Casco! See me when you’re done with your weights,” the coach barks as he pops his head into the weight room. I feel my heart sink. This can’t be good. We have three days off. There’s no reason he should need to talk to me right now…unless it’s about the charity auction. Maybe they changed their mind and are sending a different player. My heart sinks at the thought.

I finish my set of leg presses and stand up. My teammate Jasper walks over. He wipes his face with his towel and gives me a sympathetic grin. “What’s that about?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t feel like it’s good news.”

“Yeah,” Jasper agrees and runs a hand through his hair. “But you did a decent job last night. And we eked out a win.”

I nod and take a sip from my water bottle as Jasper sits on the weight machine I just vacated. He looks up at me as he positions his feet in the machine. “Well, good luck. At least we have a weekend in San Francisco to look forward to.”

“If I’m still going,” I reply and try not to frown. “Maybe that’s what this is about.”

Jasper doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “Nah. You’re a media dream and the captain’s brother. Everybody loves hockey siblings. I’m sure you’re still going.”

I give him a fleeting smile and leave, heading down the hall to the coach’s office. Rationally, I know Jasper is probably right. Still, I’ve gotten really used to things not being predictable in my life lately, so as I walk into the office I totally expect him to tell me that I’m not going to San Francisco.

I haven’t looked forward to anything in a long time, but I’m really looking forward to seeing Dixie Wynn Braddock. It’s all I’ve thought about since she called me to tell me about it. Something about our crazy flirtation makes me feel something I haven’t felt since before the accident—normal. Probably because she never asks about the injury—or even talks much about hockey—so I can almost forget it happened.

I rap my knuckles on Coach’s open office door. He looks up from his desk, spinning his chair away from his computer to face me, and motions for me to take a seat across from him. He levels me with a stern stare. “You’re starting on Tuesday.”

“Oh. Okay,” I reply and it sounds as emotionless as I feel.

He stares at me wordless for another minute, and then his expression turns into a scowl. “Fuck, Casco. That’s it?”

He’s pissed off. What did I do? I lean forward. “I don’t know what else to say.”

He sighs and swears under his breath. “What happened to the kid I watched in college? You were so fucking pumped back then. You were so hungry for ice time, and you fucking owned the goal.”

I feel the two things I always feel when someone questions my game since the accident—anger and humiliation. I clench my jaw and fight to remain cool. “I’m happy I’m starting. I’ll do my best.”

He’s still looking at me with frustration. “The Casco I saw at Harvard would have answered that with something more along the lines of ‘I’ll kick everyone’s asses, Coach.’”

My jaw gets tighter and I’m scared to unclench it for fear I’ll tell him to shove a hockey stick up his ass. He sighs again and puts his elbows on his desk, giving his face a rub with the palm of his hand. “Look, I get that injury you had was a big one. But it was a fluke. A one-in-a-million chance of happening, so the chance of it happening again is even less. I need you to start thinking like that.”

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” I mutter, because I’ve heard that before, and it brings me zero comfort.

He doesn’t hear the skepticism in my tone, so he smacks his palm on the desk. “Exactly! You’re not going to get sliced open again, so turn back into that fearless maniac that we need. That we signed. Okay?”

Yeah. Sure. It’s that easy. Thanks for the pep talk. I’m going to forget all about having my neck sliced open now. You’re a fucking genius. You missed your calling. You should have been a fucking psychologist.

I smile, large and fake but hopefully not detectable. “I’ll kick ass, Coach. I promise.”

He doesn’t seem completely convinced, but he’s convinced enough that he’s done with this conversation. “Great. Now have a good weekend with the big boys, but remember, if you still want to join your brother permanently you have to get your mojo back. It’s now or never, Elijah.”

“Yep!” I smile again and stand. He nods and I get the fuck out of there without picking up the chair I was sitting in and smashing it over his desk and possibly his head. So that’s a win in my book.

I storm out of the building, skipping the locker room because I can shower at home. I need to pack and I need some time to myself. Jasper texts me as I drive to our apartment.

Right. Shit. I pull over and pick up my phone and text him back that I did forget—again. And tell him I’ll turn around. Before I can do that, though, he texts back that he’ll grab a ride with someone else and see me at home.

How he puts up with me I’ll never know. He’s been in my corner since I dropped out of college and joined the team. He is younger than me. He was born and raised in Sweden and drafted last year after playing a year in the Swedish hockey league. Most of the team knows my history and knows who my brother is and expects me to be better than I am. Half are annoyed by the fact I’m not, and the other half seems to enjoy my struggles. Jasper is in neither category. He’s just been a good friend. He’s probably going to be moved up to the Thunder any day now, and he’ll never be sent back down to this league. He’s that good.

I used to be that good. Hell, I used to be better than that.

I park my Jeep and walk across the parking lot of our apartment complex to our unit. I open our front door, drop my keys on the coffee table next to the tangle of Xbox controllers, and head into my room. We’re on the top floor of the two-story building, with a balcony overlooking the pool. It’s not fancy, because we’re on entry-level contracts, but it’s decent and it’s clean. My parents are wealthy and I grew up with a lot more luxury than I have in this place, but I’m happier here, and that’s what counts.

I have to remind myself of that fact—that I’m still happier here, on the farm team for the San Francisco Thunder, than I would have been giving up on hockey and finishing a business degree in college. I’d wanted to head straight into the NHL like Levi, but I knew my parents would be devastated. So I went to an Ivy League school just as Christopher and Catherine Casco had wanted, but I purposely picked Harvard because it had the best hockey program.

