War (Boston Bolts Hockey #3)

1. Tyler

ONE

TYLER

“Good morning, Boston. This is Beckett Langfield, along with my brothers, Gavin, Brooks, and Aiden. Today, we’re bringing you another Langfield love story.”

Gavin sighs. “That is definitely not what we’re doing. We’ve been over this.”

Brooks snorts. “Good luck with that. I don’t know why you still try to stop him. He takes over every episode.”

“Anyway,” Aiden quips. “This is the Langfield Report , and today, we’re here with Boston Bolts captain, Tyler Warren.”

“To discuss how he fell in love because of me,” Beckett interrupts, every word brimming with pride.

A laugh threatens to burst out of me, but I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle it. It’s hard to be around these four and not laugh, but I’ve got a reputation to maintain—hard-ass enforcer, right winger, and yeah, captain of the Boston Bolts—so I don’t want this interview to go off the rails.

Aiden tries again. “The purpose of this podcast is to give players a direct link to fans. To allow them to tell their own stories rather than be the subject of someone else’s.”

Pride fills me as I focus on my center’s words. He’s the best damn player in the league, and not all that long ago, he opened up to the world about his struggles with depression. From there, he and his brothers created this podcast so they could help other players. The topics don’t stop at mental health and hockey, though.

“Go on,” Beckett says, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin, wearing a shit-eating grin. “Tell Boston about the first time you met the love of your life.”

The love of my life? That has me biting back another laugh. Definitely don’t think that’s what I was thinking when we got into this. The bane of my existence would be more apt. The pain-in-my-ass wench I tied myself to for life. Or Vicious , maybe. But since I can’t say any of that, I go with my favorite nickname for her. “Fine, I’ll tell you about the first time I met my wife. It was about two years ago…”

About Two Years Ago

There is not enough caffeine in existence to rid me of the headache my stepmother’s phone call just caused. No, I do not need help with my investments. If I did, the last person I’d hire to handle my retirement plans is Xander, my asshole stepbrother. The guy would probably tank my portfolio on purpose—as long as he could skim at least 10 percent off the top first.

Why the hell did my father bring him on as a partner? The kid is an unmotivated, selfish prick. The clients who aren’t scared off by Xander’s bad attitude will cut ties when they realize he’s a thief.

With my head thrown back, I mutter a fuck it and stalk to the door. I need to work out. If I don’t keep myself busy, I’ll end up calling my dad and giving him a piece of my mind.

Outside my apartment, I take the elevator to the gym in the basement. The building and my team—the Bolts—are owned by the Langfields. In fact, two Langfields play hockey with me—Aiden, our center and the youngest of four brothers, and Brooks, our goalie and my best friend. Brooks and I met in college. Not only did we play hockey together, but we were roommates for all four years.

Brooks and Aiden and their two older brothers are the definition of brotherhood. What they have is nothing like my relationship with fucking Xander. At the thought of him, my blood, which has just begun to cool, simmers again. I clench my fists, willing myself not to punch the elevator wall. Gavin Langfield—the brother who owns the Bolts and is far more hands-on than any owner I’ve ever encountered—has cameras all over this building. The last thing I want is to be fined for acting up. Sure, they signed me because I’m a fighter—they like when I protect Aiden, our star center, as well as the other guys—but I don’t think they’d appreciate it if I destroyed their property.

This is my first season with the team, so I’ve got to prove my worth and not piss off the front-office staff. My friendship with Brooks alone isn’t enough to guarantee I keep my spot. The Bolts won the Stanley Cup last year, but as always, loyalty or not, the roster was shaken up after the season ended. They traded one of their best players for me and two defensemen. Guys get too expensive or too difficult, they’re gone. It’s not personal; it’s business.

Ha, that’s what I should have said to my stepmother. Even if my decision is personal. I hate Xander, so why would I hire him?

The bass thumps loud enough to vibrate through me when I step into the gym. Aiden, our team’s lucky charm, is in the corner, dancing between his sets. Camden Snow, a winger like me, is shaking his head at him while doing a set of curls.

