I falter because… yeah. I don’t actually know his name.
My head whips back toward him, ready to ask, but instead, he slides something into my hand.
A rose. Crisp folds of white paper, twisted and shaped from a napkin into a flower.
I stare, stunned.
“If you’d be more comfortable, you can join us upstairs.” He’s watching me with a steady gaze.
Upstairs.
I glance past him, twirling the paper rose between my fingers. The only “upstairs” is the VIP section, with loud men, louder women, bodies pressed against the ropes—all teeth and claws for a chance to get closer.
The thought of being just another body in that swarm, blended into a pack of desperate women in heat, makes my stomach twist.
“No,” I hear myself say, firmer than I mean to. I want to be close to him—more than I’ve ever wanted to be close to anyone. But not like this.
Something flickers in his expression. It’s not disappointment, more like curiosity.
Before I can unravel it, his hand reaches out and plucks the rose back from my fingers. My heart dips, thinking he’s taking it back because I refused him. But my gaze follows his large hand as he tucks it gently behind my ear.
His mouth lowers, his breath warm against my skin, and my entire body erupts in goosebumps.
“Enjoy your night.”
His voice is way clearer next to my ear without all the music diffusing it, and the richness of it makesmy knees weak. Before I can respond with something, anything to make him stay, he’s already walking back through the crowd, leaving me standing there with a paper rose in my hair, every nerve ending in my body burning, and a hundred eyes suddenly on me.
Chapter two
~DOMINIC~
The locker room stinks of sweat and body spray. We’ve got a game in seventy-two hours, and they’re all more focused on my face plastered across the Yellow Pages than the upcoming playoffs. Jace is laughing like a hyena—my hyena, unfortunately. If he weren’t the best defenseman I’ve ever seen and my best friend, I’d have strangled him long ago. Almost did last year, when I caught him with my little sister.
Steam hisses from the showers as I strip off my gear.
“Captain’s got a girlfriend,” Addams, one of our wingers, singsongs, towel slapping my ass as he passes.
Phones are lit up around the room and everyone’s grinning at the same set of grainy photos plasteredacross ESPN, Instagram, TikTok, and whatever else counts as news these days.
My face. Her face. My arm welded around her waist, and her hand twisted in my shirt.
“Didn’t think you were the type for PDA, Cap,” Tanner calls. “But with a girlfriend like that… I get it.”
I’ve spent years keeping myself clear of this exact circus. No women paraded in front of cameras. No puck-bunny dates. No blurry paparazzi shots in or outside clubs. I keep the women I fuck private and send them on their merry way before dawn. End of story. No headlines. No gossip.
And then Jess—fucking whatever—shows up, and now she’s everywhere.
I don’t even know what her last name is. I know her mouth: pouty, perfect, glossed pink under the club’s neon light. I know the way her hair framed her face when she tilted it up at me. I know the shape of her body pressed tight to mine—curves and heat, legs that go on forever. I didn’t catch the shade of her eyes under the strobe, but they were blue.
“My girlfriend,” I say, voice even as I strip the tape off my shin guards, “whom I apparently left in themiddle of the club. Makes perfect sense.” Sarcasm drips with every bob of my chin.
Jace sits next to me and pats my knee. “Maybe it was a short-lived romance. Bathroom quickie?”
“Yeah,” I snort sharply. “Best two minutes of my life.”
That’s not my style, and they all know it. I’ve never been enthusiastic about a first-class ticket to the STD clinic.
The room erupts with half-laughs, half-oohs, while my mind replays the moment on loop. To say I’m unsettled by the way she still clings to my memory would be an understatement. The truth is, I took one look at her and I was gone. I’ve never been caught like that by anyone in my life, and all it took was one touch, one look from this girl to have me breaking my no-public rule. That thought terrifies me more than any playoff game.
