Tonight, I helped a friend propose to the woman he loves. I made two people who are perfect for each other very happy, solidified a bond with a teammate I admire, and got to watch the sunset from the deck of a multimillion-dollar beachside mansion where I’ll be spending the night with a group of good friends and their families.

I finally made the list. I’m a “cool kid.”

As a rookie, there was a time—like two months ago—when I didn’t get invited to the smaller, veteran parties, the private gatherings of the players who know they’ve got a home in Portland as long as they stay fast and refrain from getting their heads slammed into the glass too often. Concussions take out a lot of good players before their time.

And then there are guys like me, whose brains are hardwired wrong from the get-go. I finished the season strong, and my contract was renewed for next year, but if I don’t keep my focus laser-sharp, I might not be a Badger for long.

It’s best that I don’t get attached. Don’t get in too deep. Don’t allow myself to wish I wasn’t at this party alone.

I don’t have time for a girlfriend, and I’m in no place to make a long-term commitment.

But as I watch my teammates pair off with their significant others—wandering down to the darkened beach or up to their rooms—I can’t help feeling low.

And cranky.

And a little jealous.

Fine, a lot jealous. Until this year, I haven’t spent much time alone. I’ve always had a girlfriend or a steady date on the verge of becoming a girlfriend. I like women, get along well with the better-smelling sex, and enjoy spending time with humans who aren’t afraid to talk about things other than sports or work, which happen to be the same in my world, further reducing the opportunities for conversational variety.

And then there’s sex…

I sigh heavily as I plod down the stairs toward the beach, my flask of whiskey in hand.

God, I fucking miss fucking. I miss it so much I’m starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with me.

Surely even the most testosterone-fueled meatheads don’t think about sex as much as I think about sex. And the only thing that keeps me from dwelling on how long it’s been since I had a woman in my bed—seven months, three days, and a handful of hours—is killing myself on the ice at practice and pushing myself to the limit during every game.

But now I have a four-week hiatus until practices officially start again, and nothing but my morning workouts, a few scrimmages, and a charity event to keep my thoughts out of the gutter.

Summer hookup, man.

There’s nothing wrong with something temporary as long as you’re up front with the girl about what you’re up for and what you’re not.

I tip back my flask, sending more Johnny Walker Blue flowing into my mouth, so smoky and smooth there isn’t a hint of burn when I swallow.

A summer hookup won’t work. I know myself better than that. If I find a girl I like enough to want to fuck her, I’m going to want to keep fucking her and caring about her and moving forward until something eventually gets in the way. And if that something is me needing to end things because I can’t keep my head in the game or I’ve been transferred to an armpit team in Arizona, I’ll feel like an asshole.

“Alone,” I mutter, lifting my flask to the black ocean waves crashing against the darkest, loneliest corner of the beach near the bluffs. The place where I clearly belong. “Better to go it alone.”

The words have barely passed my lips when something warm and smelling pleasantly of musky campfire collides with my backside, sending me stumbling a few unsteady steps forward.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry!” A female giggle follows the apology, and a slim hand grips my arm. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” She giggles again, as if the idea of injuring strangers amuses her.

I smile, figuring it’s time to lay off the whiskey if a collision with a kid half my size has me off balance. I can’t see the girl’s face well in the dim light from the sliver of a moon, but she’s tiny, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen. “I’m fine. But should you be down here by yourself?”

“Should you be down here by yourself?” She brings a cigarette to her lips and inhales, making the tip flare. “I hear this beach has killer mermaids.” She exhales, sending that musky, almost skunky smell drifting through the air again, and I realize that’s no cigarette.

“Killer mermaids?” I ask, playing along. “Is that right?”

She nods. “Killer, carnivorous mermaids. And they like guys like you most of all.” She grips my arm again, giving my bicep a squeeze. “Mmm, yes, nice juicy muscles. So dee-lish-usssss…”

I flex beneath her touch because I am a man and it’s hardwired into my DNA to flex like a cheesy bastard when someone fondles my muscles, even if the person feeling me up is a wasted teenager.

“Nice.” She clucks her tongue as she squeezes my other arm. “Too bad you’re going to be mermaid-bait pretty soon.”

