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  “I’m so sorry.” I grab napkins and offer them to her.

  She shoves my hands away. “Stop. Just stop. Do you honestly think I’d let you cop a feel?”

  “No!” I’m quick to right that misconception. “I was handing them to you, not touching you. I would never touch you.”

  “Don’t sound so disgusted at the possibility.” She tosses the cup in the trash.

  Shit. I’m anything but disgusted. I’m a man. And this girl is hot. Or would be, if she weren’t furious with me.

  Peeling her tank from her chest, she reaches in, scooping a handful of blue slush from her cleavage before tossing it in the garbage can. “I’m going to kill Becca. Yoga will relax you. What a joke! It leaves you sore, miserable, and sweaty.”

  I grab more napkins. Is this all I can do? Stand like an idiot with a stack of napkins in my hands while she mutters to herself? What the hell has happened to my social game?

  Before I can offer to buy her another Slurpee, her head snaps back to me. “Can I help you with something or did you want to burn me with scalding hot coffee before you left?”

  I’m staring and gulping. My throat is dry. Still, I manage, “How can I help?”

  “Thanks, but you’ve done enough.” Staring at her blue hands before wiping them on her yoga pants, she hurries out the door.

  Since the napkins were a complete waste of time, I plop cash on the counter to cover the Gatorade and chase after her. She’s parked one aisle over from me, standing at the gas pump. I grab a towel and my extra T-shirt out of my hatch and head toward her car. A metallic blue Volvo XC90. Sporty, yet sexy.

  “God damn it. Come on.” She struggles with the gas cap, then slams her palm against her car. “Shit.”

  I stand next to the pump. “Hey.”

  Twisting around to see me, she leans against her car with an annoyed sigh. “Did you come over to spill gas on me, too?”

  “Nope. I’m still trying to help.” I offer her the towel from my gym bag, but she takes a step away from me like I’ve got the plague. “I come in peace—look, it’s a white towel.”

  “Too late for peace. I have Slurpee goo in my underwear, you’ve frozen my lady parts, and now the ice is melting.” She looks down at the blue puddle on the concrete. “Oh, God. It’s dripping. It looks like I’m peeing a Smurf in public.”

  “Take the shirt and the towel. I’ll fill your tank while you change.” She’s tense and dripping onto her flip-flops. I say the only thing I can think of to make this better. “I really am sorry.”

  She narrows her eyes. “So you say, but how do I know you’re not going to steal my car?”

  I laugh. I can’t help myself. Sure, I’ve been trash-talked a lot in my life, but I’ve never been accused of grand theft auto. My contract was discussed ad nauseum on ESPN. Even non–hockey fans tend to know how much I make annually. It was national news.

  She glares at me. “What’s so funny? Auto theft happens all the time, right?”

  Reaching into my pocket, I hand her my keys. “You can have mine.”

  She grabs them, reading the Land Rover emblem, then looks for my SUV. After setting her sights on it, she presses the panic button. Not once, not twice. Nope. She presses it three times, and the horn blares as my hazards blink furiously. I cancel the panic alarm, though it’s too late. We’ve already caused a scene and my ears are ringing. Still, I exhale, relieved that she didn’t press the tailgate button. The last thing I need is for those banners to go flying through the parking lot. Chasing them would make me look like even more of an oaf, if that’s possible after spilling a sticky blue Slurpee all over her. As I hand my keys back to her, she grins.

  The day, my shitty day, just got a whole lot brighter. Because of one grin…from this woman. That’s all it took.

  Reaching for my towel and shirt, she pauses before heading to the restroom. “I promise not to lose your keys or flush them down the toilet. No matter how tempted I may be.”

  “I appreciate that.” I wink at her, noting how her sarcasm draws out her dimples. “I promise not to steal your car. No matter how tempted I may be.”

  The planes of her heart-shaped face soften, and she opens her mouth, like she’s about to say something. I’m intrigued. Until she smirks. I can tell she’s trying not to laugh as she hurries to the restroom without a word. Though I’m left wondering what she wanted to say, I can’t help but smile. It’s obvious to me that this woman has no idea who I am, which actually excites me. Being considered a car thief means that this is one person who doesn’t want anything from me.

