“Drinks are on us when you’re convinced, and you’ll definitely be convinced,” Chase adds, full of athlete bravado.

  Ryker rolls his eyes at the other guy. “Dickhead, drinks are on us. It’s part of the VIP package,” he says, and this bearded brute might as well have G-R-U-M-P written on his jersey.

  But he’s not wrong. “You make a very good point too,” I say sweetly to Ryker, since grumps don’t scare me.

  The man’s brow knits, like he’s taken aback by my comment. That’s fun, his reaction.

  “I mean, details matter, right?” I add with a smile.

  His forehead gets even tighter. “Yeah. They do,” he grumbles, but his lips twitch, like he’s fighting off a grin.

  Ha. I’ve defused the big bad grump some. Yay me.

  “Speaking of good points and details, I’ll be expecting a full report over drinks, Trina,” Chase says, cutting in and taking over. “Every detail on how I convinced you hockey is the best.”

  I tap my temple and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll take copious notes for later.”

  “And we’ll have a full review then, Trina,” he says, pausing at my name, almost like he’s enjoying the way it tastes on his tongue.

  That’s unexpected, the ramp up. And I don’t have a comeback this time. Especially since both men are looking at me with competitive fire in their eyes.

  For a few seconds, I feel a little wobbly under the heat of their stares. Like I’m the unexpected object of their desires. But there’s no way they’d both be staring at me like that. I’ve probably read too many books. I’m likely imagining the flames in their irises, mistaking their drive to win for, well, a drive for something else.

  Besides, they probably just want to prove their dicks are bigger than the next guy’s. “I can’t wait for the full review,” I say.

  “I can’t either,” Chase says, then shakes my hand, sealing our bet. As our palms connect, warmth licks my veins again. I’m not sure what to make of this sensation skimming through me. I’m in an icy arena. I should be shivering.

  Instead, I’m borderline sweating.

  “The pics look great. You guys nailed the friendly rivals brief,” Gianna says, interrupting my thoughts and my tingles.

  I snap my gaze to her and she’s waving, beckoning me over. I let go of Chase’s hand, perhaps a little reluctantly. “See you guys later,” I say to my VIP hosts.

  But before I go, Ryker reaches for my hand, only he doesn’t shake it again. He surprises the hell out of me when he drops a whiskery kiss to the top of my knuckles.

  “Oh,” I say as he lingers just a little bit, and I’m tingling all over again. What the hell is going on with me?

  Then he lets go and holds my gaze once more with those midnight blue eyes that look even darker than they did a few minutes ago.

  I do my best to not dwell on that whole interaction that ran the gamut from grumpy to cocky to bossy to flirty.

  Time to focus on my mission for the night.

  Photos.

  I have so many more photos to take. Because revenge is the best way to get over an ex.

  Even though I have to sit through a hockey game to get there.

  There’s stuff happening on the ice. Like big men in bulky uniforms jumping over the boards and flying really fast on blades that look like knives.

  I peer at the game from the VIP suite high above the action, where Aubrey and I are enjoying sparkling wine and stuffed mushrooms. We already devoured cauliflower tacos and mini beef wellington bites. The food is ridiculously good, but I’m still in awe of the way they wear those skates. “How do they move on those things, Aub? That is going to be at the top of my list to ask the guys tonight.”

  It’s a bummer Aubrey won’t be with me for the VIP hang, but she has an “emergency blowout” tomorrow morning at the unholy hour of seven. She’s a hair stylist and one of her clients has a Saturday morning TV appearance.

  My bestie lifts her wine, her brown eyes twinkling with doubt. “That’s on the top of your list?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I tried figure skating once and my ankles punished me the next day by screaming in pain. I believe it was a warning that exercise is dangerous, and I do best with light strolls and long savasanas.”

  “Girl, I think the top of your list of questions for tonight will be…which one of them is going to fight off the other for a piece of you?” She sets down her wine to waggle her phone at me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She stabs a polished pink fingernail, decorated with silver bling hearts, on the screen. “Look at the pics we posted.”