“So it’s too late, you think? To make a run for safety?”

She nods with a heavy sigh. “Yes. Sadly, it’s too late. They’ll be here any second. Can’t you hear them? Laughing in the waves?”

We both go silent for a moment, listening, then my wasted companion starts giggling again. “Sorry,” she says, “That was me. Don’t be afraid. That was me laughing.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” I arch an amused brow. “Maybe you should put that out and save the rest for later?”

“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” She moves the blunt between us. “You want some? It’s good. Smooth, not too heavy. Takes the edge off a shit start to the weekend.”

“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” I say, beginning to think I’ve misjudged her age. Yes, she’s petite, but her world-weary voice is pure disillusioned grownup. “I’m Tanner, by the way.”

“Hey, Tanner.” She accepts the hand I hold out, shaking it firmly. “You here for the party back there?”

“Yeah. You?” I wonder if she’s someone’s girlfriend then realize I don’t like how that wondering makes me feel. I haven’t even seen this woman—or girl, I’m still not sure—clearly, and I’m already starting to develop a crush.

Fuck, I need to get laid.

Or stop drinking whiskey.

Or both.

“Nah.” She shakes her head, making her ponytail—blonde, I think, or light brown, and a little curly—swish. “Just here to help with a family thing. My brother’s girlfriend proposed to him tonight and needed me to help facilitate the fucking romance.”

I grunt. “That’s crazy. My friend proposed to his girlfriend tonight, too. I was in charge of guarding the stairwell to make sure no one disturbed them until she said yes.”

“And did she?”

“Yeah. How about your brother?”

She makes an exasperated growling sound. “Yes. And it was ridiculously romantic, and they cried because they’re so happy and in love.” She takes another pull on her joint, holding the smoke in as she adds, “If I didn’t love them so much, I would have vomited. I’m so over happy couples right now. They’re so fucking gross.”

I grin. “They are kind of gross.”

“Totally gross.” She nudges me with her elbow. “So I guess you aren’t living happily ever after?”

“Not currently. How about you?”

She snorts. “No. Not now, not ever. Ten years of trying, and all I’ve got to show for it is a handful of Mr. Wrongs and a Mr. Right I broke up with because I dated him too soon after Mr. Super Duper Wrong and was too stupid to see that I was running away from the best thing that had ever happened to me. And now he’s engaged, too, and life is dumb, and I’m done with relationships. I’m probably going to move to Tibet and become a monk.”

“Aren’t monks men?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs as she drops the nub her joint has become to the ground and toes sand over it. “I’ll have to pretend to be a guy, I guess. But how hard can that be? Just cut my hair, drop my voice, walk funny, and check to make sure my dick is still there a lot. Easy.”

I tilt my head, studying her face, which I’m able to see better now that wind has swept away the clouds that were muting the moonlight. She’s pretty. Very pretty, with full lips that dominate her pixie face, and expressive eyebrows that make squiggles above her eyes as she asks, “What?”

“I think you might be too pretty to pull off pretending to be a guy. Sorry.”

“You should be sorry. I hate it when sexy men with nice muscles tell me I’m pretty.” She places a hand on my chest and leans in to add in a confidential whisper, “Just in case you’re wondering, I’m hitting on you, and I think we should make out on the sand. What do you think?”

I blink, surprised, but not opposed to the idea, assuming…

“How old are you?” I step closer. If she’s been dating for ten years, she’s got to be at least in her early twenties, but it’s better safe than sorry.

“Older than you are, Muscle Boy. Does that matter?”

“I’m twenty-four,” I say, seriously doubting her claim. She looks twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, tops.

“Twenty-seven.” Her arms go around my neck, and her breasts press against my chest, proving she’s curvier than I thought, too. “Is that enough getting to know each other? Can we casually make out now?”

My lips part, but before I can speak, she’s pushed up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to mine. And I don’t know if it’s the whiskey, or the dark beach and the crash of the waves, or the strange, yet oddly comforting, conversation—knowing I’m not the only one who’s alone and not too pleased about it—but the kiss is…incredible.