  My cell rings, and I read the screen. Dad. Speaking of someone who wants a handout, I reject the call, choosing instead to shove my cell in my pocket, top off the blonde’s tank, and screw her gas cap back on. The signs say I shouldn’t be on my cell. What better reason for rejecting a call from my dad? Besides, the last thing I want to do is set fire to the mystery woman’s Volvo.

  Just as I close her gas tank door, I catch sight of her crossing the parking lot, wearing my white T-shirt and her flip-flops. My hand stills, and I can’t help but stare.

  Holy fucking hot.

  The shirt covers her ass and reaches her thighs. When the sunlight hits at just the right angle, I can see the outline of her body. Tight, but not emaciated. She wears sunglasses and saunters like she is the sexiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, which I’m pretty sure she is. Her confidence is a total turn-on.

  “Your towel and my clothes are a lost cause.” Her sweat mingling with gas fumes is oddly intoxicating. “Thanks for the shirt and for filling my car.”

  “Anytime.” I want her number. I need it, but I can’t get my mouth to work fast enough.

  Someone whistles at her, and she tosses me my keys before heading to her driver’s door. “I’ve gotta go. Thanks again.”

  She slides into the driver’s seat, turns the ignition, and fastens her seatbelt. As she drives away, I notice a blue stain on her cheek. Fuck. I don’t even know her name. Just that she wears my shirt even better than she wore a Slurpee, has no shame, and is the first woman not to recognize me in forever. God damn. Why didn’t I get her number?

  A horn blares at me because I’m blocking a free pump. It’s another reminder that I’m human. I’m not Brad Pitt famous. Or polished. I spilled a blue raspberry Slurpee down a woman’s shirt, for Christ’s sake. Some face for a new expansion team I am. I’m supposed to have it together, be cool under pressure. Sure, I am on the ice. I commanded the Infernos. So why do I feel so uncool in New York? Why can’t I put an asshole like Gallagher in his place, let alone meet a smoking-hot woman without getting tongue tied?

  “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I mutter as I slide behind the wheel. “This is going to be a long summer.”

  Chapter 2

  Christian

  Three days have passed since I made a fool of myself at the gas station. Three long days, and I still can’t stop thinking about the sexy blonde. Our team bonding has continued, and no matter the bar or restaurant we go to, no woman I encounter is as hot as the one I never asked the name of. Add that to the fact that Mighty’s attitude still sucks, and I’m in need of some help. From the real hockey gods. That’s why I chose tonight’s spot: a well-known sports bar close to our stadium on Long Island. It is famous for its hockey wall of fame. Maybe the greats can knock some sense into the rookies and attitude-adjust the ego-tripping asshole known as Mighty.

  I park a few blocks away, then walk the distance to The End Zone, where the guys are waiting for me for a night of booze, bonding, and game talk. Hopefully, one in particular will find a respect for the sport and his teammates.

  There are two entrances, and I walk past the one for the restaurant/catering hall and round the corner.

  “Fashionably late,” Alexi taunts me from the sidewalk. There’s a reason he’s called the Vampire. As a d
efenseman, he gets off on keeping the puck from opposing teams. He’s also a hard-core competitor—one of the most skilled I’ve ever seen. Though his lurking outside in the shadows is kinda creepy given his nickname, it’s also part of his charm. He came straight from the Russian league and, based on his shots on goal, is the perfect addition to our team.

  No matter how great he is on the ice, he’s earned my sarcasm, “Kiss my ass.” I open the heavy oak doors to the bar, and he follows me in, laughing.

  It’s hot outside, and the temperature isn’t much cooler inside. The bar is an eclectic mix of old polished mahogany and upscale mood lighting with chrome accents. The place has just the right mix of modern and vintage, if you call going back a couple of decades vintage.

  Pictures of sports greats hang on the walls. Gretzky. Orr. Lemieux. All represented in the NHL section. Legends. This crowd worships them. Who the hell are we in comparison? The new team in town. We’ve got a lot to live up to.

