Chapter One
Dylan
Can life get any better than this? I don’t think so.
I lean against the granite countertop of my kitchen island, taking a moment to appreciate the view. My living room is packed with teammates and friends celebrating our win tonight against the Detroit Sentinels.
Our last game before Thanksgiving, and wecrushedit.
Music pulses through my custom sound system, the bass vibrating just enough to feel it in my chest without drowning out conversation. I grab a beer and weave my way through the crowd. My house is perfect for entertaining with its open floor plan, minimalist furniture, and just enough Glaciers hockey memorabilia on display to remind everyone what pays for all this without turning my place into a shrine.
This is what I’ve worked for—a successful career on the ice ... and a life where I can throw the kind of party people talk about for weeks after.
My teammates are gathered in clusters. Some of the guys brought their wives or girlfriends, but I made sure to invite plenty of single ladies too. I’ve got a reputation to maintain, after all.
Speaking of single ladies...
I flash a charming smile as two stunning blonde models glide into my living room, as if stepping out of a magazine spread. Their confident strides turn the heads of all the rookies. And their skin-tight dresses leave little to the imagination.
I can’t help but be drawn to them.
“Ladies,welcometo my humble abode. Please, make yourself at home,” I greet with a playful wink.
They giggle in response, their eyes sparkling with amusement.
The taller of the two, legs for days, sporting a white dress, leans in, wrapping her arm around mine. “Thanks for having us, Dylan. This place is insane. We werejusttalking about how you’re the only guy on the team who actually has style.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.” I smirk.
Before she can respond, my front door swings open. I glance over to see a familiar face—it’s my little sister Genna—followed by her best friend Cheyenne’s unmistakable laugh as they make their entrance.
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” I disentangle myself from the model’s grip and head toward the entryway, my smile already forming—until I see the third figure trailing in behind.
What the heck isGarrettdoing here?
My smile freezes as I watch my least favorite person walk arm-in-arm with my little sister’s best friend. Garrett’s hipster-styled blond hair, broad shoulders, and perpetual smirk leave me frowning. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally supportive of hipsters...
But not the ones who are pretentious jerks.
“Hey, bro!” my little sister calls out. The frown has barely left my face before Genna wraps her arms around my waist. “You played great tonight.”
“For sure,” I mutter, looking past Genna to Cheyenne and her hipster boyfriend. “Why is Garrett here?” My voice drops a little lower as Genna lets out a sigh.
“You know how attached at the hip Chey and Garrett can be,” Genna says in a near whisper, still embracing me. “Just be nice.”
“Fine.” I don’t argue with her, because arguing with my sister is pointless. She’s the epitome of a firecracker, and with her dark brown hair and green eyes that mirror mine, she seems to make an impact on everyone she meets.
And Chey, who’s been a part of our family for nearly fifteen years, is the same way.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” I say, raising a brow as Cheyenne Blackwell, the bane of my existence—in a fun kind of way—walks up to me, thankfully leaving her boyfriend behind. “I didn’t think you’d show.”
“I’d never miss the chance to be your bad luck charm.” Cheyenne’s hazel eyes sparkle with mischief as she tosses her chocolate hair over her shoulder. Her olive skin looks flawless under the foyer lights, and for a split second, I forget the fact that she did me dirty by bringing Garrett to my post-game party. “But it’s a shame you won anyway.”
“Ah, yes.” I rub my fingers along the stubble on my jaw. “It looks like your bad luck couldn’t outweigh my mad skills.”
“Mad skills?” Genna bursts into laughter, her head tipping back as the sound carries through the entryway. “Please don’t say that. You’re thirty years old, Dylan. Let’s at leastpretendto be an adult.”
“That’s impossible for him,” Cheyenne interjects with a laugh. “He’s still learning how to write his own name.”
