Chapter 2: Cole

She looks like a lioness. 

That’s my first thought when I see the beautiful redhead in the arena’s cupcake stand. 

Her hair is fiery, tendrils of auburn and gold. Her eyes are a soft grey, like a raincloud. She’s got this mixture of fierce and sweet that makes me stop and take notice. 

She’s gorgeous in the most unassuming of ways. Stooped over a box of cupcakes, placing them carefully into a display case, she carries herself like she hopes no one will notice her. Bent head, rounded shoulders, a slim frame. But then, an expression crosses her face, thoughtful and wistful, a glimpse of longing, and I don’t know how anyone could notnotice her. She wears her emotions like a neon sign on her forehead, open, honest, and so obvious, I want to laugh. 

Because right now, she’s looking up at Noelle DiSanto and Scott Reland, like a deer caught in headlights. 

Ah, I’ll admit, their titles are impressive. Intimidating even. But they’re both smiling at the gorgeous redhead with friendly, encouraging looks. 

The beauty shakes her head and Scott chuckles. 

“Yo!” River Patton elbows me in the side. “Stop checking out the new piece of ass and focus.”

I glare at my teammate, about to tell him just what I think about his calling a woman a piece of ass. But my words die when I note the teasing gleam in his eyes. 

“You like the cupcake chick?” River presses. 

I groan. “Cupcake chick isn’t much better than piece of ass, Patton. The woman has a name.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet,” he decides. “You don’t know yet. Want me to find out?” He strides toward the Primrose stand, his chest puffed out, his full-sleeve tattoos on display. 

I grip his shoulder and halt him. 

He laughs. “You like her.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

He turns to check her out, his eyes studious. “In a weird, oddball kinda way.”

“I like quirky,” I defend her. Defend myself. 

Patton snorts. “You would, Rookie. Come on, we’re going to be late for practice.”

I fall into step beside him as we move toward the locker room. “Since when do you care about being late?”

River’s expression tightens. “Since Devon threatened to bench me.”

I whistle through my teeth. Our team captain, Devon Hardt, didn’t seem like a hard-ass when I first met him, but once he committed to the Bolts, he’s made it his mission to whip our asses into shape. For River, that means chipping away at his attitude. For me, it means pushing me to be more assertive. To display leadership qualities I’d rather shirk away from. As much as I hate putting myself out there, I think Devon’s leadership style is working. It’s helped the team fall into sync, with each player pushing past our individual hang-ups to strengthen the team as a whole.

I pull my T-shirt away from my chest. Just the thought of confronting someone makes me feel itchy, like I’m going to break out in a rash. 

“Wow!” Damien Barnes, our left wing, checks his watch obnoxiously as we enter the locker room. “On time and everything.”

River flips him the bird, but I grin and open my locker door. 

As I suit up for practice, my mind wanders to the woman I saw. I’ve been in Tennessee for eight months now and have yet to meet a woman that’s made me do a double take. 

Sure, I’ve checked women out from time to time. The beautiful ones that men can’t help but notice. The sweet ones that cause you to smile when you see them. But not a woman that pulls a man up short because everything about her—looks, expressions, energy—intrigues. The skittish lioness captivates, and the funny thing is, I don’t think she wants to. I think she’d prefer to blend into the background, shuffle along unnoticed. 

Except I noticed her. So much so, that I’m now thinking, wondering, about her. Is she a recent college graduate, like me? Last May, I graduated from Michigan State and now, I’m kicking off this year as an NHL player with the Tennessee Thunderbolts. 

Is she from Tennessee? Or a transplant? Does she have a boyfriend?

“Philips!” Beau Turner snaps me out of my thoughts. 

“Huh?” I look up. 

“Let’s hustle.” He gives me a weird look. 

Nodding, I close my locker door and follow my team to the ice. 

The second my skates glide onto the rink, the strange emotions I experienced in the locker room, déjà vu mixed with curiosity, fades into the background. 

The ice, hockey, is my place. It clears my thoughts, eases my mind, and calms my body all in one shot. It was my ticket out of a dead-end future and the one thing I place above everything else, save for my uncle Kirk and cousin Jamie. There’s nothing like the freedom, the possibilities, the sheer hope I feel when I’m on the ice. Not the normal, everyday distractions and definitely not the pull of alcohol or women a lot of my college teammates lost themselves in.

Nope. After my parents passed from an accidental overdose, I swore off drugs. And trouble. I’ll have a drink every now and then, indulge more on my birthday or holidays, but I don’t lose control. I don’t go overboard. I don’t put myself in a position to lose anyone’s respect. 

Instead of repeating a pattern, I broke a cycle.

As such, I sure as hell don’t give into distractions. Especially of the female variety. 

If my parents’ untimely death, and then, moving in with my uncle and cousin, taught me anything, it’s to never lose focus. When you commit to something, you see it through. Whether that be a career, a friendship, or growing a family. That commitment means more than anything else in your life. 

For me, it’s always been hockey. As a kid, the sport gave me a place, a team, and then, a family, outside of my shitty household. I was gifted concerned coaches instead of my dad’s backhands. Uncle Kirk took an additional part-time job to cover the costs of the sport I loved. Between hockey and my uncle, there were hot meals and cut up fruit, instead of the spoiled milk and questionable sliced bread my mom kept in the refrigerator. There was an abundance of warm sweats and hats over the too-small coats and holey socks stuffed in my closet. Uncle Kirk provided for me the way my parents should have. Hockey gave me everything else—confidence, an outlet, a social network. 

After my parents’ deaths, hockey became an escape for my pent-up anger and grief, a space to clear my head, and a band of brothers to see me through the worst of my survivor’s guilt. 

