THE DOWNFALL to international winter travel is 100 percent the brutal shock to your system when you return home to British Columbia in the middle of December after coasting through Florida and North Carolina for a couple of days.
We’re bordering on the edge of a deep freeze, straddling that 0 degrees Fahrenheit line. Despite the fact that it’s highly unusual for the west coast, it’s also technically not even winter yet. I live in North Vancouver where it tends to be just slightly more reminiscent of a typical Canadian winter, but nothing like this. It feels kinda like a bad omen, but I typically choose to ignore obvious signs.
Still, it’s cold as fucking balls, I’m recovering from a hangover, I spent five-and-a-half hours on a plane today playing euchre with my teammates, and I lost every goddamn game except one. Today’s one of those rare Saturdays where hockey doesn’t exist for our team, and instead of spending it at home in my sweats while I deep dive into a Disney marathon and an XL pizza, I’m walking through a blustery night, heading to a fucking surprise birthday party.
“I’m fucking pooched, man.” I groan, stuffing my hands a little farther into the pockets of my wool coat as I stroll down the sidewalk, using my teeth to tug my scarf up to my chin.
“Fuckin’ same,” Garrett Andersen, my right-winger drawls, east coast twang slipping in like it does when he’s tired or drunk. Right now, it’s the former. “Nearly bailed but thought better of it.” He grabs at his crotch. “I like my balls right where they are, thank you very much.”
His worry isn’t lost on me. The birthday girl has threatened to castrate us on several occasions for much tamer offenses. On her bad side is the last
place I want to be on Cara’s twenty-fifth birthday. She’s scary enough as it is, and now we’ve missed that part where you jump out and yell “Surprise!” I’m banking on her already being three drinks deep by now and happy enough with the glittery pink gift bag hanging off my forearm to forget she’s mad at us.
“And we all know you don’t miss a chance to dip your stick,” Garrett adds, tipping his head across the road toward the bar we’re heading to.
Not normally, but I’m fucking tired as hell. I’ve already decided on bailing early to head home to sleep in the bed I’ve missed for the last four nights, sans somewhere warm to bury my dick. The idea of sleeping in my own bed is too good an idea to pass up. Call me crazy, but no s*x is worth a good night’s sleep when you really need it.
“Maybe I’m gonna be a good boy tonight,” is the response I give Garrett, the corner of my mouth pulling up when he rolls his eyes. “I can keep it in my pants for one night.”
He jogs ahead of me, crossing the street when a gap appears between traffic. “Doubt it!”
“Oops,” I murmur when I accidentally jam my elbow into his side as I push past him, reaching for the door. With a grin, I hold it open, gesturing for him to go on ahead of me.
The bar looks as I expected it to: a fuckton pink and a shitload packed. I usually thrive on chaos, which is maybe why my spine straightens at the boisterous laughter, the loud music, but I just want to post up in the corner of the bar with my teammates and sip a cold beer or two.
In addition to the pink, there’s a whole lot of gold and floral. Thank fuck for Cara’s best friend, because we were nearly on décor duty until Emmett told us she had it handled. I haven’t met her, but she’s gotta be pretty brave to willingly take on party décor when the birthday girl runs her own event planning business. Disappointing Cara is never something I want to be responsible for; see the aforementioned castrating.
“Gare-Bear! Carter!”
Immediately following the screech, a body hurls itself into my arms, knocking the air straight from my lungs as long limbs wrap around me.
“Happy birthday, Care,” I singsong as the toasted birthday girl slithers down my body before crushing Garrett in a hug.
Cara eyes the little pink bag in my hands, bouncing on her toes in her sky-high heels. “Oooh, gimme-gimme!”
“Ah-ah,” I tsk, holding the bag away from her. “Where are your manners?”
Her blue eyes roll as she pops a hip. “Gimme my fucking present,
please.”
I snort a laugh, shoving it into her greedy hands. “From Gare-Bear and
I.”
I hit Garrett with a wink, because the unimpressed face he makes,
pulled-down brows, and deep frown tell me what I already know: the only people who get away with that nickname are his little sisters and Cara.
Cara wastes no time tearing the bag apart, ditching the tissue paper over her shoulder. Opening the small velvet box inside, she squeals. She pulls out the platinum chain, the diamond-encrusted letter C hanging from it, and shakes it in my face. “Put it on, put it on!”
