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“She said she’d meet me here.”
I slip my cell phone out of my pocket and tap out a text message to Kayla. There’s no reason for my secretary to come all the way over here from the suburbs when I have extra sets of keys to all my apartments.
Rico tugs on my track pants, and I look down at him. “Is that the famous hockey player you told me about?” he whispers, his hand covering the side of his mouth.
I smile and give him a quick nod.
A squeal escapes Rico’s lips. “This is so cool.”
“Do you like ice hockey?” Alex asks Rico, bending down to match his height.
Rico glances in Alex’s direction, wide-eyed. “I’ve watched a few games with Coach before, and I like it, but my mom can’t afford to let me play on a team. She says hockey is too expensive.”
Alex puts his hands on his kneecaps, making it look effortless at his size, dwarfing Rico with his thick body. I didn’t expect the NHL’s biggest playboy to like children, not with the disrespect I’ve heard he shows to women, players, and managers. He might be one of Mickey’s favorite clients, but he’s also the one who is the most hassle. And, now, I’ve been assigned as his babysitter.
“I think we can fix that.”
Alex looks up and into my eyes, and I practically melt under his gaze. Those eyes, that smirk—everything about him makes it hard for me to focus.
“Why don’t you two come to the game on Saturday afternoon? I can leave tickets at the box office for you.”
“Are you serious?” Rico jumps up and down next to me. “Can we go, Coach? Can we? Please!”
I get free tickets to the games all the time. That’s one of the perks of being a sports agent, but this is for Rico, and for once, it’s not a guise to lure me there for a business meeting.
“I have to visit one of my players in New Jersey on Saturday morning, and we have to ask your mom first if it’s okay. But I can have Jamie pick you up, and I’ll meet you there.”
Normally, my best friend since childhood and assistant coach, Jameson O’Connor, would have been at tonight’s game, but he had to work late again.
Rico wraps his arms around my stomach. “Thanks, Coach.”
I shoot Alex a quick smile and mouth, Thank you. This is the last thing I ever expected from him. Maybe he’s not as much of a jerk as the papers portray.
Alex
Less than forty-eight hours ago, I left Georgetown University, my head lowered in shame as I walked out of that girl’s dorm room. I have a serious problem. Ever since my father’s slow battle with cancer, leading to his death at the beginning of the summer, I have not been able to keep my shit together.
The only thing that keeps me grounded is hockey. But I can’t play every second of the day, and when I’m not practicing, traveling, or tearing it up on the ice, I’m either at a bar or balls deep in another puck bunny. I should be training instead of drinking, and resting instead of fucking, but I will do anything to take away the hollowness I feel on the inside.
Since leaving Washington, DC, the first time I felt a sense of happiness was when I looked into Coach’s eyes and saw the joy on her face as she carried a young boy who clearly admired her on her back. He called her Coach, the nickname she’s had since college—though I’d never heard Mickey refer to her as anything other than Charlie. He thinks of her like a daughter, and unlike me, he’s proud of her and everything she’s accomplished.
Now, after all these years of hearing about Mickey’s girl, we are standing inches apart. She’s prettier up close, even with her chestnut hair thrown into a pile on top of her head, mascara streaks on her cheeks, and stains that look like mustard on her basketball jersey.
And she’s tall, only a few inches shorter than my six feet four inches. I like her height. Even though I should be used to it, I hate leaning down and breaking my neck to kiss a chick.
Toned and muscular, Charlotte is clearly in the same shape she was in her basketball prime. Starting with her long legs, I think of how nice they’d look over my shoulders. Her breasts seem to be of average size, but I can’t tell with the long-sleeved white tee she has on under the black-and-gold basketball jersey. I want to find out what she has underneath those layers.
Luckily, Charlotte doesn’t notice me taking inventory of her assets, too focused on the boy
she calls Rico, until she looks over her shoulder at me and catches me staring at her ass. She rolls her eyes, as if she knows I am checking her out, but she seems unaffected. I bet she’s used to athletes hitting on her.
“Can you give me a few minutes to walk Rico to his door and to speak with his mother about the game? Your new home is apartment twenty-five twenty-three, if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me there.” Charlotte stands straight and lifts a ring of keys from her pocket, pulling one silver key from the chain. She hands it to me and starts to walk away with Rico. “Make yourself at home,” she says over her shoulder.
I lift the hockey equipment bag I stuffed my clothes into before leaving my old apartment and walk in the opposite direction as Charlotte, to the left of the elevator. At the end of the hallway, I stick the key into a door marked 2523 on a silver placard and push it open.
Even in the dark, I can see the lights from the Camden Waterfront in New Jersey shining through the panes, casting shadows on the tiled floor.
Table lamps provide just enough light to find the switches on the walls, and I hit one after another until I can see the modern kitchen with tall cabinets and an island that faces the living room. Arranged along the bar are four high-back leather chairs.
