I cough subtly to announce my presence. Rather than flinch, she holds up a finger in a “one second” gesture, her eyes never leaving the device.
As I bring my glass to my lips, I fight back a grin. I can’t remember the last time someone dismissed me so casually. Maybe high school.
A minute or two later, she glances up, and when I get a good look at her, I nearly stumble back. Damn, she’s gorgeous. Her beauty isn’t flashy. It’s not the kind that’ll stop men in their tracks. No, it’s the understated kind that sneaks up on a person. Her heart-shaped face is smooth and creamy and complemented by deep brown hair that cascades down her shoulders in loose curls. Add in the black dress hugging her curvy figure, and she’s my walking wet dream.
“Hi. Sorry, did you say something?” she asks, head tilted.
I shake my head and gesture to the empty space beside her. “Mind if I sit?”
There’s no trace of recognition or excitement in her midnight-blue eyes as she gives me a once-over; just pure, genuine confusion, like she can’t comprehend why I want to join her. Eventually, though, she gives me a small shrug and a polite smile. “Go ahead.”
I take my time getting settled, racking my brain for a conversation starter. Asking why she’s holed up in a corner reading at a party feels too accusatory, so I go with the safest, most boring question known to man: “What’re you drinking?”
Because the three coffee beans floating in the glass don’t screamespresso martinior anything. Good one, Cole.
“Espresso martini.” She takes a small sip, watching me over the rim. Nodding toward my rocks glass, she asks, “Whiskey?”
“The one and only,” I confirm.
She nibbles on her bottom lip, her eyes searching for a moment, before asking, “Did you know that during Prohibition, physicians could write prescriptions for medicinal whiskey?”
A bolt of surprise mixed with satisfaction hits me. It’s rare I speak to a perfect stranger who doesn’t lead with a hockey question or some version ofare you ready for the season?“No, I didn’t know that.”
Lips pressed together, she nods. “I read a book a few weeks ago that took place during Prohibition. One of the main characters worked for a pharmacy that prescribed whiskey as a treatment for everything from indigestion to cancer. He got caught up with some mafia-type people who ran speakeasies across the city. I’m sure you can guess how that went.”
I flash her an amused smile. “My whiskey and mafia knowledge come mostly fromPeaky Blindersand theGodfather.”
She lets loose a raspy laugh. “The Godfatherwas actually a book before it was a movie. So wasGoodfellas.”
Ah. The e-reader is starting to make more sense. “Yeah?”
“Yep. Most good movies were books first.Forrest Gump, Jurassic Park, Fight Club, Call Me By Your Name. And those aren’t even the obvious ones likeLord of the RingsandLittle Women.”
I take a sip of my drink, letting the liquid fire soothe me, and nod toward the device in her hands. “I take it you’re a big reader?”
She glances down, grimacing a little, as if I caught her doing something naughty. “Mm-hmm. I wasn’t planning to bring this bad boy tonight, but one of my favorite authors surprise-dropped a new release. Figured if I’m not the Bobcats’ target audience, missing some of the party isn’t that big of a deal.”
I arch my brows. “Why’d you come, then?”
“Blackmail sounds dramatic,” she says with a guilty shrug, “but my best friend threatened to dog-ear my books if I didn’t attend. She’s the one who made the massive puck-shaped cake everyone’s talking about, so I’m here to support her.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Dog-earing pages, huh? That’s serious stuff. You must really not like hockey.”
“It’s not that I don’t like hockey,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I just don’t understand it. I don’t know how anyone can follow the puck. It’s microscopic. Everyone is moving so fast; it’s impossible to figure out what the hell is going on half the time.And the fighting is brutal. I witnessed more than my fair share of coked-out frat boys wrestling during my college days. I don’t really need to rewatch it on TV, you know?”
Before I can stop it, a deep laugh bursts from my chest.
She cringes. “Shit. You probably work for the team or something like that, don’t you?”
The use of the wordworkinstead ofplayconfirms my suspicion. She genuinely has no idea who I am. If she did, there’s no way she would’ve just referred to me as a coked-out frat boy. “Something like that,” I confirm simply.
I don’t tell her my name. I don’t tell her that I’m the team’s center. The anonymity is refreshing. When people discover who I am, they treat me differently. They behave differently, whether it’s out of jealousy, respect, or lust. I’m no longer Cole. I’m Nicholas Berrett, the NHL superstar. Because hockey is such a key part of my personal identity, it’s rare that I get to be myself with someone I’ve just met.
“I do like sports romances, though.” Her smile is sweet, as if she has no clue that her comment about hockey just shredded a tiny bit of my soul. “If that helps at all.”
A scoff escapes me. “Before my brain implodes from yourveryincorrect opinion of hockey, please explain how reading about a sport is better thanwatchingthe sport.”
She throws her head back and sighs, as if answering my question will cost her precious moments that she’ll never get back. “Because the authors don’t dedicate entire chapters to sixty-minute halves where no one scores.” She smirks, her eyes sparkling. “Well, someone may score, but in the biblical sense, not athletic.”
