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Chapter 1
Quinn
Last Season
That’s it. No more bunnies.
One time I end up handcuffed to a bed with a missing key and, months later, I still haven’t lived it down.
Trashing the latest gif—this one courtesy of the GM’s wife—I glare at the hospital vending machine and the precariously balanced paper cup filled with coffee. This is gonna hurt.
Bending to retrieve the cup is bad enough but coming back up has me breaking out in a cold sweat. Everything aches. My knuckles are swollen and split. My shoulder feels like someone tried to yank my arm out of the socket. And my knees—damn, guys, sorry.
What a shit show.
We knew going in this game would be rough. Even without a team grudge like the one we were up against tonight with the Epics, hockey is a physical sport. You don’t get on the ice without understanding there are risks inherent to the game. But Christ, it isn’t Thunderdome.
Now we’ve got two of our best players in the hospital, and the fuck-face who started it from the other team getting stitched up across town. It’s the kind of night that makes me envy the players who have someone to go home to. Someone real. Someone they trust to listen to how messed up things got.
Yeah, having a someone would be nice right about now.
But still…no bunnies.
I heave a breath and round the corner to the semiprivate waiting room where Greg Baxter, my team captain, texted that his little sister is currently freaking out. What he didn’t mention is she’s not alone.
Holy shit.
Coffee hot enough to melt the skin off my fingers sloshes over the rolled paper lip as I forget how to walk, every cell in my body tuning in to the redhead with a gentle hand on Nat’s arm.
Her hair is this short spill of fiery waves around her face. Andthat face. I swear my heart just threw in an extra beat. My feet are moving double time. It’s like I can’t see the rest of her fast enough.
She’s not as tall as Nat, but I’d bet my left nut she’s an athlete. There’s something about the stance, confident and alert. She’s got a Foo Fighters T-shirt on that fits just right, and her cargo pants hint at strong legs and a phenomenal ass beneath.
Her arms and face are covered in pale freckles, and her lips are full and wide. I can’t see her eyes yet, but with every step closer I know I’m about to. I want to.I need to.
Time fucking slows and I feel each heavy pump of my heart. A smile I can’t quite explain starts pulling at my lips.
And then I have it—eye contact.
Those honey-browns meet mine, and something that feels a lot like recognition slams into me with the force of a two-hundred-pound defenseman. Only I’ve never seen this girl before. The way her eyes flare tells me that hinky sense ofsomethingisn’t one-sided.
Her lips part, and I wait for the smile that answers my own.
This is the moment we’ll tell our grandkids about. One look and I knew—
Whoa.
That’s not a smile. In fact, that lush little playground has firmed into a flat line as unwelcoming as anything I’ve seen before. And those heart-and-soul eyes are suddenly hard as stone, narrowing fast.
Natalie notices me then and I nod, handing over the coffee as I get my shit together and try not to gawk at the girl whose pissy stare is practically daring me to engage.
Hospital, dipshit.
I’m here for Nat.
Only this girl is so intense, I can’t be chill. I offer my hand. “Hi, I’m Quinn O’Brian. Don’t think we’ve met before.”
She doesn’t take it, instead raising a brow as she asks, “Sure you’d remember if we had?” Her voice is husky and low, stroking softly against the back of my brain, like she’s somehow managed to scratch at the fringe edge of some hard-to-reach itch. But then her words register, and I get it.
