”
“Getting ahead of the story and outsmarting everyone . . . yeah. That’s
fun.”
I let out a low rumble of laughter. I played with Jameson for a year
before he retired and became an agent, but I’ve never really seen this side of
him. “I’m glad one of us is looking forward to it.”
“Want me to have my assistant draft up a letter for Trevor, letting him
know you’re releasing him from your contract? And get a new contract
drafted up?”
“Yeah, I think the sooner we do that, the better.”
“You know there’s nothing I can do to speed up the contract process,
though, right? Until the playoffs are over, we can’t negotiate anything.”
“Yeah. I know. But I do want to stay in Boston, and at this point, I’d
settle for that one-year extension at my current salary if that’s the only thing
possible. I’m just not ready to walk away from the team, or from her, unless
they don’t give me a choice.”
 He shakes his head, and with a chuckle, he says, “Man, you’re down
bad.”
“Yep.” I don’t even try to hold back my smile.
“We’re going to need to figure out a plan for when and how the news of
your relationship is going to come out. I’ll talk to her publicist and the
Rebel’s PR Team to make sure we’ve coordinated everything.”
“Okay. I’ll mention that to her.”
He nods. “I do think we can get your contract settled before the July 1st
deadline when you’d become a free agent. And I’m not going to mention
your desperation to stay, because I think you deserve a better contract than
that. But I’ll be completely honest with you about what they’re offering.”
“Why do you think Trevor would lie to me about this in the first place?”
I ask.
“My guess is that he thinks he can get you a much more lucrative
contract elsewhere, and since he stands to make a percentage off whatever
you make, it’s in his personal interest to negotiate a better contract wherever
he can make that happen.”
Anger flares through my chest when I consider that the man who’s been
my agent since I entered the NHL has betrayed me. “I thought he was
supposed to be doing what was in my best interest.”
“He is. But did you indicate that you’d be willing to go elsewhere?”
“Yeah, I guess maybe I did. My sister and her kids are in Nashville, and
since I’ve had Abby, I’ve been feeling like it would be nice to be closer to
my family.”
He glances out the window, then looks back at me. “Speaking from
experience, there’s the family you’re born with, and there’s the family you
choose. Sometimes the two overlap, and sometimes they don’t.”
“I guess that until AJ was in my life,” I say, wondering why I’m
admitting this to someone I hardly know, “I didn’t really feel like I had
family here.”
“Not even among your teammates?”
My teammates are great guys, but I’ve always held myself at a distance.
I guess I never saw myself as a family man, like Walshy and some of the
other married guys, and yet never saw my teammates as my brothers, either.
“Nah, not really. I mean, I was always close with Renaud, but because
he’s been out this year, I don’t really have my person, you know?”
Honestly, Renaud’s not really the kind of guy who’d have any idea what to
do to help me with a kid or give advice about this relationship, anyway.
“I do, actually,” he says. “Before Lauren, I always had Audrey and
Jules, but that relationship was different because I was almost like a dad to
them.”
“Yeah, but you’ve also got Colt.”
Jameson snorts a laugh. “Until recently, that was almost like having
another kid.”
I chuckle in response. “Yeah, he’s grown up a lot this season.”
“Listen to you, old man.”
“I’m starting to feel old,” I admit.
“So are you thinking this is going to be your last contract?”
It’s amazing how much more at ease I feel now, knowing that it’s
Jameson who’s going to be negotiating my contract. He’s shrewd, but he’s
loyal.
“I don’t know,” I say, even though I do know. I know it in the way my
body aches at the end of games now, and the way I hate being away from
Abby when we travel. “Maybe?”
“Let’s make sure it’s a good one, then, yeah?”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Two
AJ

“Y ou’ve“No,got I’m
to be kidding me,” I say to Frank, my jaw falling open.
entirely serious.” Frank’s bellow of a laugh echoes
around in his small office. I’ve always liked that, despite being a
billionaire and the owner of this club, he keeps his space here small and
unassuming, just like his presence in running this team.
“You don’t look like this news is sitting well with you. I thought you’d
be positively giddy.”
“When have you ever known me to be giddy?” I ask, trying to stall the
conversation, because discussing the bomb he just dropped is making me
nauseous.
“Fair enough,” he says with another laugh. “But the pool of candidates
for GM of the Year just got smaller, and you moved right to the top.”
I’m not sure what to say in response. Here I was, planning on telling
him about McCabe and me, and he goes and sidelines me with the news that
another GM was just forced to withdraw his nomination for the award after
he was suspended without pay pending an investigation into unethical
conduct for inappropriate and unwanted advances toward his assistant.
And while, logically, I know that my situation is totally different, I can’t
help but wonder if anyone else will make the same distinction.
“I—” I pause, not quite sure how to tell him, but knowing that I have to.
“I actually called this meeting because I wanted to talk about a . . .
situation.”
 I pause, not quite sure how to proceed after his stunning news. I don’t
necessarily think Brett Ivers is a good guy, or deserves this award for that
matter. But the irony of Frank telling me about this situation right as I come
to talk to him about my own relationship with an employee? It’s just too
much.
“A situation . . .?” he asks, indicating that he wants me to fill him in.
“Yeah, a situation involving my own love life.”
His eyes widen. As much as Frank is constantly telling me that he wants
to see me happily settled down, even going so far as to try to set me up with
one of his sons, I've never indulged him by talking about that aspect of my
private life.
“So . . . ” I hedge, “this is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, just
like it came as a shock to me. And I don't know any way to phrase this
that’s going to lessen that shock, especially given what you just told me.”
Worry lines crease the corners of his eyes, replacing the curiosity on his
face from a few moments ago.
“Believe it or not—” I gulp down the lump in my throat. There is
nothing wrong with you being in a relationship with McCabe, I tell myself.
“There's something going on between me and McCabe.”
Now it's Frank’s jaw that falls open.
“I know that it seems entirely unlikely,” I continue, pushing through the
awkwardness, “but we both have feelings for each other and those feelings
are becoming impossible to ignore.”
“You’re shitting me,” Frank says with an uncomfortable laugh.
“McCabe?”
He sounds like I just told him I ate roadkill for breakfast, and my
stomach flips over in response. “No, I’m not kidding. I was coming to talk
to you about this today because I want to be transparent about it. I don’t
want to do anything to jeopardize the club's reputation. It’s entirely
consensual and there’s been absolutely nothing unethical about our
relationship,” I tell him, but even as I say it, I wonder if the times that
McCabe brought up his contract with me over the last couple days blurs that
line. But even if it did, I did nothing that was unethical. I didn't negotiate
with him. I didn't even tell him that his agent is a fucking liar. I sure as shit
hope that Jameson is giving him some good counsel right now.
“I know how much you value your privacy, AJ. But I'm going to need
you to say more about this. Do I need to call HR in here for this
conversation?”
I press my lips between my teeth. “Yeah, you probably should.”
I’ve looked at my contract and I know there’s nothing in it specifically
about being in a relationship with a player. But there is an ethics clause, and
all it would take for me to have violated it is McCabe saying my advances
were unwarranted. I know he wouldn’t do that, but HR needs to know this
is going on so that we can figure out the best game plan.
A few minutes later, our HR Director, Sarah, is sitting next to me in
Frank's office. The small, cozy feeling of the space is now replaced with my
cold dread. Suddenly, this all feels so real, and so wrong.
“Alright,” Sarah says, “why don't you start from the beginning?”
I spend the next few minutes giving them the watered-down, sanitized
version of how I grew closer to Ronan over the last few weeks. Sarah’s eyes
flip between Frank and me when I'm finished. She gives one long, slow
blink like she's trying to steel herself from my reaction before she says,
“I’m so sorry, but I have to ask, is this relationship sexual in nature?”
“Yes.” My response is concise, hopefully inviting no further discussion.
She glances down at her lap, scanning a printed page before her, and
then tells me what I already know. “There’s nothing in your contract that
expressly prohibits you from being involved with anyone working for this
organization. But AJ, I have to tell you, this doesn't look good. I wouldn't be
doing my job if I didn't try to protect this organization from threats of
sexual misconduct or unethical behavior.”
“I know that,” I say, anxious for her to understand that I don’t want to
get in the way of her doing her job, but also hoping she doesn’t ask me not
to move forward with Ronan—because that’s not happening. “And I respect
that you need to do your job without me trying to interfere. But I also need
you to know that I have been incredibly careful never to let anything that
was developing between us cross over into any sort of gray area. I know
he's in the middle of a contract negotiation, but I have only negotiated his
contract with his agent. And even though I know that technically I am his
boss and therefore in a position of power, I was not the one who pursued
him. In fact, I did everything within my power to try to prevent myself from
having feelings for him, because I would never want my actions to reflect
poorly on the club.”
I pause and sigh before I add, “But also, I think I deserve to be happy. I
think I deserve to have a relationship that’s built on mutual trust and
respect, even if he and I happen to work for the same team. And the reason I
came to talk to you about this today”—I turn toward Frank—“is because I
don’t want to hide it anymore. I want to recuse myself from negotiating his
new contract, and I want to officially hand over any aspect of managing
him, as a player, to Jim.”
“Jim hasn’t even started yet,” Frank reminds me. Our new assistant GM
was only hired a month ago and won’t start until his current team’s season
is over.
“Then I’m sure you can handle McCabe until Jim starts. Or,” I say,
nodding toward Sarah where she sits next to me, “have HR be in charge of
him.”
“This is a tough spot, AJ,” Frank says, looking at me like I’m one of his
kids who’s found herself in a tough predicament. “On the one hand, I’m
happy for you that you’re happy. I really am. I think you know how much
I’ve always wanted you to find a fulfilling relationship. I just never
dreamed it would be with one of our players.”
“That makes two of us,” I say quietly.
Frank relaxes his lower lip and lets out a sigh that ruffles his gray
mustache. “But I’m sure you can see how, especially given what I just told
you about Ivers, this could reflect poorly on the organization.”
“That’s why I want to be honest about it. I don’t want this coming out
like we’re sneaking around and trying to hide it.”
“The thing is,” he says, shaking his head, “there’s no way this isn’t
going to tarnish your reputation. Even if you’re honest and transparent, and
even if nothing unethical happened, people are going to take one look at the
situation and judge you. It’s not fair, but it’s the way it is.”
“I know.”
“You go public with this, and you can kiss that award goodbye.”
I swallow. “I know.”
“I don’t want that for you, AJ. You have worked your ass off to build
this team into what it is today. As GM, you’ve made improvements in every
aspect of this club.”
I want to bask in his praise, but I can already sense the enormous but
that’s coming.
“Nothing that you’ve told me makes me think you deserve this award
any less, and I want to see you receive it.”
“You know I won’t get it once people find out about me and McCabe.”
 “Which is why I think we shouldn’t say anything about it until the
season is over.”
“What?” Sarah and I ask in unison.
“I think Sarah should do whatever she needs to do to accurately
document this situation, immediately. I want her to have your statement and
McCabe’s on record, separately. I want us to have a game plan for how
we’ll make this information public. But I don’t think we should do it until
the season is over. You deserve that award, AJ. Our team deserves for you
to get it. And they deserve another Stanley Cup, and I’m afraid that the
news of you and McCabe would just distract them. It would bring up
questions about the timing of this relationship and his new contract
negotiation, and it might cause tensions in the locker room that we don’t
want. We can deal with this after the playoffs.”
He does make a good point about the potential for this to be divisive in
some way among the players. Is the fact that this never occurred to me an
indication that I’m too focused on myself and McCabe, and not focused
enough on the success of the larger organization?
He brushes his hands together over his round belly, and then stands like
he thinks this conversation is over.
“Frank,” I say, rising to my feet so we’re eye to eye. “I’m not sure this
is the best course of action.”
“Good thing I’m sure, then,” he says with a decisive nod. “I’m not
letting you lose this award, and I’m not letting the news of your relationship
cause rifts among the players. We still don’t know if McCabe is going to be
reasonable and accept our perfectly good offer, so this may be a non-issue
once we hit July 1st.”
The free agency date hangs there in the air, and a knot forms in my
stomach as I worry about whether I should tell him that I don’t think
McCabe even knows about our perfectly good offer. Ultimately, I decide
that this is something for him and Jameson to handle as part of the contract
negotiation, which I’m no longer involved in.
“Not disclosing this relationship makes it seem like we have something
to hide,” I say.
“No, not disclosing it is doing what’s best for the team. The playoffs
will be over in a few weeks. Please don’t tell me that you can’t put off
announcing your relationship until then.”
 It’s not a question. He’s not asking, he’s telling me that this is what
we’re going to do. And even though the whole thing makes me
uneasy . . . maybe he’s right? Maybe this is just a small sacrifice for the
greater good, because I certainly don’t want to be the cause of any divisions
within the team. And I’m pretty sure McCabe wouldn’t want that, either.
“Of course I can,” I say, because Frank just came up with the only thing
that could convince me we should keep hiding this. Not because it’s wrong,
but because it could be a distraction for the team, and the last thing a GM or
a team captain would want right now is anything that has the potential to
distract the team from winning.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Three
AJ

