Chapter One

Logan

Light filters through the narrow gap in my curtains and drags me out of the best sleep I’ve had in months. I stretch my arms overhead, spine cracking, then toss the comforter off my naked body when the heat becomes unbearable. The room feels like a sauna. I groan, fully aware of what’s waiting for me the second I sit up—one hell of a headache.

Worth it.

Not many guys in the league get to celebrate the way we did last night. A Stanley Cup win isn’t easily earned, and I’m one of the fortunate few who can say I’ve lived it. The trade to the Cranes last year changed everything for me. Last night was what I dreamed of growing up. Securing the win. Earning the coveted Stanley Cup. The blissful celebration with all of the important people in my life. The parade of drinks. The chaos. Utter perfection.

My eyes crack open, still heavy from sleep. My hand reaches across the bed automatically, expecting warm skin and soft curves. Instead, I’m met with cool sheets and an empty pillow. Figures. Heather? Or was it Veronica? I’ve never been good with names. Regardless, she’s no longer here. I stare at the vacant pillow for a second before sitting up and rolling my neck until it pops.

Exhausted limbs carry me to the bathroom, where I grab a couple of painkillers, throw them back, and chase them down with a glass of water. My reflection catches in the mirror—hair wrecked, dark stubble along my jaw, and eyes a little bloodshot—all evidence of a night well spent.

Back in my room, scattered clothes cover the floor. There’s a shoe near the dresser. My jersey is half under the bed, while my jeans are tossed across a chair. Memories flood back, and I smile. It was a hell of a celebration with… Jen, or was it Haley? It’ll come back to me.

The Firehouse, the team’s favorite bar, was packed last night. Everyone was there—wives, girlfriends, family, fans, secretarial staff, the whole crew. Hell, even Gary, the janitor, threw back shots with us. Detroit knows how to celebrate. The Cranes are beloved here, and last night we made history by joining a handful of teams that have won back-to-back championships.

Our team is easily one of the most family-focused groups in the league. Most of the guys are married or heading straight for the altar without hesitation. At this point, Finn; Eddie, our equipment manager; and I are the only ones representing the single life. I can’t fault the others for settling down so young. When you find the person you want for the rest of your life, I guess it hits you hard and fast. I get it. I really do.

But wanting that for myself? That’s another story. I don’t have the itch to settle. No pull toward rings or vows or waking up beside the same person every morning. A hot night with—was it Harper?—was just what I needed. A culmination of lust, desire, and pure pleasure.

I don’t normally spend more than a night with a girl, but last night was so great. I wouldn’t mind hitting up… Whitney—yeah, I’m pretty sure it was Whitney—again. A second round with her would be nice. That alone feels strange enough to make me pause.

But maybe my teammates are on to something. They talk about connection like it’s this rare spark you’re lucky to feel once in your life. I’ve always rolled my eyes at that kind of thing. Yet if I’m actually considering seeing a woman twice… maybe I’m not as immune to it as I thought.

I grab my phone off the nightstand. If she texted, maybe I saved her under the right name. I scroll through an entire list of messages from women who definitely weren’t in my bed last night, a few texts from the guys, and one from Penny, our PR manager, reminding us to hydrate and be ready for this afternoon’s charity event. My parents sent a message too—letting me know they’re on their way back to Florida and that they’re proud of me.

Still no message from the girl I spent half the night with.

I scroll slower, searching for anything familiar. Nothing. Did we even exchange numbers? I look around the room for a note, but it’s spotless aside from my clothes. No scribbled handwriting on a piece of paper. No lipstick on a napkin. Nothing.

Strange.

I pull on a pair of boxers and step into the hallway. The condo is silent. There’s no lingering perfume in the air. She’s gone, and she didn’t leave so much as a fingerprint behind.

I shrug. Whatever. Here I am, waxing nostalgic over a woman whose name I can’t even remember. The more I think about it, the more I start to wonder if she ever introduced herself in the first place. I’m clearly still riding the high of our epic win and dumping all that leftover adrenaline and emotion onto a night that was exactly what it was meant to be—a celebration, release, distraction. Nothing more.

I pad down the hallway and am immediately greeted by the most obnoxious meow ever produced by a living creature. A sound I adore and hate in equal measure.

“I’m sorry, did I keep you waiting?” I mutter to the smushed-face hairball weaving aggressively between my feet. She shrieks again, louder this time, because God forbid she wait an extra five minutes for her sacred morning tuna.

She trots ahead of me into the laundry room like she owns the place. I grab a can off the shelf. Her eyes are locked on my hand as if the fate of the world hangs on whether I open it.

“You still have a full bowl of dry food,” I tell her. “Stop acting like you’re starving.”

