“Oh, Jo, no good. We gotta get you eating in the mornings. Start your day with some fuel.”
“With sugar, like you?”
He shrugs a thick shoulder. “Whatever floats your boat, but how about I have some groceries dropped off at your place when you get home? Whatever you like?”
“You really don’t have to do that.”
He waves me off then points to the remote control. “Should we see what’s on TV?”
I hand it over, and he aims it at the television hanging on the wall, moving so he can view it, basically leaning halfway onto my bed, his elbow almost touching my thigh. I could lift my hand a few inches and comb my fingers through his hair, but that is something only a weirdo would do, so I claw my way out of the mental straitjacket he’s tied around me with all his charm and the squareness of his jaw.
“Oh, sweet.Twilight. I love this movie.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Okay if we watch?”
“You likeTwilight?”
“Yeah. Big fan of the fated mates trope,” he says casually, as if every professional hockey player has a favorite trope, and pushes his chair back so we’re next to each other, then sets his right foot on the edge of my bed, crossing his left foot over. As if we’re in a living room…hanging out.
“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” I murmur, and I assume it’s the pain meds that are making my tongue loose.
He cocks his head my way, the corner of his mouth tipped up. “What’d you think I’d be like?”
I shrug. “Different.”
“A douche?” When I nod, he laughs. “I get that a lot. Not unwarranted sometimes, I guess.”
“Why don’t you go home?”
“Because, I told you. I felt bad, and I wanted to come see you for myself. I needed to know you were okay. Despite what people think about me, I’m not that big of an asshole. I try not to be, at least. Besides, I’d only go home and play video games or something. Why not hang out with you? Get to know the lady making me look good in pictures.”
“Well, I don’t know about that anymore. Might take only ugly ones from now on.”
He huffs and runs his hand over his hair and down his chest. “Impossible.”
Yeah. He’s right.
It’s impossible to make him look bad. He’s beautiful, classically beautiful.
The exact opposite of me.
And yet he doesn’t make me feel like I want to hide. He doesn’t make me worry about hiding my teeth or my body or covering my face with my hair. He’s disarmed me completely.
So after the movie is over, and he stands to leave, I don’t fight him when he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow after practice, Jo.”
I merely lift my hand. “Thanks, Nico.”
CHAPTER 3
NICO
I’ve been playinghockey almost as long as I can remember. Los Angeles isn’t exactly known for the sport, but it was popular in the private schools I attended, and since neither one of my parents was very involved in my life, I think they liked that they could drop me off at the rink for a few hours and not have to deal with me.
Joke’s on them because it worked.
By the time my father keeled over in his office, I was spending more time with my coaches than him, and my mother was busy with her new husband. At sixteen, I was living in Canada, playing in the junior league.
Hockey is quite literally my family. The friends I’ve made, the coaches who’ve taken me under their wings, they made me into who I am. Which right now is not much—a third line winger with an axe over his neck—but that’s more than I would’ve had with my parents. A soulless existence of money and partying, probably taking after my father in real estate or some investment job, financing a bullshit tech start-up.
Instead, I’m doing something I truly love. The only thing I’ve ever loved.