“I still don’t think you should go,” Nicholas reiterates as he stands from
his seat at my small kitchen table and clears our plates.
“She’s heard your argument and made her decision,” Nicole says,
looking up at him with a sympathetic smile. She’s still in her scrubs from
her shift in the NICU, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a sleek bun.
Nicholas looks down at her fondly, presses his lips together, and nods
before looking over at me. “This is one of those situations where you aren’t
looking for any more input, huh?”
“Yes, and it’s not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be.”
“But Chet’s going to be there,” he says, exasperation ringing out in his
tone. “And you haven’t seen him since the divorce.”
The last conversation I had with Chet was almost seven years ago, when
we were in the middle of divorce proceedings and I was still the assistant
GM in St. Louis. I called him into my office, along with the GM, Joey
Connelly, to let him know that our AHL affiliate needed a new head coach,
and we were “promoting” him.
No one in the room believed that going from the NHL to the AHL was a
promotion, even if it was for a more impressive title. And Chet showed his
true colors, yelling and berating me, saying that this was all revenge for him
cheating on me and because he’d forced my hand in trading McCabe.
Joey hadn’t known about the cheating before that meeting. But after
Chet acted like a goddamn toddler and talked to me like I wasn’t his boss,
Joey dismissed him, then looked at me and said, “You’re too good at your
job to be here.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I’d asked, worried that he was firing
me.
“Even with Chet leaving, there’s too much emotional baggage for you
ever to reach your full potential here.” Joey had laid out reasonable
arguments for me to consider looking for other opportunities: he was
nowhere near retirement, which meant there was no room for me to grow
professionally in St. Louis; my years with the organization would always be
colored by the fact that Chet had gotten me my first job there; McCabe’s
trade had been a mess; and my marriage had disintegrated through it all.
He wasn’t wrong. He also wasn’t pushing me out. He was encouraging
me to spread my wings, which I appreciated. So I’d used the rest of that
season to put out feelers with other teams, and ultimately I’d ended up
coming to Boston.
And I haven’t seen or talked directly to Chet since then.
“I’m not worried about seeing him, Nicholas.”
I get why he thinks it’s better that I avoid my parents’ annual fundraiser
as I have every year since Chet and I split. But now, if I’m in St. Louis and I
don’t go, it feels like I’m hiding. And I’m done doing that.
He and Nicole both narrow their eyes at me, then glance at each other.
“Someone’s bringing new energy,” my brother says, raising his eyebrow
before he turns and sets the dishes the sink.
“I like it,” Nicole adds.
I’ve always done everything in my power to avoid running into Chet,
including not going to family functions since my parents had kept him in
the divorce, instead of me. I guess our family’s social connection with his
family ultimately meant more to them than their relationship with me.
That realization should have been shocking, but it wasn’t—not even
back then. And for the past six years since Nicholas and I moved away,
we’d done our best to maintain our distance.
I hadn’t had to worry about running into Chet during the season because
he’d stayed in the AHL—until this year. For reasons I am obviously not
privy to, Joey brought him back up to coach for St. Louis midway through
the season. If we play them in the finals, I’ll be seeing Chet anyway.
“Is there something you want to tell us?” Nicole asks, her voice taking
on a singsong quality, like she’s trying to cajole me into divulging secrets.
Behind her, Nicholas is rummaging through a drawer for the right sized
container for our leftovers.
“Besides the fact that I’m over my ex-husband?” I ask, while I mentally
debate what—if anything—to tell them about McCabe and me. He said he
didn’t want to hide this, but Nicholas currently works for him, and I don’t
want to make anything awkward between them.
But it’s not just how things have developed between us that is making
me feel more resilient. It’s my friendship with Lauren, and how she’s
brought me into her close-knit friend group with her sister, Jameson’s
sisters, and Morgan. It’s the way I’m at ease now with the team, no longer
feeling like I have something to prove. It’s the way I’m letting go of my
need to control every aspect of my public image. I’m actually looking
forward to being able to be open about my relationship with McCabe, once
the playoffs are over.
I’m still contemplating whether it’s better if I don’t say anything to
Nicholas and Nicole until I can talk to him about it, when there’s a knock
on my door.
In the months I’ve lived here, not a single person other than Nicholas or
Nicole has ever knocked on my door. And I gulp, because I know there’s
only one person it can be.
Nicole presses her lips together like she’s stifling a smile when Nicholas
asks, “You going to get that?”
There’s a second knock, while I sit there staring at them. Shit. They
damn well know there’s only one other person in this building who I know,
and there’s no good reason he should be knocking on my door at seven
o’clock at night.
“Or would you like me to answer it?” Nicole asks, amusement in her
voice.
“No.” I shoot out of my chair, turning toward the entryway. If I don’t
open the door all the way, and if I can stop him from saying anything, I can
probably play it off like it was a food delivery to the wrong condo.
But when I pull open the door, he’s standing there in shorts and a T-
shirt, barefoot, holding Abby, who yells “Ay-Ay,” and reaches her arms out
to me. I can’t help but melt at the sight of them, and the way that Abby’s
now saying my name.
“We missed you,” he says, his voice gruff like always, but with that
undertone of affection he seems to reserve for me. And as he hands me
Abby, he leans forward and kisses my forehead while pushing open my
front door. He steps back quickly, with a strangled, “Oh.”
“Might as well come in now,” I say, knowing full well that Nicole and
Nicholas are gawking at us.
“Uh . . .” He stands there, frozen, and I hold in a laugh.
“We already knew!” Nicholas calls out.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath, turning and carrying Abby
back into my kitchen. “How did you know?”
“Well, we were suspicious when he came over to your hotel room to see
Abby on a video call the first night you guys were in Philly,” Nicole says.
And though she wasn’t there while we were on the phone with Nicholas,
I’m sure he told her later that same night.
“Oh, hello,” McCabe says from behind me, and when I turn to see what
he’s talking about, Tabitha is rubbing herself up against his ankles. I’m just
about to remind him that she’s evil, when he bends to pick her up. She goes
willingly into his arms, snuggling against his chest and purring.
What the actual hell? If I had tried to pick her up, I’d be covered in
claw marks.
“Oh my god,” I say with a laugh. “The world’s grumpiest cat has found
the world’s grumpiest man, and it’s a match made in heaven.”
“I’m not grumpy,” he all but growls, but there’s a heat in his eyes that I
don’t miss. I wonder if he’s still thinking about our little tryst in the stick
room yesterday like I am?
“And see,” Nicole says, “that right there? The way you just looked at
her like you’d devour her if we weren’t standing here, and how you’re
practically eye fucking him, AJ? You guys think you’re not obvious?” She
lets out an easy laugh, because apparently we’re ridiculous for trying to
hide this.
“It’s possible that we’re picking up on things because we already knew
for sure,” Nicholas tells her.
“Right,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Back to how you already knew?”
“The night you guys got back from Philly, Nicole and I were already
suspicious. So we decided to wait down the hall to see if you snuck over to
his place after we left. We waited, like, ten minutes, and you didn’t come
out, so we thought maybe we were just imagining things. So we went
around the corner to the elevator and we were still waiting for it when you
finally did head over.”
 I rack my brain, trying to remember how incriminating that
conversation in his doorway was. Did he mention the phone sex before we
shut the door? Didn’t he say something about punishing me?
“You’re really cute when you blush like that,” McCabe says from beside
me.
“This is humiliating,” I mutter, hugging Abby to me a little tighter and
raining kisses down on her head to avoid looking at my brother and Nicole.
In response, she wraps her tiny fingers around a piece of my hair and
snuggles her cheek into my chest.
“It’s not like I didn’t know you’ve had sex before,” Nicholas says with a
roll of his eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about our sex life,” I rush out, nodding at McCabe,
“any more than I want to talk about your and Nicole’s.”
“Why?” Nicole teases. “We have a very healthy sex life.”
“This is not the kind of thing I need to know about your relationship,” I
say.
Even though we’re super close and Nicholas is in college now, it’s hard
to step back from the active role I took in raising him. Coaching him
through his first heartbreak, teaching him to drive a car, covering his
boarding school and college tuition . . . those are just a few of the ways I’ve
assumed a parental role over the years. He’s not technically my kid, but in a
lot of ways, it feels like he is.
“Sooo,” Nicholas says as he stands at the kitchen counter, putting
leftover food into the large plastic container. “I assume if you two haven’t
told me, it’s not public knowledge. Who else knows about this?”
“Walsh and Jameson,” McCabe says. “But I need to tell my sister, too.”
He hasn’t told me a ton about Sloane, except that they were really close
when he lived in St. Louis but that she moved to Nashville after he moved
to Boston, and she has two kids of her own. I don’t know whether she’s
married or not, just that he started considering going to Nashville because
she’s there.
I probably should have asked more questions when he mentioned that
yesterday in the stick room, but I was too caught off guard when I realized
that fucking Trevor had lied to both of us. I needed to get out of there before
I broke down and told him things about his contract that I’m not ethically
allowed to share.
“Lauren and Frank,” I add.
 “Frank knows?” Nicholas asks, his eyebrows practically hidden under
his messy crop of hair that hangs over his forehead.
“Yeah. The fact that we work together makes things more . . .
complicated.”
McCabe quirks an eyebrow at me, and I’m wishing I could have told
him about my conversation with Frank before having this conversation in
front of Nicholas and Nicole.
“But Frank’s okay with it?” Nicholas asks.
“Yeah, but . . . you know what? I just talked to Frank this afternoon.
And we . . .” I nod at McCabe, “. . . haven’t really had a chance to catch up
about that discussion yet. How about I update you guys later, after we’ve
talked.”
“Of course,” Nicole says, standing. “Let’s get going.”
“But there’s still all this cleaning up to do,” Nicholas says as he puts the
container of leftovers into the refrigerator.
“You cooked, so I’m on cleanup duty,” I remind him, taking a few steps
toward him so I can literally usher him out of my kitchen. “I’ve got it.”
“But . . .” he starts, and Nicole widens her eyes at him, indicating that
he needs to take the hint and leave. I wink at her. Sometimes he can be
oblivious to subtle social cues like that.
“Let’s go, hon.” Her voice leaves no room for argument, and he follows
her as she heads toward the door, only stopping to give me a quick kiss on
the cheek and turning to McCabe, confirming what time he’ll be back in the
morning to watch Abby.
When they’re gone, my condo suddenly feels small. I don’t know why
I’m nervous about telling him what Frank said today, but suddenly my
throat is tight.
“Why do you look worried?” he asks, stepping toward me. But with
Abby in my arms and Tabitha in his, we’re farther apart than I’d want us to
be for this conversation. “Is Frank not actually okay with this?”
“He is, but he thinks we need to keep this under wraps until the season
is over. I’m pretty sure he wants this GM of the Year award more than I do.
He also made some compelling arguments about how our relationship might
distract the team, potentially causing rifts at a time when you need to be as
united as possible⁠—”
His brow creases. “He thinks that my teammates won’t support us?”
 “I think he’s concerned that not everyone will. And since it’s a contract
negotiation year for you, some people might . . .”
“. . . think I’m taking advantage of you? Or of this situation?” He fills in
when I pause.
“Yeah.”
“You know, that thought never actually occurred to me,” he says, his
tone bitter. “The idea that my teammates might think I’m the kind of person
who’d get into a relationship with my boss for financial gain . . . ” He trails
off before he lets out a huff of a laugh while rolling his eyes. “I didn’t know
they thought that poorly of me.”
“I’m sure they don’t.” Reaching out, I run a hand along his bicep before
returning to rubbing Abby’s back. “I’m sure Frank is just trying to
anticipate any and all potential issues.”
His throat bobs with the effort of swallowing down his pride. “Yeah, I
guess waiting until the season is over probably makes the most sense, then.”
I note the way his words and his tone don’t match up. And how his teeth
are clenched, like it’s taking a lot of effort to be okay with this. He has that
hard, jaded look I seldom see anymore. Yesterday, he said he thought we
should wait until the season was over. But maybe now that I said I don’t
want to hide this anymore, he started to . . . hope?
Is that what pretending does to him? First, pretending like he didn’t
have feelings for me. Now, pretending so no one finds out how real those
feelings actually are?
“I don’t want to,” I say.
His eyebrows shoot up in response to my curt response. “What?”
“Keeping this a secret,” I say slowly, working my thoughts out in my
mind at the same time the words tumble out of my mouth, “only makes it
look like we have something to hide. Maybe in the long run, that would
make the situation worse with your teammates than if you were upfront
about it from the beginning?”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t change the way this will impact
your reputation. Frank’s right that you deserve that award, and I don’t want
to be the reason you don’t get it.”
“So then waiting would make sense, if the only thing I was worried
about was my reputation. But it’s not the only thing I’m worried about.”
“It’s not?” The question is so raw, and so vulnerable, it makes me
wonder if he doesn’t trust me not to break his heart.
 “No. I’m also worried about how it will make you feel if I have to hide
this relationship like there’s something wrong with us being together⁠—”
“There is something wrong with it,” he reminds me. “The power
dynamic is off. You’re my boss. Legally, this puts you at risk of someone
claiming this is sexual harassment.”
I tamp down the laugh that bubbles out of me, so instead it comes out
like a low rumble. Not because there’s anything funny about sexual
harassment, but because this so clearly was not that.
“Yeah,” I tease, “but if anyone is guilty of sexual harassment, it’s you.”
“Me?” He sounds affronted.
“I mean, you did maul me in my office, then come to my hotel room
uninvited . . .” I give him a wink to make sure he knows I’m teasing. Then I
say, “For real, though, Sarah from HR will get statements from both of us,
showing that this is a relationship we’ve both entered willingly. And I’ve
already recused myself from your contract negotiations, forever. I literally
have no power over you.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. Your influence extends beyond
contracts.”
I step closer, continuing to rub Abby’s back as her head grows heavy on
my chest. It must be her bedtime by now, and she’s clearly tired. “I’ve
already given up any and all professional control I have over you. I’ve
handed all management of you over to Jim.”
“The new assistant GM, who hasn’t even started yet?” he confirms.
“Yes.”
“Thus making you appear to be ineffective as a GM?” His eyebrows
dip. “Nah. If that comes out, even without any details as to why, it’ll just
give those assholes a reason to not give you an award you deserve.”
“The other GMs wouldn’t be assholes to question this. You know Brett
Ivers?” I ask.
“Chicago’s GM?”
“Yeah. It’s going to come out, probably later tonight, that he’s been put
on administrative leave. And he’s lost the nomination for GM of the Year
because of it.”
“What did he do?”
“Sexual misconduct, it sounds like. Unwanted advances toward
someone who worked for him.”
 McCabe’s chuckle has his shoulders shaking as he steps closer and
drops his voice to say, “Nothing about this is unwanted, Sunshine. And I’m
happy to tell that to anyone who asks.”
“Sarah will be asking. She’ll need you to make a statement on the
record, so that there’s proof that this is consensual.”
He leans in to kiss the crown of my head, and Tabitha uses the
proximity to rub her head up and down Abby’s back, right next to my hand.
It’s the same motion as when she runs the top of her head along a piece
of furniture, like she’s scratching an itch. But it seems so affectionate
compared to how she acts when I try to touch her. And here she is, still in
McCabe’s arms, while I’ve never been able to hold her without her
immediately struggling to be free.
We stand there, with a child and a cat pressed between our bodies, and it
feels like we’re a family. It feels like everything I ever wanted . . . which
both thrills and terrifies me.
“I’ll be happy to tell her just how consensual this is.” His voice is raspy
as he talks quietly, probably not wanting to wake Abby. “How much detail
should I give her? Do you want me to tell her everything?”
I know he’s joking, but just to be clear, I say, “Let’s not mention any
specifics. We’ll just tell them this has been developing for a few weeks, that
it’s consensual, and that we don’t want to hide it anymore.”
“It feels a bit weird to think that Frank knows we’re sleeping together.”
“Why is that any weirder than anyone else knowing?”
“Besides the fact that he signs both our paychecks? Maybe because you
two have always seemed to have a bit of a father-daughter relationship.”
I tilt my head as I study his face—his bright green eyes half hidden
behind those dark lashes as he gazes down at me, with the look of affection
he wears so openly now.
He gives me a little smirk. “Do I need to go ask him for your hand or
something?”
His tone is sarcastic, so I playfully retort, “You planning to marry me?”
“Someday.” There isn’t an ounce of lightness, as though he wants me to
know he’s dead serious.
A boulder drops on my stomach so fast that the sensation pushes the air
right out of my lungs. “Excuse me?” I squeak.
“Which part of that is unclear?” he asks as his eyes search my widened
ones.
 “The part where we’ve been developing feelings for each other over the
past few weeks and you’re already talking about marriage?”
“I already can’t imagine myself with anyone but you, Sunshine. You’ve
infiltrated every part of my soul and overrun all my defenses. There’s no
part of me that doesn’t want to be with you. It’s okay if you’re still worried
about how this will work, or if you’re not thinking far enough into the
future to know for sure that everything will work out. I’m optimistic enough
for the both of us.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re optimistic? Since when?”
“I’m optimistic about you, and that’s all that matters. Look at you,
standing there holding my baby, and looking at me like you’ve never
wanted anything more than this. Us, together . . . it’s so easy. It’s like it was
meant to be. And if you’d stop fighting it, you’d see that too.”
I gulp, before saying quietly, “I’m not fighting it.”
“Maybe not now. But until yesterday, all you could focus on were the
reasons this wouldn’t work.”
I close my eyes, relaxing into the moment. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says, peppering a trail of kisses across
my forehead. “There are real obstacles that we’ll need to overcome, and
that part won’t be easy. But I don’t think it’s a reason to give up on us.”
“I wasn’t trying to give up on us,” I tell him.
“What were you trying to do, then?” The question is asked with open
curiosity, rather than the sarcasm I would have expected given the situation.
My words are small, reflecting how I feel having to admit this. “Protect
myself.”
He stiffens slightly, but one of his hands slides to my hip, then rests on
my lower back. “From me?”
“From being hurt again.” Though right now, with Abby asleep on me
and Tabitha purring in his arms, his lips on my forehead and his voice quiet,
I don’t feel in danger of being hurt. It feels . . . perfect.
“At this point,” I continue, looking down at Abby’s cherub-like face,
“I’m sure you know me well enough to know that I’ve avoided
relationships since my divorce. I’ve avoided everything but work, and
Nicholas.”
“So that you don’t get hurt?”
“Yes. In my experience, relationships are messy and painful. I never
wanted to feel that again. I told myself I was never going there again.”
 “There?”
“I was married before⁠—”
“To an asshole.”
“Ronan,” I say, looking up at him pointedly, “not too long ago, I thought
you were an asshole.”
A thin smile graces his lips as he lifts his hand and strokes my jaw with
his thumb. “Maybe your judgment’s impaired. It would explain how you
thought Chet was a good guy in the first place and were confused about me
being an asshole until now.”
“Was I confused? Or were you an asshole until we talked about why I
had to trade you?”
His smile widens. “Perhaps a little of both.”
I shift because Abby’s dead weight is hurting my back and arms. The
cast on my right arm means my left is bearing most of her weight, and those
muscles are clearly not up to the task.
“C’mon,” he says, nodding his chin toward my front door. “Let’s go put
Abby to bed so we can finish talking about why I’m not going to let you
close yourself off from being happy.”
I glance back into my kitchen at the dishes in the sink and realize that I
don’t care about leaving a mess behind. Everything I care about is right in
front of me, heading out my door, and I’m going with them.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Four
McCabe

O
ur third win in a row puts us up 3-2 in this semifinal round of the
playoffs. The celebration in the locker room after our first win on
home ice this series is dying down, and most of us are showered and
dressed, but the music is still pumping and people are yelling back and forth
over each other. Hartmann’s on one of the benches in the center of the
room, trying to prove he can moonwalk, while our unimpressed teammates
jeer.
The party doesn’t stop when AJ strides through the door, and yet
everything in the room fades away when I catch sight of her. She gives me a
subtle nod, our eyes connecting for the briefest moment, and then she’s
turning to talk to Coach Wilcott.
Walsh elbows me, and grits out, “You trying to get caught?”
I’m fucking tired of hiding this, that’s for sure. “No.”
“Then stuff those fucking heart-shaped googly eyes back into your head
before someone else sees you looking at her that way.”
I turn to face him, taking in the hardened look on his face. Luckily,
we’re off to the side of our teammates, so no one can hear our conversation.
“When did you become the asshole here?” I ask.
“When my team captain started a relationship with the only person in
the world he absolutely shouldn’t be dating, and I had to start worrying
about anyone else finding out. Just stop being so fucking obvious about it.
At least until the season is over.”
 It’s exactly what Frank told AJ, and I’m sure he’s saying it for the same
reason. And as she and I finally agreed the other night, it’s the right
approach—after the season is over makes so much more sense. There’s no
reason to risk causing issues within the team when we’re so close to making
the finals, or to jeopardize her chances of winning a well-deserved award.
Two or three more weeks, at the most. I can keep this on the down-low that
long.
But god, it fucking hurts to hide how I feel about her. It hurts when
every fiber of my being wants to reach out to her, wrap her in a hug, and
give her a celebratory kiss. Instead, I get a nod of acknowledgement.
I watch her turn and head out the door. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Walsh.
He grabs my forearm as I turn to go, and when I pause and look back
toward him, he just says, “Be careful.”
I’m not sure exactly what he’s warning me about—getting caught,
getting hurt, or hurting her?
Without responding, I glance around to make sure no one’s focused on
me, and then I follow AJ out the door. She’s not in the main part of the
hallway when I exit the locker room, so I follow it toward the elevator she
probably used to get down here. And sure enough, I find her waiting in the
alcove for the doors to open.
“We’re going out tonight to grab a beer and celebrate.” I keep my tone
casual, in case anyone’s in the hallway and can overhear me. “You should
come, too. Jules and Audrey will be there.”
“I can’t.” Her eyes meet mine as she drops her voice lower and tells me,
“You know that.”
“Why would I know that?” I ask quietly, moving toward her until
there’s barely any space between us.
“Ronan,” she says in warning. I’m so used to her only saying my name
in private, and usually in the bedroom, that a low hum of desire rumbles in
my chest. I take in the slender column of her neck above the lapels of her
suit coat.
“I hate it when you wear your hair up,” I tell her, leaning my head down
even closer.
“Not feminine enough for you?” She sounds surprisingly defensive,
even while I watch goosebumps erupt on her skin as my breath caresses her.
“No . . . ” I say, trailing my finger from the edge of her collarbone up
the side of her neck and stopping right behind her ear. I’m counting on my
large frame blocking the view if anyone passes in the hallway behind me. “I
hate it when you wear your hair up because all I can think of is what it
would be like to taste your exposed skin.”
I dip my head then, my lips gently brushing down the side of her neck
as she sucks in a surprised gasp, when my lips meet her hard, tense muscles.
I want to dig my fingers into her shoulders, massage them until she’s loose
and relaxed. But I can’t. So instead, I let my tongue do the teasing, enjoying
the way it draws a shiver from her. I stop when I reach that hollow between
her collarbone and neck, and then, realizing how dangerously out in the
open we are, I pull back.
“Fuck, AJ. You’re going to be the goddamn death of me.”
“I doubt that,” she says with an air of nonchalance, but her cheeks are
flushed and her breathing is ragged.
“Trust me,” I tell her. “I’ve never felt so close to spontaneously
combusting. I have to go out with the guys, but I’ll be home after one beer. I
can’t wait to get you alone tonight.”
A needy sound rasps from her throat as she looks up at me with those
big brown eyes. “Drink fast.”