Already, the chemistry I have with these guys on the ice is incredible. Fuck, I can’t wait for the season to start so we can put it to use. For now, though, I need to work out my frustration. I head to where the punching bags are set up at the back of the gym.

As the music from the front of the facility fades, I pick up on another sound. One much more melodic. I pick up my pace and head straight for the separate room in the back. Hovering in the doorway, I watch as a woman leaps across the wooden floor, long limbs spread wide. When she lands, she spins, then juts her chest forward, her arms swooping in, her movements filled with emotion, her chest heaving.

As “Scars to Your Beautiful” by Alessia Cara plays, she runs across the floor and throws herself into another jump. This time, though, when she comes down, she lands in a heap on the floor.

My pulse races as I dart for her, and the French Canadian inside me rears its head. “Merde. Are you okay?”

The woman scrambles to her feet. Hair the color of autumn, a mixture between burnt orange and red, escapes from her bun. Wary green eyes as vibrant as the leaves on the white cedar trees outside our home in Canada blink up at me. Her skin is coated in a sheen of sweat, and beneath her cream-colored leotard, her chest rises and falls heavily, causing her nipples to strain against the fabric and make my mouth water.

She’s gorgeous and absolutely nothing like the women I usually date. Though I guess dating would be a gross exaggeration.

Her expression is reserved, even timid, making it obvious she didn’t sneak into the building with the goal of hooking up with a hockey player. That kind of shit happens often, and even a year ago, I gladly would have fucked a woman who did. But since coming to Boston, my priorities have changed.

“I’m fine. You just scared me.”

“I can see that,” I say as I take another slow perusal of her body.

Her legs are bare and pale, and when she spins back toward the mirrored wall and strides to her phone, where the music is playing from, her mesh skirt sways. Beneath it, her leotard barely covers her ass.

Damn. I can’t help but eat up every beautiful inch of her.

Without hesitating, I advance, coming right up behind her. Before I can get a closer look at just how perfect her curves are, though, she spins.

Lips pursed, she gives me a pointed glare. “Do you need something?”

Oh, I need so many things right now, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t appreciate any of the ideas filtering through my mind. “Your name would be a good start.”

I smile down at her. I’ve been told I have a bad boy smile. Apparently, it makes it nearly impossible for women to resist giving me what I want, and right now, what I want is my head between this one’s thighs. Her innocent, doe-eyed expression be damned. If she’s bold enough to wear a leotard that revealing, I have to believe this attitude is an act.

“See something you like?” she asks, calling me out on my obvious inspection .

I run my thumb across my bottom lip, smile still in place. “Very much so.”

She blinks those big green eyes of hers in shock, like she didn’t expect that answer. Like maybe she’s surprised she even spoke to begin with. Like I dragged the words out of her. I like that idea a little too much. Softly, she adds, “I don’t do this.”

“Share your name with people you’ve just met?” I scratch the back of my neck. “Do you not like it? That’s okay. I’m really good with nicknames. Give me a minute, and I’m sure I can come up with a good one.”

She coughs out a surprised, almost derisive laugh. “Does this normally work for you?”

Smirking, I nod and take another step closer. The pull to her is impossible to resist. She smells so fucking good. Like ice cream. I’m about to lick her to see if she tastes as sweet.

Lowering my head to catch her eye, I say. “My name’s Tyler. Now it’s your turn.” I splay a hand on the mirror beside her head, staring her down, waiting for her response. I keep my other arm at my side, giving her more than enough room to escape. But though she wears a confused frown, she doesn’t look uncomfortable.

To be honest, I’m confused too. Just getting her name is proving harder than getting into most women’s pants.

“Wasn’t aware that I asked for it,” she tosses back. Her hand goes to her lips like she’s surprised that sass slipped out. I liked it though. Like that I’m getting to her. There’s probably something fucked about that.