  Born in the sticks of Michigan, hockey wasn’t just a game for me, it was a necessity. My only way to unleash my pent-up rage and frustrations, a way to escape a life like my dad’s. His was an honest living, but it was hard on him, on our family, and that’s what pushed me. It still pushes me. I refused to end up like him. So, I played like my life depended on it. Because it did.

  First in college, where I made a name for myself, then in the NHL at Indianapolis. That was my golden ticket into the pro circuit. I paid my dues at defense, then found my place as center. I took everything opposing teams threw at me and pressed myself harder, then harder still.

  That’s why my manager and the Nighthawks’ owner pegged me to captain this ship. Because challenges drive me and, as the Cyclone, I own the ice and show no fear. Sure, the money’s incredible, but no amount of fame or wealth has satisfied my need to prove myself. I doubt it ever will, which is probably why I don’t do relationships. I’m so focused on proving myself in my career that I don’t have the time to prove myself in my personal life.

  I take the lead, weaving through the maze of packed tables. I can feel the eyes on me, the patrons watching me. All because of some magazine cover and a lot of positive hype mixed with some gossip. In this hockey town, I’m larger than life. Women want a piece of me, of the fame, of the money. Then there are the puck bunnies, who see me as one of the most eligible NHL bachelors. I’m photographed with every female I meet, from charity dinners to PR events.

  While a night of hot sex is always in the cards, I don’t kiss and tell. Most of my one-nighters don’t either—I’m careful. I’m also selective. I’ve wrongfully gotten the reputation as a womanizer because Who is Christian Chase dating? has become a popular question. So popular that it should be a drinking game. So popular that I don’t date at all. Because I fear I won’t have to prove myself to women who see me as a trophy.

  It’s a double-edged sword. I don’t want to prove myself by committing to a relationship, yet I don’t feel comfortable with those who want casual either. That’s why the gas station blonde has me thinking of her…because she didn’t know me, didn’t know my financial situation, and thought I’d steal her car. I liked that anonymity. Hell, I reveled in it. Finally, someone wasn’t dazzled by the Christian Chase hockey god reputation.

  Who I am on the ice is much different than the person I am off it. Most women don’t take the time to learn that. Others would be disappointed by me. The real me, not the third-person drinking game persona, wants to keep what little pieces of myself that remain private hidden from the public eye.

  There are two tables at the far wall, and I tip the waitress, then help her set them up for us.

  “Look at you, being the gentleman. Are you sure you’re a hockey player, dude?” Nick jokes, helping with the tables. Only he can get away with that crap. Not just because he’s like a brother to me, but because he protects me on the ice. He keeps me safe. He owns his job in the form of several scars on his face, so I let him slide.

  I order and thank the waitress, then shove Nick into a seat. “Someone has to show you assholes how to keep it classy, Dominator. Especially with the greats watching us.”

  The rest of the guys move from the bar and take their seats, drinks already in hand. They study the photos. As do I. These men on this wall humble me. Always have. I’m just a guy striving to live up to their greatness. I wonder what they think of all the hype surrounding my acquisition by the Nighthawks. I wonder how they judge me. The free agent who won the biggest prize: a brand-new team. Do they realize how hard I’ve worked or that, if I’m being honest with myself, the only thing I fear is failure? Did they ever feel the same way? What were their fears, the ones they never admitted in interviews or documentaries?

  Just when I think my teammates understand the significance of the NHL wall as much as I do, Ryan chuckles. He’s staring at a redhead across the room. So much for hoping the wall would bring a sense of humility to the rookie.

  Leaning into him, I nudge his elbow with mine. “Either go up to her or stop staring. Don’t look desperate.”

  He shoves his hair from his face, smirking. “Is that how you do it?”

  “I don’t need to do much, Lucky.” Smart-ass kid, but I don’t say this to brag. It’s a fact. One that I’m not proud of. It’s another reason why I don’t date, especially women who approach me after I show no interest. Because those women enjoy the chase, and I want something…different. I should have made a move with the woman at the gas station. If she can offer me a grin after I’ve soaked her in frozen carbonated blue coloring, then she’s worth getting to know. From what I saw, she’s cynical and smart—setting off my panic alarm was brilliant. She’s also beautiful and sexy as hell. Damn, I missed out.

