CHAPTER 1
BENNETT
I’ve thrown two critical things in my thirty-one years on this planet: a punch that earned me a three-game suspension and — as of ten minutes ago — my cell phone against my new condo’s wall.
“Son of a bitch!” The words echo off the bare surfaces as I stare down at the freshly cracked web of glass spiderwebbing across my cell.
Add ‘shattered phone’ to the growing list of Stupid Shit I’ve Done Lately.
“Damn.” I gingerly scoop my cell from the hardwood and sink down onto the wheat-colored sofa, fury still burning in my chest.
Staring up at the ceiling, I replay tonight’s events. Winning the pre-season game — good. Would’ve been better if I’d been in the game versus sitting suspended on the bench, but a win’s a win, I suppose.
It was the twenty minutes post-game that fucked up my life.
Prince calling me into his office and informing me thathis daughter, Tori Prince — the Ice Queen herself — is my new babysitter.
As if I’m not a grown-ass man, a professional damn hockey player. Like I can’t be trusted to behave on my own.
There was no fighting back, either. It was Prince’s way or the highway. And at this point in my career, I can’t afford to be a free agent. Besides, I like playing hockey with my triplet brothers, Weston and Callum. I don’t want to relocate and be on my own with a new team.
Knock, knock, knock.
I jerk my head at the door. Maybe it’s one of my brothers, here to rescue me from my lonely fate. Hopefully they brought pizza.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Geez, I’m coming.” I lumber across the empty space and yank the door open.
“Here’s the house rules.” Tori shoves a sheet of paper at my chest, her scarlet lips tight.
Fuck. Not pizza.
She folds her arms over her chest, staring at me with those dark eyes. She’s shed her signature black blazer and my gaze drops to the deep V of her blouse before I can stop myself. She clears her throat, one brow arched. I flash her my best unrepentant grin.
“Read them over and let me know if you have any questions.” Her voice carries that same maddening husky edge. Low, controlled, every word crisp and deliberate, like she’s used to being listened to. No fake politeness. No softness. Just precise and Ivy League-educated. The kind of voice that belongs in boardrooms, not standing in my doorway handing me a damn rulebook.
“You assume I can read then.” I stare down at her, but she doesn’t crack.
“Very funny, Steele.” Her face remains neutral, displaying zero signs of humor.
I take a deep breath and scan the rules. And there are quite a few.
Rule 1: Curfew at nine, except game days.
“Any chance we can stretch that curfew on weekends?” I lean against the doorframe. Casual, hopeful.
“None.”
“Great. Love the flexibility.”
“Not my job to be flexible.”
Rule 2: Attend all practices, workouts, team meetings. Be punctual.
“Always.”
“Coach told me you’re typically late.” Tucking a dark, glossy strand of hair behind her ear, the hall light catches the bright sparkle of her diamond earring.