My eyes skate down her body and I take in every curve. She’s so small in comparison to me. Dainty. That’s what my mother would say. Pocket-sized. I think I’d like to keep her.

“Like I said,” she enunciates, dragging my attention back to her face. There’s a raspiness to her voice that makes my dick jump. “I don’t do this.” She motions between us with her finger.

I lick my lips, tempted to nip at that digit. “Don’t do what?”

“One-night stands.”

I arch a brow, considering my response.

“Or,” she adds before I can formulate a single word, “public sex ?” She says the last word like the thought has just occurred to her. Like she’s spewing thoughts as they flit through her mind. This time she’s the one lifting a brow as she whispers, “Is that what you’re after?”

There’s no stopping the laugh that rips from deep inside my chest. Fuck, it feels good. When I stepped into the gym, I was angry, ready to beat the shit out of the bag. But that one laugh has tension easing in my shoulders, and I feel lighter than I have in far too long.

Dipping lower, I murmur, “Have dinner with me.”

Her cranberry-colored lips tip up into a smile. “What?”

“Have dinner with me. You don’t do one-night stands, and I want to get to know you.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you after dinner.” Eyes narrowed, she studies me like she expects this to be a deal-breaker.

Normally it would be. I don’t date. Hockey is my life. I have no room for women. They normally need more attention than I’m capable of giving. But, strangely, I want to give this woman my attention. She may look like a beautiful, innocent angel, but she’s a vicious little thing. I can sense it hovering just below the surface. She’ll put me in my place, keep me on my toes, and make me work for every little piece of her.

Yes, I want this woman.

Nothing in my life has ever come easy. More than once, I’ve been told that all I’m good for is letting people down. But maybe I can prove those people wrong. Maybe I’ll look back one day and realize that this was the moment everything changed. The moment I finally got it right.

“Have dinner with me anyway.”

My little ballerina’s eyes fall to the floor and she flexes her toes as she considers my request. Ten seconds later, she looks up and surprises the hell out of me when she says, “Ava is my name. And okay, I’ll have dinner with you, Tyler.”

Seven hours later, I set my cologne on the bathroom counter and head for the door, only to stop when my phone rings.

I can’t help but smile at the name that flashes on the screen. “Hey, Bray,” I say as I grab my keys off the counter.

“She’s still not home.”

My stomach plummets. Fucking Trish. She has one fucking job. Come home. Take care of her kid. Show up.

Okay, it’s three jobs, really, but that’s literally all the responsibility she has. I pay all her damn bills so that she can focus on Brayden. Yet she can’t even bother to do that.

Paying her bills means I know Bray is taken care of, but it also means it’s harder to keep track of Trish. At least when she needed money, she was working.

She didn’t have the kind of job that kept her sober, but it was better than this.

“I’ll be right there.” Teeth gritted, I glance at the clock on the wall. Six forty-five. Dammit. I’m going to be fucking late.

I shake the thought from my head. Right now, Brayden has to be my priority. He probably hasn’t eaten dinner. He’s twelve, the same age I was when I lost my mom. He could make himself a sandwich, maybe even cook if he wanted, but he won’t. The kid is stubborn. He’ll starve himself just so he can tell her he hasn’t eaten.

Trish may deserve the guilt trip, but more than that, Brayden deserves to eat. Every kid does.

As I step out into the hall and lock my door, an image of the woman I met only this morning flashes in my mind. She was mesmerizing. Looked like a fucking mystical fairy, swaying beautifully. Innocent. Pure.

I should have known I couldn’t have her.

Outside of hockey, nothing has ever come easy, and I don’t know why I thought it ever could.

With an aggravated growl, I stalk for the elevator. There’s no way I’ll make it to dinner, and I don’t have Ava’s damn number, so I can’t warn her. Fuck. After the difficulty I had prying her name out of her, I didn’t even try to get her contact info .

Feisty little thing. She probably would have made me work all night for that.

