Page 1 of The One Timer

Chapter One

CHASE

“That’s not Grandma,” I state the obvious, my jaw slack as I glance at the center ice seats where I expect my Grandma Whittier to be sitting with her entourage.

Sabien skates to a sudden stop, too close for comfort, showing off with a big spray of ice as usual. “What are you gawking at, Whittier?”

It’s early, pre-pre-game warm-ups, and the guys are stretching, skating without sticks, and doing lunges as they get into their game heads. The organist hasn’t even showed up yet. A sprinkling of fans sit in the stands of Boston’s Garden, and I’m staring at one of them, apparently a stunner since I seem to be stunned.

“Not Grandma,” I repeat. Not even fucking close.

He follows my line of sight to the seats not far off the ice, where a bombshell of a woman sits. He whistles.

“Not even close. Who is she? A relative?” He waves his hands to get her attention, but she’s looking up at the jumbotron and the banners, looking as though she’s soaking up the atmosphere.

“No relative of mine. I have no idea who she is.”

“She must be a seat thief. I wonder what she did with your grandma?”

I elbow him. But then I frown, because it’s a legitimate question. I close my mouth, though I still stare at the raven-haired beauty who fills out the faded blue T-shirt like it’s a kid’s size squeezed onto her very adult body.

Then she stands.

“Oh my⁠—”

I elbow Sabien before he says what I’m thinking. She’s fucking hot. Long shapely legs, slim build. I wonder for a second if she’s a promotional model.

“Hey, she’s not wearing a Brawlers jersey. I thought that was forbidden in those choice seats since your grandmother is a legendary Brawlers fan.”

“Grandma is, but we’ve clearly established that this vision, whoever she is, is so fucking not my grand.”

A whistle blows, and Coach Spence yells at us. “What the hell are you two doing? Are your skates superglued to the ice?”

Sabien takes off like Coach shot a starter gun, but I can’t resist one more once-over. As I move, I flick my eyes in her direction, and then I stop.

Because she finally looks down at the ice, directly at me.

She’s close enough for me to see her honey-gold eyes, the full Cupid’s bow lips, and the delicate arched brow as recognition flickers.

To her credit, she doesn’t look away. And neither do I. She shows no sign of apology for being in Grand’s seat. That makes me smile.

Her mouth turns up in one corner, but the laughter in her eyes strikes me.

Just as another blast of the whistle reminds me to move.

With a quick wave and a wink, promising I’ll be back, I dig in and skate off hard, well aware I need to get into my game head and well aware I have something to prove tonight, my first time playing in the Garden as an NHL player.

Mystery girl or no mystery girl, intriguing and as gorgeous as she is, hockey comes first.

I’m on the mission of my life.

I’m dedicating my first season in the NHL to my family, to the people I’ve lost, the ones who helped get me here, and who I wish to hell were here with me now—my parents and my grandpa.

This season is for them, for our family’s legacy.

As I sail across the ice to the gate, I look skyward and touch my heart the same way I do before every game.

I love you, Mom, Dad, and Grandpa. I know you’re with me in spirit, watching me.