“Hey, Stubbs. I’ve missed you. How was your day?”
Usually, that nickname makes me smile. Brett coined it because of my stubborn refusal to let him help my career, including his repeated offers to connect me with potential clients.
I survey the destruction around me. “Eventful. My apartment is currently flooded.”
“What? How bad?”
“Biblical,” I say, grabbing my laptop from the kitchen counter, grateful I left it there this morning. “I need to find somewhere to stay tonight.”
“Jesus, Harper. What about Ariel?”
“Can't. Her deadbeat boyfriend is already crashing there indefinitely.” I wade back toward the door. “I'll figure something out.”
“I wish I were closer, but—wait, how about Cole? He’s less than fifteen minutes from you.”
I nearly drop my laptop. “Cole?”
“Stay with him. He's got that huge penthouse, and honestly, Harper, you're like a sister to him. It's the perfect solution.”
“Absolutely not. I am not staying with Cole Maddox.”
“Why not? You guys used to get along great when we were kids.”
That was before I developed a massive crush on him that made me act like an idiot every time he was around. “I'll get a hotel,” I say firmly.
“Harper, don't be ridiculous. Just call Cole.”
“I'm not calling him.”
Brett sighs. “Fine. Look, I know a contractor who specializes in emergency water damage repair. Let me text you his number. His name is Noah Ward. He’s good and fast.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved that he's dropping the Cole suggestion.
After he hangs up, I stand in my flooded apartment, water seeping into my shoes, and contemplate my options. I’ll have to sleep in a hotel tonight, but if Noah is as fast as my brother says, I should be back in my apartment in a day or two.
2
Cole
Practice is winding down, and my legs are burning from two hours of hard skating. The sound of skates scraping ice and sticks hitting pucks echoes through the arena as the last few drills wrap up.
“All right, bring it in.” Head Coach Dan Mercer's voice booms across the rink. At fifty-two, he still carries himself like the defenseman he was for fifteen NHL seasons, and every player here respects the hell out of him for it.
The team glides toward center ice, steam rising from our jerseys in the cool air.
“Good practice today,” Coach continues. “Ethan, nice work on those defensive zone exits. Novak, keep driving to the net like that. That's what I want to see.”
Novak flashes his trademark grin. “Just warming up, Coach.”
Ethan Ward, a defenseman and the moodiest guy on the team, grunts in response, tapping his stick against his shin guards.
Assistant Coach Davidson steps forward. “Power play looked good. We'll run through those same formations tomorrow.”
“Everyone else, same time tomorrow. The season starts in three weeks, and we're going to be ready,” Coach says.
The huddle breaks up, and I skate toward the tunnel with the rest of the guys. Nova falls into step beside me. Somewhere along the way, the k fell off Novak’s name, and we’ve all taken to calling him Nova. “How are you feeling about this season, Cap?” he asks, spinning his stick like a baton. “Ready to carry us to the Cup?”
“We underestimated everyone last season. We can't make that mistake twice.” Last season's failures are still fresh in my memory. We missed the playoffs by three points. Three fucking points. All because we thought we were the best in the league. I won’t let us make that mistake again.
