By some miracle, I don’t say that, though I completely understand every impulse every woman throughout time has ever had to hurl vases, dishes, or mugs at a cheating ex. But I’m not going to do that. I am going to hit him where it hurts. Just like he hurt me right in the heart—through my dog. “I get it. I’m just going to do some yoga,” I lie.

  “Absolutely, babe. Anything you say. Thank you so much for considering forgiving me. It will never happen again.” With his tail tucked between his lying legs, he leaves.

  The second the door shuts, I take a deep breath, let a few tears fall, then say fuck off to my feelings.

  I spend the next hour calling reinforcements, devising a plan, packing all my clothes, grabbing my laptop, and snagging my books, candles, lotions and potions.

  When I’m done, I yank open my closet for a final check and spot a bag with all the stupid jerseys and pucks I bought for him. No way does he get this now. I don’t want it, but I am not leaving this behind for him to give to Delilah the hockey fan or to wear himself. I grab the bag, something catching in my throat. I’m crying the whole time, wiping my tears under my glasses with countless wads of tissues. They’re tears of hurt, and they’re tears of rage too.

  I gather up all of Nacho’s toys, food, and jackets, telling my darling that we’ll be staying with my friend Aubrey for a few days. He thumps his tail as Aubrey texts that she’s pulling up.

  I do one final scan of the bedroom to make sure I took everything, when I spot something white and shiny under his bedside lamp. I walk over, inspecting the black bordered card.

  Ohh.

  It’s the VIP tickets he won to spend an evening with the star center of the San Francisco Sea Dogs and his crosstown rival, the top defenseman of the California Avengers.

  With a wicked smile, I stuff them inside my bra and take off with everything that matters to me and the one thing that matters most to him.

  At Aubrey’s home that night, we devour a pint of ice cream, and half a bottle of wine—fine, it’s a whole bottle. Nacho’s tucked next to me on the couch, a little drowsy still, his snout resting on my thigh. While I stroke his soft head, Aubrey sets down the pint and her spoon decisively.

  “Wallow hour is over. Let’s see who you’re going to meet while Jasper cries in the corner.”

  The image of him sobbing like a big baby over lost hockey tickets is a beautiful sight, so I grab my phone, then Google the names of the two players I’ll be meeting in two weeks.

  And…oh. How about that? They aren’t too shabby.

  “Check them out,” I say.

  Chase Weston is the golden guy center, all warm brown eyes and panty-melting smile, of the Sea Dogs.

  Ryker Samuels is the dark-haired, bearded, and broody-as-sin defenseman on the Avengers.

  Aubrey whistles approvingly at their pics. “They’re snacks,” she says, then gives me a naughty look. “You have to wear something ridiculously sexy and take a ton of selfies to make your ex jealous.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  2

  SHE LIKES BOTH

  Chase

  “Oh man. That’s got to hurt,” I say to myself as I climb toward the fiftieth floor.

  I’m sweating buckets, and laughing my ass off as I watch a hilarious vet video on my phone. This is a good fucking way to start a good fucking morning, and it’s going to be a great fucking day. My hockey team is playing our crosstown rivals tonight, and my game plan is simple—I’m going to kick their ass.

  But first I have to show this video to my bud. I pop my earbuds out and wave a hand in front of the burly dude on the StairMaster next to me. “Samuels,” I bark.

  My friend, who’s also the star defenseman for our crosstown rivals, slowly turns his head toward me, arching a brow. The dude could not be any more poker-faced if he tried. As I climb another floor, I motion for him to take out his earbuds, the fucking jackass.

  Like I’ve asked him to give me a limb, Ryker takes his sweet time removing one. “Better be a good reason for you to intrude, Weston. I was about to learn the etymology of the word avocado.”

  I roll my eyes. “We get it. Your brain is big. You know what they say about that.”

  “Yes. There was a study that found the size of a man’s dick is directly proportional to the size of his brain. Ergo…”

  I shake my head. “I saw that same study and it was the size of his funny bone. Dick to funny bone, and both of mine are huge…Also, I was going to say…it means you wear a big hat.”