I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t happy to give me her number when I asked. It’s my blue eyes and the tattoos. The muscles don’t hurt either. Neither do my dark hair and fair skin.

Normally it works to my advantage.

Today is the lone exception.

Then again, as coach always says, “Nothing worth it ever comes easy.”

I have a feeling Ava is worth it.

Somehow I’ll make it up to her.

Ava

“Would you like to order a drink, or do you want to wait for the rest of your party to get here?”

With a deep breath in, I make eye contact with the bartender. “I’ll have a dirty martini, please.”

My sister would be so proud. We talked about doing this for years. Move to a city, flirt with boys, drink dirty martinis.

Sex and the City , Emily in Paris , and my personal favorite, Center Stage . We watched every episode of Sex and the City and Emily and Paris, planning our next great adventure. And I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve seen Center Stage.

“Vodka or gin?”

Mind blanking, I blink up at the woman.

Her eyes soften. “Most women prefer vodka.”

“Yeah, okay, thank you.” God, I feel like an idiot. No matter how many movies and books I’ve devoured, nothing prepared me for leaving my hometown in the middle of Nebraska.

When I moved to Boston, my parents were distraught. They couldn’t believe I’d gone behind their backs and applied for jobs so far away.

Honestly, I hadn’t.

It was all my sister’s doing. When I got the email asking if I could come in for an interview the following week, I blinked at the screen. Then I fell into a fit of laughter. My sister, on the other hand, squealed.

She made me promise that I’d go. And I have never in my life said no to her. From the moment I was born, my purpose was linked to her. Her needs dictated my life.

I don’t mean to sound bitter, but it’s the truth. My parents created me in a lab for the purpose of saving her.

I did it time and again and would do it a hundred more times if I had to.

As the bartender gets to work on my drink, I pull out my phone to text her.

Me: Did you know martinis can be made with either vodka or gin? The waitress asked which one I wanted, and I swear a neon sign appeared above my head and flashed I’ve never had alcohol! LOL.

Me: Also, my date is late. He’s lucky he was so hot. Otherwise I’d pull a Samantha and throw my dirty martini at him.

I laugh to myself. My sister does the best Samantha impressions. I, of course, am more of a Charlotte.

Quiet, demure Ava. The sister who always does what’s asked of her. Who never says no.

When the bartender pushes my drink toward me, I snap a picture of it and send it to my sister.

Me: To becoming more like Samantha!

A heartbeat after I hit Send, the rush of excitement whooshes out of me, and I settle into the silence. Alone .

That’s been the hardest part of this move. I don’t know a soul. Though my new job came with a furnished apartment, I haven’t met any of my neighbors yet. I’d need to step outside my little haven to do that.

It’s been three days since I arrived, but the entire process has been overwhelming. Until today, I’ve lain in bed, ordering decorations and supplies for my new place. This morning, I finally worked up the courage to venture out.

That’s how I met Tyler.

Possibly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

And he asked me out.

Me . Ava Erickson. The woman who’s never been on a date.

Nervous energy has me tapping my toes inside my heels.

Also, I never wear heels. But if there’s ever an appropriate time to wear them, it’s while on a date.

I stare at the cloudy liquid in my martini glass and the two olives speared with a pick. I lift the pick and give them the tiniest taste.

Instantly, salty bitterness hits my tongue, the flavor similar to what I’d imagine the ocean would taste like. I can’t hide the scowl that forms on my lips.

“Gross, right?”

The question, spoken close to me, makes me snap my head to the side. The woman seated on the stool beside me has blue eyes and long blond hair.

Unlike her, I have red hair. It’s my most notable feature. Maybe my only personality trait.

Long red hair. Quiet Ava.

“It’s, um, interesting.”

The girl’s blue eyes dance. “Okay. Cheers, then.” She holds up her drink, which has an adorable yellow and pink umbrella in it.

As if on autopilot, I lift my glass, causing the liquid to slosh over the side a little, wetting my hand, and tap it against hers. Then, with a deep breath in, I take a sip.