She glances at the dry kibble once and dismisses it entirely, lifting a paw toward the unopened can like she’s placing an order with a very slow server. Her meows have morphed into full-on shrieks.

“It’s coming, it’s coming,” I say, chuckling as I peel back the lid and set the dish on the floor.

She dives in without even a thank-you purr, which, honestly, tracks.

If someone would’ve told my younger self that I’d grow up to own a cat, I would’ve said they were out of their damn mind because I’ve always been a dog person. Yet here we are. I found this little skinny and starving thing, clumps of matted orange fur sticking out in every direction, huddled in a cardboard box behind the dumpster near my college apartment during my senior year.

I had every intention of taking her straight to a shelter. That was the plan. Drop her off, let the professionals handle it, move on. But then she looked at me, this tiny creature with oversized eyes and a smushed face, and something in me cracked. I wanted to see her get better, to make sure she did.

So I kept her. Cleaned her up and fed her. I slowly nursed her back to health, day by day, until her bright orange fur started to shine and her little round face filled out. By the time she was fully healthy and technically ready for adoption, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let her go.

Now, when I say I don’t have a permanent woman in my life, that’s not entirely true. Beatrice runs this house. She just happens to be a cat.

“You didn’t catch her name on the way out, did you?” I ask.

Beatrice pauses mid-tuna inhale to give me a full-blown side-eye, the kind that could win awards for judgment. Her whiskers twitch, and then she dives right back into her food like I’ve wasted her time.

“I didn’t think so,” I say, laughing under my breath.

She’s never been a fan of other humans, especially women. Maybe it’s something buried from those early days when she was abandoned and half feral, or maybe she’s just overly protective of me. Either way, when I bring someone home, she immediately vanishes into whatever hiding place she deems acceptable and refuses to come out until the threat has left the building. Her displeasure is unmistakable.

“Well, don’t worry,” I tell her, leaning against the counter. “I don’t think she’ll be back.”

Beatrice doesn’t even look up, but I’m pretty sure she approves.

“But we did win the Stanley Cup last night, in case you were wondering.”

She doesn’t bother lifting her head. Not even a flick of her ear. Typical.

“You know, sometimes I feel like this is a very one-sided relationship,” I tell her. “It wouldn’t kill you to give a little more.”

Still nothing. No acknowledgment that her human just achieved one of the highest honors in his professional career.

Leaving my grumpy old lady to her tuna, I retrieve my phone. I send replies to the people who matter first—my teammates, who are probably all half dead from celebration, and my parents, who’ll be landing in Florida soon.

My phone buzzes again, this time with an incoming text from Penny.

Please confirm you’re awake, hydrated, and will be on time.

I laugh to myself, grab an iced coffee from the fridge, and send back a reply letting her know I’m alive, conscious, and not planning to be late for the event.

Her response pings almost instantly.

Good. See you there.

I suppose the celebration is over. We’re back at it. But first, I need a shower.       

Chapter Two

Logan

“Who had the brilliant idea to plan this the day after our game?” Finn mutters, setting his black permanent marker on the table and stretching his arms until his knuckles crack.

I laugh under my breath. “I’ll give you one guess.”

We both glance at Penny. She’s in her signature pencil skirt and fitted blazer, hair twisted up tight as she directs the snaking line of fans waiting to meet us. Efficient as ever.

“I mean, some downtime would be nice, no?” Finn says around a yawn. “I don’t think I got more than two hours of sleep last night.”

“Yeah, it was a pretty epic celebration,” I say.

“Did you end up taking Macy home?” he asks.

“Who’s Macy?”

Finn’s eyebrows shoot up. “The girl you were making out with all night. Long blond hair, legs for days.”

“Her name was Macy?” I try to conjure even a flicker of recognition. Nothing. Not one spark.

Finn drops his chin and shakes his head. “Oh, Logan…” He sighs.

“Yeah, I did,” I say, because while her name may have escaped me, her long blond hair splayed across my pillow and those gorgeous legs wrapped around me did not. “And it was great. What about you?”

He gives me that sly Finn smile. “I’m not complaining. I definitely wasn’t lonely.”

Before he can elaborate, the line shifts and our next fans step forward. I refocus and lift my gaze to the woman approaching me.

The second I see her, the noise in the room fades, and drunken visions of blond hair are forgotten. Any hint of annoyance or exhaustion disappears, and everything else drops out until it’s just her.

She’s petite with honey-blond hair pulled into a loose knot that lets soft pieces fall around her face. Her eyes are a warm brown that hit me right in the chest, and for a second, I forget where I am.

I swallow. “Hi.”

She startles slightly at my voice. I reach out a hand automatically. She flinches. Barely, but I feel it. She covers it with a smile that doesn’t quite land.