his is why we should just find a diner or something like we do when

“T we’re on the road,” I say after we send away another group of
women who have approached our table at the Neon Cactus. I get it,
we’re a table of five guys having some beers, and none of us is wearing a
ring . . . yet. But Drew and Colt are engaged, and Zach’s so far gone over
Ashleigh that he might as well be. Only Luke Hartmann and I are available
—at least as far as my teammates know. “Or somewhere with a VIP
section.”
“Nothing wrong with women hitting on you,” Hartmann grumbles, like
we just took away his dessert.
“There is when you’re taken.” Colt rolls his eyes. “Our better halves
will be here soon, and then hopefully this won’t be an issue.”
I wish AJ were coming. Not that she could slide in the booth next to me
so I could wrap my arm over her shoulder like my friends can do with their
girlfriends and fiancées. But just being able to see her, meet her eye across
the table . . .
Zach sighs. “Ashleigh can’t come tonight. She has to be at her
internship really early tomorrow.”
“Remind me where she’s interning,” Drew says.
Ashleigh is studying to become an aerospace engineer, and Zach talks a
bit about the defense contractor she’s doing a paid internship with this
summer. The way he describes her role on the project oozes with pride.
“Man, you fell for her fast,” I say. They met at a diner in Seattle where
she was waitressing about six months ago.
Colt scoffs. “You should see how fast I fell for Jules.” The way Drew
side-eyes him makes me wonder if my suspicions about their engagement
are right. He’s been telling everyone they’ve been secretly dating since
October, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s more recent and there’s
more to the story.
“Hey, when you know, you know,” Zach says, smiling.
“That’s how it was with Audrey, too,” Drew adds. “Like the minute she
was back in my life, I knew I wanted so much more than just to co-parent
with her.”
“How did you know it was love, though?” I ask, looking around the
table, clearly asking all of them the question.
Four pairs of eyes focus on me like I just said something incredibly
revealing. And maybe I did. Maybe even asking the question makes it
obvious that I have a vested interest in the answer? But I have nothing to go
on here. I’ve never been in love, and while I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m
feeling here, I don’t have anything to compare it to.
I press my lips to the mouth of my bottle and tilt it back, taking a long
pull of beer and hoping that they’re not still staring at me when my head
comes forward.
No such luck.
“Oh shit,” Colt says with a laugh, and then falls uncharacteristically
quiet.
“Are you seeing someone?” Zach asks.
I snort a laugh to show them how ridiculous that idea is. I don’t date,
and they know that. I swore off dating after Jenna and I broke up, and that
was before she showed up with my baby. The one time I broke that rule was
a disaster.
 Besides, I wouldn’t call what AJ and I have “dating.” It’s more like . . . I
don’t even know. What do you call it when you’re sneaking around with
your boss, and are so desperate to be with her every available second that
you move her into your place even though she lives across the hall? That
you stay in her hotel room on the road?
“I’m not seeing someone,” I say with an eye roll and a shrug, but the
added signs of indifference don’t seem to dissuade them.
“Oh, so you’re just asking about how to know if you’re in love
for . . . what? Research purposes?” Drew asks, his voice so full of sarcasm I
want to throat punch him.
“I’m asking because I have no idea . . .” I draw out the words like it’s
painful to talk to these idiots. I hope they’re buying the attitude, rather than
sensing how eager I am to know their answer. Because I’ve never actually
felt so entirely consumed, I’ve never been in a situation where I couldn’t
picture my life without that person. “. . . and you’re all so stupidly in love
with your women, I was curious how you knew it was love and not just like
infatuation or something.”
“Remember in the fall when we all met for dinner, back when I was
trying to figure out how to convince Audrey to trust that I wanted, and was
ready for, a real relationship with her?” Drew asks me.
“Yeah.” I huff out a laugh, remembering how we all offered ridiculous
advice before Walshy started dropping truth bombs.
“Walsh told us that the secret to a successful relationship was that you
need to complement each other, to balance each other out,” Drew says.
“And when that happens, when there’s that perfect sense of symbiosis, and
you realize that you’re happier with that person than you could ever be
without them—that’s how you know.”
I think about what he’s saying, and about how easy and natural
everything is with AJ. But more than that, I think about how much I crave
her company, how life just feels incomplete when she’s not around.
“Doesn’t that get hard, feeling like you can’t be happy when she’s not
around?”
There must be something in my tone, because four sets of eyes are back
on me. “He didn’t say you couldn’t be happy without her,” Colt says. “He
said you’re happier with that person than you could ever be without her.”
The realization hits me, harder than it has before: I could never be
happy without AJ.
 “You sure you’re okay?” Hartmann’s eyebrows dip as he looks at me.
“Yes, Lover Boy, I’m sure. Why? Are you in love, and we don’t know
it?” Am I an asshole for deflecting this conversation back to him? Quite
possibly. Do I care? Not at the moment.
His cheeks pinken, because Hartmann’s still got a bit of a baby face and
is like a goddamned golden retriever—happy and wagging his tail one
minute, then talking shit and irritating me the next. It’s hard to imagine
Lover Boy ever being serious enough to fall in love.
Because if there’s anything this relationship with AJ has taught me, it’s
that love is serious—it feels an awful lot like taking a vow, risking being
torn apart, inviting pain.
These feelings I’m having don’t make me proud or gooey, like my
teammates sound every time they talk about their significant other. And
they don’t necessarily make me feel happy. They make me feel clingy, like I
can’t live without her. Like I’d do anything to protect her, give up
everything just to be with her. And yet, there’s a lightness I feel when I’m
with her that I’ve never felt before—a confidence that everything will be
okay in the end.
It has to be love. I don’t know any other way to describe how I feel
about her and the sacrifices I’d be willing to make to be with her.
“Ooooooo,” Colt says, his attention averted just as I intended, “you got
something to tell us, Hartmann?”
He rolls his eyes as he chuckles. “I don’t do relationships, so, no.”
“Why is that?” Zach asks.
“Why is what?” Hartmann responds.
“Why don’t you do relationships?”
There’s a moment when a look flickers across his face, which I have no
doubt we all just noticed, before he says, “There are way too many women
in the world to settle on just one.”
Zach opens his mouth to respond, when Audrey and Jules show up at
our table. I drain the last few sips of my beer, then push my chair back,
seeing my opportunity to leave. I can’t fucking wait another minute to get
back to AJ.
“Here you go.” I gesture at my chair. “Someone can have my seat. I
need to go home so my nanny can leave.” And then I’m out of there before
anyone can even say goodbye.
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Five
AJ

W
ith forty-eight seconds left in Game 6, we’re tied 1-1. Hartmann’s
exuding shitloads of nervous energy in the crease, and I’m sitting up
in the luxury box with his family and some of the WAGs,
wondering if he needs to be pulled. I took a big risk bringing him to Boston
against his father’s wishes. I know he’s going to be a great goalie one day,
but I fear that today might not be that day.
Relax, I remind myself. Trust the process.
I’ve hired the best coaches and players I could, and now I need to trust
them to do their jobs like they’ve trusted me to do mine.
Next to me, Frank’s hand finds mine, and he squeezes. I look down and
see that his other hand is holding his wife’s, so with my opposite hand, I
grasp Marissa Walsh’s since she’s next to me. I know what it would mean to
her to see her husband go to the finals again. She lives and breathes hockey
and has been one of the most avid supporters of this team through the years.
She squeezes back, and looking down, I watch her grab a hold of Audrey’s
hand, who grabs Jules’s, until we’re a united line standing at the front of
this luxury box.
I take a deep breath as one of Philly’s forwards, Mackenzie, takes a
shot. It goes wide, and Zach snags the puck before he’s checked into the
glass. He doesn’t go down, though. Instead, he bounces back and elbows
Mackenzie off him, gaining control of the puck and passing it up to Walsh,
who somehow manages a breakaway.
 We’re yelling and screaming as he speeds up the ice, across the blue
line, with two of Philly’s players trying their best to catch up. The nerves
have my stomach in knots as their goalie moves up to challenge Walsh, but
he quickly slaps the puck between the goalie’s legs and our fans erupt when
the puck meets the back of the net. The home crowd is booing loudly as we
hold our arms up in celebration, our hands still connected, cheering our
team on.
Twenty-three seconds left. Two shots on Hartmann, both deflected. And
then the final buzzer sounds to end the game, and our players fill the ice
while Philly’s fans stand there, stunned. After coming on so strong in the
first two games, they just lost four in a row to send us to the finals. It’s the
most satisfying, perfect end to this series and I could not be more ecstatic.
Everyone in our suite is jumping around and hugging each other, and all
I want to do is get down there and congratulate our players, so I slip out
through the throng of people celebrating, thanking everyone who
congratulates me. And then I’m running toward the one elevator that will
take me down to ice level, flashing my badge at the security guard, and
impatiently tapping my foot as I wait for the doors to open.
JULES
AJ, you’re coming out with us tonight, right?

Normally after an away game, especially one so close to home, we’d be

on a plane home immediately. But tonight, we’re staying over. Given the
importance of this game and the likelihood that it would be the one to send
us to the finals, combined with most players’ wives and girlfriends being
here, the team needed a night of celebration. Our flight tomorrow morning
isn’t even at the crack of dawn, like they often are.
AJ
Thank you for the invite, but I don’t normally do things outside
of work with the guys. It feels inappropriate.

I laugh to myself when I think about all the inappropriate things I’ve
gotten up to with McCabe recently. Jules and Audrey are going to give me
so much shit when they find out. I’m actually kind of looking forward to
that. It’s nice to have women in my life who aren’t intimidated by me, who
treat me like a friend, instead of like their boss.
 JULES
But you came out to the Neon Cactus with us a couple weeks
ago.
AJ
That was different. The team kind of insisted I come out to
celebrate my award nomination.

I try not to think about how everything would be so much easier if that
award wasn’t a thing. Two more weeks, at the most. You can do it, I tell
myself.
AUDREY
It’s Marissa’s birthday. Maybe you can come out for one drink
to celebrate?
AJ
Shit. I wish you’d told me that before I sat next to her for half
the game!

How did I not know? I’m so good about things like that. Except lately,
my free time has been spent with McCabe, not planning out ways to make
sure my players and families know I care about them. I wonder if they’ve
noticed the difference.
JULES
You could just come tell her happy birthday in person
AJ
Well now I feel like I have to!
JULES
Yes!!! My work here is done. Here’s where we’re going . . .

A link appears on my screen, taking me to the map app that shows a bar
only a few blocks away from the arena.
The elevator doors open, but by the time I make it down through the
tunnel and to the ice, our players are heading out of the box and toward the
locker room. Sweat drips off them as they carry their sticks, and I
congratulate each and every one of them as they pass, giving fist bumps and
high fives to the guys who offer them up first.
McCabe is the last one out of the box—the captain who refuses to leave
anyone behind. When his head snaps up and he sees me standing there, his
pupils dilate until his bright eyes are practically black. The look of hunger
on his face has butterflies swooshing through my belly.
“AJ.” My name is a low growl leaving his lips as he nods his head at
me. I’m sure he’s trying to sound professional, but his gravelly voice
scrapes along my skin until I’m certain I’m wearing my desire all over my
face.
When he steps past me, Charlie Wilcott is right behind him. And his
confused expression tells me he didn’t miss the way I was looking at his
star player.
“Congrats on the win, Coach.” I fake a lightness I don’t feel now that
my heart is pounding, wondering what he might think about that look he
just saw.
“Thanks.” Charlie’s words are gruffer than normal.
“I saw that Evangeline and her partner came in third at that competition
in Europe last week.” I fall into step next to him, trying to distract him by
talking about one of his favorite topics: his daughter, who is a pairs figure
skater gunning for a second Olympic appearance.
“Sure did,” he says, his face lighting up.
“That Olympic run is looking more and more likely.”
“Yeah, she was disappointed that the other US pair competing ranked
higher than them, though,” he tells me. “She said she wasn’t feeling quite
right, and changed a double to a single in their routine, which lost them
some points. She seems tired, and I worry that the constant travel and
competition are taking a toll. I’m glad she’ll be home for a bit this summer
before next season’s competitions start back up.”
I know exactly what he means. “I think we can all use the break,” I say.
“But first, congrats, Coach. The Stanley Cup Finals . . . you don’t get there
every year.”
“Sure don’t,” he says, lifting his chin. “Congrats to you, too. Wouldn’t
be in this position if it weren’t for you.”
“It’s a true team effort.” I hate how cheesy it sounds, but it’s true. This
team, and the year we’ve had, wouldn’t have been possible if everyone
wasn’t giving their all.
I skip the locker room because I don’t trust myself to see McCabe with
no clothes on. Funny how I’ve never had a problem standing in a locker
room full of mostly naked men, until now, when one of them is mine.
 My heart skips a beat at that word. Mine. But he is, isn’t he? Just like
I’m his.
And I really like this for us.

“W hat do you mean, you used to work together?” Jules screeches, her
eyes huge as she looks back and forth between McCabe and me,
where he stands ten feet from us, talking to Drew and Colt.
I let out a small laugh, hoping it doesn’t clue her in that this
conversation is making me nervous.
“Yeah, I recruited him when I was a scout in St. Louis, before I became
the assistant GM there.”
“And then?” Audrey asks.
“And then he played there for two years before he got traded to Boston,
and a couple years later, I took the GM position here.”
Jules nods, like she’s following, but she’s narrowed her eyes at me. “I
thought Colt said there was some sort of bad blood between you two? But it
doesn’t seem like there is.”
“There was,” I tell her, wishing I could confide in Jules and Audrey the
way I confided in Lauren. But for now, the fewer people who know, the
better—just until the season is over. “But we cleared up a little
miscommunication about his trade, and things have been better since.”
I really need to tell him the full truth about how that trade went down,
but I’m already afraid of how he’ll react when we play St. Louis next week
and he sees Chet for the first time since beating the shit out of him.
It’s going to be hard enough to keep our relationship a secret. Knowing
that there’s even more to the story would make it impossible—there’s no
way he wouldn’t react if he knew how Chet actually forced me into the
trade. And if things between them turned violent again, that would be the
worst possible scenario. I will prevent that, at any cost.
I’ll tell him the rest of the story as soon as the playoffs are over—
hopefully after he’s held the Stanley Cup above his head and taken a victory
lap around the ice, for the second time in his career.
He’ll understand why I waited.
 “Hey,” Drew says, sidling up next to Audrey and snaking his arm
around her waist as he pulls her into his chest. “Our table’s ready.”
An hour later, our group has polished off three bottles of champagne.
I’m still sipping my second glass, and next to me, Ronan hasn’t finished his
second beer. It’s an unspoken agreement that we’re keeping our drinking
moderate, because we don’t want to waste tonight’s precious alone time. In
fact, the only ones drinking heavily are Luke Hartmann and the birthday
girl, Marissa Walsh. She’s pretty drunk, probably from the birthday shots
she did with some of the guys when we first got here.
Beneath the table, Ronan squeezes my knee, and it’s so unexpected that
I inadvertently flinch. I glance over at him as he leans toward me, then tilt
my head toward him so he can speak directly in my ear.
“So . . . St. Louis for the finals. This mean you’re definitely going to
that gala?”
“I guess it does.”
“It would be a shame not to see you in that dress again,” he says,
dragging his fingers up the inside of my leg while memories of the way he
looked at me when I walked out of the dressing room last time we were in
Philly float through my mind. The hunger . . . there’s always hunger in the
way he looks at me. My eyes flick up to his, and sure enough, he wants to
devour me.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Can’t help it,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “And stop
changing the subject.”
“You can’t come with me to the gala, Ronan. It would be a disaster.”
“Why?” His fingers creep up my thigh until they’re almost at the apex
of my thighs. I swat his hand away. The last thing I need is Audrey, who’s
on the other side of me, to look down and see his hand.
“You know why. Let’s just get through the finals and then⁠—”
“What are you two whispering about over there?” Colt calls out, and
Jules elbows him in the side, which doesn’t even phase him. He just sits
there, smirking at us, like he knows exactly what’s going on. Shit.
“AJ’s going to some big fundraising gala when we’re in St. Louis next
weekend,” McCabe says casually before I can chime in. “Her ex is going to
be there, so I was saying she should have some of us come along with her.”
“Why?” Zach asks, concern in his voice. “You need protection or
something?”
 My laugh comes out like a snort as I wave him off. “No, I’m fine.
McCabe is just overreacting.”
“Actually,” Jules says, head tilted as she looks at me, “I think it’s a good
idea. If your ex is going to be there, why wouldn’t you want people there in
your corner?”
“Because we’re not going to be boxing?”
“You know what I mean,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “For
emotional support.”
I look around the table, about to make a joke about not bringing hockey
players to a black-tie event for emotional support. But all the guys are
staring back at me, jaws tight, nodding their heads like the decision is
already made.
They want to be there for me.
The realization hits me so hard that I tear up. They know I have their
backs, and they want to have mine too.
“I mean, I do still have five seats at my table.” I let the admission slip
out, even though I hadn’t intended to say anything.
“I’ll take one,” McCabe says next to me, and gives my knee another
secretly supportive squeeze.
“I will too,” Colt says.
“Me too,” Drew adds.
“Me three. Or four?” Luke adds. “Haven’t gotten to dust off my tux in
at least a month.”
“Having to dress up in a monkey suit for some fancy event is not the
motivation here,” Zach says with a sigh. “But I’ll take the last seat.”
“Who else is going?” Luke asks.
“Wilcott and his wife. And your parents.”
He leans back and tilts his head so it rests against the back of the booth,
letting out a big sigh. “I didn’t know I was signing up to hang out with my
parents,” he groans. “Walsh, take my spot instead?”
“No can do,” Walsh tells him. “Marissa’s coming out with the kids for
the first two games.”
“I suuure am,” she slurs, reaching her head up to plant a sloppy kiss on
his cheek. He just laughs and shakes his head as he looks down at her
fondly.
“Besides, you have the best parents,” I remind Luke.
“You just think that because they’re not your parents.”
 “I think that because they’re awesome.” I want to tell him a bit about
my parents so maybe he’ll appreciate his own, but I’m aware enough to
realize that I have no idea what his childhood was like any more than he
knows what mine was like.
“You only think they’re awesome because you don’t have to see your
nearly seventy-year-old dad making out with your mom every chance he
gets.”
I laugh. “There are way worse problems than your parents being
married for almost forty years and still being very much in love.”
“Well,” McCabe says next to me with a chuckle, “this is going to be
fun.”
Fun is not the word I’d use to describe how I’m feeling about this event.
However, now that I know they’re all coming with me, I feel slightly less
sick to my stomach about having to go.

’m never . . . wearing . . . a dress . . . again.” The words leave my lips

“I on ragged breaths between kisses where McCabe has me pushed up
against the door of my hotel room.
The way he fingered me in the back of the cab on the way to the hotel,
bringing me almost to orgasm, then pulling out right as we arrived at our
destination, has me desperate for release.
This is a dangerous game we’re playing, making out in the back of a cab
and sneaking around in the hotel when we could easily be caught.
Thankfully, I gave him my second room key before we got out of the car,
and we headed up separately, both managing to make it here without
anyone seeing us. Whether he can get out of here tomorrow morning
without getting caught remains to be seen.
“I love you in a dress,” he says, pulling back to look down at me. The
pure need I see in his eyes has me clenching my thighs. “Easy access to
your pussy is my favorite thing. The way you were dripping all over my
hand”—he licks his lips—“I just want to taste you now.”
He drops to his knees, sliding his hands along my thighs, up and under
my dress, then pulling my thong down my legs so I can step out of it.
Pushing my dress up to my hips, he loops one arm inside my thigh and
brings my leg up so my calf is resting on his shoulder. Then he leans in and
breathes deeply, the act making me whimper. “God, the fucking scent of
you,” he all but growls. “You smell like sex. Like you can’t wait for me to
make you come.”
“I can’t.” I’m so turned on, I’m having trouble catching my breath. “I
need you.”
“I need you too,” he says, those green eyes flicking up to meet mine.
“Not just like this, Alessandra. I need you in every way. Sometimes it feels
like I don’t know what I would do without you in my life.”
I stare down at him, on his knees before me, thinking that it’s too soon
to feel that way, that we don’t know each other well enough yet. But even
though I keep telling myself this, the truth is, I feel the same. I don’t want to
go back to my lonely existence, where I used work as an excuse to avoid
relationships.
“This . . . with you . . . it just feels right. It feels like this was meant to
be,” I tell him.
He lifts my leg as he shrugs out of his suit coat, tossing it to the side
before leaning in, running his tongue from the bottom of my slit, all the way
through my center, and up to my clit, where he circles it before looking up
at me again as I moan. “Maybe this was meant to be. We met at the wrong
time, under the wrong circumstances. We should never have ended up here,
together.” He presses another kiss to my clit. “And yet we did. Because this
is where we were always meant to be.”
I thread my fingers through his dark hair, wishing this cast was coming
off soon but knowing I still have weeks of wearing it. “Yes,” I say as he
brings his face back to me, licking and sucking until I’m panting his name.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he demands, as he slips two fingers inside me
and curls them up to hit the place he knows will bring me to orgasm.
“I’m yours,” I say effortlessly, my hips pressing forward to meet his
fingers as I try to increase the pressure of his tongue on my clit.
He pulls back long enough to say, “Promise me.” And then he’s licking
and sucking and bringing me right to the edge of release. My jaw hangs
open, and I’m gasping for air, incapable of speaking, so he stops right as
I’m about to come.
“Promise me,” he grinds out, the words sounding like he’s in pain.
“Unless you don’t want to.”
 “I promise,” I assure him on a shaky exhale. And then waves of pleasure
ripple through me as he brings me right over the precipice, and I cry out
incoherent promises of forever as lightning runs through my veins and
every part of me lights up like I’m on fire.
I collapse forward, catching myself with my good hand on his shoulder,
but he’s standing, picking me up and carrying me into the room in the next
second. My mind dazed and my limbs weak, I melt against him, kissing his
neck along the way. Putting me back on my feet at the end of the bed, he
turns me around and unzips my dress, letting it drop, and then unhooks my
bra, tossing it to the side so I’m standing naked before him.
His clothes are off just as quickly, and he fists himself, his cock huge
and hard in his grip. I pull my lower lip between my teeth as I look down at
it.
“I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” he tells me.
“W-what?” It’s a strangled gasp, and my core aches in response.
“That’s not what this is between us,” he says, bringing both his hands to
my neck and running his thumbs along my jaw as he holds my gaze. “Every
time I’m with you, it feels less and less like fucking, and more and more
like . . . I don’t know. I want to make love to you.”
“Is there a difference?” I ask, attempting a flippant tone as I try to keep
that last, thinning wall around my heart, even as I wonder why I bother.
He’s so ingrained into my soul at this point, I don’t think I could live
without him. I couldn’t protect myself from getting hurt now if I tried, and
I’m pretty sure there’s no need to keep trying.
“You tell me. You just came apart on my tongue and told me this was
forever.”
I did?
“Ronan,” I whisper as my chest tightens. I have so many emotions
rushing through me as I bask in his adoration.
After my failed marriage, I never thought I’d say “forever” again. But,
I’m ready to say it now. Things with him are different than anything I’ve
ever experienced—the closeness, the intimacy, his protective instincts.
He’s my person, the one who would do anything for me. I was ready to
go public with our relationship days ago, just so he didn’t feel like some
secret I was hiding.
I’d take the fallout. I’d lose the award I’ve worked my whole career for.
I’d do it for him, and I’d do it without any regrets. Because he’s worth it.
 “Yes?” He smirks down at me.
With my heart racing, I reach out, stroking him in my good hand. “I
need you inside me. I need to feel how only you can make me feel. And I
need you to promise me that you’re in this for good, too.”
“Oh, Sunshine . . .” Picking me up with both arms, he puts a knee on the
bed and leans down to lay me out below him. “I’ve never not wanted you.
I’ve just been waiting for you to want me, too.”
“Wanting me,” I tell him, before sucking in a sharp breath when his lips
meet my nipple, “is not the same as wanting forever.”
He hums a disapproving sound, and the vibrations send shockwaves
through my body.
“With you, it is,” he says, and something about the simplicity of his
words has me melting. He plants an elbow next to my head as he slides into
me, bringing his lips to meet mine. And as I wrap my legs around his hips
and thread my fingers into his hair, nothing has ever felt so right. The way
our bodies fit together perfectly, the way he takes care of me physically and
emotionally, the way my body feels as he slams into me over and over
leaving me panting with need. It’s exactly what I need.
He is exactly what I need.
The fact that the sex is so good, that he has me coming again in a matter
of minutes, has more admissions of my feelings tumbling out as the
pleasure overtakes my senses. No matter how good it is, I could live
without the sex. But I’m not sure I could live without him.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Six
McCabe