Living with my uncle and cousin gave me stability and a warm, loving home to rely on. 

Given the hand I was dealt, I’ve been fortunate. Lucky. I never want to take that for granted. Which is why I haven’t dated much. I haven’t tangled up with drama, or trouble, or confrontation. 

I keep my head down and commit to the game. To my routine. To the team. 

And the only woman who will ever get me to change my priorities will be the woman I marry. One day. When the time is right. 

Not as a rookie. Not with a short-term contract and a probable move. Not when I’m still literally and figuratively getting my skates underneath me. 

I glide down the rink with a renewed focus on practice. With a hunger to improve my game, to show up for my team, to play the best season I’m capable of. 

But when practice is finished and the team’s left the locker room, I loiter for a moment too long. I hesitate and stall as my stomach growls in hunger. 

Then, I go buy half a dozen cupcakes. 

* * *

The guy chatting up my lioness is pissing me off. That’s saying something because I’m an even-keeled guy. I rarely lose my temper, I don’t hold grudges, and I shy away from drama. 

But this dude, damn, this dude is one step away from fucking harassment. 

“You didn’t tell me you were back,” he whines, crowding the beauty behind the counter. 

“Jay, I’m working.” She places a cupcake in a bag. “And this is my trial run so…” Her voice trails off, but her eyes are pleading as she passes a bag, stamped with the Primrose Sweets logo, to a stressed-out mother with a screaming toddler. 

The pop-up shop is rarely open outside of game nights, but this month, the arena is hosting a hockey clinic for kids. It’s some type of outreach program aimed at spreading knowledge and love for hockey to younger school kids who’ve been ingrained with a football appreciation since popping out of the womb. 

Jay looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning me. He gives me a stupid smirk. “Babe.” He turns back to the redhead. “There’s no one here.”

Her pleading eyes meet mine and color with apology. 

“Take your time,” I tell her, crossing my arms over my chest. I shoot the man a dirty look. 

The guy sighs and leans over the counter again. “Just, tell me you’ll meet up with me later? We need to talk, Bea. It’s been years and you owe me—” 

“Okay, time’s up,” I cut in, changing my fucking mind. Because now, I know her name. Bea. It’s simultaneously quirky and timeless, which I like. It suits her. And she doesn’t owe him shit.

Bea offers a tight smile. “Please, Jay—” 

“Promise me, Bea.” His arm darts out and his hand snakes around her wrist. 

Anger I rarely experience blazes through me. Not because he’s touching her but because she winces from his touch, her eyes zeroing in on his hold. 

“We’ll talk,” she agrees, spiking my frustration. 

He gives a curt nod and walks away, giving me a hard look as he passes. Sad. I could knock him out with my left fist. And I’m a righty. 

I step to the counter, noting how quiet the hallway is. The clinic must have resumed sessions from the break and the team is long gone, headed out to lunch or home to greet girlfriends or the one-night stands who didn’t get the message. 

“Welcome to Primrose Sweets. What—” she sighs and blows out an exasperated breath. Some of her red curls blow away from her face and her grey eyes meet mine, boldly. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.”

“It was unprofessional.”

“He’s a douchebag.” I rest an elbow on the countertop. “And he shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

She fiddles with a stack of napkins, nervous. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

“Having a hard time accepting the ex part of that?” I bite the inside of my mouth. Why the hell am I grilling this girl? I don’t know her. And yet…I want to. There’s something about her that intrigues me. The little showdown with the ex only heightened my curiosity when it should have, when in the past it would have, shut it down. 

She shakes her head, her wild mane flowing. “No, we broke up years ago. It’s just, I’m back in town now and…it’s complicated.”

“I understand.” I say it because it’s partly true. I understand complicated better than anyone, just not in the romantic sense. I’ve never been invested enough in a partner to blur lines. We’re either casually hooking up, or we’re strictly friends. But complicated in terms of family dynamics? In terms of big feelings and uncertainties? Well, yeah, that’s my whole life so… “Can I get half a dozen cupcakes?”

She smiles and it hits me like a sucker punch. Her entire demeanor changes, blossoms, when she smiles. Her shyness diminishes, her fierceness softens, and she’s just…radiant. “We have birthday cake, chocolate, and apple strudel left.”

“I’ll take two of each.”

“All right,” she says, placing the cupcakes in a little box. “Are you here for the clinic?”

I glance down the long hallway, note a group of boys who run to a water fountain. I open my mouth and suddenly, I don’t want to tell her I’m a Bolts player. 

It’s silly because being a hockey player is the one thing my teammates always bank on to get a girl’s interest. But I don’t want this woman, Bea, to like me because I’m an athlete. I want her to like me because I’m me, regardless of my job title. “I’m around a lot,” I offer a half response. “Are you working here full-time?”

“For now,” she responds, just as cryptically. 

I grin, and she smiles back and passes me the box.

“I’ll be seeing you around, Bea.”

“Okay…”

“Cole.” I hold out a hand, balancing the cupcake box in my other palm. 

“Cole,” she repeats, shaking my hand. I like the way she says my name. I like the feel of her hand, long fingers and cool skin, in mine. She tells me the total, I tap my Apple Watch to pay, and still, she smiles. “Thanks for coming by Primrose.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Now that I know she’s working here? I’ll be eating cupcakes every damn day. 

“Tomorrow?” Her brow furrows. 

“Tomorrow,” I confirm, turning away. I open the box and pull out a cupcake, taking a big bite. Damn, it’s good. 

Sweet and delectable. 

Just like Bea.