  I scoot closer and peer again at a shot of the guys and me, and hmm. She has a point. There’s a little smolder there, but still. “I bet that’s just a look they teach athletes in smile-for-the-camera school. Look hot and hot for the fans I believe is the lesson.”

  “Sure, the muscles and the million-dollar contracts bump up the hotness factor. But look again.”

  Fine, Chase does seem to be stealing a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. And Ryker’s hand is curled tightly around my shoulder. Possessively. “Cameras are funny,” I say, a little surprised at what it’s revealing.

  “Yeah, they’re funny how they capture the animals in their native habitat, Trina. They’re both staring at you like lions.”

  “So they want to devour me as prey?”

  “Um, yeah,” she says.

  “And rip me to shreds?” I ask, egging her on.

  “To pieces of sex meat,” she says salaciously, then burps, which cracks her up to no end. She slaps her phone-covered hand to her mouth. “Oh my god. I’ve had too much sparkling wine.”

  I pour her a glass of water from the table next to us and hand her the cup. “No more fancy suite wine for you. No more talk of sex meat. Water, good; sex meat, bad.”

  “And hockey? Mildly okay?” she asks after she takes a sip.

  Right. There’s a game going on. I should watch it. But I’ve already learned hockey is super fun in a private suite when they give you buffets of fancy food and fabulous wine.

  On the ice, someone with a number fourteen Sea Dogs jersey—ooh, that’s Chase Panty-Melting-Smile Weston—races across the blue line. But when he passes the little black disc to another Sea Dog, out of nowhere, Hot Bearded Avenger flies in front of him. Whoa. He whips that puck the other way, sending it screaming down the rink.

  I hoot, thrusting an arm in the air, but I don’t know who’s the good guy and who’s the bad guy. Ryker? Chase? “Go…um? Who are we rooting for, Aub?”

  “The snack men,” she declares, with a salacious lick of her lips. “And also…you. A badass babe who will not be fucked with by losers like dickless Jasper.”

  I sling an arm around her. “You’re the true badass babe. Thanks again for letting me stay with you. I’m going to find a place really soon.”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” she says, but there are real nerves in her voice. She lives in a tiny apartment in a building that isn’t entirely dog-friendly.

  “I can move back in with my parents or…my sister,” I say, nearly choking on that last thought since my sister, Cassie, recently went into full pregnant-zilla mode, planning her upcoming baby shower and maternity leave, while my high school sweetheart parents have suggested each day since I left Jasper that they help me find a great new guy I can settle down with and make babies too. Like, tomorrow.

  No thanks. I just want to make rent. But I don’t want to inconvenience Aubrey and her anti-canine landlord. “I’m sure Cassie would let me stay in her guest room,” I offer with a wince, since of course my uber successful interior designer sister has both a fully decorated nursery in gender-neutral pale yellow colors, as well as an extra bedroom, neatly appointed with a flower bedspread and hand towels. She also has a long list of ideas for my life, since I clearly need her help to get my career going and reach my full potential as working at a bookstore can’t possibly be my endgame.

  Aubrey cringes. “Wash your mouth out with soap. You will do no such thing, Trina Beaumont.”

  Thank god she said that. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “No one does, but I still love you. And that means…can I be the first to hold up the sign?”

  Yes! The signs. “Do it.”

  She reaches for the cardboard signs we made last night and hands one to me. She holds up hers, so everyone can see. I do the same.

  It takes a while, but after a few minutes, fans in the stands crane their necks, point, laugh, and snap pics.

  Soon enough, the jumbotron operator must notice because our signs are flashing across the big screen in the arena during a time-out.

  Aubrey’s says: Hey, cheating ex.

  Mine reads: How do you like your hockey tickets now?

  Down by the players’ benches, Number Fourteen tugs up his helmet and stares up at our suite, then laughs deeply. Captain Bossy.