She tastes like woodsy, slightly funky smoke, but sweet, too. A perfect mixture of bad influence and warm, sexy woman. And as we tumble to the sand, I find myself feeling happier than I have in a long time.

For what seems like hours, we kiss like teenagers—hot, hungry, hands roaming, but never slipping under clothes—before she whispers against my lips, “Thank you. I needed to touch someone tonight.”

“You’re welcome.” My next words slip out before I can think better of them. “You can sleep over if you want. I’m staying at the house back there. King bed, plenty of room, no pressure to take things any further.”

“Oh, Muscle Boy…” She sighs as her hand skims down my stomach to hover close to where my canvas shorts are strained at the front. Her fingers tease back and forth between my skin and the button holding the fabric closed, making the hard-on situation even more…pressing. “If I went back to your room, I would want a lot more than kissing.”

“That’s fine, too.” All my promises not to start something this summer are forgotten as I imagine how good it’s going to feel to make my beach pixie come and finally break my seven-month dry spell.

“No, it’s not.” She pulls out of my arms, moving to sit beside me on the sand. “I have to go home.”

“I can call a car for you in the morning,” I say. “First thing.”

She shakes her head. “Can’t. I’m moving tomorrow, and I still have to pack. My friend is coming to pick me up in half an hour. I promised her I would be out by noon. She’s been cool about me crashing on her couch, but I’m sure she’s sick of having my life exploded all over her living room.”

I nod, crestfallen but trying not to show it. It’s clear Beach Pixie’s not interested in more than casual kisses and an easy “see ya later.” But I can’t seem to stop myself. “What about tomorrow night? Can I take you to dinner? Maybe bowling or something?”

She grins, sighing as she leans in, resting her head on my shoulder. “Oh, you’re sweet. Very, very sweet.” She kisses my arm, right below where my T-shirt ends. “But I’m not that kind of girl anymore, Muscle Boy. You keep looking. Find yourself someone young and new, who isn’t cursed with the worst love-life luck on the planet.”

I start to protest—to tell her I’m not afraid of bad luck—but before I can speak, her lips are on mine. She kisses me again, until I’m even harder, aching, dying to roll her beneath me in the sand and make her feel so good she’ll change her mind about staying with me tonight and dinner tomorrow.

But when I move to guide her on top of me, she pulls away, standing up and backing across the sand so fast she’s already disappearing into the darkness when she says, “Good luck, Tanner. Thank you again.”

Then she’s gone, I’m alone, and suddenly the thought of waking up tomorrow surrounded by people in love is intolerable. With another pull on my flask, I head up the beach and march straight to my room, throwing my shit into my duffle as I call for a car. I rode here with Saunders and his girlfriend, but I’m sure they won’t mind making the return trip alone.

Hell, they’ll prefer it, no doubt.

No fucking doubt…

Just like there’s no doubt that I’m never going to see my sexy beach pixie again. There are over half a million people in Portland. The chances of crossing paths with her are slim, and that’s assuming she’s staying in the area. She could be moving to another state for all I know. Another country.

An hour later, as I tumble into my bed at home, Pixie’s already becoming part of the past, a memory touched by magic, a story I’ll tell when I’m old. The entire encounter was a little too strange to be real. Maybe she was the ghost of a woman who drowned on that beach, or one of the killer mermaids she warned me about, come onto the shore to hunt for men stupid enough to wander too close to the waves.

For all I know, I could have barely escaped with my life.

The thought is ridiculous, childish even, but it makes the rejection sting less, and by the time I wake up the next morning I’ve all but forgotten about the girl I kissed last night.

When Brendan, my team captain, calls to tell me his little sister’s new living situation fell through and ask if I’m still looking for a roommate, I don’t for a single second consider that I might have met his sister before. That I might have kissed her, rocked against her through our clothes, wanted to make love to her more than I’ve wanted anything in a very, very long time.

I’m clueless, and say yes without thinking twice, not realizing what a serious mistake I’ve made until I open the front door an hour later to find Beach Pixie standing on my doorstep wearing tiny striped shorts, a tank top so thin it should be illegal, and a shocked expression that matches my own.