“Hi,” she says, forcing her lips to curve upward.

“Thanks for coming out,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”

She bites her bottom lip and hesitates before answering. “Tessa.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Tessa. You a big Crane hockey fan?”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “Um, not exactly.”

I grin. “Not exactly? So you came here just for me, then?”

Her breath catches, barely audible, and she cuts her gaze toward Penny as if she’s checking whether she’s allowed to laugh. She doesn’t. Her fingers tighten around the jersey instead, and she shakes her head.

“Oh, okay.” It comes out softer than I intend. I nod toward the jersey in her hands.

She hands it over quickly, almost urgently. “Can you sign this, please?”

“Sure. Should I sign it to you?”

“Um, no. To—” She stumbles over the word. “To Preston, please.”

“Ah. Preston.” I try to sound casual. “Is he a brother?”

She shakes her head once. “Boyfriend.”

Of course she has a boyfriend. Someone so beautiful wouldn’t be single.

“So where’s Preston? He didn’t want to come meet me himself?”

“He’s working.”

I nod, though something in the tightness of her shoulders makes me want to push for more. “Well, hopefully he appreciates you waiting in a long line for him. Seems like he owes you a date night.”

She doesn’t smile. Not even a flicker. Her gaze drops to the table, fixed on the marker in my hand like she’s afraid to look directly at me again.

I sign the jersey and add a note to Preston, though every part of me wishes I were writing her name instead. “I appreciate you coming out. Were you able to watch the game last night?”

She doesn’t answer. Not even a nod. She just reaches forward, quick and tense, to take the jersey back from me. Her fingers brush mine for half a second—cold, trembling.

As she does, her sleeve shifts just enough to reveal her wrist.

A faint bruise.

Before I can be sure, she yanks her arm in tight, hugging the jersey to her chest like a shield.

“Are you okay, Tessa?” The words leave my mouth without thought.

She blinks at me, her big brown eyes flashing wide. Fear flickers there before she forces out, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

She stammers through her thanks and turns to leave.

“Do you want a picture?” I call after her.

She hesitates just long enough to look over her shoulder. That’s when I see it plainly—fear. Raw and unmasked. Her throat works around a swallow as she takes another step, widening the distance between us.

She shakes her head fast, almost frantic, and hurries off.

I’m left staring after her, confused and unsettled by every second of our brief interaction. I glance at Finn to my right and Max to my left, hoping one of them caught something, anything. But they’re both talking to fans, completely oblivious.

I wish I had a witness. Someone else to tell me I didn’t imagine it. Because something was off about her. Way off.

But why? Why would anything be off? I wasn’t rude or intimidating. I didn’t do anything out of line.

Still…

I swear she was afraid.

The hours fly by in a blur. I smile for pictures and sign my autograph, chatting with each fan. I give them the same grin, the same quick comments about last night’s win, the same responses I’ve said a hundred times today. On the surface, I’m here—engaged, upbeat, and doing exactly what’s expected.

But while I’m physically present, my mind is miles away on the fearful girl with the big brown eyes and the honey-blond hair.

Every time I scribble my name on a jersey, I’m thinking about the way her fingers trembled when she took hers back. Every time someone leans in for a photo, I’m replaying the moment she bolted away from me. I try to focus on the fans in front of me, but Tessa keeps slipping in, uninvited and relentless.

I don’t know her. I don’t know anything about her except her name and the way she said it—soft, careful, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to take up space. Something about her has gotten under my skin, catching on something in me that I can’t seem to shake loose.

“Miss me?”

The next fan steps up, the voice familiar. I look up and see my companion from last night. I force a smile.

“Hey, Macy,” I say, and her face lights right up at the sound of her name. I silently thank Finn for that one.

“Sorry I left so early this morning,” she says. “But I knew I’d see you at this event. I don’t think we even exchanged numbers.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we did,” I answer.

There’s a flicker of something in my chest, an echo of that split second this morning when I realized she’d left without a trace and the pang of disappointment I felt. That feeling, whatever it was, has vanished.

“Do you want a picture or an autograph?” I ask.

Her expression falls, the hope draining from her face. “Oh.” She frowns. “A picture, I guess.”

“Great.” I offer her the same easy smile I give everyone else, and we lean in for a quick shot. I thank her for coming out, stepping back just slightly, enough to make it clear the moment is over.

I don’t have it in me to let her down gently with an explanation she doesn’t need. She’s a smart woman. She reads the room fast. She doesn’t offer her number, and she walks away without hesitation.

Macy is beautiful. There’s no denying that. But nothing about her registers the way it did last night.

The only thing I can think about is Tessa and the fear in those deep brown eyes that won’t let me go.