  The possessive bearded guy on the other team cracks a small smile. I bet that’s rare for Mister Grumpy.

  I grin, feeling a little victorious in my sweet revenge.

  I’m not saying it takes the sting and the heartache away. I still feel stupid. I still have zero interest in ever getting involved with a guy ever again, pretty much for time immemorial.

  But tonight? I feel good, and that has to count for something in the healing process.

  When Aubrey leaves at the end of the game with the Sea Dogs winning, she gives me a big hug and whispers, “Have so much fun tonight with those hotties. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Like, what? Burp wine? Oh, wait—you did that.”

  “Don’t do that. But do make them fight for you. Rawr.” She makes claws with her hands. Or tries to at least.

  I’m so glad she’s taking a Lyft home. Glad, too, I only had one glass tonight.

  She’s off and I’m heading to meet Gianna, who escorts me to just outside the locker room where the two hockey studs wait for me.

  When I reach them, she says a quick hello and goodbye, and I just stare stupidly. They’re no longer in their uniforms. They’re both wearing tailored, trim suits that hug strong butts and snuggle firm arms.

  And…whoa. Those thighs.

  Chase’s are so obviously toned and muscular in those charcoal pants. And Ryker’s are bigger and thicker in his midnight blue slacks that match his eyes.

  Did I just discover I’m a thighs woman? I didn’t know that about myself till just now. But hello, strong legs. I like you. Both pairs of legs.

  But more importantly, why did no one tell me hockey players wear suits after games?

  That is information I would have liked to know before now. Suits are kind of my thing. Well, I’ve read a lot of billionaire romances.

  “Nice suits,” I say, recovering from my too-long gawk at last as I stand in the long, chilly hallway at the Sea Dogs arena.

  “Are we going to your corner office in a skyscraper overlooking the city?”

  Chase smirks. “We can go wherever you want.”

  Is it hot in here all of a sudden or what?

  4

  TOTAL BALLER MOVE

  Ryker

  I hate this shit. More than I hate when someone writes could of instead of could have.

  But there are worse things than a sloppy they’re or their.

  Like, say, PR events. Followed by press interviews after games I’ve lost. And topped by fan meet-and-greets that are actually more like probation for being bad.

  Don’t get me wrong—I love fans. But I detest public appearances.

  I blame my ex Selena, who soured me for the press for all time. Which means I don’t like the media or anything related to it. Like…tonight.

  Trouble is, my agent said I need to be nicer.

  Outside the locker room before a game last month, Josh’s exact words were, “Lately, you’ve been coming across like a world-class asshole in the press. Maybe use your words once in a while rather than acting like a caveman. It helps the team. It helps the public image. It helps, gasp, you. And your family.”

  That night, when hockey reporter Bryce Tucker asked me to talk about how I felt after a bad tripping call, I used my words all right. One word. I said, “Shit-tastic.”

  And I stalked out of the pressroom.

  Trouble is that sneaky fucker turned my comment around, reporting that I had called the officials shit-tastic. And then he dubbed me the King of Grunts. That was fun.

  The Avengers PR guy, Oliver, called Josh, and Josh told me I needed to work on my rep, stat, starting by doing a fan event with the star of the Sea Dogs when we played our enemies on the ice, and ending with a photo opp with the same VIP winner at the Hockey Hotties calendar kickoff a few weeks after that. “It’s the fastest way to show you’re not a dick. By consorting with the rival.”

  I believe my words to Josh were kill me now.

  But Chase loves fan events. Chase loves the press. Chase loves everything. Hell, the Golden Retriever even loved high school, and no one loves high school.

  So, here I am, slapping on my smile as I hold open the door to the limo for the woman we’re entertaining tonight. “After you…”

  I trail off because I don’t remember her name. Guess I am an asshole.

  “Trina,” Chase corrects with an eye roll, sliding into the limo right behind her.

  Dick.