Instantly and without my permission, my body shudders. Oh no. No. No. No. The bitterness is too much. Rubbing my tongue over the roof of my mouth, hoping to get rid of the taste, I set my glass down and push it away. What kind of person would willingly order this? It’s awful.

The girl beside me covers her mouth to keep from spitting out her own drink because she’s laughing so hard. “Billy, can you make my new friend here something fruity?”

I wave a hand. “Oh, that’s—” My refusal dies off when my brain snags on one little word she used.

Friend.

Warmth blooms in my chest and in my cheeks.

I don’t know if I’ve ever had a friend.

“No, it’s not okay. I’m celebrating tonight, and if you don’t have a drink, you can’t properly get in on the toast.”

I laugh at her honesty. “Okay. Billy, please make me something fruity.”

With a chuckle, the bartender slides the disgusting concoction away from me, but my new friend stops her. “Wait, Hannah is on her way. She’ll drink that.”

Shrugging, the woman steps away and gets to work making a drink partway down the bar.

“What’s your name?”

“Ava. And you’re…?”

“Besides your new best friend?” She teases with a big smile. “I’m Sara.”

Best friend? Giddiness bubbles up inside me. Maybe I’m too old to get this excited, but I’m relishing it, nonetheless. “And what are you celebrating?”

Billy returns, this time bringing a drink adorned with a pretty little umbrella just like Sara’s. She doesn’t walk away. Instead, she studies me, as if waiting for me to take a sip. So I bring the glass to my lips and savor the fruity flavor.

Sara beams like she knew I would like it. “My friend Hannah—who is perpetually late—and I got promoted today.”

“That’s amazing. What do you do?”

“We work in PR for Langfield Corp. She handles the Boston Revs, and I work with the hockey team. ”

Excitement rattles through my bones, and my spine snaps straight. “I just got hired by the Langfields.”

Her eyes go wide, and she slaps a hand to the bar. “Oh my god. Shut up!”

I giggle. This girl is too much, but in the best way. I’ve never met someone who shows her every emotion so freely. She’s loud, energetic, and kind.

She’s a Carrie. I can feel it. My sister would love her.

“Yes, I’ll be working in the charitable relations department.”

Though I’m from halfway across the country and not very familiar with sports in general, I recognized the Langfield name when I received the email in response to the application my sister filled out for me. They’re well-known all over the US, and probably in other countries, and not just because of the five gorgeous Langfield siblings—four of whom are single—or because they have more money than the royal family. No, I was familiar with them because of their charity work.

The Langfields donate an obscene amount to medicine yearly. Especially children’s hospitals that specialize in cancer research.

Working for them is a dream I would never have even considered. One that, if I think too hard on, may make me burst into tears.

“Oh my gosh. Your office is on the same floor as mine.” Sara squeals. “This is going to be so amazing.”

“What’s amazing?” A woman appears on Sara’s other side, settling on a stool and plopping her clutch down on the bar. Her wavy hair is a lush chocolate brown, and her almond-shaped blue eyes are fanned by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. Just above her lip is a small Cindy Crawford–type beauty mark. Her clutch is Louis Vuitton, and her shoes are Louboutin, making her quite possibly the coolest person I’ve ever seen. “I could just about kill Damiano right now, so I could really use good news. Oh, and please tell me that drink is mine.”

She reaches over Sara and slides the dirty martini down the bar. She takes one long sip before plucking the stick of olives out of the glass and biting one off.

With a sigh, she finally turns her attention to us, smiles, and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Hannah.”

Now she ’ s a total Samantha. Immediately, I love her .

“This is Ava,” Sara says, her voice infused with excitement. “And she’s just accepted a job with the Langfields.”

“Please tell me you’re not Beckett’s new nanny.” The woman hits me with a glare I don’t understand.

Sara rolls her eyes. “She’s working in charitable relations. Besides, we all know Beckett is too much of a control freak to have a nanny.”