  With an unamused stare he’s perfected since childhood—seriously, Ryker made our fifth grade math teacher cower with his intensity—he says, “Anyway, did you want me to put the earbud back in right now and finish my podcast? Because I’d like to.”

  “First, check this out,” I say, waving the phone at him. As I climb another floor, heart pumping, legs burning, I shove the screen at him. “This popular vet posted a video the other day and he said…” I pause to clear my throat. “It was a good day. I successfully made a dog puke up a pair of panties. But, since they were not the owner’s panties, it’s safe to say someone is having a worse day than the dog.” I blow out a long stream of air, shaking my head. “Can you believe that?”

  “People are dicks,” my buddy huffs, and that’s been his mantra since his dad took off.

  “Only a handful,” I say, since we don’t see eye to eye on humanity, but hey, that’s what makes it fun to rile him up.

  He narrows his eyes. “Anything else you need to tell me or can I go back to learning about words and you can watch dog videos?”

  “I like dogs,” I say, defensively. Then in a cockier tone, I add, “And I like winning. Which is what I plan to do tonight when we kick your ass on the ice.”

  I pop my earbuds back in and proceed to race climb him. It’s an unwritten rule of two pro athletes working out next to each other. You must school the other guy. Lift more, climb farther, run faster.

  I always do.

  With my pulse spiking, I’m chasing the sky as I watch a pack of Border Collies catch frisbees. Someday, I’ll be able to adopt a badass dog who can do tricks and shit.

  But not too soon, since hockey comes first, second, and third. It’s everything to me, and it lets me fulfill a promise I made years ago. A promise I’ll always keep.

  As I’m nearing the end of my cardio, my phone buzzes. I glance down at the text flashing across the screen. It’s from Gianna, the publicist for the Sea Dogs.

  Gianna: Don’t forget the VIP event is tonight after the game! Be on your best behavior.

  I chuckle at her note, then tap out a reply saying, I always am. But before I can send it she’s already written back.

  Gianna: JK. I know you always are, Chase.

  She’s right. I pride myself on my reputation as a good guy. It works well for me. It helps me pay all the bills and take care of my mom and younger brothers. That’s why I do everything I can to be the good guy man about town. I spearhead the Hockey Hotties calendar to raise money for both youth sports and rescue dogs, and I’ve got one helluva smile. It gleams. And I always talk to the press, even though I know firsthand that the media isn’t always friendly. That’s okay—it’s just part of the game.

  Chase: I’ve got you, G. It’s all good.

  Gianna: You’re the best. P.S. Tell Ryker to smile. No King of Grunts tonight.

  Ouch. But that’s what a popular hockey podcaster nicknamed my friend, and if the skate fits…

  Chase: I will definitely tell him. I’m working out with him right now.

  Gianna: I figured as much! But remember, you’re rivals on the ice.

  Chase: That’s what my Stanley Cup says too.

  I finish the exchange and the workout, stabbing the end button on the StairMaster dashboard.

  Ryker follows suit. “Did more floors than you.”

  I peer at his screen. “Dammit,” I mutter.

  We leave the gym and exit onto Fillmore Street, heading toward Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium. A good workout deserves a good cup of Joe. And that place is my regular haunt. “Here’s the deal. You need to be all sunshine tonight.”

  He grunts.

  “Nope. No grunts. Use those big words in your big brain when we meet our guest.”

  He narrows his eyes, then drops a pair of aviator shades over them and emits a menacing growl. As if he scares me. “C’mon. You can do it. Be a good guy and say you’ll be sunny tonight.”

  With a death glare—yes, I can tell those are daggers behind his mirrored shades—he says, “I will be so fucking refulgent tonight.”

  I cringe. “Do not be repugnant. Just be nice.”

  He snickers. “Refulgent means luminous. As in sunshiney. Like you said.”

  Like it’s happening in slow-mo, I raise my middle finger. “And this means fuck off, word nerd.”

  “Aww, was it hard for you to learn something? Or did it drive you crazy?”