MCCABE
My sister’s flight home tonight got canceled, so she’s staying
with me.
SUNSHINE
Oh, okay. So this is my warning that I shouldn’t sneak across
the hall in nothing but sexy lingerie tonight?
MCCABE
I want you to meet her. But yeah, preferably with clothes on.
SUNSHINE
I thought our plan was to keep our relationship a secret until
after the playoffs?
MCCABE
We’re keeping it a secret from the general public. A small group
of people close to us already knows. Of course I was going to
tell Sloane.
SUNSHINE
Meeting her still feels like a really big step.
MCCABE
Too big?
SUNSHINE
No. It’s just that you didn’t ask me to meet her earlier, so I
wasn’t expecting this and now I’m just trying to wrap my head
around the idea.
 MCCABE
The only reason I didn’t ask you to meet her earlier was that
she was only here for the day and I was having lunch with her,
and I knew you had that big meeting all day. Plus, I wanted to
tell her about us before she met you.
SUNSHINE
* Deep breaths *
MCCABE
Stop being weird about this. Your brother already knows we’re
together and now my sister does too. Obviously we’re going to
meet each other’s families.
SUNSHINE
Yeah, but when you meet my parents this weekend, we’re still
going to be pretending we’re not together.
MCCABE
That’s getting harder and harder.
SUNSHINE
That’s what she said . . .
MCCABE

SUNSHINE
What time do you want me to come over?
MCCABE
How about right now?

h my god, you did not!” my sister’s peals of laughter ring out after
“O AJ tells her about the time she intentionally wore a vibrant pink suit
to a dinner with all the GMs, because one of them had insinuated
that women didn’t belong in the upper echelons of hockey management.
“I did. I was the only person there not wearing black or navy blue. And
you know what? If that asshole hadn’t made the comment, I probably would
have worn a black suit too, just to fit in. Instead, that night made me realize
that maybe I wasn’t meant to fit in. Maybe I was meant to stand out.”
 “You’re my fucking hero,” Sloane says with a big smile. “Like,
seriously, someday I want to be a girl boss like you.”
I’m not at all surprised that these two have hit it off. Sloane’s in
healthcare management, and as a single mom to two active girls, she’s
balancing work and life as best she can. She has big aspirations but hasn’t
had the luxury of putting in the time and effort it would take to advance in
her career like I know she wants to. It’s part of why us living in the same
city had been so appealing—we’d have been able to help each other out.
“Just be careful you don’t girl boss so hard that you forget to have a life.
I went down that route, and don’t necessarily recommend it.” AJ’s gaze
slides to me, a small smile gracing her lips as she looks at Abby, who is
currently cuddled into my chest, sucking on her pacifier. I’m sure her eyes
are half-closed, because she feels like dead weight, exhausted after the
video chat we had with Sloane’s daughters before AJ came over.
“Now that my kids are both in school, I finally feel like I can be a bit
more dedicated to my job. Like this trip for these meetings today wouldn’t
have been possible before, but because my neighbor has kids my kids’ ages
and she could just bring mine home from school with hers, I got to come to
Boston.”
Sloane had gotten her girls on the bus this morning before heading to
the airport, made it to Boston before lunchtime so we could have a quick
meal together, then had an afternoon full of meetings at a hospital in the
same network as the one she works at. She was supposed to be home by
bedtime, but bad storms in the Nashville area grounded some flights, and
her plane never left the airport to head to Boston. Instead, she’s scheduled
on a flight home tomorrow in the late afternoon.
“Not being able to step up like this before,” she continues, “held me
back from advancing in my career. Not that I’d change the time I had with
my kids when they were younger. But it does feel nice to be recognized for
my skills at work, too.”
AJ studies my little sister as she talks, and I think she senses her need
for validation. “Can I give you some unsolicited advice?”
“Sure.” Sloane looks at AJ with open admiration, but I’m a bit worried
about what AJ is going to say. She can be blunt, and I don’t want her to
unintentionally dim my sister’s newfound enthusiasm.
“Do the best job you can do at work, but only insofar as it doesn’t take
away from your family. I know I don’t have children, so I don’t know what
it’s like to balance kids and a career, but looking at it from this side . . . I’d
trade my success for a family any day. The validation you get from work
will only carry you so far in life. The love you get from your family”—AJ
swallows, and I think she’s talking hypothetically until she looks at me and
I realize that she’s not. She’s talking about us—“it’s so much more
important.”
Sloane smiles and says, “I want to be you when I grow up.”
“Honey,” AJ says, reaching over to take Sloane’s hand and squeezing it.
“You’re going to be so much better. Because you’re getting this whole
work/life balance under control a decade before I did. You’re going to crush
this.”
I clear my throat, because suddenly I’m a bit choked up, and that startles
Abby and she lets out a whine.
“Here,” AJ says, standing. “Let me put her to bed so you two can have
some more time together. I’ll be back in a bit.” She takes Abby from my lap
after I give her goodnight kisses, cuddles my baby into her chest, and
carries her toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.
Once she’s out of earshot, Sloane says, “Holy shit. She’s amazing.”
I nod, because there’s no denying it. “She is.”
“And to think that you used to hate her.” Sloane has had years of
hearing me bitch about AJ, so she was appropriately shocked at lunch when
I told her how things had changed.
“I think it was just easier to hate her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because look what happened when I stopped.”
“What happened? You’re both happy for the first time, maybe ever?
Sounds just terrible.” She laughs lightly with a shake of her head.
“When did you become such a smartass?”
“I was born this way.”
“Is it going to bother you if she stays here tonight? She pretty much
sleeps here every night now.”
“Why would it bother me?” Sloane furrows her brow.
“I don’t know. I’m just making sure.”
“I love this for you. I love that you’re happy. I love that you guys found
each other and are so good together. And I love the way she is with
Abby . . . how she talks to her and treats her like she’s her own little person.
I’ve dated guys who . . . I don’t know. Who treated my kids like they were
an inconvenience, I guess?”
“This is when it’s good we don’t live in the same place, because I’d
probably want to kill a guy who treated you and the girls that way.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but Abby lets out a shriek that has me
standing. “Let me just go check on them. I’ll be right back.”
I rush down the hall and find Abby’s door cracked. I’m about to push it
open and walk in, when I hear AJ, her voice soft and calming, saying,
“Yeah, if I had to burp like that, I’d probably scream about it too.”
In the corner of the room, she’s rocking Abby in the glider, rubbing her
back in a circular motion as she hums a song. I’ve never heard her sing.
Didn’t even know it was a talent she had. And yet, there’s something so
inevitable about this scene . . . her sitting in my daughter’s room, rocking
her and singing to her before putting her to bed. She really was meant to be
a mom, and I want this for her more than anything.
I want her here in my house every single day.
I want her to be Abby’s mom.
I want her to be my wife.

ude,” Hartmann says as he steps up to me in Walsh’s backyard late

“D the next morning.
All around us, the families of our teammates are talking and
laughing while children run wild at this team party, celebrating the Rebels
making it to the finals. My eyes don’t leave the other side of the large stone
patio, where AJ’s holding Abby’s hands to steady her as she takes tentative
steps. Next to her, Sloane chats her up.
“You didn’t tell me your sister was so hot.”
That gets my attention. “Alright, Lover Boy. Don’t even think about
going there. Besides, she’s too old for you.”
Granted, she’s maybe four years older than him. But given his
reputation, I can’t picture him with someone with kids. He’s not the type to
settle down. I also try to ignore the fact that she’s closer to his age than AJ
is to mine.
 “I don’t know,” he says, his eyes back on AJ and Sloane. “Older women
are kind of hot.”
He’s not wrong.
“Do not fucking look at my sister,” I threaten. “The last thing in the
world she needs is a child like you chasing after her. She’s already raising
two kids of her own.”
“She seriously has kids?”
I don’t miss the way his eyes travel up and down her body when he asks
this question.
“Yeah, and an asshole of an ex-husband, so just keep your distance.
Besides, she lives in Nashville and is flying home tonight. Put her out of
your mind.”
“I don’t know, I think she’s burned in my mind now.” His chuckle has
me realizing that he’s just trying to piss me off, so I punch him in the
shoulder, muttering something about him being an immature prick. I watch
AJ pick Abby up and hand her off to Sloane before she holds her phone up,
shielding her eyes from the midday sun.
AJ turns and walks away, to the far side of the lawn, while Sloane walks
toward me, carrying Abby. “You going to introduce me?” Hartmann asks.
“Get lost. For real.”
He’s laughing as he turns and walks away, but not before I see him wink
at Sloane.
Abby reaches for me as soon as I’m close enough to take her, and then
she snuggles her head into the crevice between my neck and shoulder,
yawning. “Walking is hard work, huh, baby girl?” I say as I rub her back.
“I can’t believe you were even thinking about leaving,” Sloane says
quietly as she stands next to me, her gaze sweeping across this scene. “You
have this whole family you’ve created for yourself here.”
“Well, this thing with AJ is still very new, and I was thinking of leaving
before it started.”
“I mean, even what you have with your teammates is great. The way
you guys are there for each other . . . the way you give each other shit like
actual brothers would. And then just add AJ on top of that, and the way she
is with Abby, and how much you two clearly adore each other. Don’t walk
away from this,” she insists.
“I’m not planning to,” I tell her. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about
that, actually. I’m really hopeful that my new agent can work out a contract
with the Rebels after Trevor almost screwed me over. But if for any reason
he can’t, I’m going to retire. There’s just . . . there’s no way I’d even think
about leaving her.”
“Normally, if anyone told me they were ready to give up their career
and change their whole life for someone they’d been dating for less than a
month, I’d have a lot of questions and probably be pushing back. But
somehow, between you guys, I don’t know . . . it makes sense. It feels like
you’re already in a long-term, committed relationship. And AJ was clearly
born to be a mom. You guys going to have more kids?”
“It’s complicated.” Even though I don’t think AJ would mind Sloane
knowing about her hysterectomy, it’s not my story to tell.
“Well, no matter what you guys choose, she’ll still have Abby. That girl
adores her.”
Abby lifts her head when she hears her name, but she’s too tired to hold
it up and her cheek crashes back down onto my shoulder. It’s definitely
getting close to her nap time, and all that walking around with AJ seems to
have tired her out.
“You know, spending this time with you guys yesterday and today
makes me wonder if I should be thinking about moving up here with my
girls, instead of you moving down to Nashville. We have friends and
neighbors down there, but nothing else is really holding us to the place. It’s
not like Wayne ever sees the girls, now that he’s moved to Florida.”
I hate her ex-husband and how he’s treated her, but that dirtbag moving
to Florida and being out of their lives is the best possible end to that
situation. Her moving up to Massachusetts would be even better.
“I’d like that,” I tell her, smiling. “If there’s anything I can do to help
sway you in that direction, let me know.”
“I need to think about it a bit more,” Sloane says, right as AJ walks up
to us. The look on her face is almost joyous.
“You’re never going to believe who that was on the phone,” she says to
me.
“You going to make me guess?”
“No,” she laughs. “It was Aidan Renaud.”
“Oh yeah? Is that asshole finally coming back?”
“I thought he was your best friend?” Sloane says, head tilting as she
looks up at me.
 “He is. But he got injured last summer, and since he’s been out this
season, I’ve heard from him exactly two times.”
“Well, I hope he’s not on your shit list, because he just got cleared to
play.”
“In the finals?” I don’t know if this is good news or not. He’s a fucking
talented winger and has been on my line for most of the time I’ve played in
Boston, but we have a solid first line now and we’ve played together all
season without him. I’m not sure what it would be like introducing him
back into the rotation.
“No,” she says. “His last surgery was only a few months ago, but his
doctor is confident he’ll be back for pre-season training this fall.”
“Good. I want him back for next season,” I say, and when her eyes meet
mine, there’s worry in her gaze. Neither of us knows whether I’ll be playing
for the Rebels next season, and I haven’t told her that I’ll be here with her
regardless of whether I’m still on the team.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Seven
McCabe

I
’m not sure what I expected to feel when I saw Chet again last night
during Game 1. As AJ and I have grown even closer in the last week
since the semifinals, and settled into a routine that has her basically
living at my place with Abby and me, I expected to feel the same rage I felt
the last time I saw him. Especially now that I know that his berating AJ in
the hallway that day wasn’t a one-time occurrence, but rather a pattern of
behavior.
But when I saw him standing behind the bench, sporting a clipboard and
a receding hairline, I had no desire to pummel him again. In fact, I wanted
to thank him.
He disappointed her in every way, leaving the door wide open for me to
show her exactly how she should be treated. He never deserved her, and in
the end, she’s getting someone who does. Or who is working every day to
deserve her.
Scoring the winning goal in Game 1 last night was also its own kind of
reward, and I made sure to skate past St. Louis’s bench and make eye
contact with Chet after I did. My smirk and head nod had his face and
balding head turning bright red.
But tonight, as I walk into this charity gala in downtown St. Louis with
my teammates, I realize how difficult it’s going to be not to let my feelings
for AJ show.
 I wouldn’t care if my teammates figured it out. These guys are starting
to feel less like people I work with and more like family. I’m pretty used to
being a lone wolf, just like Renaud, which I suspect is why the two of us
were always close. But this season without him has made me realize that
hockey’s actually more fun when you open yourself up a bit to your
teammates and step up and act like the captain they expect you to be.
But don’t open up so much that they realize you’re dating your boss, I
remind myself.
“Alright, so what’s the plan?” Hartmann asks. “How are we keeping AJ
away from her ex?”
“I think the best plan is just to make sure one of us is with her at all
times. Hopefully then he won’t even approach her,” I say.
Colt eyes me, and it’s like I can see the gears turning in his head as he
catches the protective tone in my voice. “You know we’re not only here for
her, right?”
I shove my hands into my pockets as we walk across the ornate lobby
with its walls of gilded mirrors, plush velvet couches and chairs, and
chandeliers of crystal dripping from the ceiling. My high school prom was
held here, and I’m pretty sure not a single thing has changed. “What are you
talking about?”
“You clearly think she needs backup here, which means you know more
than we do. AJ doesn’t share personal information about herself with
anyone on the team. But she clearly has with you. So we’re here for you,
too. And for whatever’s going on between the two of you.”
I suck in a sharp breath as I glance beyond Colt at the rest of my friends.
Only Hartmann looks surprised. “Huh,” he says, as his head bobs with
understanding. “I had often suspected some partiality, especially on
McCabe’s side.”
“Did you just fucking quote Pride and Prejudice?” Zach laughs.
“Yeah, Evie makes me watch it at least once a year.”
“Who the fuck is Evie?” Drew asks.
“Wilcott’s daughter?” Hartmann says. “My best friend.”
“Wait,” Colt drags out the word with laughter in his voice. “You’re best
friends with Wilcott’s daughter? How . . .?”
“We grew up together. Her mom works with my mom, training
equestrians.”
 Frank Hartmann made his billions in business, but their family owns a
lavish home on the North Shore that’s also an equestrian center. He throws
a holiday party there every year for the team, and it’s like walking into a
mansion from the Gilded Age—like you’re on the set of the Great Gatsby or
something. It’s hard to imagine growing up with that kind of wealth, but
Luke is somehow still well-adjusted and down to earth.
“Isn’t Wilcott’s daughter a figure skater or something?” Drew asks.
“Yeah. She’s a pairs skater. Just took third in a big competition in
Europe, but she’s coming home soon. She’s always home for a month or so
in the summer, before the training and competitions gear back up. Hence,
the annual viewing of Darcy and Lizzie.”
Zach huffs out a laugh. “The BBC version, or the newer movie?”
“Always the BBC version. All eight hours of it,” Hartmann groans.
“Why? Are you a fan?”
“I mean, Ashleigh’s made me watch both versions several times.”
“Uh, so back to the point,” Colt says, turning his head toward me. “This
is . . . a thing?”
I can tell he’s being careful not to use AJ’s name here, as we approach
the doors to the ballroom, and I appreciate his discretion. “It’s a long story,
and one I’ll tell you when we’re not here.”
“Alright,” he says with another nod. “Top secret. Right, guys?”
They all mumble their agreement as I give the people at the doors our
table number, and when we sweep into the room and all eyes are on us. This
is a room full of St. Louis’s wealthiest residents, and I recognize a fair
number of people who have connections to their hockey team.
“It didn’t occur to me that Boston players might not be welcome here,” I
grumble as our group moves toward the bar.
“Fuck ’em,” Drew says. “They’re just pissed they lost you years ago
and you scored the winning goal last night.”
I see AJ across the room and stop short at the sight of her. Her back’s to
me, and she’s wearing a sparkly pale pink dress with a low V in the back. I
know it has a matching V in the front, and as sexy as I thought she looked
when she tried it on at that fancy department store a couple of weeks ago, I
didn’t consider how I’d feel about other people seeing her look so gorgeous
in it.
She does a lot to keep herself buttoned up and professional at work—
suit pants and jackets, trousers and sweaters, and dresses that don’t reveal
anything except the lower half of her muscular legs.
But tonight, with her hair curled in loose waves and pinned to the side
so it falls forward over one shoulder, her back is on display and so are the
curves of her hips and ass. I know that dress has a long slit up one side of
the front, so when she takes a step, her entire leg will show.
Suddenly, as I watch her move from one group of people to another, I
note the way men look at her and I’m feeling incredibly territorial. I want to
tattoo my name across her collarbones so that anyone looking at her knows
she’s mine.
“Put your fucking tongue back in your mouth,” Colt growls at me, and
it’s only then that I take stock of myself. My tongue isn’t literally hanging
out, but I have stopped, frozen in place, to gawk at her. My eyes slide
around the room to see if anyone else has noticed, and at a table in the front
of the room, Chet is watching me closely. He follows my gaze to AJ and his
lips curve up in . . . I don’t even know what. It’s not a smile, or a look of
disgust. It’s more like he’s plotting something, and that thought has my
stomach turning sour.
“Dude, you’re down bad,” Hartmann mutters with a laugh.
“It’s mutual, though?” Drew confirms.
“Yeah, it’s mutual.”
“Let’s go get a drink,” Zach says. “Maybe try not to gawk at her if you
don’t want everyone in this room to see what’s now so obvious to us.”
“I’m fucking trying, alright?” I grumble, turning toward the bar off at
the side of the room.
I manage not to scan the room for AJ while we order our drinks, and
once we have them, we head straight to our table. As we arrive there, AJ
approaches with a couple that I’ve never seen before. But I immediately
know these are her parents—she’s got the same dark hair and eyes as her
dad, though his is run through with gray now, giving him a distinguished
look, and the same straight nose, full lips, and sharp jawline as her mother.
“Guys,” AJ says, nodding toward us, “I’d like to introduce my parents,
tonight’s hosts for this event.”
She goes through a relatively formal introduction that has me
wondering if she was a debutante or something, and when she’s done, her
dad says, “I should have known my daughter would invite the opposing
team tonight.” It’s said without pride or hostility, like he’s trying to break
the ice and make us laugh.
 But I watch the way her shoulders stiffen, and I know she feels slighted,
or maybe even attacked. “Just the kind of ballsy move you’d expect from
the best GM in the league, huh?” I say.
Instead of seizing on the opportunity to compliment his daughter, Mr.
Jones says, “Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
My free hand curls into a fist at my side.
“Nah,” Colt says, stepping up next to me, like he’s trying to make sure I
keep my mouth shut. “We don’t need to wait for the final round of voting to
know she’s the best. She proves it day in and day out with how she’s turned
our team—and our whole organization—around.”
And then he’s spouting off statistics showcasing what she’s
accomplished, and comparing her to other GMs in the league—even though
now the final round of voting is down to only two people: AJ and her
mentor, Joey Connelly.
Frank Hartmann and his wife walk up as Colt is wrapping up his pitch
for AJ winning the GM of the Year award, and the way the Hartmanns greet
the Joneses, I realize that they run in the same circles despite living in
different regions of the country—which tells me even more about AJ’s
background.
And as the two couples chat, AJ turns toward us, walks through our half
of the circle so we turn to follow her, and then stops to look back at Colt.
“You didn’t have to do that. But . . .” She takes a deep breath, then
relaxes and gives us a small, relieved smile. “. . . thank you.”