I watch her twirl, sweeping her silky waist-length golden locks off her back and over her shoulder. My brows inch up my forehead as my eyes follow the curve of her spine down to her round ass. Backless dress. Nice.
Look, she’s one of my best friend’s girls. I’d never, ever touch her, but I’m a man with two eyes on my face. I can appreciate a good-looking woman without a desire to act on it.
Garrett lands an elbow in my rib cage, making me keel over with an oof. He snatches the necklace from Cara’s outstretched hand, fastening it around her neck.
She’s still squealing, hands clasped together as she bounces forward with a peck on the cheek for both of us. Hooking her arms through ours, she guides us into the bar.
“You guys are gonna have the best time, I just know it. My friends are amazeballs, ’specially my bestie. I can’t wait for you to meet her!” She levels me with a look that tells me to cut the shit before I’ve even started. “I need you to be on your best behavior tonight.”
I throw my hands in the air. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“You know what it means. Don’t try any funny business with Liv.” “Who’s Liv?”
She scoffs. “Olivia! My best friend!”
“Ohhh, right, right. Her.” I’ve somehow managed to avoid meeting her for a year, which is probably for the best and definitely at the hands of Emmett. He’s mentioned something along the lines of me fucking her once and breaking her heart, which somehow ultimately winds up with Cara
dumping him and it being all my fault. So I guess I’m not allowed to touch her or whatever.
It’s fine by me, at least for tonight. I’ve got a handful of message requests in my Instagram inbox from Lacey reminding me exactly why I should take a week or two off from women. Hard to forget her name when she sends thirteen goddamn messages in a single hour, the exact amount of times she mentioned being on the cover of Maxim. Coincidence? I think the fuck not.
The more I think about it, the more exhausted I am with the idea of entertaining someone else tonight. It only further cements the idea of going the fuck home and passing the fuck out face-first in a package of Oreos.
Cara leaves us with the promise of catching up later, dancing across the floor toward a group of girls, and Garrett and I find the rest of our unruly teammates huddled in the corner. By the looks of it, they’re at least halfway in the bag already, drinks sloshing over the floor as they slam their glasses around, howling with laughter. There’s nothing like a Saturday off for my boys.
“How did you two manage to miss the surprise?” Adam Lockwood, our goalie, claps my hand before tipping his beer to his lips. “Lucky bastards.”
I catch the bartender’s eye and mouth Mill Street. With a nod, he starts filling a pint glass. “Got stuck at my mom’s,” I explain, peeling off my coat. “Not sure that’s any better.”
I made the mistake of stopping off at my mom’s immediately after landing. She’s one of those people that suddenly remembers everything she forgot to tell me when it’s time for me to leave, and it can never wait until a next-day phone call. She never stops talking. It was seven when I finally left, and I still had to go home and shower.
“Eh, Woody.” I nudge Adam’s arm. “Where’s your girl?” I swipe my beer off the bar top, noticing he’s missing the redhead who’s normally hanging off his arm. Except she hasn’t been doing that so much lately. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her, come to think of it.
He runs a hand through his dark curls and clears his throat. “Ah, Court had other plans. Cara’s being a good sport, but I can tell she’s not too happy.”
I don’t have time to comment on his girlfriend being a no-show again, and to an event that’s been in the works for at least two months, because a
heavy hand claps my shoulder, and my beer sloshes over the side of my glass.
I know it’s Emmett the moment he wraps me in one of his suffocating bear hugs. And I know he’s drunk the moment his slurred words, hot and smelling strongly of bourbon, fan across my cheek. “You’re late.”
“Sorry, dude.” I give his hair a quick ruffle, mostly because it’s fun to rile up such a big, burly guy. “Little drunk, big guy?”
He slaps my hand away, turning his attention to the party. “Did Cara already tell you you’re not allowed to sleep with any of her friends?”
A groan rumbles in my chest as my head rolls backward. “Yes,” I moan. My gaze roams the expansive bar, through the sea of people moving together on the dance floor. “It’s a moot point. I’m not feeling it…uh, I’m not…” The words die on the tip of my tongue as a shot of desire dips down my stomach when my eyes settle on her. “Uh, not, um…tonight.” The pads of my fingers lift from my glass as I gesture haphazardly with it. “The thing.”