  I scoff. “You know what drives me crazy? When you act like you’re an irascible bastard,” I say, flinging one of his fancy words back at him.

  Ryker cracks a rare grin. “See? My word nerding rubs off on you. Such a surprise for a Golden Retriever.”

  “Did you mean team captain? Since that’s what it says on my jersey.”

  He growls again. But I’m not fooled by his grumpy routine. Only one thing I’ve done has ever really pissed off Ryker. A year ago, when he thought I stole his girl. Dude didn’t speak to me for a week. But I didn’t know Abby was his and I will never do it again. We made a pact after all. “By the way, what’s the etymology of avocado?” I ask.

  That perks him up. “It comes from an Aztec word for testicles.”

  I cringe. “This is why I don’t need to learn your weird words.”

  Ten hours later I’m rinkside, in my uniform, and ready to destroy the Avengers. The game starts in twenty minutes. But first, my goalie taps my knee with his stick.

  “Listen,” Erik begins from his spot on the bench next to me. “Lisette needs to know if you want to be at the singles table next weekend? She says it’ll be fun.”

  Fun and singles tables don’t usually go hand in hand. But that’s my cousin Lisette for you. I invited her to a barbecue at my house a couple years ago, and she hit it off with my teammate. “Was the table by the dumpster in the alley unavailable?”

  He rolls his eyes. “She wants to introduce you to some of her friends.”

  Yup. Knew that was coming. My cousin’s been trying to return the favor and set me up with someone ever since Erik proposed. “Let me think about it while we play. You do the same,” I deadpan.

  “Fuck off. This is how I get in the zone,” he says.

  I smile. “I know, man. I know. Hence, I indulge you.”

  Erik never talks hockey before a game so we shoot the shit some more till Gianna heads through the stands, coming from one direction, Ryker from the other. Even though he’s on the other team, he’s joining me over here for the pic, per his agent’s orders since the guy is making him do this event with me tonight. I pop up, moving away from Erik and the other guys.

  “Our VIP guest has arrived,” Gianna says to Ryker and me with a bright smile. “Well, one of them. Her name is Trina and I’ll grab her in just a minute. Quick debrief—she’s meeting her friend Aubrey here shortly, but we’ll do a photo with Trina before the game since she won the tickets. I spoke with the Avengers publicist and Oliver wants you,” she says, looking at Ryker, “to lean into the whole friendly rivalry thing. Got it?”

  Ryker gives a curt nod, but says nothing.

  Gianna continues, “Then after the game, you’ll both take Trina and her friend to the bar they chose for your favorite thing.”

  Sex. That’s my favorite thing. I don’t say that out loud but I fucking think it. “Ping-Pong,” I say brightly.

  “Pool,” Ryker says.

  “I meant bar games.” Gianna laughs. “Can you two ever agree on anything?”

  We look at each other, stony-faced. “Hockey is the best sport,” I say.

  “But that’s about it,” Ryker adds, even though the truth is we agree on a ton of things. That you’ve got to take care of your mom, look out for your little sibs, and play hard for every period, to name a few.

  I’ve known Ryker since we were six and growing up in the same neighborhood in Denver. Our moms were and still are best friends.

  But ribbing him is a daily hobby, and I’m devoted to it. Even more so when we face off against each other on the ice. While Gianna retreats to grab our VIP guest, we debate bar games. “Ping-Pong is the best. It’s fun, fast, and you can slam the hell out of a tiny white ball,” I say, making my case.

  “Pool requires strategy,” Ryker puts in.

  We argue a little more about which hobby rules until a warm, feminine voice lands in my ears, saying, “Pretty sure I’ll like both.”

  I turn to the pretty voice and shut the fuck up because…

  She’s a vision.

  A woman with waves of chestnut hair, full red lips, and a clever smile stands five feet away from us. She wears jeans that hug her hips and cute little ankle boots, along with a Chase Weston jersey and a Ryker Samuels jacket. There’s nothing sexier than a woman with my name on her back. Not a teddy. Not a pair of stockings. Nope. My jersey is the hottest thing a woman can wear. She looks damn good in our gear.