Hannah bites off the other olive. “That man is the bane of my existence. If you don’t know it yet, he’s as controlling as they come.” She says this directly to me. “Owning the baseball team isn’t enough. He has to micromanage all of us too.”

“He’s a little better now that he’s fallen in love with Liv.” Sara turns toward me. “Liv is our boss.” She waves between herself and Hannah. “She’s the best. She and Beckett got married in Vegas a few months ago.” She leans in closer, her eyes darting around, as if to confirm she won’t be overheard. “Between you and me, I’m pretty sure it was a drunken mistake, but god, is that man gone for her.”

Hannah’s lips turn up, the expression a little sardonic. “Thank god for that. He’s finally letting that poor woman stay home with her kids rather than travel with the Revs to every away game. Drunken mistake or not, that Vegas wedding means I’m officially the new Liv.”

“And I’m the other new Liv.” Sara shimmies her shoulders. “So where are you living?”

“Um,” I hedge. I just met these women. Should I be giving up that kind of information? If they’re my coworkers, it’s okay, right? “At 2018 Langfield Way.”

Sara bounces so exuberantly she almost slides off her stool. “Ah, she’s our neighbor too. It’s nice, right?”

“If you don’t mind all the Neanderthals in the gym in the morning,” Hannah drawls.

That comment instantly sends my mind whirling to my interaction several hours ago. To Tyler.

The best thing about the apartment, other than it being rent-free, is the gym. And not because I’m huge on exercise. No, the best part about it was the studio in the back. The room with mirrors and a beautiful waxed floor with the long barre along the edge.

A spot to dance .

For years, ballet was my only solace.

After two lonely days where I constantly questioned my decision to move to Boston, discovering the quiet room felt like a sign that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

I immediately texted my sister a picture of the space, then I found the right playlist and lost myself for over an hour. Until I looked up and saw the man with piercing blue eyes. Eyes I instantly wanted to study for hours so I could describe their shade exactly. He wore black fitted sweats and a tight black T-shirt that showcased the most defined body I’d ever seen. And tattoos. So many tattoos.

Despite being alone with a stranger, a sense of calm settled over me. It was clear he’d been watching me, yet it didn’t scare me.

Maybe it was because I’d been doing the one thing I loved. Maybe it was because I had promised myself that this year would be different. That I would be different. I’d take risks. Take chances.

Whatever the motivation, I didn’t sink into myself. Instead, I channeled my inner Samantha and held strong, not giving an inch even while I knew he would take a mile.

“ See something you like?”

The man ’ s lips curved up into a lascivious smirk that made my skin heat beneath my white leotard. I didn ’ t allow myself to cower as he surveyed me. He’d already checked out my ass, that much I knew. With the way the leotard cut high on my thighs, he probably got an eyeful. And if he looked down, he’d probably see my nipples pebbling against the thin fabric.

“ Very much so.”

“They’re not Neanderthals, they’re hockey players.” Sara’s voice interrupts my memory.

Blinking rapidly, I lean forward. “Hockey players?”

Hannah sighs. “Yeah. They only occupy four floors, but they act like they own the building.”

“Four floors is more than enough for me,” Sara chirps.

My heart stutters. Oh god. Tyler couldn’t be…he didn’t seem…oh no. He so did seem like a hockey player. The muscles. The cockiness. The swagger.

A lump forms in my throat, making it hard to speak, but I force the words out anyway. “They live in the building with us?” I knew the deal was too good to be true.

Sara shrugs. “Yeah, but they aren’t so bad.”

“Says the woman who has stacks of NDAs at the ready and has to catch all the puck bunnies on their way out of the building.” Hannah waves down the bartender to order another drink, totally unfazed.

Meanwhile my stomach roils with dread.

“That’s why the Langfields put us up there too. To keep tabs. Not that our presence deters them. But also to fill in the apartments they might otherwise lease to people not connected to Langfield Corp. The whole non-fraternization thing keeps the guys from sleeping with their neighbors.”

