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The woman came close to killing me and made it clear she’ll shoot me on sight if I ever come near her again, but I can’t stop smiling at the thought of her. I should look up the nearest psychiatric hospital and check myself in immediately.
I’ve dated lots of beautiful women—and let’s be honest, I can have my pick of countless others. So, why has this one gotten under my skin? My Louis Vuitton carryall is destroyed, along with half the clothes I packed. I’m wearing a sock with a bullet hole, for crying out loud! She is the absolute last woman I should want.
She’s unhinged. Kissing a man one moment and threatening his life the next.
But Jesus, do I want her. Suddenly, I understand why all those athletes pray to God for a win. If there’s even the slightest chance a prayer could help me with Winnie, it’s worth a shot.
I send a silent prayer to the Lord above, begging for another chance to win over Winnie McAllister. I finish with an awkward, “Thanks, God, erm, Amen?” Only then does it occur to me that I should have thrown in a request for a new knee.
Maybe life wouldn’t be so bad without hockey, after all… not if I had Winnie.
I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. She’s the one woman I can’t have, so there’s no point in wasting any more time daydreaming about her. My stomach seems to agree, growling loudly and reminding me that I’ve only eaten half a dog treat since yesterday. Turning onto Main Street, I spot a neon sign for Hidden Springs Bar & Grill. There are cars in the parking lot, so I cross my fingers that they serve lunch and pull into a space near the door.
I’m pleased when I see a sign in the window that says Open for Lunch, and even happier to see a giant green A from the health department displayed next to the hours of operation. I yank open the door and step into a cozy, welcoming space. Exposed brick walls give the space a trendy, retro feel and tall ceilings make it feel open and roomy. The bar area is backlit to highlight an impressive selection of booze, and there are at least a dozen beers on tap, including craft beers from Colorado breweries.
Fortunately, it’s early enough in the day that the restaurant isn’t busy. I don’t have the energy to pose for photos with fans today. Half of the time, they don’t know what sport I play, let alone what position. They just recognize my face from billboards, commercials, and tabloid magazines. Ducking my head, I speedwalk past a booth of middle-aged women, and beeline for the bar. A tall, muscular man in a flannel shirt stands behind it, drying a glass.
He raises an eyebrow when I slide onto a barstool. “Celebrities rarely leave Frosty Creek Haven. What brings you to my bar, Mr. Whalen?”
“Jax,” I say automatically, grateful that he’s kept his voice low. I glance over my shoulder at the women, but they’re still engrossed in conversation. “What’s Frosty Crest Haven?”
He gives me a strange look. “It’s a ski resort. One of the best in the state.”
“Skiing has never really been my thing. I prefer the ice,” I say with a shrug. “I’m starving. What’s good here?”
He smirks. “Everything’s good. But if you’re starving, I’d go with a bacon cheeseburger and fries.”
“Sounds great. With mayo and dill pickles, please?”
“Sure thing. What are you drinking?”
My eyes flick to the whiskey selection. “Bulleit Rye. On the rocks.”
The bartender chuckles. “Not a Heineken?” He points to a Heineken ad on the wall. And there I am, in my hockey gear, holding a giant bottle of beer over my head like it’s the Stanley Cup.
I snort. “Not unless I’m getting paid.”
He pours my drink and sits it on the bar in front of me. “I’ll go put your order in.”
I sip my whiskey and glance around the bar. Everything is spotless. This guy runs a tight ship. Then my eyes land on a photograph on the wall. There’s a picture of the bartender standing with a couple of men. One of them is the star player on one of my rival teams. Flynn McAllister.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say with a groan.
The bartender chooses that moment to return from the kitchen. He frowns at me. “Is something wrong?”
“No, it’s just—” How can I explain this? I flail toward the photograph. “Flynn McAllister. Great player. I respect the hell out of him. It’s just that I can’t seem to avoid McAllisters in this town.”
His face contorts into an ugly scowl, and he folds his arms menacingly across his chest. “Got a problem with McAllisters?”
Seriously? This guy, too? Is McAllister Colorado’s Smith? “You’re—”
“Caleb McAllister. Flynn’s brother.”
“And you’re Winnie’s…?”
“Cousin. But we’re as close as siblings.”
As close as siblings? I tilt my head in thought. “With Flynn in the family, I’m surprised she doesn’t watch hockey.”