  Gianna’s next to her and makes quick intros. Trina extends her left hand, then quickly switches, offering her right instead.

  She’s a little awkward, maybe. Which only adds to the instant attraction. After we shake, I nod to her outfit. “You’re like a Weston/Samuels sandwich.”

  She grins, fingering the side of the jacket then the neckline of the jersey. “What do you know? I guess I am. Not a bad look.”

  “Not at all,” Ryker says, and whoa. That’s more than I expected to hear from him. He hardly says anything more than thanks to fans these days.

  But once Ryker says those three words, the beauty swings her gaze from him to me and back again. She has the most curious bright green eyes behind those red cat-eye glasses. I’m such a sucker for eyes.

  Then, I blink. Oh, shit. Ryker’s staring at her like he can’t look away. He thinks she’s a smoke show too.

  And the great fucking day I’d planned has just been iced.

  3

  SEX MEAT

  Trina

  Look, I’m not saying I suddenly like hockey or anything crazy like that. But I definitely don’t mind being smushed next to these two big hunks. I mean, fine. There’s a lot of gear on them. Shoulder pads and stuff.

  But still.

  They smell nice.

  Is it normal to smell good before a game? No idea, but the bearded one smells like a forest, and the brown-eyed guy reminds me of an ocean breeze.

  I inhale them surreptitiously as I smile for the camera, little me wedged between my ex’s idols here at the player’s bench.

  The player’s bench.

  I am so not going to mind posting this photo on my socials in, oh, say two minutes.

  Take that, Jasper.

  He’s been begging me for the last two weeks to return the VIP tickets. Pleading, crying, and prostrating himself in his pathetic effort to woo them back. But gee, my phone just seems to be broken. It refuses to answer his calls, texts, or emails.

  Imagine that.

  I’ll be sure to tag him in these pics shortly though.

  Gianna snaps a few more photos on her phone, then I hand her my phone, too, and return to my spot between the rivals. They sling their arms around me again.

  And again, I don’t mind one bit. Ryker’s arm is so big. Chase’s too. Strong arms are just extra nice.

  “Perfect,” Gianna declares when she’s done, then holds up a finger. “But let me just check and make sure they’ll work.”

  As Gianna busies herself swiping the screen, the guy with the killer smile turns to me. “So, who’s your favorite player, Trina? I’m guessing since you’re wearing a Weston jersey that it’s me,” Chase says, all charm and great teeth. He’s friendlier than I’d expected him to be. I’d figured a couple of pampered athletes would just smile plastically for the camera, since they’re doing this out of obligation, then focus their attention on the game, no conversation allowed.

  I return his smile with one of my own. “Is that a requirement? That I have a favorite?” I ask playfully.

  “Nope. But it’s likely you will when you see me play.” Someone is confident.

  But Ryker scoffs.

  I turn to him, curious. “Does that mean you think you’ll be my favorite instead?”

  He scratches his jaw, a little aloof. “I don’t play to make favorites. I play to win,” he says with a careless shrug, but he’s not aloof with his stare, aimed right at me. His dark blue eyes are smoldering with their intensity. With a promise of what’s to come.

  In the game? On the ice? Or after when we all play…Ping-Pong?

  I’m not sure, but it seems like it’d be fun to wind him up. “Then maybe we should make a bet. If you’re both my favorite players after the game, I’ll buy a round. But it’s going to take a lot of convincing,” I warn, then shrug casually, ready to surprise these guys with this little nugget. I lean in and whisper, “It’s my first time…at a hockey game.”

  Chase whistles. “Fuck favorite players. We have a bigger mission now for your virgin game,” he says, a little flirty. “We’re gonna make sure hockey is your new favorite sport.”

  I arch a doubtful brow then say, “Good luck.”

  There’s no way I plan on falling for either team, or for my ex’s favorite game for that matter. Still, I have a full night of revenge gloating ahead of me, and I plan to savor every second here at the arena and with these two guys.