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CHAPTER 1
Bain
Parking my cara few blocks down, I walk through the posh neighborhood toward Brienne Norcross’s mansion for the team Christmas party. Although I’ve been with the Pittsburgh Titans for a month and a half, I’m still getting my social bearings. On the ice, I’ve seamlessly integrated as a defenseman onto the first line, replacing Nolan Carrier in a trade that took me from the two-time champions, the Arizona Vengeance.
The trade was a lucrative deal for me. On a personal level, I’m still not sure. My time with the Vengeance was more than meaningful as we were a patched-together expansion team thrust into a competitive league. We defied all odds and won back-to-back Cups, and within those two years, our team bonded like no other.
It was painful to leave.
But trades happen all the time and in this business you can never really set down solid roots. Your fate is mostly in others’ hands.
As I approach Brienne’s house—aglow with thousands of festive lights on the outside that give me a tingly feeling because I fucking love Christmas—I take a moment to consider the similarities between her and the Vengeance owner, Dominik Carlson.
Both owners take a very personal interest in their players. They’re hands-on in their concern for our welfare but otherwise trust the general manager and coaches to make us good. While they’re both incredibly wealthy, they’re also down-to-earth and approachable. Hell, Brienne Norcross is dating our goalie, Drake McGinn. She’s a multibillionaire CEO of an empire and while he’s important to our team, he’s just a regular guy compared to her level of success.
As I trot up the front steps to the massive double doors, I hear music and laughter from within, telling me this is going to be a fun party.
I expected no less because Brienne is just good people.
It’s three days before Christmas and I’ve been hyped up for the holiday for a while now. I decided on renting a downtown condo until I can figure out the city. Plus, my parents are coming in for a visit and to catch a game. I’ve already got my tree up and all the necessary ingredients for my mom to make her decorated sugar cookies that will ensure I have to do double duty at the gym.
I don’t bother knocking on the door but enter a cacophony of raucous laughter and a group of people singing Christmas carols from somewhere in the house. It’s hard for me to focus on anyone in particular because I’m momentarily stunned by the grandeur of Brienne’s home. I understand it was her family home, but it doesn’t fit the sleek, modern woman who is the Titans’ owner. It’s opulent in an old-fashioned way. It reminds me a bit of the Biltmore Estate I visited one summer. Dark-paneled walls and elaborate embellishments grace the ceiling, showcasing intricate designs of flowers, leaves and vines. The floor is marble, the tiles creating a round pattern in the foyer. A chandelier the size of a car and covered in thousands of shimmering crystals hangs above the sweeping main staircase. The furniture looks like the type not meant for sitting and the massive oil paintings look like they should be in a museum.
All in all, it’s far too formal for my taste but that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.
I’m nearly bowled over when three little boys whiz by, chasing each other with empty wrapping paper tubes. I grin as Drake’s kids hurtle past a round table holding a translucent vase, nearly hitting it with one of the tubes. My grin goes wider as Drake appears from nowhere and snatches two of the kids by their shirt collars and calls a halt to the other. They all three sheepishly hand over the tubes to their dad whose glare isn’t intimidating at all. I met the little rug rats last week when Drake brought them by the arena.
“Bain,” someone calls out, and I turn to see Stevie with Hendrix holding her hand.
I walk over to them, standing just inside what looks to be a formal parlor. I get a bro hug from Hendrix and a real hug from Stevie. I’ve gotten to know her well this past month, especially since we’ve been hanging at her bar quite a bit in our off time. I admire the spitfire of a woman who isn’t afraid to break up a brawl in her establishment.
And well, Hendrix… he’s fucking over the moon about this woman. I think his days as a single guy are truly over.
“Some house, huh?” I say, glancing around.
Stevie leans into me and whispers, “I feel like I’m in a museum.”
“Exactly my thought.” I glance around, then back to Hendrix and, in particular, the drink in his hand. “Where’re the libations?”
He points across the foyer to another large room that houses more expensive-looking furniture. “There’s an open bar. All top-shelf liquor.” He then points past the staircase. “Dining room is laid out with a buffet. Try the tenderloin. You will not be disappointed.”
“And the shrimp,” Stevie chimes in.
“I’ll hit the bar first. Catch you two later.”
I meander into the other room, stopping to talk to some players. I’ve been able to meet a lot of the significant others since I’ve been here, but not all of them. At the bar, I order Blanton’s neat and tip the bartender a twenty. She hands over my drink and I turn slightly, lifting the glass to my lips.
A thrilling zing of excitement sizzles through me as a woman walks into the room from another entrance that looks to lead from a music room. She’s tall but curvy, her body accentuated by a pair of well-fitting dark jeans tucked into black boots that come up over her knees. The heels are thin pegs of four-inch sexiness. Her cranberry sweater is one of those fuzzy ones that you know would feel like heaven against your skin, and I’m a fucking lecherous dude so I can’t help but notice how nice her breasts look in it.
Dark blue eyes scan the room casually, not as if she’s looking for anyone in particular but just checking out the scene. I’m a sucker for blonds and her long hair, ribboned with highlights, falls over her shoulders.
As much as blonds do it for me, her mouth is catching my attention more than anything. Full lips shiny with gloss, and as she smiles at someone who walks by, I see her teeth are perfectly straight and gleaming white. She could definitely pass for a supermodel and I can only assume she’s a girlfriend of one of the guys… or a puck bunny.
In either case, that would make her off-limits to me, but until such time as I confirm she belongs to someone else, I can’t help but be drawn toward her.
Winding my way through the crowd, her gaze turns to me as I approach. And she doesn’t just meet my eyes but rather checks me out. I’m talking about full-blown, slow visual roam over my face, down my chest, past my hips to my legs and then a leisurely climb back up so that by the time we’re staring at each other, she has me feeling a bit hot under the collar.
And fuck me to high heaven, she bites her lower lip just briefly, as if she’s considering something about me.