Sara tips her glass at Hannah. “I think that went out the window when Beckett married Liv.”

Hannah snorts. “You think we play by the same rules as Beckett Langfield?”

Sara lowers her chin a fraction, focusing on her drink while she shifts in her seat. Hmm. Curious. Maybe, like me, she’s found herself interested in someone in the building.

God. Interested in someone in the building . We flirted. He pinned me against the mirror. I may have fantasized about his lips touching mine, even while I defiantly told him I wasn’t that type of girl.

Then he asked me to meet him for dinner.

Here.

He asked me to meet him for dinner, and since I didn’t want to give him my number or tell him where I lived—I’ve watched enough Dateline with my sister to know better—I agreed to meet him at the bar at seven.

I glance down at my phone, and instantly, my heart sinks. The 7:45 blinks up at me innocently.

I’ve been stood up.

“Want to grab a table?” Sara asks, standing. “We can tell you all about the players and the guys we work with. Gotta make sure you know who to stay away from.”

Hannah slides off her chair. “Tyler Warren. Remember that name. The man is beautiful. All he has to do is look at you, and you’ll be pregnant, but he’s the biggest player on the team.”

My stomach knots painfully in response, but I force a smile to my face. Looks like I dodged a bullet. And I made friends. So although I’ve been stood up for what should have been my first date ever, I suppose I can chalk tonight up to a win.

War

“Did you have a date?” Brayden surveys me over the bowl of pasta I push toward him.

This isn’t the first time he’s asked, but now that the clock reads 7:45, I can guarantee Ava thinks I’m a supreme dickhead.

“You trying to tell me I look pretty?” I bat my lashes. As I dig into my own pasta, I do my best to ignore the ball of lead in my stomach. It’s impossible, though, as I picture Ava sitting by herself, waiting for me.

It only now occurs to me to call the bar. Fuck, why didn’t I think of that to begin with?

“You even smell like you had a date.”

Despite how shitty I feel, I shoot him a grin. “You really are buttering me up. I already told you that you can stay here tonight. No need to work so hard.”

With a roll of his eyes, Brayden shakes his head.

He never smiles, so I do it enough for the both of us. Kids should smile. They should also have a warm place to sleep and the love of a person who cares enough to make sure they’re fed.

These aren’t negotiable terms, and it enrages me that this kid doesn’t have any of it.

“I’ll be right back.” I stand, phone in hand, and stalk to my bedroom. First I text Trisha for the fifth time in the last hour, telling her I’ve fed her kid and that he’s staying with me for the night. Then I call the restaurant and inquire about Ava. The bartender assures me that she made friends. Two women. Thank fuck. And that they’re now having dinner. I tell her to put their bill on my card and please send my apologies. I order the flaming chocolate for her, since that specific dessert is the reason I picked the restaurant for tonight.

Feeling a modicum better, I head back out to finish my dinner.

Later, I’m woken by the sound of banging. I jackknife to sitting from where I fell asleep on the couch, cursing and hoping the noise doesn’t wake up Brayden. He’s got school in the morning. He doesn’t need this shit.

When I swing the door open, Trish is there, messy hair, smudged lipstick, hazy eyes. “Where is he?”

Her voice is scratchy from smoking, yet still too loud for the still night.

I step out into the hall and shut the door so we don’t wake him. “Keep it down.”

Trish pushes against my bare chest, the move weak, uncoordinated. “Don’t shush me. That’s my kid in there. I’ll wake him up if I want to.”

“Yeah, that’s your kid,” I hiss, anger getting the best of me, and point toward the door. “Your kid who spent the whole day wondering where his mom was because you weren’t there when he woke up for school and because you never came home. Again. We both know you weren’t working, since I’m the one paying your bills. I’m not asking where you were. Don’t need to. I already know the answer. But if you can’t get yourself together for him, then don’t show up here and go on about him being your kid.”