I ’m headed toward the empty bar on my way back from the bathroom,
when Chet steps into my path. I should move around him and keep
walking, but I’m so caught off guard by how he popped out of nowhere that
I stop.
“Still following AJ around like a little bitch, I see,” he says.
My jaw clenches, but I force myself to relax as I consider how I can
manipulate his insecurities rather than react to his words. “Some people are
born leaders; it makes it easy to support them. Not that you’d know
anything about that.”
 His face starts to turn red like last night when I scored the winning goal,
and I realize how good the years have been to AJ, and how unkind they’ve
been to him—not just in terms of their looks, but their successes as well.
“You think having her attention is something special? That the way she
looks at you is some sort of prize?” he sneers.
I should be worried that he’s seeing something between us, but I’m not.
I want him to be jealous. I want him to feel her loss so much that he can’t
be happy. Because losing someone like Alessandra Jones is the kind of
thing that could destroy a man. And I want to revel in his destruction.
I give him a smirk instead of a response.
“You’ll see what it’s like to live in her shadow,” he says.
“I’m not in competition with her,” I tell him. “I have my career, and I
want her to achieve everything she sets her mind to in her career. I want her
to be happy and fulfilled. The level of success she’s achieved . . . man, the
only people who’d be threatened by that are those who are weak, those who
can’t let other people succeed without trying to tear them down. So I guess
what you have to ask yourself is: why did you have to make her feel small
in order to feel good about yourself? Sounds like a personal failing to me.”
The way he shifts his weight, his body rigid, resembles a bull stomping
his foot as he gets ready to charge.
“I should have pressed charges when I had the chance,” he sneers. “I
thought forcing her to trade you instead would get you out of the picture.”
Blood thrums through my veins, adrenaline rushing my system. Instead
of chasing the rush I’d feel if I pounded him into the ground again, I force
myself to breathe deeply and stay calm—despite his apparent admission to
blackmailing or bribing her to trade me.
I know that, more than anything, Chet wants me to react. He’s goading
me, trying to get me to throw a punch like I did all those years ago. And as
much as I want to take out my anger about AJ hiding this truth from me, I
refuse to let this weak man provoke me.
“How’d that work out for you?” I ask instead. “Because she divorced
your ass and ended up in Boston, so I’d say I ended up on top.”
“Of course that little slut would follow you.”
I shove my fists into my pockets, feigning nonchalance at his pettiness.
Karma’s going to be such a bitch to him in the end.
“There was absolutely nothing going on between AJ and me back then,”
I say. “But I’m sorry that you were so incapable of keeping her happy, of
satisfying her, that you worried she’d be looking elsewhere.”
“Quite the opposite. I had to look elsewhere because she couldn’t give
me what I wanted. You know she can’t give you kids, right?”
The selfish bastard doesn’t even try to hide his true colors.
“Of course she can. AJ was born to be a mom. Just because she can’t
carry a baby herself doesn’t mean she can’t have kids, and only a spineless
asshole with serious inferiority issues would think otherwise.”
“There you are, McCabe.” I hear Zach’s voice from behind me before
he steps up next to me.
No one feels threatened by Zach; he has a Zen-like calmness about him
that puts people at ease. But the one and only time I ever saw him lose his
shit, fighting Ashleigh’s ex-boyfriend, I learned how deadly he actually is.
And the tone in his voice that’s letting me know he has my back.
Chet doesn’t have the good sense to back down, even with my
teammate standing next to me. “Just because you’re her newest fuckboy⁠—”
Zach’s hand shoots out, thumb and fingers splayed across Chet’s
collarbones and resting at the base of this asshole’s neck. “I’m going to stop
you right there. If you can’t speak with the appropriate level of respect
about our GM, we’re going to have a serious problem. And I guarantee you,
you don’t want to have a problem with us.”
Realizing that he’s in a losing position, Chet takes a small step back,
looks me in the eye, and says, “This isn’t over.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Eight
AJ

I
’m standing here talking to Chet’s parents, because of course they’re
here and wanted to say hello. My third glass of champagne is going
down easy, and I’m realizing that this night hasn’t sucked as badly as I
thought it would.
Conversation at our table over dinner was great because I was
surrounded by people I know and trust. We laughed and talked throughout
the meal, and it was so natural and easy, not like any dinner I’ve had with
my own family.
And that’s when I realized that these people are my family. My team,
the Hartmanns, the Wilcotts, my girlfriends, McCabe and Abby . . . this is
the family I’ve created for myself.
In fact, I’ve never had this much fun or felt this loved at a single one of
my family’s events, and I’m not going to let a conversation with my former
in-laws derail my night. I owe them nothing.
I’m about to excuse myself, when I feel the warmth of McCabe’s large
hand on the small of my back. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he says, “but I
need to steal AJ away for a minute.”
Chet’s parents start to say goodbye, but McCabe turns and guides me
away, as he dips his head so his mouth is right next to my ear. “We have a
problem.”
Thinking he’s about to make a joke about how he can’t wait any longer
to get me naked, or something like that, I flirtatiously reply, “Oh yeah, what
kind of a problem?”
“The kind where your ex-husband knows we’re together and just said
‘This isn’t over.’”
“The fuck?” I groan out the question as my heart pounds so hard I can
feel it in my throat.
“I’ll explain, but we need to get out of here.”
“It’s going to be obvious if we leave together,” I tell him.
“We can leave separately if you want, but the guys have already figured
it out, and so has Chet.”
“The guys? Meaning your teammates?”
“Yeah.” His word is clipped, and it occurs to me that maybe we were
stupid thinking we could hide this. Maybe inviting them here with me was a
mistake, because how could anyone not notice the way we look at each
other, how we always gravitate toward each other? Try as we might, it’s
impossible to hide our feelings, even with stakes this high—in this ballroom
with my family, half of St. Louis’s management team, and our own team
owner, coach, and players.
How did I think this was a good idea? Because your judgment is
clouded. It’s always my father’s voice I hear in these moments of doubt.
Maybe my judgment is clouded, but actually . . . I don’t give a shit.
Perhaps for the first time in my life, I’ve realized that shoving down all
my emotions and putting work above all else didn’t actually keep me safe.
The only thing it “protected” me from was the kind of relationships—
professional, friendly, and romantic—that could bring me great joy.
“Let’s go. We’ll talk about this back at the hotel.”
We don’t say our goodbyes on the way out, and we don’t discuss whats
going on during the quick car ride back to the hotel. Instead, he texts his
teammates a vague update and I reach out to Lauren, scheduling a call in
fifteen minutes.
But the minute the door to my hotel room is shut, I rest my forehead
against his chest, and he wraps his arms around my lower back.
“Alright,” I say, relief washing through me as I find comfort in his arms.
“Tell me what happened back there.”
He walks me through his conversation with Chet, and then says,
“Learning that there’s more to the story about my trade from Chet, instead
of from you, made me feel like I was set up.”
 I sigh, knowing that , he’s right. “I didn’t want to risk reopening that
wound. I was afraid you’d go after Chet when you saw him, and we’d be
right back to where we were eight years ago, with you facing assault
charges.”
“But instead, he came after me, so why don’t you tell me about these
assault charges that I know nothing about.” His voice is level, and I can tell
he’s trying not to be angry at me for withholding information.
“That whole altercation in that hallway eight years ago was captured on
the security cameras. And it clearly showed Chet yelling at me, before you
came out of nowhere and beat the shit out of him. He never even threw a
punch, and didn’t even have time to defend himself.”
His chest rumbles with what feels and sounds like a growl, and I’m sure
he’s remembering everything that happened that day, just as I am. I’ve spent
years trying to put that day behind me, but there’s no way to deny that it
was a tipping point—for my marriage, for my career, and for McCabe’s
career too.
I smooth my palms against his chest and tilt my head up to look at him.
“He threatened to press charges. Assault and battery carries a minimum
sentence of seven years in Missouri, and if the court had considered your
hands as deadly weapons, which wouldn’t have been much of a stretch
given that fighting on the ice is part of your job, you could have spent half
your life in jail if convicted.”
“Alessandra,” he whispers into my hair as he presses a kiss to my
forehead.
“That’s what I meant, when I said I didn’t have a choice but to trade
you. Not only would it have been impossible for you to play for Chet after
that, but if I didn’t trade you, he was going to try to send you to jail.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because that was part of the agreement. If I told you, he’d press
charges.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“In the legal world, I think they call that a plea bargain,” I say with a
sad shrug.
“Only if I had known and agreed to the offer.”
“You would have.”
I don’t mean to sound dismissive, but what other choice would he have
had? The low rattle in his throat is his tacit agreement.
 “I wish I could have told you, because then you’d have understood that
I wasn’t choosing Chet over you. If anything, I was choosing you. And
then, I couldn’t even tell you when I came to Boston, because the statute of
limitations in Missouri is five years. If he’d found you knew, he still could
have pressed charges. That video footage was so damning. There’s no way
you wouldn’t have been convicted.”
He runs his thumb along my jaw and tips my chin up as he says, “That
means you could have told me three years ago. The statute of limitations
would have expired . . .”
“Three years ago, you hated me. We had a decent working relationship
where we kept our distance, and you weren’t doing anything that could risk
your career for me. It seemed safer to leave the past in the past.”
“Were you afraid that telling me might have led us down this path
sooner?” His hands move along my shoulders, down the sides of my
breasts, and to my hips, where he grips me possessively.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly as I bring my hands up to cup his jaw in
my palms, smoothing my fingers across the perpetual stubble that I find
along his cheeks. “I thought I was protecting you, and I was probably also
trying to protect myself. Honestly, I just tried to put it out of my mind.”
“Because . . .?”
“Because when you’ve been married to someone like Chet, when
you’ve been fooled and made a fool of, it’s hard to trust your own
judgment. When it comes to work, I’m always sure what the right thing to
do is. But in my personal life, I don’t know . . . it just felt easier to only
focus on work.”
“You deserve so much more than what he gave you,” he says. “You
deserve everything.”
I press my eyes closed as I try not to let the tears fall. It feels so good to
be with someone who always has my back and wants what’s best for me.
“And that’s what I feel like you’re giving me. I just hope I can do the
same in return.”
“I’m not sure why you would even question that. You are everything I
never knew I wanted. Your strength and determination, your tenderness
with Abby, the fierce way you protect the people you care about . . . how
can you even doubt that you could be that person for me?”
I gulp over the lump in my throat. I’m about to respond when my phone
rings. “Shit,” I mutter, moving to open the small bag that hangs from my
shoulder because I recognize the ringtone for a video call. “It’s Lauren, I
have to get this.”
“Alright, I’m going to call Jameson,” he says, but his phone buzzes just
as he pulls it from his pocket. “And right on cue, that’s a text from him
telling me to fucking call him.”
He heads into the bedroom, and I take a seat at the desk in the small
living room. Once I’ve updated Lauren on the situation, she agrees that the
best course of action is to get ahead of the story, and she suggests we pull
Morgan into the conversation. Together, we craft a statement, and Morgan
has a plan for some social media coverage to “make us the couple
everyone’s rooting for.”
I’m hopeful she can soften people’s view of us together.
“You should get Frank and Sarah’s approval first,” Lauren says, when I
tell her that McCabe just read the statement I’d texted him and gave me a
thumbs up. “As much as it sucks to say this, you’re not releasing this
statement as an individual. You’re releasing it as a representative of this
team.”
I want to call bullshit on that, because this is my private life we’re
talking about, but she’s right. If I weren’t the Rebels’ GM, I wouldn’t need
to put out a statement about being in a relationship with their team captain.
“I’ll tell them I’m releasing a statement. What it says isn’t up for debate.
We’ve already worked through that, McCabe’s good with it, and they’ll
need to trust our judgment here.”
“It’s up to you how you want to handle this,” Lauren says, pulling her
long red hair back into a bun. “But I also know you’re a realist, and we
don’t know what the public’s perception of this will be. It could really go
either way.”
“No matter what happens,” Morgan says, “we’re here for you. Just try
to block out the noise for the next few days, because people will have
opinions, whether they’re entitled to them or not.”
When we’re off our call, I text Frank and Sarah with an update and a
link to my statement.
FRANK
This is the right statement, given the situation. Go for it.
SARAH
Hold up.
 Yes, the statement is good as is. But I think this needs to come
from the Rebels, so it’s clear that the organization is aware and
supporting you in this.
I’d like to update PR and have them send the statement out to
the media, immediately. Are you both okay with that?
FRANK
Sounds like a smart move.

This is all happening so fast; I want to pause for a minute to just

breathe. I hate that I feel like I’m spiraling, like there’s a crisis that I’m
trying to manage before it’s a catastrophe, all because Chet won’t stay out
of my life.
But I don’t have the time to pause because we need our statement to go
out before Chet can say anything, so it appears proactive, rather than
reactive.
AJ
Go for it.

