If I’m lucky, the redhead will be a creature of habit. And I’ve been very, very lucky in my life.
Well, not just lucky. I’m pretty fucking good too. And disciplined. You don’t win a Cup without either luck or discipline.
Maybe today, as I stride down Christopher Street, beelining for the coffee shop I’ve been going to every day before morning skate so far this pre-season, both luck and discipline will pay off.
And yes. Fucking yes. There she is, bang on time. A thrill races through me since the redhead is here. I thought about chatting her up in the spring last season, but I was so damn focused on the game, the strategy, the chance to win it all that I didn’t want to risk being distracted.
Problem is I regretted that.
That regret ends today.
I’ve been running into her every morning for the last week, just like I did last season. I haven’t found the right time to speak to her yet, but now’s my chance—I just know it.
I finger the soft envelope in my back pocket, reviewing my strategy as she orders her coffee at the counter. Her fiery red hair falls down her back in a wild tumble. She wears black pants, painted on. Her top is silver, sleeveless, and shows off the creamy skin of her arms, the right one covered in ink of flowers, vines, and words. A leather jacket dangles from her fingers.
I push up the sleeves of my Henley, since it’s warm for early October, then check my fitness watch. Plenty of time to make it to the arena of the best team in the city. Our cross-town rivals—the New York Red Hawks—would say otherwise. They’ve been talking shit about us during the pre-season. Ironic, since they didn’t even make it out of round one of the playoffs last season. But that hasn’t stopped the team’s reigning arsehole, Erik Karlsson, from his nonstop trash talk. He’s despised me since I went ahead of him in the first round of the draft years ago—the Brit who has better stats than him.
Well, he’s right.
I am better.
And more disciplined. And that discipline has brought me here every day. And luck has put the redhead in my path this morning.
The sound of my boots clicking must catch her attention since she turns around.
The sight of her is like a shot of red-hot desire straight into my veins.
That face. Strong cheekbones and a spray of freckles across her nose. Those lips. Red, lush, and full. Those eyes. Dark green and merciless.
My pulse spikes. She’s been the best part of my last few days. “We meet again,” I say.
She gives a small smile. “Lucky us.”
“Indeed.”
The barista sets a coffee tumbler on the counter in front of her. “Here’s your pour-over with oat milk. For Jane.”
Jane. I’ve got to wonder if that’s her real name, or her coffee name.
She turns back to him. “Thank you,” she says, then makes a move to lift her phone to pay for it.
Nope.
I step forward, waving her off, fast reflexes and all. “I’ve got it.” I turn to look at the beauty, then enjoy myself as I say her name—fake or real, I don’t care. “Jane.”
Her red lips curve up. Then, playfully, she says, “In that case, I’ll have a few bags of beans. A couple sesame bagels. The roasted almonds and the morning oats with chia seeds.”
Little does she know I’d get it all for her. The whole shop if she asked. “Whatever you want. It’s yours.”
She takes a beat, her eyes sparkling. “Coffee will do,” she says, then gives a slight tip of her head my way. “And thank you,sir.”
It comes out sensual, a little husky. It goes straight to my brain, which quickly flashes images of her saying that in other ways, other places.
“You’re welcome,” I say, then step back in case she wants to leave. And if she does, fine. I’m not in the business of pursuing women who don’t want to be pursued.
But if she opens the door, I’ll kick it the rest of the way.
She spins back to the barista but tosses me a coy look, her red waves catching the morning light through the window, looking coppery and shimmery. “And my English friend will have his usual. An English Breakfast.”
