We finish out the shift, and I hustle to the bench and rip off my gloves.
I spot Daniel, one of our physical trainers, and stomp towards him.
“Hey,” I snap, grabbing his sleeve. “A girl. Brown curls. Black pants. Vortex hoodie. Golden brown eyes. Font row. Sitting with a blonde. You see her?”
Daniel blinks at me like I just asked him to solve world hunger. “Okay…? And?”
“Make sure she doesn’t leave after the game.”
He sputters, “Do I look like your bitch boy, Monroe?”
“You do now.” I tighten my grip on him. “And if you don’t? I’ll tell every player in the locker room about your little underwear drawer secret.” I don’t actually know the details of the secret, but I overheard some of the guys in the locker room talking about it one day. I know if I needed to, I could get all of the juicy details from them.
His eyes bug out of his face, and he runs off to find security like his life depends on it. And if I’m being honest, it might.
I drop onto the bench, my chest heaving, not from exertion, but from something dangerously close to… anticipation.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t even know the girl's name, and I’m already plotting ways to keep her in this arena. I shouldn’t care this much. Fuck I never care this much. I didn't care this much when I scored my first fucking NHL hat trick.
But that girl…. That girl has something in her eyes. Something soft. Something that makes me want to snap necks and offer her my jersey in the same breath.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my glove and lean forward, watching the play unfold on the ice, but my mind is nowhere near it.
The only thought on my mind is I need to see her again… NO scratch that. I will see her again.
And god help whatever stands in the way of that, because once I want something… Once a Monroe wants something… we don't let go… EVER.
Chapter 6
Julia
Iswear I am in a fucking dream.
I would recognize those hazel eyes and that smile anywhere. They haunt my dreams every damn night. But there is absolutely no way I slept with an NHL player. No way. My mind is probably just short-circuiting.
There’s one minute left of the third period, and we're up by one point. Monroe has the puck, cutting toward the Guardian’s net like he’s fueled by jet fuel and spit.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” someone says from my right.
I tear my gaze away from Monroe and the puck. A security guard is staring directly at me.
“What can I help you with, sir?” I ask, smiling even though confusion is swarming through me.
“I was asked to escort you and your friend after the game.” Escort us? What the fuck does he mean?
“Escort us? Escort us where?” Mel snaps beside me. I am glad I am not the only one thinking that.
“One of the players. Number 33, Mr. Malachi Monroe, asked me to bring you to the tunnel after the game.”
My heart sinks. Malachi..Not Mikey…But those were Mikey’s eyes. They had to be… This has to be a coincidence. A joke. Something stupid.
“Are you fucking serious?” Mel practically knocked me over to get next to the security guard.
“Yes, Ma’am. He said he wanted her,” he nods towards me, “and her friend.” So, Malachi specifically asked for me? What is even going on?
The buzzer sounds. The Vortex wins. The crowd erupts as we’re guided up the stairs and through the maze of hallways. People stare as we pass, whispering like we’re celebrities instead of two confused women with overpriced beer in their system.