She throws an arm out to push me again but stumbles forward this time. I grab both her arms to steady her, hit with the stench of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and Chanel No. 5. Even as my stomach twists from the vile mixture of scents, my heart aches for her. She’s an adult and she needs to have her shit together so she can take care of her son, but her husband died a few years ago, and from what I’ve been told by the volunteers and staff at the Y, she hasn’t been the same since.

That’s how I met Brayden.

When I was traded to Boston, I promised myself things would be different. I spent the off season volunteering at the YMCA, and back when Trish still worked, he spent a couple of hours after school there each day.

We became friends. Or something resembling it. Friendship for a kid who has more snark than an old man on a street corner with a cigarette looks different from what most expect. Sarcasm is his love language, so when he’s an ass to me, it’s because, deep down, he appreciates me. Even if he didn’t, I’d show up. That’s what he needs. A person in his life who’s there when he needs them.

The door next to mine swings open, catching my attention as well as Trisha’s. The wild red hair registers before the identity of my neighbor does. It isn’t until she steps into the hall, arms wrapped around her torso, that it hits me. My mood swings like a pendulum, lifting at my sheer luck. Damn, is it really possible that the woman I’m obsessed with is my neighbor? Looks like I didn’t need that number after all.

As a smile spreads across my face, hers puckers in a scowl.

That’s when I remember that I’m holding on to a woman who looks like she’s just been fucked. Her hands are pressed against my bare chest, and I’m gripping her upper arms, holding her in place. “It’s not—” I snap my mouth shut and release my hold on Trisha. “Go inside.”

The way her lips turn up makes my stomach twist. She’s so drunk she actually believes I’m inviting her in. She’s offered herself up on a platter more than once. Says since I’m paying her, I might as well take advantage of the perks.

Bile rises in my throat at the thought, but I take a deep breath and tamp down the reaction. Once she’s inside and the door is shut, I turn to Ava.

“It’s not what you think.” I step toward her, hands up.

She shakes her head. “Right.”

“I didn’t have your number, and there was an emergency.”

The laugh she lets out is louder and more sardonic than seems fitting for such an angelic-looking woman. “Yeah, an emergency.”

Hot anger pulses through me. This fucking night. I lower my head and run my hand through my hair, determined to start over. “There’s this kid?—”

“Save your breath.” She holds up her hands. “I’m working for Langfield Corp, and I heard you’re a hockey player .” The last two words leave her like they’re a curse. Like my status as a hockey player damns me in her mind.

Hands fisted at my sides, I straighten. “And?”

“And I will be handling charitable relations for the company.” She lifts her chin, as if that revelation should surprise me.

“Okay?”

“So we’ll be working together.”

I bark out a laugh. “No. I play hockey. You work for the corporation. We do not work together.”

“We’re neighbors.”

Though she probably thinks it’s a deterrent, that fact tugs a genuine smile from me. Yeah, we are.

“I kind of figured you lived in this building, since we met in the gym downstairs.” I lick my lips and take another step forward.

She takes in a surprised breath, her chest expanding and her arms tightening around her torso. She’s so fucking pretty it hurts.

“I’m sorry I missed our date,” I rasp, taking another step. “I’d like to make it up to you.”

The door to my apartment swings open, and Trish’s drunken drawl interrupts us again. “Tyler, are you coming to bed?”

Ava winces, her eyes falling shut.

“Fuck.” I squeeze the back of my neck and temper my aggravation. “It’s not what you think.”

She’s already backing toward her door. “Like I said, we work together. We’re neighbors?—”

I follow, trying to block out her excuses. “I’m not saying it’s perfect, but nothing worth it ever comes easy.”

She looks past me, the move spurring me to do the same. When I glance over my shoulder, I discover Trish leaning against my doorframe wearing nothing but a bra and panties. Fucking A.

“You’re not worth it.” Ava’s words strike me exactly as she intended. Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the hall, fists balled, heart flayed open.

She’s not the first person to tell me that, and I doubt she’ll be the last.