  Besides, I thought some hardcore fan named Jasper won the tix. That was what Oliver told me a couple weeks ago, so I was expecting an amateur hockey analyst type to show up at the bench for the pre-game photo opp, giving me super-useful advice, like “Dude! Why didn’t you get that goal in the second period in the game the other night? I totally could have gotten that goal. Shoulda skated faster.”

  But I didn’t expect a woman who’s fit.

  A woman I stared at for far too long before, during, and after that photo shoot, so much so that I didn’t pay attention when Gianna said her name.

  But damn, as she scoots into the limo, takes off her jacket, and sits in the back seat, Trina’s hard to look away from with that heart-shaped face and those cat-eye red glasses. Is that a tiny cherry drawing on the frame? That’s adorable and sexy at the same time. Translation: my downfall.

  Plus, she’s got a spray of freckles across her nose. And don’t even get me started on those pretty lips.

  Except, I fell for Selena right away because of her looks. Where did that get me? Getting crushed by a woman who stabbed me in the back and slashed my heart.

  Relationships suck. Romance is a lie. The human race is doomed. Case closed.

  But I suppose Josh is right. Can’t hurt for me to be un-surly now and then. Un-surly pays the bills much better than surly does, and that helps me take care of my mom and sisters—something I intend to do always. I will never put my mom in a position where she has to make hard choices ever again.

  “Trina’s a nice name,” I mutter, but I’m not sure she hears since she’s busy whipping her head back and forth, seemingly hunting for the seat belt. Then, she finds it as I take the long seat along the side of the stretch limo.

  “I didn’t expect to see this,” she says, strangely delighted at the presence of a…seat belt. She doesn’t put it on though. Just kind of regards it. “I didn’t think limos had seat belts.”

  “They weren’t required to for a long time,” I answer.

  That piques her interest. Tilting her head, she asks, “How did they get out of that before? Having a seat belt?”

  I strip off my suit jacket and set it on the leather seat. “Technically, a stretch limo was considered a bus for a long time. If it seated more than ten people, or had backward-facing or sideway-facing seats, it was a bus.”

  “Even if it didn’t quack like a bus?” Chase counters.

  “But the California Seat Belt Law came along, so here we are,” I say, not taking his joke bait.

  Trina looks at me like I’m an oddity found in a parlor of the weird. “How do you know the California Seat Belt Law?”

  “Looked it up when I got my youngest sister a limo for prom a few years ago. Had to make sure Katie and all her friends were safe, even if the guys they went with were little shits,” I say, shaking my head in remembered annoyance.

  “Why were they little shits?” Trina asks. She can’t stop asking questions. Maybe she’s a secret reporter. Ah, hell. I really hope she’s not.

  I stare her down. “Are you actually a reporter?” I ask, not answering her question. “Because you ask a lot of questions.”

  “Dude. Settle down. She’s not a reporter. And don’t be such a sore loser,” Chase chides.

  I narrow my eyes. “You hate losing too.”

  “No shit. But not the point. Anyway, Trina works at a bookstore.”

  How does he know that? Also, cool. “Yeah? Which one?” I ask, intrigued.

  “At An Open Book over on Fillmore,” she says, a little defensively. “I’m a manager there.”

  Love that store. Frequent it a lot. But I’m not gonna tell her. I don’t want to let on that I am an oddity. The defenseman who got all A’s in school. Who listens to grammar and word podcasts. Who reads all sorts of fascinating shit on how the world works.

  I had to do that. I didn’t know if hockey would pay the bills, and I needed a way to take care of my mom and sisters.

  “And while I may not be a reporter, I am just naturally curious. I’m an investigator. And I bet you’re the challenger.”

  Great. She’s one of those personality-test people. Which means she’s a people person. Which means she’ll try to actually understand why I’m a such-and-such personality. Which means she’ll want to know who fucked me up as a kid.

  Like I’m going to tell anyone about my dad.

  Easier just to answer her question. “Here you go. Teenage boys are little shits because they’re horny bastards. Like the guy who took my sister to prom and stared at her chest the whole time.”