Chapter 1
Camden
When the doorbell rings, I can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads across my face.
My teammates look up from the poker game they’re playing at my kitchen table and turn to me.
“Who’s that?” Ryker St. George asks. He’s the oldest player on the Denver Bashers, the professional hockey team I play for. He’s gonna be so fucking pissed about this.
I swallow back a laugh. “You’ll see,” I say as I stand up from the table.
“What’s that look for?” Xander Williams asks me. He’s the star center of the team.
“What look?” I don’t bother to hide my smirk when I walk off.
Just then, Del Richards kicks a chair in front of me. I almost trip trying to dodge it.
“Dude, what the fuck?” I say to him.
The grumpy-as-hell two-way center frowns at me. “I don’t like that look on your face.”
I stare at him. “So you thought injuring me was the way to deal with it?”
“You’re fine,” he mutters.
“Dude, I could have tripped and broken my leg.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could have.”
“But you didn’t,” he repeats in his trademark hard, annoyed tone. “Besides, we’re in the off-season. You’d have time to recover.”
I roll my eyes and pick up the tipped-over chair. “You’re fucking obnoxious.”
“And you’re a shit-stirrer,” he says. “You planned some sneaky-ass surprise for us, didn’t you?”
The annoyance inside of me fades, and my smug smile is back. “Maybe.”
Del’s frown morphs into a glare. “You didn’t.”
Braden Blomdahl, the goalie, looks between us. “Did what?”
Del’s jaw works as he glowers at me.“This motherfucker got us a stripper.”
Xander shakes his head and tosses his cards onto the table. “Are you fucking serious? We told you not to.”
Sam McKesson, my defense partner, huffs out a breath. He aims an unimpressed look at me. “Really, Connors?”
Still grinning, I shrug. “I had to, guys. Someone had to do something to make sure that this wasn’t the lamest group bachelor party in history.”
Blomdahl frowns at me. “Just because we wanted a low-key night doesn’t make us lame.”
“Yeah, it does. This is supposed to be your last hurrah before you get married. You’re supposed to go fucking wild. And look at you.”
I gesture to the five of them sitting around my dining room table.
“You guys are playing poker while sipping whiskey and bourbon,” I say. “You’re acting like a bunch of eighty-year-olds in a nursing home.”
