CHAPTER
ONE
LOGAN
Light filters through the narrow gap in my curtains and drags me out of the best sleep I’ve had in months. I stretch my arms overhead, spine cracking, then toss the comforter off my naked body when the heat becomes unbearable. The room feels like a sauna. I groan, fully aware of what’s waiting for me the second I sit up—one hell of a headache.
Worth it.
Not many guys in the league get to celebrate the way we did last night. A Stanley Cup win isn’t easily earned, and I’m one of the fortunate few who can say I’ve lived it. The trade to the Cranes last year changed everything for me. Last night was what I dreamed of growing up. Securing the win. Earning the coveted Stanley Cup. The blissful celebration with all of the important people in my life. The parade of drinks. The chaos. Utter perfection.
My eyes crack open, still heavy from sleep. My hand reaches across the bed automatically, expecting warm skin and soft curves. Instead, I’m met with cool sheets and an empty pillow. Figures. Heather? Or was it Veronica? I’ve never been good withnames. Regardless, she’s no longer here. I stare at the vacant pillow for a second before sitting up and rolling my neck until it pops.
Exhausted limbs carry me to the bathroom, where I grab a couple of painkillers, throw them back, and chase them down with a glass of water. My reflection catches in the mirror—hair wrecked, dark stubble along my jaw, and eyes a little bloodshot—all evidence of a night well spent.
Back in my room, scattered clothes cover the floor. There’s a shoe near the dresser. My jersey is half under the bed, while my jeans are tossed across a chair. Memories flood back, and I smile. It was a hell of a celebration with… Jen, or was it Haley? It’ll come back to me.
The Firehouse, the team’s favorite bar, was packed last night. Everyone was there—wives, girlfriends, family, fans, secretarial staff, the whole crew. Hell, even Gary, the janitor, threw back shots with us. Detroit knows how to celebrate. The Cranes are beloved here, and last night we made history by joining a handful of teams that have won back-to-back championships.
Our team is easily one of the most family-focused groups in the league. Most of the guys are married or heading straight for the altar without hesitation. At this point, Finn; Eddie, our equipment manager; and I are the only ones representing the single life. I can’t fault the others for settling down so young. When you find the person you want for the rest of your life, I guess it hits you hard and fast. I get it. I really do.
But wanting that for myself? That’s another story. I don’t have the itch to settle. No pull toward rings or vows or waking up beside the same person every morning. A hot night with—was it Harper?—was just what I needed. A culmination of lust, desire, and pure pleasure.
I don’t normally spend more than a night with a girl, but last night was so great. I wouldn’t mind hitting up… Whitney—yeah,I’m pretty sure it was Whitney—again. A second round with her would be nice. That alone feels strange enough to make me pause.
But maybe my teammates are on to something. They talk about connection like it’s this rare spark you’re lucky to feel once in your life. I’ve always rolled my eyes at that kind of thing. Yet if I’m actually considering seeing a woman twice… maybe I’m not as immune to it as I thought.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. If she texted, maybe I saved her under the right name. I scroll through an entire list of messages from women who definitely weren’t in my bed last night, a few texts from the guys, and one from Penny, our PR manager, reminding us to hydrate and be ready for this afternoon’s charity event. My parents sent a message too—letting me know they’re on their way back to Florida and that they’re proud of me.
Still no message from the girl I spent half the night with.
I scroll slower, searching for anything familiar. Nothing. Did we even exchange numbers? I look around the room for a note, but it’s spotless aside from my clothes. No scribbled handwriting on a piece of paper. No lipstick on a napkin. Nothing.
Strange.
I pull on a pair of boxers and step into the hallway. The condo is silent. There’s no lingering perfume in the air. She’s gone, and she didn’t leave so much as a fingerprint behind.
I shrug. Whatever. Here I am, waxing nostalgic over a woman whose name I can’t even remember. The more I think about it, the more I start to wonder if she ever introduced herself in the first place. I’m clearly still riding the high of our epic win and dumping all that leftover adrenaline and emotion onto a night that was exactly what it was meant to be—a celebration, release, distraction. Nothing more.
I pad down the hallway and am immediately greeted by the most obnoxious meow ever produced by a living creature. A sound I adore and hate in equal measure.
“I’m sorry, did I keep you waiting?” I mutter to the smushed-face hairball weaving aggressively between my feet. She shrieks again, louder this time, because God forbid she wait an extra five minutes for her sacred morning tuna.
She trots ahead of me into the laundry room like she owns the place. I grab a can off the shelf. Her eyes are locked on my hand as if the fate of the world hangs on whether I open it.
“You still have a full bowl of dry food,” I tell her. “Stop acting like you’re starving.”
She glances at the dry kibble once and dismisses it entirely, lifting a paw toward the unopened can like she’s placing an order with a very slow server. Her meows have morphed into full-on shrieks.
“It’s coming, it’s coming,” I say, chuckling as I peel back the lid and set the dish on the floor.
She dives in without even a thank-you purr, which, honestly, tracks.
If someone would’ve told my younger self that I’d grow up to own a cat, I would’ve said they were out of their damn mind because I’ve always been a dog person. Yet here we are. I found this little skinny and starving thing, clumps of matted orange fur sticking out in every direction, huddled in a cardboard box behind the dumpster near my college apartment during my senior year.
I had every intention of taking her straight to a shelter. That was the plan. Drop her off, let the professionals handle it, move on. But then she looked at me, this tiny creature with oversized eyes and a smushed face, and something in me cracked. I wanted to see her get better, to make sure she did.
So I kept her. Cleaned her up and fed her. I slowly nursed her back to health, day by day, until her bright orange fur started to shine and her little round face filled out. By the time she was fully healthy and technically ready for adoption, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let her go.
