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“Protective much?” I snort. “Seriously, Donny. These guys are your brothers. You can’t trust them to deliver me to your door unmolested?”

He doesn’t bite at my use of his childhood nickname. Then again, I’m the only one he’s ever allowed to keep calling him that, so maybe he doesn’t even notice the tease. Just like I don’t notice him calling me Jack instead of Jackie.

“I’ll take you home.” He surges the car forward when the light changes, his gaze steely as he turns it back to the road. Yep, he’s not going to budge on this. “As far as my teammates go, most of them are okay. But there are a few who … No way would I leave you alone with them.”

This amuses me. I’ve been around hockey players my whole life, so I’ve had a front-row seat to their horndog ways. “Like who?”

His jaw muscle flexes, and he growls when he says, “Chase, for one.”

I rack my brain trying to place the player he’s referring to. “Which number is he, and what have you got against him?”

“He’s a fourth-line grunt, number six. Guy’s a gigantic asshole with a massive ego to match.” Donovan practically spits out the words.

Okay, then. Plenty of hockey players are assholes, but judging by my brother’s reaction, this guy really must be a piece of work.

“In that case, I promise not to accept any rides from anyone named Chase.”

“Steer clear of anyone named Colby too,” he snaps. “That’s his first name.”

Colby Chase. Has a nice ring to it. “What’s he ever done to you?” My brother’s even-keeled about most things, but once in a while something sets him off and he gets his tighty-whities bunched up. Apparently, this Colby Chase character is giving him a massive wedgie.

“He plays with an edge.”

“I thought that was a good thing.”

“He goes too far, and he runs his mouth. All. The. Time. Even to the officials, which lands him in the box and us on the penalty kill,” Donovan rants. “The crap he says to the other team just gets them riled up. He motivates them more than their own coach can. He doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up. He’s a menace, an out-of-control cheap shot, and he doesn’t belong on our team. He’s not even a good player.”

“But he doesn’t cheap-shot his own teammates, does he?” Now that would be a problem.

“Not exactly. Look, can we just agree that I’m taking you home?” My brother’s frustration rolls off him in waves, and I snap my mouth shut. Obviously, he and Mr. Chase have issues, and if the dude is getting under my brother’s skin, then I have no doubt the guy is an a-hole of the epic variety.

My mind wanders back, replaying parts of the game, and I bring up memories of a jersey with a six stitched on the back. I’ve seen guys like him on hockey teams before. He didn’t spend much time on the ice, but he was noticeable when he was out there. Noticeable for two reasons: One, he took a few crucial face-offs and immediately returned to the bench. Apparently, the coaching staff trusted him to win the draw but not enough to leave him out there. And two, when he was out there, he was a pest. Besides giving the other team’s players love taps on the backs of their knees with his stick—not to mention other parts of the body that have little to no padding—he was running his mouth, just as Donny described.

He wore a cocky smirk I’m sure lots of guys would have loved to punch—including my brother. He was sneaky too, though he did get caught once when he was whistled for a two-minute penalty. On his way to the box, he tossed out more choice words and got an extra two. Nothing like putting your team on the penalty kill because you can’t control yourself.

Teams need agitators, but I can see how that behavior could alienate his teammates when it’s taken too far.

I scrunch down in my seat. Being the good sister I am, I don’t mention Chase again and brace myself for the festivities I want no part of.

Later, I’m lying on my bed—well, technically Donovan’s guest bed but mine for now—and I’m restless, so I pick up my phone and do something I haven’t done in a long time. I scroll the Surge’s stats, looking to see how my brother’s doing. On my way there, I land on Colby Chase’s name. Intrigued, I scan the numbers, expecting sky-high penalty minutes on the season, only to discover he’s … right smack in the middle. No choir boy, but also not outrageously goonish—annoying behavior aside. A handful of guys on the team spend way more time in the sin bin than he does. Even my brother isn’t that far behind him.

I also notice something else: Chase leads the team in face-off percentage. In fact, his success rate is so gaudy he’s among the league’s top ten. Not bad for a fourth-line center. Doesn’t mean he’s not a liability, though. Not when he’s a jerk who pisses off his teammates.

I got a brief look at him at the party tonight when my brother pointed him out with a warning to stay away. Of course, what does this girl do when someone tells her not to? She hyperfocuses on what’s taboo.

I didn’t engage. I simply observed—covertly, of course—taking in his carelessly styled brown hair and clipped beard, his six-foot-something frame, and his I-don’t-give-a-crap stance. The dude wears his arrogance like a badge of honor. There was no missing the attitude my brother despises. Colby Chase radiates prick vibes.

I might have brushed by him once—which was when I noticed his light gray eyes—but it was only once and for reasons I don’t completely understand. Maybe I thought the proximity would let me read his thoughts. Maybe I was hoping to catch him trashing my brother and his teammates so I could retaliate with my own dose of smack. Not that that’s my thing. I’m a wimp when it comes to confrontation, but right now I’m a walking bomb dying to be detonated. If I had enough courage to tell someone off, a stranger like Colby Chase would be a worthy target.

Thing was, though, he did nothing overt to provoke me or anyone else in his orbit. It was more in the aloof way he held himself or looked at the crowd, like they annoyed the hell out of him and he couldn’t be bothered engaging with anyone. Beyond a few laughs exchanged with teammates, he didn’t join in any conversations. With anyone. Not even the women who were obviously inviting him to hit on them. He acknowledged them but otherwise kept his distance.

Maybe he has a girlfriend who couldn’t make it, and he was being true. Now there’s a wild concept: a man who doesn’t betray the people he claims to love.

But I digress.

For the rest of the time I was there, I kept him in my peripheral vision, but nothing changed. He was no threat, and I got bored with my mission. The guy looked almost pathetic, just standing against a wall nursing a longneck, doing what I was doing—acting like he wanted to disappear.

Probably because he’s the scourge of the Surge. Ha! I’ll have to tell my brother that one in case he hasn’t thought it up already. I’ll probably have to wait until tomorrow, though, because Donovan isn’t even here. After dropping me off, he said he was returning to the party because he’d “forgotten something” and that he might be “a while.” No doubt what he forgot was the skinny brunette he’d been chatting up all evening. I doubt he’ll return tonight.