I hope I don’t regret this, I think as I toss my phone and it clatters onto
the desk.
“Everything okay?”
I jump at the sound of McCabe’s voice behind me, and spin in the chair
to find him sitting on the couch, legs spread, elbows on his knees. His
tuxedo jacket is off, the bowtie is gone, and the top few buttons are undone.
With his sleeves rolled up and his muscular forearms on display, he looks
like dessert, and I’m suddenly starving.
Get your fucking hormones under control. This is a crisis, not the start
of a sex scene.
“Yeah, it’s out of my hands now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the Rebels are going to release the statement. Morgan said the
best thing we can do is stay off social media for the next few days. Oh, and
she wants to take some pictures of us when we’re back in Boston—
domestic stuff like us playing with Abby, to use on social media and release
to the press.”
He clears his throat. “That’s fine, but we’re not staging them. The way
you are with Abby—the way you play with her, and feed her, and rock her
to sleep—you treat her like she’s your own kid. Morgan can capture those
pictures, not something that looks forced. I don’t want anyone claiming that
your relationship with Abby is just for show.”
“People will say it anyway, Ronan. You need to prepare yourself for
that. There will be people who love this for us, and there will be haters. The
haters will be way louder.”
He tilts his head, looking at me like he’s assessing me. Then he looks
down at his hands, before looking back at me. “You’re scared.” It’s not a
question.
“I’d be a fool to act like this isn’t going to be a big deal. I know I seem
like I don’t give a shit what people think, but deep down, I don’t know . . . ”
I look out the window, but all I see is the darkness of the office buildings
that surround us. “I like being successful. I like being good at what I do. I
like the respect and admiration it’s always granted me. And the thought of
losing that⁠—”
He stands so abruptly that I stop speaking, and in a few quick steps, he’s
in front of me, kneeling. “You’re wound so tight about this, I’m afraid
you’ll snap.”
“You would be too if your whole career was on the line.”
“My whole career is on the line, AJ. And after I just accidentally
revealed our relationship when Frank wanted us to wait, it’s even more
unlikely he’ll keep me next year. You're not the only one who stands to lose
something here. But you are the one thing I cannot stand to lose. So if this
contract with Boston doesn’t work out, I may retire early.”
“What? No!” My whole body involuntarily pulls back from his
embrace, but he doesn’t let me go. What the hell is he talking about? He’s
one of the best forwards in the league. He can’t retire early.
I stare up at him. “You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can. Hockey has been my only love for most of my life. Then I
stepped into my role as a dad, and now that I have you too, everything just
feels . . . different. More complete. I’d miss playing, but I’m nearing the end
of my career anyway. There’s no way I’m packing Abby and myself up and
moving somewhere else—not without you. There’s no end to this situation
that doesn’t involve me staying in Boston.”
“I don’t want you to walk away from your career for me.” It would add
so much pressure to our relationship if one person sacrificed everything to
be with the other.
 “Really? Because I can’t think of a single better reason to retire. I would
do anything for you. And if you don’t already know that, then I’ll have to
do a better job showing you. Which should be easier, to be honest, now that
we’re not going to have to hide this.”
I know what he means, but nothing about going public is going to be
easy—especially not during the finals, when we’re competing for the Cup
and I’m up for GM of the Year . . . or was, anyway.
“And I’m going to start by helping you relax a bit.” He licks his lower
lip and pulls it between his teeth as his eyes rake up and down my body so I
have no doubt about his intentions. “But first, let’s get you out of this
gorgeous dress so I don’t ruin it.”
Standing, he holds out his hand, and when I take it, he pulls me up and
leads me back into my bedroom. There’s a dressing area with a sink and a
closet on the opposite side. He turns me so I’m facing the mirror above the
sink.
“You remember the first time we had sex?”
Looking at him in the mirror, I nod. I remember every detail about every
time we’ve been together—they’re etched into my memory the same way
he’s etched himself onto my heart.
“Tonight, I want you to remember what I said that night. I want you to
keep your eyes open and watch yourself come. I want you to see how
beautiful you are when you fall apart on me, and I want you to remember
that I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel this way. The only one who
ever will make you feel this way.”
His promise and desperation come out in equal measure, and it pains me
to realize he’s less sure of my feelings for him than I am of his for me.
“Ronan,” I say, my gaze still locked on him in the mirror as I bring my
arm up and slide my palm along the back of his neck. “I meant what I said
the other night. This is forever for me too.”
He lets out a relieved sigh as his hands come around between us. The
delicious drag of his fingers over my ass as he works the zipper down the
back of the dress has me clenching my thighs together.
Will this ever get old? Will I ever be less attracted to him? God, I hope
not. I hope that I still want to jump him every time I see him, even years
from now. Even when our kids have run us ragged, and we fall into bed
exhausted at night. He’ll still be the person I reach for, no matter what.
 “What?” he asks, pausing his movements as he stares at me in the
mirror.
I press my lips between my teeth as my eyes fill with tears, and his arms
wrap around my waist, pulling me back against him. “Holy shit, AJ, what’s
wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say with a small laugh as I shake my head. “I just . . . I had
this image of us, years from now. We had kids—a few of them—and we
were crawling into bed, exhausted, at the end of the day. But still, we
reached for each other, like we couldn’t bear to be apart.”
“I can’t bear to be apart from you,” he whispers against my hair, then
kisses his way from my ear to my jaw and down my neck. “My life with
you in it is so much more fulfilling, so much more rewarding, than I would
have ever imagined. Hockey’s been wonderful. But I’m not giving up our
relationship to get in a few more years of playing anywhere without you.”
“What about Sloane? I thought you wanted to move to be closer to
her?”
“Well, now we’re talking about the possibility of her moving up here,
instead.”
“You’ve already talked to her about this?” I don’t know if I’m thrilled
he’s so sure, or upset that he’s made these plans without talking to me first.
“I know what I want,” he says, and his eyes focus on me in the mirror as
he slips the straps of the dress over my shoulders and lets it fall to the
ground. He looks down, and a low hiss of air coasts against my skin when
he sees my lace thong and garter belt. All of it is nude, including the thigh-
high stockings.
He squats to take my dress off the floor, and as I step out of it, I go to
kick my heels off. “Leave them,” he practically growls as he wraps his hand
around my calf. “You don’t wear fuck-me shoes like that and take them off
when I’m actually going to fuck you.”
“Don’t I?” I ask with a wink as I look down at him.
Standing, he turns to hang my dress in the closet before he’s stripping
his own clothes off slowly, making me ache with need as I wait for him to
come back to me.
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he says as he turns back to where I
stand, my legs crossed at the ankles as I rest my ass back against the
countertop.
 His thumbs brush against my nipples as he steps up and plants one foot
on either side of me. A low moan crawls up my throat as he rubs across my
hardened peaks, and then he’s turning me back to face the mirror as he says,
“I love that you’re always so needy for me. And tonight, I’m going to make
you come until you can’t stand on your own, until you fall into a deep sleep
and forget about the last few hours.”
“I don’t want to forget,” I say, staring back at him in the mirror. “Yes,
the last few hours have been damage control, but we’ve also spent that time
planning a future together. And that starts now.”
I smile softly as I look up over my shoulder at him and he leans in to
kiss me. It’s tender at first—a promise of sorts—and then he’s parting my
lips and invading my mouth and taking total control of my body. His hands
are everywhere, and as I reach behind me to grasp his hard length, he’s
pushing my thong to the side and rubbing circles around my clit until I’m
moaning into his mouth. It doesn’t take long. That first orgasm creeps up so
quickly it takes me by surprise, and I’m using my thumb to circle the pre-
cum around the head of his cock, gasping and chasing my release. But even
though I’m right there, so close to tipping over the edge, I need him inside
me . . . I feel empty without him.
I tell him as much, and he just smirks as he bends me forward and
smacks my ass, hard. My gasp rings out and he presses his fingers harder
against my clit.
“Come for me, and then I’ll fill you,” he promises. Waves of tingling
electricity ripple through me as I clench my core together and my legs start
to shake. But still, I don’t go over that tipping point. I’m about to tell him I
can’t, when he takes my hand from his dick and moves it to the counter so
I’m fully leaning forward. And then he’s pressing himself against my ass
crack, rubbing lightly against that opening as he circles my clit with one
hand and cups my breast with the other, pinching my nipple between his
fingers.
I’m panting and gasping as the waves of my orgasm roll through my
body, and then he’s biting my shoulder in between whispering filthy
promises about how he plans to use me tonight. And while I’m still coming,
he’s sliding into me, his finger still working my clit, and demanding that I
keep going. And I do. I’ve never had an orgasm like this, one wave right
after the other, and I’m practically screaming his name as the intensity
increases until my legs are trembling and the only thing holding me up are
his powerful thighs pressing me forward into the countertop.
“Good girl,” he purrs next to my ear as he continues fucking me, even
after my orgasm ends. “I knew you could give me a second one. I think we
need to go for a third.”
“Oh my god,” I pant. “There’s no way.”
“I didn’t take you for a quitter, Sunshine.”
He pulls out, spins me around so I’m sitting on the countertop, and then
spreads his legs wider, bringing my legs up around his hips as he slips back
into me. Then his mouth is on one of my nipples, sucking it against his
tongue over and over while his fingers toy with my other nipple. It’s like
there’s an invisible string connecting them to my core, and with each deep
pull of my breast into his mouth, I can feel my muscles spasming around
him.
“That’s my girl. Look at you taking me . . . so fucking greedy.”
Whimpering, I look down at where our bodies are joined, and the sight
of him, huge and hard, pushing into me, the sound of our bodies meeting,
the sight of my tits bouncing each time he bottoms out—all of it makes my
core clench tighter.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice low and encouraging, “keep squeezing
my cock like that, and I’ll give you that third orgasm you didn’t think you
could have.”
I gasp as he holds my hips in place, changing the angle so he pushes
into me hard and fast. The smooth glide of his hard cock against the front of
my inner walls has the edges of my vision clouding as I tip over the edge
with a cry of his name.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he grits out between clenched teeth as his
body jerks and shudders with his own release as he holds my body against
his. Bending down so his lips are right at my ear, he continues to give me
everything with one more declaration. “You deserve every good thing in
life, and I plan to make sure you get what you deserve.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Thirty-Nine
McCabe

I
watch from the back of the pressroom as AJ steps up to the podium, her
eyes nervously flicking over to me before she focuses on the paper in
front of her. The room is small, with the tables and podium at the front
and only four rows of seats. Currently, the only sound in the room is the
clicking of camera shutters, until she clears her throat and everyone falls
silent.
Her hair is down and she’s wearing the pink suit that must be the one
she was telling Sloane about last weekend. The one that makes her feel
feminine and powerful.
She looks fierce, ready to fight, and unfortunately, I think she’ll need to.
I really wish we were holding this press conference in Boston, not in St.
Louis the morning before Game 2. I wish the whole Rebels organization
was standing right outside the pressroom door, ready to show their support
as soon as this was over. But that’s not the situation we’re in.
Me and my fucking mouth. I should have just acted like I didn’t know
what Chet was talking about, pretended that he was imagining whatever he
saw between AJ and me. It would have been so much better for her if I had,
and yet, she’s remarkably calm about having to go public.
“Thanks for being here this morning,” she says, holding her chin up and
letting her gaze shift across the rows of reporters. “I want to start by saying
that I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished in Boston in the six years that
I’ve been the GM for the Rebels, and I’m confident in the team I’ve built
and the direction we’re heading. Because I believe in full transparency and
have the utmost concern for professional ethics, I want to address the
statement we released last night. As I said then, I’ve recently entered into a
serious and committed relationship with Ronan McCabe.”
She pauses, like she’s expecting the press to jump in with questions like
they normally do, but I think she’s stunned them into silence by addressing
this head on. No one even turns to look at me, which tells me they’re still in
shock.
“I want to assure you that nothing unethical has transpired. When our
relationship extended beyond the professional boundaries of manager and
player, I recused myself from all work having to do with his salary, his
contract, and his playing for this team. However, I also recognize that a
relationship between a GM and a player—even though I’ve been honest
about it with our team’s owner and with Human Resources—doesn’t look
good. For this reason,” she pauses to swallow, but her voice is unwavering
when she continues, “I’m withdrawing my nomination for GM of the Year
award.”
That announcement seems to spring the reporters into action—they’re
practically jumping out of their seats as everyone yells questions. Behind
the podium, AJ sighs, then she starts pointing to different reporters and
answering their questions.
Who is handling McCabe’s contract? How long has this been going on?
Did anyone else know? How does the team feel about it? The questions
come at a fast and furious pace, and AJ answers each succinctly and
professionally.
“Are you only making this announcement now because of the Brett
Ivers scandal?” The question comes from a grizzled older reporter, one
who’s been around since long before I started playing.
“Let me be abundantly clear. Absolutely nothing unethical has happened
here, and I stand by that. I’m making this announcement because I have
nothing to hide, and hiding this relationship would call that fact into
question. I’ve spent my career proving that a woman can succeed at this
level in a male-dominated sport. And so, for most people who know me, or
know of me, this relationship is going to come as a shock. But on a deeply
personal level, I’ve sacrificed my own happiness and sometimes even my
health, because I’ve been so committed to my job that it’s always come
first. And that is not sustainable. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to have a
loving relationship. And if it makes people uncomfortable to see that I’m a
woman who is prioritizing my happiness in a healthy, consensual
relationship—then that’s on them, not me. I’m proud of the work I’ve done
here and the manner in which I’ve done it. And I won’t feel guilty that the
person I fell in love with also happens to work for the same organization I
do.”
I feel like the oxygen has been sucked from my lungs. Did she just say
she is in love with me? Did she just tell that to the press, to the entire nation,
before she’s even said it to me? I must have made some sort of a sound in
response, because suddenly all the reporters have turned and are yelling
questions at me instead, asking about our relationship, my daughter, and
how this has affected my game.
Fuck. This is AJ’s moment, and I don’t want to steal her thunder. At the
same time, why should she be the only one bearing the brunt of this
onslaught? I’m the one who got us into this mess. At every single phase of
our relationship, I was the one who took the first step and then pulled her
along with me. And now, I realize, I’m kind of mad that she beat me to
saying the L-word.
“You all want a statement?” I raise my voice to be heard over them, and
they quiet almost immediately. “Okay, here you go. Normally, I’m a pretty
quiet guy. I put my head down and do my job, on the ice and in life. I prefer
to listen rather than talk. I prefer to be in the background. And I prefer to let
people speak for themselves. I’ve been told that this tendency can result in
me coming across as grumpy or standoffish.”
I smirk over at AJ, making it clear that she’s said these things, and pause
while the press laughs. I’m glad they find my self-depreciating remark
amusing, as I was trying to lighten the mood a bit.
“So let me be crystal clear,” I say, walking to the front of the room to
stand next to AJ. I look down at her as I say, “I love this woman.” And then
I look out at the reporters when I say, “And I absolutely refuse to stand by if
a single person calls into question anything that she’s done in her
professional or personal life. We are the team we are today because of
Alessandra Jones. We would not be the winningest team in Boston hockey
history if it weren’t for the way she’s rebuilt this organization, we wouldn’t
have the team camaraderie we do without her leading by example, and we
sure as hell wouldn’t have our eyes on our second Stanley Cup in six years
if it weren’t for her. No team is successful because of just one person, but I
think you could ask anyone in the Rebels organization what AJ means to
this team, and you’d get the same answer I just gave you. And that will be
her legacy. Not some award, and not her relationship with me. What she’s
done here matters, and it will live on. And that’s all I’ll be saying about
this.” I turn to AJ, looking into her beautiful brown eyes for a moment.
“You have anything else to say?”
“No,” she says simply, like she can’t trust her voice to say more. And
the way her eyes are watering, I think she’s more emotional than she’d want
people to see.
“I think we’re done here, then,” I say, and taking her hand, I lead her out
of the pressroom.
“Holy shit,” she whispers when we step into the hallway, shutting the
door behind us. “Did that really just happen?”
I don’t stop my steps, leading her down the hall toward the exit. I want
us out of this building. I want her far away from her old life in St. Louis—
far from Chet and all the bad shit that happened here. I want to be alone
with her, so I can remind her that I’ll always be here for her. That no matter
what happens, no matter how hard things get, I’ll always stand by her side.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says when we step out into the bright
morning sun.
I don’t know where we’re headed, but I put my hand on her lower back
and guide her down the sidewalk. “Maybe not, but I wanted to. Not because
I didn’t think you could handle that by yourself, but because I didn’t want
you to have to.” I think a lot of AJ’s life has been her figuring out how to
handle things herself.
“Did we really just both say we loved each other to a room full of
reporters?” she asks with a nervous laugh.
I wrap my hand around her hip, stopping her progress as I spin us
toward the brick wall of a restaurant so we’re out of the path of other
pedestrians.
“We did, Sunshine.” I smooth her long, dark hair behind her ear and cup
my hand against the side of her neck. “Well, first, you did. And then I didn’t
want there to be any question about my own feelings. I’m just sorry I didn’t
say it to you first.”
It feels like we both just adopted a go big or go home strategy, and I’m
at peace with that. I want to love this woman out loud, and I’ve hated the
way I’ve had to hide my feelings for her.
 Her head tilts back as she looks up at me, full lips curling at the corners.
“I never questioned how you felt.”
I curl my fingers into her hips, and press a kiss to the top of her head
before saying, “And I’ll make sure you never do.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Forty
AJ

“I can’t even tell you what a relief it is to know that you’re going to be
on board part time,” I tell Morgan as I sit back in my office chair,
watching her sign the consulting paperwork HR and our legal team
drew up for her yesterday.
She laughs and relaxes in the chair opposite me, pushing her
strawberry-blonde hair back over her shoulder. With her big eyes, fair skin,
and freckles that sweep across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, she
doesn’t look old enough to have earned an MBA and started her own
company.
“I don’t know why you think I’m some sort of social media miracle
worker.”
“Because you are,” I say, picking up my phone and clicking on the most
recent notification on Instagram. “Please don’t sell yourself short. And I’m
excited not only to have you on retainer personally, but to have you helping
with the Rebels’ social media also.”
I glance down at my screen, noting how this morning’s post already has
thousands of likes. I don’t even have that many followers, but Morgan had
me post it as a collaboration with Ronan and because of his follower count
it’s completely blown up.
Of course it has. It’s a series of six images of us at home together after
returning from Game 2 yesterday.
 I’m in a casual knit jumpsuit with a wide boat neck top that’s slid down
off one shoulder as I sit on the living room floor, building a block tower
with Abby so she can knock it down, which is still her favorite activity.
He’s sitting behind me in shorts and a t-shirt, his forearm casually
wrapped around my waist, one leg stretched out the side with his knee bent
and his elbow resting on it as he looks over my shoulder, smiling at Abby
where she stands, arms up, ready to demolish the tower. In the next one, I’m
laughing as the blocks come tumbling down, and he’s looking down at me
with complete adoration written across his face.
The whole series of images is so “us,” that I felt good about posting
them. They were exactly what Ronan wanted to showcase when I
mentioned Morgan coming over to take photos—the three of us in our
natural element, nothing about it staged except for the way I took extra time
doing my hair and makeup because I wasn’t looking for people to comment
on how much older I am than him.
All the positive comments in the post almost make me forget that we
lost Game 2 in St. Louis. But then my eyes land on the most recent
comment, and I hiss out a breath. Even though I love the photos, and a lot
of other people clearly do too, there are still trolls emerging in the comment
section.
“Delete and block,” Morgan reminds me, and I glance up to see her
watching me closely. I’m sure she knows exactly the kind of shit I’m
reading by the way I froze up just now, and the sigh I let out in response.
“You don’t owe anyone—especially not someone who doesn’t even know
you—the luxury of posting shit about you online.”
“People are entitled to their opinions, unfortunately. Even when they’re
wrong.” I set my phone between us on my desk, so I won’t be tempted to
keep checking the notifications.
“But they’re not entitled to post them on your profile. Delete. And.
Block.” Her voice is decisive and commanding. “Do you want me to take
over your social media for the next few days, just to keep an eye on it, reply
to comments, delete the shitheads—that type of thing?”
“That’s something you can do?”
“Yeah, it’s part of what you’re paying me for. I do the same thing for
Jules and Audrey with their business account.”
“That would be amazing. Honestly, it’s validating to see all the likes and
the positive comments, but I don’t need to see the negative shit. It doesn’t
change anything. It doesn’t make me question the relationship, or whether it
was the right decision to go public.”
There are two quick knocks on my door, and my assistant, Colleen,
cracks it open enough to slide half her body through it. “Uhh, McCabe’s
here to see you.” She eyes Morgan sitting across from me, and I get the
sense that she hadn’t wanted to interrupt us, but he forced her hand.
“Send him in,” I tell her.
“I told you she wouldn’t mind.” His voice comes from the other side of
the door as he pushes it open and strides right past her. “Morgan,” he says,
nodding at her as he comes around my desk and bends to plant a kiss on the
top of my head.
Across the room, Colleen shuts the door.
“Have you seen this news?” he asks, holding his phone out to me. On
the screen is a headline from Boston’s sports news network.
NHL Commissioner Refuses Jones’s Withdrawal from GM of the Year
Award
My breath catches, and I have to clear my throat. “What the hell is
this?”
“Apparently, you and Connelly are both still in the running for the
award.”
“I don’t understand how that’s even possible. I withdrew.”
“Can you voluntarily withdraw?” Morgan asks, arching an eyebrow as
she looks at us.
“If I don’t think I deserve the award, why couldn’t I?”
“Do you think you don’t deserve it?” McCabe asks. “After everything
you’ve done this season, do you really believe that us being together means
you don’t deserve that award?”
I glance down at my lap, then look up at him. “No.”
“Well, apparently, the other GMs and the league officials agree with
you,” he says.
“Take this for the immense compliment it is,” Morgan says. “And we
probably need to respond on social media. I’ll work on that today.”
“We’re not responding publicly until I understand how this happened,” I
tell her, shaking my head. I’m so caught off guard, I don’t even know how
to react.
“What do you mean?” McCabe asks as he comes around to the far side
of my desk and takes the seat next to Morgan.
 That’s when my phone rings, and the name of the Commissioner of the
NHL appears on my screen. All three of us sit there, staring at my phone
buzzing where it lies face up on my desk. Morgan’s eyes are huge, because
although this job is the first she’s had in the sports industry, her dad is a big
hockey agent and even she knows who Timothy O’Leary is.
“You going to get that?” McCabe asks, amusement in his tone.
I grab for the phone, standing as I walk over to the wall of windows
overlooking the rink. Practice is over, but there are kids’ lessons going on
right now, and I watch them as I answer.
“AJ!” Tim’s greeting is friendly and full of excitement. “I suspect
you’ve heard the news?”
“Yeah, and I’m pretty shocked. How exactly did this happen?”
“Well, none of us on the committee felt like you didn’t deserve the
nomination. So even though you thought you could withdraw yourself from
contention, we don’t accept your withdrawal.”
“Does Joey Connelly have something to do with this?” What I’m really
wondering is if Joey doesn’t want to win this year by default, just because
the other two nominees withdrew.
“All I’m going to say about that is that he’s one of your staunchest
supporters.”
My chest aches with the realization that my mentor, the man who first
hired me as a scout, then promoted me to being his assistant GM, before
ultimately pushing me to move forward in my career, is proud of me.
“This really isn’t just because he doesn’t want to win by default?”
Tim’s deep, low chuckle fills the line before he assures me. “I can’t tell
you anything that Joey told me in confidence. So I will just say, he doesn’t
question whether you deserve this. And you shouldn’t either.”

