“Her,” I say, pointing with my bottle. “The brunette in the Red Sox jersey.”
Marcus whistles low. “Damn, you don’t mess around. Pretty sure that’s Tara Collins, though. She’s a college sports reporter. She interviewed my sister.” Mayhem’s sister, Jenny, plays college basketball. Height runs in the family.
Even better. I love a woman who knows her shit. “Watch and learn, my man.”
I make my way over, saying hello to the fans as I push through the crowd. Years of skating have given me perfect balance, even three beers in. Plus, I know exactly how good I look in my fitted black Henley and dark jeans. Being six-three of solid muscle doesn’t hurt either.
The familiar push of bodies reminds me of the first children’s home—if you can call it that—I got taken to. I was a wild one. But it was learn to fight or be fucked over. I learned to fight. And I fought a lot before I learned to channel that rage into something productive. Now, I’m known for controlled aggression on and off the ice, but it took years to master my emotions. My condo’s pristine organization, my carefully structured routines—they’re all part of maintaining that control. No surprises, no mess, no chance for things to spiral like they did in my childhood.
“Let me guess, Sox fan?” I say, sliding up next to her at the bar.
She turns and, fuck me, if she isn’t even hotter up close. Those eyes are something else. Deep brown with little gold flecks that catch the light. But there’s something sharp in them too, like she’s already got my number.
“What gave it away?” She arches one perfect eyebrow, and I catch her friend—a cute blonde in a sundress—trying not to laugh.
“Just a hunch.” I flash the smile that’s gotten me on two Sports Illustrated covers. “Do I know you?”
She looks me up and down, and I hate that I can’t read what she’s thinking. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of waking up next to you.”
Damn. Direct. I love it. I move in close, loving her sass. “If you’d ever woken up with me, I promise you’d remember. Jack Callahan. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I know who you are, Callahan. And I’vegot one, thanks.” She lifts her glass—whiskey neat, not some fruity bullshit. Definitely my type.
“In that case, maybe we could discuss your thoughts on the Beanpot Tournament? Unless you’d rather hear about my scoring stats from last season?”
That gets me a hint of a smile, but it’s more amused than impressed. “I cover college sports, Callahan. Though I caught that embarrassing turnover against Tampa in Game Three. Even the BC Eagles’ defense would’ve stopped that one.”
Shit. She knows her stuff. And she’s not afraid to draw blood. My competitive streak kicks in hard. “Ouch. Game Three was rough, I’ll give you that. But we took the series in seven. How about you tell me what you would’ve done differently?”
“You really want to know?” She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or just running game.
“Yeah, I really do.” And weirdly, I mean it. Most people just want to talk about my goals or ask for selfies. This woman’s actually critiquing my play.
She takes a sip of her whiskey, considering. “Your defensive zone exits were sloppy all series. You kept trying to force passes through the neutral zone instead of chipping it off the boards. Tampa’s forwards were reading you like a book by Game Three.”
I let out a low whistle. “Fuck, you’re not wrong. Coach ripped me a new one after that game.” I lean against the bar, genuinely interested now. “What else you got?”
“Your power play setup is too predictable. You always position yourself in the same spot on the half wall. After watching two games, I could tell you exactly where you’d be before the puck even dropped.”
“Okay, hockey savant, so what would you do?”
“Mix it up. Bumper position, net-front presence, switch sides with Kennedy occasionally. Keep their penalty kill guessing.”She’s warming up now, her eyes bright with passion for the game. “You’ve got the hands and the hockey IQ to play anywhere in the offensive zone. Why limit yourself?”
Something in my chest tightens. Not many people talk to me like this—like I’m more than just a goal-scorer, like they actually see the strategy behind the game. “You know, my coach said almost the exact same thing.”
“Then maybe you should listen to him.” She smirks. “And me.”
“Maybe I should. You got a name, or do I just call you ‘woman who’s absolutely right about my defensive zone exits’?”
“Tara Collins.” She extends her hand, all business now.
I take it, and the contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with hockey talk. Her grip is firm, confident. “So, Tara Collins, where’d you learn to break down game film like that?”
Something flickers across her face—pain, maybe, or an old memory—but it’s gone before I can name it. “Let’s just say I grew up around hockey. Spent a lot of time watching games, learning the sport.”
“Family?” I press, curious now about what’s behind those defenses she’s got up.
“Something like that.” She pulls her hand back, that wall going up again. “Look, Callahan?—”