“Pardon?”
I look to Emmett, then back to her. I forget what we’re talking about, but nothing can be as important as the petite, drop-dead gorgeous brunette dancing with Cara.
If I’m being honest, dancing is entirely too loose of a definition to describe the way those two are moving together. I don’t know what to call it but, fuck me.
Cara wraps one protective arm around her tiny friend, tugging her closer, and my jaw sure as fuck unhinges as I watch the two of them move together.
My eyes follow every line of her body, every single movement, as the stunning little thing tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and drags her tongue over her top lip. She throws her arms up in the air, head tipping to the side to hear whatever Cara’s whispering in her ear. I watch with rapt attention as her head lolls backward, her face erupting with laughter.
I’m entranced, fixated, obsessed. I can’t look away, and when Cara’s hands grip her friend’s waist, slipping in slow motion down to her hips, I fight a groan, ’cause I kinda think I wanna do that.
“Don’t even think about it, Carter.”
I manage to drag my gaze away to eye Emmett. “What?”
“I said, don’t even fucking think about it.” His head wags. “No. Not her.”
Not her? Her who? Who is she? My eyes find her again as a man I don’t recognize tugs her into his chest.
Boyfriend? Fuck.
A triumphant noise vibrates in the back of my throat as I watch her give him a sheepish grin, shaking her head, her mouth telling him No thank you before she drops his hand, turning her back on him, and me.
And sweet, holy hell, that backside. Creamy shoulders guiding the way down a milky spine beneath the strobe of the lights above. The dip of her waist softens into the sweet curve of her wide hips. Her black leather skirt is painted on so tight, hugging every edge of her, I have to wonder how the fuck she got it on and how the hell I’ll peel it off her later.
Scissors, I decide. I’ll cut it off her and then throw her a bill for a new one.
Garrett reaches forward, touching his fingers to my chin, closing my mouth. “Christ, Beckett. You good?”
I flail a hand out in her direction, all loopy. “Dude.” That’s all I’ve got.
Aren’t they seeing this?
Garrett follows my gaze and hums appreciatively, but Emmett ruins it with an eye roll that’s, somehow, audible.
“I’m serious, Carter. Cara will feed you your balls if you touch her.” “I can handle Cara.”
Emmett snorts, Garrett chuckles, and Adam hammers a fist into his chest as he chokes out a cough. Nobody can handle Cara. Not even Emmett. Cara can’t even handle Cara half the time.
Clearing my throat, I bring the rim of my glass to my lips. “What’s her name?”
Emmett’s still shaking his head like a jackass. “No. Not telling you.”
I watch as she swipes her hair from her damp forehead, sweeping her loose, dark curls over her shoulder. She tugs on Cara’s shoulder and presses up on her toes to whisper in her ear before she turns away, strolling across the floor, hips bouncing back and forth before she hoists herself up on a bar stool—with great effort—and grins up at the bartender. When he slides a beer over to her with a wink, she blushes, averting her eyes. Cute.
I’m oddly captivated by the way she slings one leg over the other and lifts her glass to her mouth, draining nearly half of it in one long pull like
it’s her day job, and I stand a little taller when she starts scanning the room. She skims over me, then past me.
Then bounces back to me.
Crimson heat creeps up her neck and paints her cheeks when she realizes I’m watching her, so I flash her my signature crooked grin, pulling my dimples all the way in, and laugh when her head whips around. She glues her gaze to the TV screen overhead and promptly begins to pretend like she hasn’t seen me.
“I’ll find out myself.” I clap my friend on the back and wink at my teammates. “Excuse me, boys.”
“Right. Good luck, Beckett.” Emmett drowns his exasperated laugh in his drink. “I guarantee she won’t buy what you’re selling. You’ll never land her.”
Never land her? Unlikely. I’m the captain of our hockey team and one of the highest paid players in all of NHL history. I can’t go to the grocery store without getting a phone number or a proposition, which is why I use a grocery delivery service now.
I lay a palm on my chest, walking backward with a grin. “You know how I feel about challenges.”
I don’t make out his sentence as I turn my back on him, just the words
funeral and balls in a soup, which are definitely scary.
But not scary enough to deter me.