T hein the
stands are completely packed before Game 4, our second home game
finals, and I know the fans are all hoping for a win tonight. Being
down 2-1, after losing Game 3 at home two nights ago, puts our team in a
less than ideal position. I’m hoping to check in on Wilcott’s pre-game pep
talk before the guys hit the ice.
 But as I round the corner into the hallway leading to the locker rooms, I
almost run into Chet. There’s no one else around to hear him ranting as he
holds his phone in front of his mouth.
“You need to fucking handle it. What do you expect me to do from
Boston?”
“I’m not asking you to handle anything,” the woman’s voice is quiet,
and the hurt is evident in her tone. I can’t help but wonder why he thinks
this is an appropriate conversation to have on speakerphone. “I just wanted
a little support from my husband.”
“We’re about to start the fucking game, and you want a goddamn pep-
talk because your sister canceled on girls’ night again?”
“I forgot about the time change,” she says, her voice even smaller and
more defeated.
I really don’t want to be here for this conversation. But I need to be in
that locker room and he’s standing in my way. I’m just glad that his back is
to me and he hasn’t seen me yet.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” He says it as though she disgusts him
—the exact opposite of the pep talk it sounds like she was looking for. “I’ve
done nothing but try to provide a good life for you, and it’s never enough.”
“You know that’s not it. You’ve provided a great life for me and the
kids. It’s just⁠—”
“I have to go.” He cuts her off. “We’re flying home tonight after the
game, so I hope you’re in a better mood when I get back in the morning.”
I don’t know why I’m angry on this woman’s behalf. She knew he was
married to me when she started sleeping with him, so I want to believe she
got what she deserved. But does anyone really deserve an asshole who love
bombs you, only to turn around and treat you like shit once he’s locked you
down? Didn’t I fall for the same man? He can be awfully convincing when
he’s wooing you.
He steps up to the visiting team’s locker room, and as he reaches out
toward the door, I hope that he will enter without realizing that I overheard
his phone call. But as luck would have it, he pauses, arm outstretched and
hand flat against the door. And then he turns his head, looking down the hall
at me.
“How long have you been standing there?” It’s an accusation more than
a question.
 “Long enough to see that tigers don’t change their stripes.” My
mirthless laugh slips out, even though I don’t mean it to.
“Still a superior bitch, I see.” Dropping his arm, he turns toward me.
“I feel bad for your wife,” I tell him. The only thing I truly regret in life
are the years I wasted on him. “Maybe one day, she’ll have the courage to
divorce you too. Because there’s nothing and no one who can make an
unsuccessful narcissist like you happy.”
A nervous energy courses through me as I go to move past him, intent
on seeing my team. When he grabs my arm, I’m prepared and easily spin
out of his grip, but I wish I hadn’t engaged with him in the first place. I
don’t feel safe down here with him. Even though we’re in a public place,
there’s no one else around until the teams leave the locker rooms about ten
minutes from now.
“I’m not unsuccessful,” he sputters, small pieces of spit flying from his
lips.
I cross my arms over my chest, resting my cast on my good arm. “It’s
been over seven years since we divorced, and you just got back the job you
lost then. You’re unhappily married, look about ten years older than you
are, and from what I hear,” I say, thinking of the rumors that have been
circulating over the last week, “your team hates you. So congrats, you’re
super successful.”
“I would be if it weren’t for you!”
“Yeah, I’m the problem. Sure.” I nod at Chet as I see Joey Connelly turn
into the hall behind him, probably coming to see his team like I’ve come to
see mine. I focus my eyes back on Chet, because I don’t want him to know
Joey is there. I’d prefer to let his GM see his true colors.
“You fucking bitch,” Chet seethes. “You think you walk on fucking
water, but now that everyone knows you’re just a little slut for your players,
let’s see what the rest of your career looks like. At least if you get that
award, everyone will know that it’s really for your ‘service.’” He uses a
crude hand gesture to indicate that the ‘service’ he’s referring to is
something sexual.
I watch Joey’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead when he sees the gesture
Chet just made off to his side, but nothing about this interaction phases me.
This is exactly how he talked to me when we were married—like an entitled
little prick any time things didn’t go his way.
 I’m not shocked that he hasn’t changed. It makes me happier than ever
that I got out of that marriage when I did, and even more thankful to have
found a man who treats me right.
“The thing is, Chet, I never cared about that award in the first place. I
only ever cared about leading this team without reproach. And regardless of
what you think about my relationship with McCabe, that’s exactly what I’ve
done. Whether we win or lose the Cup, and even if I don’t get that award,
I’m proud of the work I’ve done in Boston. I’m even more proud of my
team, and how they’ve played. And nothing you do or say is going to
change that.”
Chet’s scoff is so loud I’d be surprised if they didn’t hear it inside the
locker room. “Yeah, sure! Better run along,” he says, nodding toward the
door to the Rebels locker room. “There are probably players in there that
need blow jobs before the game.”
From behind him, Joey asks, “Is that what you think I plan to do when I
go into our locker room?”
Chet’s jaw tightens because he knows he’s just been caught acting
incredibly unprofessional. Something that only one person—McCabe—has
ever truly seen him doing before. “Connelly,” Chet says, turning halfway so
he stands between us. He’s using that schmoozing voice he only uses with
other guys, his upper-crust version of bro-talk, I guess. “Didn’t know you
were down here.”
“Clearly.” The muttered word is dry and unimpressed. He’s not falling
for Chet’s attempts to downplay his behavior. “So? Is that why you think
I’m down here? To give our players blow jobs?”
The fact that he utters this question without a hint of embarrassment,
amusement, or anger leaves me wondering how he’s feeling about what
Chet just said.
“No.” Chet laughs it off, and just the sound of his voice has my stomach
turning. “Of course not. Unlike Alessandra here, you’re not involved with
your players like that.”
“From what I’ve seen, AJ is in a committed relationship with a man
who is nothing but respectful toward her. Unlike your behavior just now.”
“She’s fucking one of her players!” Chet sputters, incensed that Joey
isn’t taking his side here.
“What business of yours is that?” he asks, and I could not love his no-
nonsense approach toward my ex-husband any more than I do. When Chet
doesn’t immediately respond, he says, “Especially since you went sticking
your dick elsewhere when you were married to her.”
It’s only then that I realize that Joey, happily married for the past twenty
years and having witnessed the dissolution of my and Chet’s marriage, is
completely on my side. He didn’t show all his cards when we both worked
in St. Louis, but now I understand that this is at least part of why he agreed
to send Chet down to the AHL, and keep him there for nearly seven years.
“That’s different,” Chet insists.
“Why?” Joey asks, raising his eyebrows toward Chet like he’s offering
him an opportunity to defend himself, even while we both know he can’t.
“Because she put her job before our marriage.”
“Did she?” Joey asks. “Or did she just have a more important job than
you, and you were jealous?
“My job was important too!”
God he sounds like a fucking toddler, and I can tell Joey’s thinking
something similar by the way he’s clearly trying not to laugh.
“You were an assistant coach,” Joey reminds him, “and completely
replaceable. Even now, you’re replaceable. In fact, your services are no
longer needed.”
“But,” Chet stutters, “we have a game.”
“And somehow I think the other coaches will manage without you.”
“It’s the playoffs. You can’t head into this game short one coach.”
Chet’s eyes flick to me, as if this situation is my fault. Over the years, I’d
occasionally wondered if he ever learned how to take accountability for his
actions instead of blaming everyone else. Apparently not.
“Watch me,” Joey replies, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“You can’t do this,” Chet says, eyes wide with rage and bewilderment.
“I have a contract.”
“Yes, and you’re an at-will employee. Seems I no longer have the will
to employ you.”
“You’re doing this because of her.”
His glare has absolutely no effect on me. I just cross my arms and sigh.
“Chet, grow the fuck up. Learn to accept responsibility for your actions, and
just . . . stop being such a shitty person. Go crawl back home to your wife
and hope she forgives you for losing your job by being an asshole. Again.”
Once Chet’s stormed off, Joey turns to me, clasping my biceps in each
of his hands and giving me a supportive squeeze. “At the risk of sounding
like a patronizing old man . . . I’m proud of you. The way you left, moved
on, and did so much more with your life once you rid yourself of him, the
way you’ve led this organization,” he says, letting his gaze roam around the
hallway of our home arena. “You deserve all the good things coming your
way.”
“About that,” I say with a smile. “Pretty sure I withdrew from that
award nomination . . .”
“Pretty sure you deserve it anyway,” he says, giving me a wink before
he turns and heads into his team’s locker room.
I take a deep breath and exhale, letting the tension go as a deep sense of
peace washes over me. Whatever happens in this game—in this series—I’m
proud of this team. And I’m proud of myself, too.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Forty-One
AJ

T
he crowd in the locker room before Game 7 is unlike any I’ve ever
seen. Normally, Charlie likes to keep it just coaches, players, me, and
occasionally Frank. But because the GM of the Year announcement
will be made during tonight’s pre-game programming, the large TV on the
wall of the visitors’ locker room is on, and every member of the Rebels
organization who has traveled to St. Louis for the final game is standing
here in this huge semicircle that extends around the perimeter of the room.
In the middle of the room are two cameramen on their knees, with their
cameras pointing at me. Behind me is the same reporter from the press
conference a month ago—the one who asked our then-surly captain about
fighting in the stands. It makes me realize that I never gave him the
opportunity to make that right.
On my left , Ronan has had a tight grip on my hand since they said
they’d be back with the announcement after the commercial break. On my
right, Lauren’s arm is linked with mine.
I’m trying not to let the pressure of the series or the award get to me, but
I feel like I’m strung so tight I’m about to burst.
“Relax,” he whispers, low and dragged out in the same way he might
say it if he were sliding into me, and my thighs clench in response.
“Not helping,” I mutter, and his low rumble of laughter tells me he
knows exactly what that word has done to me.
 Dropping his voice even lower, he leans over and says into my ear.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you later tonight.”
I don’t have time to respond before the programming starts back up and
a hushed silence falls over the room as we watch the compilation video
highlighting each GM’s journey and the reasons we were nominated for the
award. Joey is first, and I’m as proud of my mentor now as I have been the
other three times he’s been nominated. When they get to me, I’m listening
but not watching.
Instead, I’m looking around the room, keeping an eye on my players
and coaching staff, and I’m beyond proud to see the way they are all
nodding along with the list of strategic moves I made throughout this
season to give us the best chance of getting to the exact place we are right
now—about to play in the final game, hoping for the honor of bringing
home the Cup.
My hand squeezes Ronan’s so tightly I’m afraid I might actually be
hurting him. It’s not about the award; I just want to make the men and
women in this room proud.
“And this year’s General Manager of the Year . . . is Alessandra Jones of
the Boston Rebels!”
In the second that follows, I close my eyes and press my lips between
my teeth, willing myself not to cry. I know that the cameras are on me, and
the last thing I want hockey fans to see is a woman at the pinnacle of her
career crying about it on national TV.
But when Ronan sweeps me into his arms and spins me around, when
the people who love and support me crowd around me with their
congratulations, I can’t stop the few tears that escape. Wiping them away, I
accept all the hugs and congratulations until a camera is shoved into my
face and the female reporter steps up next to me.
“Can you tell us what receiving this award means to you?” she asks me.
“It means she’s amazing,” Colt yells, and I can’t help the small laugh
that bubbles from my lips as I gently wipe any moisture from under my
eyes.
“Honestly, it’s just an honor to get to do what I do every day,” I say.
“And to be recognized for it in this way, by my colleagues and the league
and the media—it’s the honor of a lifetime. But now the work begins again.
We have a game to play, and fans who are counting on us to bring home the
second Cup this decade.”
 Cheers rise up around the room and I turn away from the cameras,
signaling that the interview is over. There will be an awards night later this
month where I’ll have to give an actual speech, but right now, the focus
needs to be on this game.
The press is ushered out of the room, and most of the Rebels staff leaves
too, until it’s just Charlie and the other coaches, the players, Frank, and me.
Charlie doesn’t give his normal pre-game pep talk. Instead, he takes a deep
breath and says, “We’ve played six games against St. Louis. We’ve won
half and they’ve won half. I don’t need to go over their strengths or their
weaknesses—you already know them. What I do want to tell you before
you take the ice tonight is that you are the better team. You deserve this win.
But it will only happen if every single one of you goes out there and gives it
your all for the next sixty minutes of play. No distractions. No mistakes.
Do. Your. Job.”
With that, he claps his hand against his clipboard, quickly glances at his
phone, and tells the men to line up. As they do, he whispers something to
his assistant coach, Lloyd, and steps out the door. He never leaves the
locker room before our players, and goosebumps prickle the back of my
neck as I watch the door close behind him.
Lloyd makes a few more comments that I’m only half listening to, and
then he holds the door open, fist bumping every player on their way out.
Colt and Hartmann bring up the rear, and I follow behind them.
Charlie is halfway down the hall, his clipboard tucked between his
elbow and his ribs as he holds the phone to his ear with one hand, and
presses a finger against his other ear. I see the worry on his face when he
looks up and his eyes meet mine.
“Okay. Keep me posted,” he says into the phone. “I love you too.”
“Everything okay?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of him as he pockets
his phone, just as the line of players finish filing by.
“Eva just was sent to the hospital. Helene is flying to New York⁠—”
“Wait!” Hartmann says, spinning back around to face us. “What’s
wrong with Evie?”
My eyebrows dip. I know the Wilcotts and Hartmanns are family
friends, but the concern in his voice borders on panic.
“We don’t know yet,” Charlie tells him. “She was rushed to the ER
during the layover on her flight back from Europe. I’m sure everything’s
going to be fine. Now get out there.”
 The worry in Charlie’s tone doesn’t imply that he’s sure his daughter is
okay. In response, Hartmann nods then slowly turns around, and I watch his
shoulders tense as he walks to the back of the line of his teammates.
Making a mental note to check in with Charlie about Eva after the
game, I head in the opposite direction to meet up with Nicholas and Abby. I
find them at ice level, with most of the families waiting to see the players
during warmups, and Abby’s wearing the infant-sized McCabe jersey we
got her for the occasion.
When Ronan sees us there, he skates over and taps the glass to get
Abby’s attention. She’s got small, pink noise-canceling earmuffs on, but
when she sees him there, she starts kicking her feet in excitement, and her
face splits into a huge smile. She’s got four teeth now, and a never-ending
volume of drool, so I take the cloth hanging out of Nicholas’s back pocket
and wipe her chin. When she turns her head to look at me, her smile grows
wider.
Glancing up, I see that Ronan is looking down at me from the other side
of the glass, nothing but love in his eyes as he shifts his gaze between me
and our baby.
Our. I don’t know that I’ve ever used that word in relation to Abby, but
it feels right. She and Ronan are mine . . . the family I never thought I’d
have.
God, not having to hide this anymore is the best feeling in the world.
I can’t wait until later tonight when I can show him the custom tank top
I’m wearing under this suit coat tonight. As GM, I can’t show up in his
jersey to a game. But I can have Jules make me an incredibly sexy top with
the number 9 sewn onto the back, and I can have her make me a matching
thong. And most importantly, I can model them both for him in the privacy
of our bedroom, before he strips them off me and takes care of me like only
he can.
As if he can read my mind and already knows about my plans for later
tonight, his pupils dilate while his eyes focus on my lips. The ever-present
hunger is written across his face, like it is any time he sees me.
“Knock it off,” Nicholas mutters from beside me as he watches us. “No
one needs to see this.”
I shake my head slightly as I snap back to reality. He’s right, of course
—not here, at work.
“Good luck,” I tell Ronan. “You’ve got this.”
 He gives me a wink, blows Abby a kiss, and skates back to his
teammates.

W e’re up 3-2 heading into the third period, and so far, it feels like things
are going our way. We’re in sync, playing a clean, strong game while
St. Louis has made some sloppy mistakes. For the first half of the last
period, as I watch our team play their hearts out, I’m feeling great about our
chances. Rather than feeling dread whenever St. Louis takes a shot, I let the
confidence wash over me. We’ve got this.
And then, it all goes to shit.
Colt goes for a fake shot, and when he realizes his mistake, he plants his
skate and pushes off the blade to dive across the crease, sticking his glove
out and miraculously catching the puck.
The Rebels fans breathe out a sigh of relief . . . until Colt doesn’t get up
off the ice. The refs skate over to him and then nod toward our bench, and
that’s when it’s clear he’s injured. He’s pulling off his glove and blocker,
and I glance up at the Jumbotron where the camera has zoomed in on him
as he pulls off his mask, and his face is twisted in pain. A few seats down
from me, Jules gasps.
“No,” she whimpers, “no, no, no.” On either side of her, Lauren and
Audrey plant their hands on her thighs for support, and my heart sinks
because I can imagine how she feels. Wanting to rush down the steps, jump
the glass, and slide across the ice to him—because it’s exactly how I’d feel
if it were Ronan.
My eyes scan the players, and when I find him standing next to Drew at
center ice, he’s looking at me, too. Then Walsh nudges him with the end of
his stick and he turns back to talk to his teammates. They don’t hide their
worried looks as Colt grasps his right knee. The trainers come out onto the
ice to evaluate him, splint his leg, and help him skate off.
When Hartmann goes in, and I can tell something isn’t right.
The rest of the game is like watching a train wreck, and my body is
plagued with wave after wave of nausea as I watch my team fall apart
before my eyes.
 Hartmann looks like a goalie we just pulled up from the beer league.
Our defensemen aren’t doing their job keeping the puck away out of our
defensive zone, and shot after shot is fired on Hartmann. He stops the first
two, barely, and then one slips between the pipes. Then another, and
another.
Before I know it, we’re in the last two minutes of the game, and trailing
by two goals. Drew manages to score, bringing us back to life, and the team
rallies, threatening St. Louis’s net for the rest of the game . . . until one of
their forwards gets a hold of it and takes off on a breakaway.
He moves right and fakes the shot, and as Hartmann butterflies down to
block it, the player takes the puck behind the net and easily slips it into the
goal on Hartmann’s opposite side.
When the final buzzer sounds, St. Louis’s players stream onto the ice in
celebration, while we hang our heads in shock and dismay. Our fans stand
still, stunned, all of us collectively wondering what the hell just happened.
I would expect nothing less from our players than the classy way they
line up to shake hands with the other team, despite how the game fell apart
so dramatically.
In the weeks to come, I know that we’ll analyze the third period of this
game over and over. Even as I immediately start focusing on how we can
learn from this game, my heart breaks at the way our players, my players,
file off the ice, heads hung low.
The victory lap around the rink with each player taking their turn
holding the Cup . . . that should have been us. And maybe next year, it will
be.
I take a deep breath, remembering how these men protected my honor,
intelligence, and integrity, and cheered for me every step of the way this
season. Now, it’s my turn to support them by identifying the cracks that
emerged, and fixing them so we can move on to the next season even
stronger than we are now.

