CHAPTER 2
HAPPY
For a few seconds, I judged Hannah. I know, right; who am I to judge? I’ve probably fucked a married woman or two in my time—how would I know? I would never voluntarily mess with someone’s wife, but it’s not typically a conversation I’ve ever had in the heat of the moment. Consent? Always. Marital status? That’s between the women and whatever God they choose to believe in. I’ve only ever been single; that’s all that matters to me.
But beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights, I see the blood drain from Hannah’s face. Big blue eyes blowing out wide, teeth sinking into her plump bottom lip, chest rising and falling with quick, heavy breaths. And when I noticed the way her hands tremble in her lap, the flash of fear flicker in her gaze, I know this is more than just my head coach’s daughter having an affair with the much older and very married general manager of our entire franchise. Hannah Draper is not a fragile woman by any stretch of the imagination, but right now she looks so small, so defeated, so… scared. And something foreign wraps itself around my chest, making it hard for me to catch a breath.
Suddenly, everything that’s happened over the last few months starts to make sense. I thought she was fucking my bestfriend and teammate, Logan, when they started hanging out together, sharing secrets, being all buddy-buddy. But then Logan’s girl, Millie, arrived in New York, and when I saw how pussy-whipped he was for our goalie’s little sister, I realized whatever was going on between him and Hannah was purely platonic. I also never understood why Logan has had such beef with our general manager, Chris Garret; now the dots are starting to connect.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice a low whisper, amplified through the silence.
Hannah’s throat bobs with a thick swallow. She shakes her head just once, telling me no, she’s not okay. She’s far from okay.
“You want me to get rid of him?” I ask, already unfastening my seatbelt and shutting off the engine.
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she looks at me, the pleading in her gaze spearing straight through my heart. “Please.”
“Wait in the truck,” I say, pushing open my door.
I round my truck, walking through the pelting rain and directly across the street, my gaze meeting Chris Garret’s intimidating narrow-eyed glower. Behind me, I hear the passenger door open and close, followed by the sound of heels clacking against the wet pavement, and I close my eyes on an inward groan.Fuck’s sake. I don’t look back, keeping the hardest, no-bullshit stare I can muster firmly fixed on the man who unfortunately knows more about me than most people do, the man with the power to effectively end my career with one fucking phone call.
“What are you doing here, Chris?” I ask, trying so hard to keep my voice level.
Instead of responding to me, Chris looks over my shoulder, throwing a hand in my direction as he yells, “This guy?”
I turn, watching Hannah come closer, finding refuge beneath the small pink and white striped awning of the bakery that’s thankfully closed. She stays behind me, using me as a buffer, andwraps her arms around herself, unable to meet Chris’s eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here, Chris.”
Ignoring Hannah, Chris glares at me, an evil smirk ghosting his lips as he looks me up and down, and for a moment, my heart stops because the shit he has over me....
“This fucking guy?” he yells again, indicating me with a derisive scoff. “He’s not even on the goddamn starting line.”
Momentarily relieved that’s all he’s got, I rear back from his words. First of all, I’m a blueliner.Idiot. Second of all,rude.
“What are you two, huh?” Chris takes a step closer, staggering on his feet. “A couple?” He snorts, looking from me to Hannah, taking another step.
I hold a hand up, stopping him from getting any closer because sure, he’s the general manager of the team that I play for, but he’s also drunk as hell if the strong scent of bourbon emanating from his pores is any indication.
“Don’t touch me,” Chris spits, shrugging away from me.
“Go home, Chris,” Hannah says, her voice low and steely.
Chris opens his mouth to say something but stops himself at the second, pressing his lips together with a menacing sneer as he looks between us. “I wonder what Lance would think about hispreciouslittleangelbringing the team’s biggest fuck-up home to her apartment?”
Hannah steps around me, but before she can say anything, I swoop in, because honestly, fuck this guy. “Probably the same thing your pregnant wife would think about her husband hanging around outside Lance’s precious little angel’s apartment at midnight, drunk as fuck.”
Chris turns to me, stepping up so we’re toe-to-toe, and I keep my chin held high, jaw ticking as I stare down at him, silently begging this piece of shit to throw the first punch so I can throw the last and put him on his fucking ass. He’s tall but skinny, pushing fifty; I’m a twenty-five-year-old NHL defenseman, for fuck’s sake.
Icy gray eyes flit from me to Hannah and back again,narrowing as he moves even closer. And, between gritted teeth, he spits, “You can have theslut.”
Slut? He may not have thrown the first punch, but honestly, that’ll do it. Instinctively, my hand flexes at my side, and my lips twitch with a smile that totally contradicts the white, hot rage searing beneath the surface of my skin. But just as I rear my arm back, lining up the perfect blow, I’m shoved to the side by a pocket rocket that comes out of nowhere. And I’m forced to watch on, shocked, as Hannah lands a mean right hook to Chris’s smug, unsuspecting face.
“Call me a slut again,” Hannah yells, throwing her hands out at her sides, goading Chris as he’s doubled over in pain, clutching his jaw. “I fucking dare you!”
And I know I should step in, but this is too damn funny, not to mention sexy as hell. Hannah, dressed like a fucking Playboy Bunny, fronting up to Chris Garret in his quarter zip sweater and khakis like she’s in the ring, fighting for a title.
Chris stands, and it’s only then when I see the difference in size, the way he staggers closer to her, the mean look in his eyes, that I do act because frankly, I don’t trust the fucking guy.
Wrapping an arm around Hannah’s waist, I pull her back flush against my chest. She’s so angry; I can feel it in the way her body vibrates against me, her hands trembling in fists of rage, ready to take another shot if he gets close enough.