  The waitress sets a Coke down in front of me. In a short glass, just how I asked for it. I toss the lime to the side. I don’t drink much, and my teammates give me shit about it. Let them think it’s a rum and Coke, or not. Doesn’t matter to me.

  “To us!” Nick shouts, gaining the attention of the entire room.

  A brunette in a short dress that shows too much cleavage for my taste licks her hot-pink lips from the far wall before sauntering toward me. Even from this distance, she reeks of desperation. It clings to her like cheap drugstore perfume. This woman, with her short skirt and cleavage on full display, isn’t coy. No, she’s precisely the type I avoid, because nine times out of ten this is the woman who would not be discreet; she’d be hot on the phone with the tabloids, giving them the blow-by-blow of her night with Christian Chase. I hate that public persona.

  Taking a sip of my Coke, the shake of my head is subtle and not meant to embarrass her. She’s quick to take the hint, heading back to her spot at the other side of the room.

  As I look across the table, all I can think of is how do I unite my team? Mighty’s grudge be damned, we’re on the same side now, with the same goals. We must unite. That’s what I’m hoping to accomplish tonight, coming together for the sake of our team, the Nighthawks.

  Our conversations center around workouts, the game, and women. Especially women. My teammates are on the prowl, and with the Mountain, aka our resident family man, at home, I suspect half the single women in this bar will get laid tonight. Even Lucky has a slim shot, since the redhead is now studying him.

  Lucky clears his throat. “Wish me luck, lads.” He strides over to her in that stupid limp-walk that he swears makes him look cool, when it really makes him look constipated.

  “Oh, look at the rookie going for it!” Nick watches with rapt attention, as do the rest of the guys.

  He’s going to crash and burn. I know it. Lucky is nice, but he hasn’t gotten laid yet, and he’s tried a lot in the short time I’ve known him.

  It all happens fast. The redhead gets angry, then throws her drink in Lucky’s face. I wince, but I can’t stop watching. It’s like a wreck on the freeway. I just can’t turn away. So much for the
luck of the Irish.

  The bartender tosses Lucky a towel, and he dries his face as he makes his way back to his seat, his shoulders slumped.

  “What the hell did you say?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice.

  Lucky gulps. “I said something that upset her.”

  “No shit. That much is obvious.” Lucky’s face is beet red under my scrutiny.

  “Did you use a cheesy pickup line? Like Are you Cinderella? ’Cause I see that dress coming off at midnight.” The Vampire beams with pride. He thinks he’s got this figured out.

  Damon shakes his head. “She wouldn’t throw a drink at him for that.”

  “How about Wanna get a pizza and bang?”

  “Yeah, that might get a drink thrown in his face.” Damon gapes at Lucky. “You didn’t say that, right? I mean, who says that? Even with an Italian restaurant next door.”

  “It’s on the internet. Google pickup lines,” The Vampire mutters.

  Thor is wearing a look of disgust. “What asshole Googles pickup lines?”

  “We can’t all be the god of thunder, or ice, or whatever you are,” the Vampire laughs, clearly oblivious to the twitch in Lucky’s right eye.

  This is bad. Really bad. “What did you say?”

  “I…” We all wait, leaning over the table until Lucky finally admits, “I used the pizza line.”

  The Vamp shouts “I told you so” to the Demon, while three of us, me included, ask, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I didn’t expect an answer. Though I’m only one-third of the guys who said it, Lucky unleashes his embarrassment on me. “I dare you to do better.”

  It’s a challenge. One I’m not comfortable with. I don’t use women. “Seriously, dude?”

  “Not the easy brunette,” Lucky says a little too loud. “Someone at the bar.”

  Mighty and the Vampire are now chanting my name, Lucky’s thrown down a challenge, and I’ll look like a pussy if I don’t do it. So, I’ll look like a pussy. That’s my choice. No matter how much I want to earn their respect, I’m not willing to hurt some unwitting female to get it. “Fuck you. I’m not doing it.” I get off my ass and head to the bar.