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 Epilogue
AJ & McCabe

McCABE

Three weeks later

ou need to stop fucking apologizing,” I tell Hartmann, dropping my

“Y voice low so no one at this fancy awards ceremony will hear me.
“Shit happens. Shit games happen. All you can do is learn from them
and move on. You keep living in the past like this and it’s going to fuck
with your game.”
His laugh is humorless. “Could my game possibly be any more fucked?
And how exactly is this in the past, when every time I turn around another
sports pundit is analyzing that third period, and debating how I could
possibly have sucked so bad?”
“You did suck,” I say, because there’s nothing good that will come of
trying to cover up that truth. “But it was half a period, in one game. It
doesn’t mean you suck as a goalie⁠—”
“Right, just Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, no big deal.”
“Listen, there’s no two ways about it—it was a big deal. But you’re still
early in your career. You’re still learning and growing as a player. Don’t let
it fuck with your head. Learn from it. Whatever had you so distracted, cut
that shit right out of your life,” I say, but the look on his face has me
realizing that whatever it is, he’s not cutting it out of his life. “Or learn how
to keep that shit off the ice. Everyone has bad games. I had two of them in
the playoffs, and both were because I was too focused on AJ and Abby. I
had to learn how to compartmentalize when I was on the ice.”
I don’t know if whatever’s distracting Luke is something important, or
if his inexperience was why we lost Game 7.
Then, he looks over my shoulder, and his eyes light up. I turn to see
what he’s looking at, and entering this huge venue are Coach Wilcott, his
wife Helene, and his daughter Evangeline—who I now know is Hartmann’s
best friend. But he’s not looking at her like she’s his best friend; he’s
looking at her the same way half the guys in this room are—like he wants to
peel that dark green dress off her.
“Dude,” I say, as I turn back toward him. “Wipe that look off your face.
If Coach catches you looking at his daughter that way . . .”
His head snaps toward me. “I wasn’t looking at her any way.”
“Uh-huh.” I take a sip of my drink, feeling like some puzzle pieces are
clicking into place. Coach Wilcott leaving the locker room early before
Game 7, AJ telling me post-game that his daughter was sick, Hartmann
playing like shit. He knew, and that’s why he was distracted. “You have
feelings for this girl?”
“What? No. She’s my best friend.”
“You keep saying that, but Renaud’s my best friend and I sure as shit
don’t look at him the way you’re looking at her. Was she the reason you
were so distracted in Game 7? The fact that she was sick?”
His guilty look is all the answer I need. “How’d you know she was
sick?”
“How do you think?”
“I keep forgetting you’re with AJ. That’s still so . . . weird. How you
hated her so much, until . . .”
“Until I didn’t.” I still haven’t told my teammates what changed,
because there’s no way to talk about our history that doesn’t involve telling
them about how AJ’s ex treated her, and that’s not a path I’m going down.
I’ll figure it out, eventually. Right now, things still feel new and somewhat
fragile, even though she basically lives with me. Even Tabitha has moved
over to my condo, and I don’t know what AJ was talking about—that’s the
most friendly, loving cat I’ve ever seen. With Abby and me, at least.
 “You’re staring at her again,” I warn Hartmann as I follow his gaze to
where AJ now stands talking to the Wilcotts. She’s in a cream suit, the slim
cut of her blazer barely showing the pearl-lined cream corset beneath. With
her long wavy brown hair falling over her shoulders, she looks sexy and
powerful. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I’d like to meet your best friend, Lover Boy.”
“Dude,” Hartmann says, “do not call me that in front of her or I’ll never
live it down.”
“She doesn’t know your reputation?” I ask as we make our way toward
the entrance of the huge auditorium.
“She does,” he says, his words practically a groan. “But just because
women flock to me doesn’t mean I’m doing anything to earn that
reputation.”
I think back to earlier this spring, when it first came out that Colt and
Jules were engaged, and he told me that just because I’d seen him talking to
a lot of women didn’t mean he was actually sleeping with them. I wonder if
the same applies to Hartmann? “Huh.”
As we step up to the Wilcotts, I slide my arm around AJ’s waist and
press a kiss to the crown of her head. Even with those three-inch nude heels
she’s wearing, I could still rest my chin on the top of her head.
“Still not quite used to this,” Coach says with an awkward laugh.
“You’ll get there,” AJ and I say at the same time, and I chuckle as I pull
her tighter against my side.
All I want to do, all the time, is to be close to her. Sometimes I worry
that I’m being too clingy, always needing to have some part of my body
connected to hers. When I told her I was afraid she was going to get sick of
my constant need to touch her, she just laughed and said, “Never.”
Hartmann introduces us to Eva, and as she extends her hand to shake
ours, AJ tells her how much she loves her nail polish. I wouldn’t have
noticed if she hadn’t said something, but it’s a matte forest green that
matches her dress. Her dark hair is slicked back into a high, fluffy ponytail
that bounces as she talks, and her dark eyes with long eyelashes stand out
against her pale skin. Standing next to golden boy Luke, with his light
brown hair and blue eyes, they strike me as total opposites. While he’s
outgoing and talkative, she’s measured and reserved. She’s the dark to his
light.
 “I’m so sorry to hear you were sick a few weeks ago,” AJ tells her as
her parents move on to chat with someone else. “You feeling better now?”
“Yeah, I was just exhausted and dehydrated,” Eva says. “The end of
competition season really did me in.” Her sideways glance at Hartmann has
me wondering if there’s a bit more to the story than that.
“She’s doing fine now,” Hartmann says as he brings his hand to her
lower back. “But⁠—”
The announcement asking everyone to please take their seats interrupts
us.
“Where are you guys sitting?” AJ asks them.
“Our parents have a box over there,” Eva says, nodding her head toward
the side of the room, where theater-style box seats line the circular
perimeter, facing the stage.
“Okay, we’re on the floor,” AJ says, “we’ll see you later then.” Taking
my hand, she leads me toward the front of the auditorium.
“That was weird,” I say.
“What was?”
“You don’t think there’s something going on with those two?”
“Pretty sure they’re like siblings,” she says. “Frank talks about her like
she’s his daughter. There’s a picture of her and Luke in his office from
when they were toddlers.”
“Okay.” Now isn’t the time to dig into how he absolutely was not
looking at her like she was his sister, much less his best friend. When I
think about it, though, she was cool and detached. Nothing she did made me
think she had feelings for him. But I am absolutely giving him shit about it
later, because nothing will ruin their friendship faster than him pining after
her.
We take our seats next to Colt and Jules. Colt is receiving the
Goaltender of the Year award tonight, and I don’t envy him having to make
his way up the stairs to the stage on those crutches. Luckily, he doesn’t need
surgery, but he’s going to be on crutches for another week and in that knee
brace for a couple more weeks after that. He’ll be out of the brace just in
time for Jameson’s wedding later this summer.
All things considered, he’s damn lucky. In his mid-thirties, a knee injury
could have ended his career, and I know he really wants to finish out the
last year of his contract next season. After that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he
retires. He’s already one of the longest-playing guys in the league.
 As the lights dim and the program begins, I think about how I normally
hate shit like this. Unlike other awards shows, everyone already knows
who’s won each award. There are no surprises; it’s simply an opportunity to
celebrate people’s accomplishments.
Nine years ago, when I won the Rookie of the Year award, I hated every
minute of the experience—getting dressed up, everyone congratulating me,
having to go up on stage to accept the award, and having to give a speech.
The only thing that made it tolerable was sharing that evening with Sloane
and Grandma.
For a guy who spends a couple of days a week playing hockey in front
of twenty-thousand fans, I really don’t like being in the spotlight. But what
I do really love is seeing AJ get the recognition she deserves. Which is why
I love being here with her. And why, when her name is announced as the
GM of the Year, I stand with her in celebration and pull her into a huge hug,
whispering, “Good job, Sunshine,” into her ear and watching the
goosebumps rise across her neck.
I clap and cheer for her as she takes the stage, the red soles of the sexy
heels I bought her catching my eye with each step. And when she stands at
the podium, facing a sea of hockey’s biggest supporters and holding her
award, her eyes land on me before she looks out at the audience.
“For someone who’s known they won this award for a few weeks now,”
she says, “I still find myself struggling to find the words to explain how
much it means to me. It’s impossible to stand here as the first female GM of
the Year without saying that, while I might be the first, I won’t be the last.”
The thunderous applause is a shock in the best way possible. She’d been
worried how people would respond when she brought up her gender, and
the role of women in hockey, but I’d encouraged her to mention it, no
matter the response.
“The road to this stage wasn’t easy, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention
the women who helped me get here—whose friendship, assistance, and
advice allowed me to grow and flourish both in this role, and as a person.
This year, especially, I’ve come to realize the importance of friendships
between women who want to see each other succeed in all aspects of life.
The world is stronger when women work together instead of against one
another, and I’m working hard to surround myself with these types of
women, in my personal life and at work as well.
 “I also owe a particular debt of gratitude to three men in my life. First,
Joey Connelly, the other nominee for this year’s award, who was the most
amazing mentor I could have hoped for. He took a chance on me when I
was coaching D1 women’s hockey, bringing me on as a scout and then
promoting me to being the first female assistant GM in the league. And
then, he encouraged me to spread my wings, to look for a GM position
when he could have easily kept me exactly where I was, working for him.
“Second, Frank Hartmann, the owner of the Boston Rebels, who gave
me the opportunity to lead this organization. He’ll tell you I deserved the
job, but when I started at the Rebels, there wasn’t a single woman in upper
management, and I know he took a leap of faith bringing me on, knowing
I’d shake things up, and trusting me to do so. I wouldn’t be standing here
without him in my corner for the past six years.
“And finally, Ronan McCabe, who has steadfastly stood by me through
some of the most trying times in my life.” Her eyes are back on me, and I
wonder what she sees reflected back on my face. I didn’t know she was
going to say anything about me tonight. I didn’t expect it, and I’m not sure I
deserve the adoring way she’s looking at me right now. “I might still be
standing on this stage even if it weren’t for you, but I wouldn’t be the
person I am today. And for the first time in my life, I really like that person
—the one who understands that vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness.
I’ll forever be grateful that we took a chance on each other, when it would
have been easier to walk away. This award means so much more to me
because you stood next to me when I won it.”
I’m not sure why my eyes are all wet like this, but as I shake my head at
her, I can’t stop smiling. The woman I love just accepted the most important
award in her field, and I couldn’t be happier for her, or for us.
If anyone had told me before this season started that it would end this
way—me navigating fatherhood, AJ and me living together, a new agent
and a contract for three more years with the Rebels making more than I’ve
ever made, and being here with AJ as she accepts the GM of the Year award
—I’d have been certain they were crazy.
And maybe that’s what this life is . . . crazy, but beautiful. Maybe the
beauty is in the unpredictability—in accepting changes you weren’t ready
for, and being open to possibilities you couldn’t imagine. Because I never
could have envisioned being this happy.
 AJ

“G od, you were so fucking amazing tonight.” Ronan’s breath is hot

against my ear, his head dipped to whisper as I stand, leaning against
the wall of the hotel elevator with my eyes closed. I’m exhausted in
the best possible way, after what is quite possibly the most amazing night of
my life.
Getting to stand on that stage tonight, to thank the people—especially
Ronan—who helped me get where I am, and knowing that I’m paving the
way for other women to do the same . . . it was everything.
“I hope you know I’m going to marry you someday,” I mumble, not
even able to open my eyes because I’m so tired.
“I was already planning on it, remember?” His low chuckle fills the
space, and his chest shakes against my arm as he reminds me about how he
said he was going to ask Frank for my hand when the time came.
“Oh, related to that,” I say, cracking my eyes open. “Guess who texted
me about an hour ago?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Who?”
“My father.”
To his credit, Ronan doesn’t say any of the things he’s probably
thinking. Instead, he traces my jaw with his thumb and says, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. He congratulated me on the award and said he and my mom
would like to see me again sometime soon.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Worried.”
“Why?”
“Because either he’s extending an olive branch, or it’s a trap. And I’m
not sure I want to explore either option.”
“The beauty of being an adult is that you don’t have to if you don’t want
to. But if you change your mind, I’m happy to be there with you . . . if that’s
what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want, and I’m too tired to think about it right
now.”
“There’s no rush, Sunshine. You don’t owe them anything.”
 The doors open on our floor and he sweeps me into his arms, carrying
me down the hallway. I don’t even protest, because while I’m in love with
these gorgeous nude patent leather heels, my feet are killing me, and I’d
rather be in his arms anyway.
“Maybe going out for drinks after the awards ceremony wasn’t the best
idea,” he says, brushing his lips against my forehead before he sets me
down at our door so he can find the keycard in his pocket.
“I’m not drunk, I’m just tired.”
“I know. But I’ve been watching you all night in those sexy heels and
that pearl corset you’re wearing, and all I can picture is seeing you in
nothing but those tonight.”
I lean against the door frame as he taps the keycard on the lock. “That
can probably be arranged.”
“Not if you’re too tired,” he says, his tone making it clear that he’s
looking out for me, not that he’s disappointed.
“I can rally,” I tell him as I unbutton the single button on my blazer,
then step through the door that he’s holding open for me. I let the jacket
slide off my shoulders and down my arms, dropping it in the hallway as I
walk into our hotel room. It’s not a full suite, but it’s got an entire sitting
area, with a couch and chairs next to the wall of windows overlooking the
lights of Las Vegas.
“Alessandra, really.” Coming up behind me, he places a hand on each
bare shoulder to stop my progress mid-way across the room. “You’ve had a
big night. Let’s just go to sleep.”
I look over my shoulder at him, taking in his close-cropped beard and
that dark hair that’s perpetually a little messy, and noticing the way his
bright green eyes are focused on my lips. The dull ache low in my abdomen
is growing hotter, spreading like a fire that wants to consume me. Flames
lick through my body until I’m just a touch less tired and a lot more turned
on.
It’s amazing to me that just looking at this man can have this effect. Or
is it the way his thumbs are running back and forth along the tense line of
my shoulders, trying to soothe me? Or the way I can feel the heat rolling off
his body and warming my mostly bare back?
My fingers meet at the waistband of my pants, and I’m thankful that the
cast came off a few days ago as I quickly undo the single button and drag
the zipper down before pushing them past my hips. With the wide legs of
these suit pants, they pool at my feet, and I carefully step out of them,
wearing nothing but my corset, nude thong, and the heels he loved so much
he insisted on buying them for me.
I walk toward the window, sweeping my hair over my shoulder to give
him the full view of my body. “You can go to sleep if you want, but I’m
going to admire this view.”
He huffs out a laugh as I approach the window, leaning one shoulder
against the metal frame that runs from the floor to the ceiling, supporting
the huge panels of glass. “Yeah, this view is really something.”
I hear him undo his belt, then the drag of his zipper and the swishing of
his clothing as he strips it off. And in the next few seconds, he’s behind me,
his hard, hot, muscular body cradling mine as one of his palms slides across
my belly, pulling me against him.
“I hope these windows are mirrored on the outside,” he says.
“Why?” I ask coyly, turning toward him as I drop to my knees, grasping
his cock in my hand and bringing it to my mouth. “Afraid someone’s going
to see us like this?”
He groans as I swipe my tongue over the sensitive skin on the fat head
of him while my fingers grip his shaft. “This view . . . you on your knees
for me . . .” He loses his words when I take him to the back of my throat,
sucking him between my tongue and the roof of my mouth as I swirl along
him repeatedly. “These moments . . .” he grits out, “. . . are ours.”
I slip my thong to the side and run my fingers through the slickness
between my legs, using it as lubrication as I bring them to my clit, trying to
soothe the throbbing ache there. He hits the back of my throat again, and it
makes my eyes water as I look up at him.
“You are a fucking vision,” he says, bringing his hand down to the base
of my skull. “Look at you fingering yourself while I fuck your mouth. You
want me inside you, Alessandra?”
“Umm hum,” I murmur, and his entire body is wracked with a shiver
from the vibration.
“Take your top off,” he says. “I want to see you play with your tits, and
then I’ll fuck you like you want.”
My inner walls clench in need, and I moan as he slides himself into my
mouth at a faster pace.
“You like that, huh? You like thinking about your pussy being so full of
me you can barely breathe?”
 With my eyes on his, I nod as I bring my hands behind my back and
undo the clasps along the seam, then toss it to the side. He doesn’t even
have to ask again; my hands cup the sides of my breasts, pushing them
together as I pinch my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. The
sensation has me moaning again, and that’s when he pulls out of my mouth,
steps back, and sits on the couch facing the window.
“Lose the underwear, then get up here.”
I never thought I’d like being bossed around, but as it turns out, I like it
a whole lot in the bedroom. I’m eager to please him because he always
leaves me satisfied.
I stand and, hooking my thumbs into the straps of my thong, I bend at
the waist as I drag it down my legs, leaving it on the floor at my feet. Then I
plant one knee on either side of his waist, and look down at the man of my
dreams, lowering myself until he’s filled me, until we’re joined and moving
together as one, until his hands and his mouth are everywhere and nothing
exists except our pleasure and the love we share. I ride him until my legs
are about to give out, and then he brings his thumb between us, slowly
pressing into my clit with every rock of my body, bringing his lips to my
nipple and teasing me, until he’s tipping me over the edge.
When I come, it’s not with his name on my lips, it’s with the words “I
love you so much.”
And when he finds his release, he presses his forehead to mine,
whispering, “I love you more.”
I think I fall asleep before he even cleans me up and carries me to bed,
because the next morning, that’s where I wake up to the angry buzzing of
my phone. I panic, worried that it might be Nicholas or Nicole telling us
that something is wrong with Abby.
But when I pick my phone up from the nightstand, I see that I’ve missed
several texts in a group chat with Charlie and Frank. I tap on the most
recent message.
Filling my screen is a photo of a man’s left hand, a gold wedding band
circling his ring finger. The woman’s hand, laying over the top, has one of
the biggest diamond rings I’ve ever seen. I’m so focused on the size of that
ring that I almost don’t notice the matte green nail polish.
And then, another message pops up.
FRANK
We have a BIG problem.
Want more McCabe and AJ? Get their bonus epilogue here.

Curious about Zach Reid? He has his own novella, THE TRADE UP, which
you can download here.

THE END

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GOAL LINE

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 Boston Rebels, Book 4

Luke & Eva

This steamy best friends to lovers
(and so much more) story is coming soon!

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Books by Julia Connors
FROZEN HEARTS SERIES

On the Edge
Out of Bounds
One Last Shot
One Little Favor
On the Line

BOSTON REBELS SERIES

Center Ice
Fake Shot
Cross-Checked
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 Acknowledgments

Normally when I finish a book, I have some combination of feelings that

basically add up to me wondering if there’s any way I can put myself
through this process again.
Cross-Checked is the first book I’ve finished where I didn’t feel like I
needed to go into hibernation mode, didn’t question whether I could sustain
a writing career, and didn’t feel like my family was falling apart as a result
of me devoting so much time to writing.
What changed? You. You changed my life, and the trajectory of my
career. Every single person who has picked up one of my books . . . you
helped make this my full-time job. You allowed me to achieve the dream of
going from working full time and writing pretty much all the time, to “just”
writing full time. You allowed me to regain a sense of balance I’d lost,
spend more time with my family, and really enjoy writing again. For that, I
am forever grateful.
Being an author is so much more fun when you’re not burning the
candle at both ends! It’s also a lot more fun when you have people in your
corner, helping you and cheering you on. And for these specific individuals,
I’m not sure how I’d have done this without you . . .
Victoria, Ashley, and Jenn – I have no doubt whatsoever that our daily
writing sprints are an enormous part of what made writing this book feel so
effortless. LET’S GO GIRLS!!!
Rachel and Joelle – Thank you for being the gut check I needed when it
came to McCabe and AJ’s story—for letting me know what was working
and what could be stronger, and for sometimes talking me off the ledge.
Having you beta-read this book, and the comments you left me along the
way, were invaluable. I’m so grateful for your time and your efforts to help
me write the best book possible.
Melissa – Thank you for the valuable insight and feedback you’ve given
me throughout the writing process, and for never letting me settle for less
than my best work!
 Brooke and Chelsea – Thank you for your attention to detail, and the
way you stepped in at the last minute!
Kait and Autumn – Thank you for keeping me on track, for reading this
book as I wrote it, and for being pillars of stability during the most
challenging year of my life.
Elizabeth, Rachel, Melanie, and Alexandra – Thank you for not being
mad that I kept my author life a secret for so long, for always being the first
people to cheer me on, and for keeping our charcuterie and cocktail
meetups a priority as our lives have gone in different directions.
Mr. Connors – Thank you for being a good listener, and for knowing
enough to ask whether I’m looking for solutions or just need to be heard.
This has been a hell of a year. One I hope we’ll never have to go through
again, but there’s no one else I’d ever want to climb these mountains with.
And thank you to everyone else who has helped, supported, and guided
me along the way – my author friends, my promo and ARC teams, and my
family.
And the hugest thank you to my readers, because without you none of
this would be possible!!!

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 Afterword

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the book, please consider
leaving an honest review. Reader reviews mean so much to authors, and
your time and feedback are appreciated.
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 About the Author

Julia Connors grew up on the warm and sunny West Coast, but her first decision as an adult was to
trade her flip-flops for snow boots and move to Boston. She’s been enjoying everything that New
England has to offer for over two decades, and now that she’s acclimated to the snowy winters and
finally found all the places to get good sushi and tacos, she has zero regrets. You can usually find her
in front of her computer, but when she stops writing she’s most likely to be found outdoors,
preferably with a pair of skis or snowshoes strapped to her feet in winter, or on a paddleboard in the
summer.

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