I can see my scar in the mirror across the room. I see it everywhere. I feel it too. I don’t know how to explain it, but when I laugh or turn my head I feel it like a rope tightening around my neck. I’ve been to specialists and plastic surgeons and everyone says it’s psychological. The skin healed well, and the scar fades more as time ticks by. So how come I notice it every second of the day? Even the permanent almost-beard I’ve started keeping on my face doesn’t mask it. It glares at me—mocks me.

I take a deep breath and force my eyes off my reflection. I pull my suitcase out from under my bed and toss it on top, flipping it open. I start to walk around the room grabbing what I need for the weekend in San Francisco. A suit, jeans, underwear, socks, tie, dress shoes…I stop at my night table and pull open the drawer. Inside is a box of condoms I bought a couple months ago when we moved in. It’s unopened.

I’ve been too miserable to pick up chicks the way Jasper and the others have been doing—the way I’d planned to, and quite frankly dreamed of, when I thought about playing pro hockey. But I don’t need Dixie to know that. If I’m lucky, I’ll convince her I’m a loophole in the no-fraternization clause. Because I did a little research last night and I am. The clause talks about Thunder players and staff, and I’m a Storm player right now. Total loophole. Hopefully I can convince her to take a shot because, man, I want her. I want her like I haven’t wanted anyone or anything in a very long time.

I open the box, pull out a strip and leave it in my drawer. I put the remaining condoms—eight—into my suitcase and then head into the bathroom. I shower, and as I’m wrapping a towel around my waist I hear Jasper come home. I grab my toothbrush, hair product and clippers, to keep my almost-beard from becoming an actual beard. While I’m heading back across the hall to my room, I see Jasper standing by the front door kicking off his shoes.

“Sorry about the lift thing,” I tell him sincerely.

“You suck, but it’s fine.” Jasper smiles. “You’re still going to San Fran with me, right?”

“Yep. Coach wanted to see me to tell me I’m starting on Tuesday,” I explain and turn into my room as Jasper’s face lights up. I don’t want to look at his excitement. It’s going to give me nerves. I never used to be nervous about playing. Fuck.

He leans on my doorframe. “Dude, that’s great news!”

I nod and shove my toiletries in my travel bag and drop it on top of the clothes in the suitcase. My phone rings and vibrates on my desk, causing it to bounce around the wood surface. Before I can reach it, Jasper picks it up and glances at the screen. He smiles. “It’s your new girl. How have I not met her again?”

I smile, not really at him, but at the idea that Dixie is calling—or “Julie,” as he knows her, because that’s the fake name I have her number stored under. “She lives in San Fran. We’re reconnecting on this trip.”

Not a lie…I hope.

He tosses me the phone. I catch it and wait until he leaves the room to answer. “I can’t remember exactly what you look like. Can you send me a naked selfie so I can find you at the event tomorrow night?”

She laughs. It’s this loud, quirky sound I can’t quite describe, but it’s adorable. “Sure, right after you send me a dick pic so I can make sure the team orders you the right sized jock.”

“I’m not playing for the Thunder yet.”

“We like to be prepared.” If comebacks were an actual art form she’d be a master. It’s like a gift. “I’m just making sure you and Jasper have all your flight details.”

“Yep. And I can’t wait to no longer need a selfie or my imagination to know what you look like naked.”

“Elijah.” She says my name with a little lilt, even though she’s trying to be cautious. “You know the rules.”

“I know that you, as an employee of the Thunder hockey organization, cannot fraternize in a romantic way with members of the current roster of the San Francisco Thunder.” I’m almost whispering, even though I can hear the distant sounds of the Walking Dead video game coming from the living room. Jasper can’t hear this conversation. I gently kick the door closed before walking toward my bed. “I am not on the current roster of the Thunder.”

“You’re in the organization,” she replies.

“So is the dude who plays the mascot, but I bet no one would care if you gave him an orgasm,” I counter and sit on the edge of my bed.

“He’s fifty with a beer gut and smells like fake polyester bear fur,” Dixie retorts, and I chuckle. “But even if he were Chris Hemsworth, he’s not worth risking my career for.”

“Chris Hemsworth, huh?” I smirk. “That’s who does it for you?”

“He’s on the list, yeah,” she replies. “So are you.”

“Good to know.” I keep my tone light, but inside I’m feeling like a peacock with my feathers out. I like the idea that I’m on her list—a lot.

“The list is titled ‘People I Can Never Touch,’” she adds. Damn it.

“Lucky for you I don’t mind doing all the work,” I quip and flop back on my bed. “You can just lie there. I’ll do the touching.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” I argue and let my hand wander to the front of my towel. I’m already half hard and she’s not even talking dirty or anything. “I’m so good that I also read the fine print in my Storm contract and the no-fraternization policy expressly states with other Storm employees. You, sweet Dixie, are not a Storm employee.”

She doesn’t respond at first, and I know that means she’s thinking it over. I may actually get to do more than kiss her. And I honestly can’t wait. My hand moves from the growing bulge to the left side of my neck. I run my fingertips over the slightly raised, lightly puckered line that runs almost to the middle of my throat.

“I have to go. I have a meeting,” she says finally, which isn’t exactly the You’re totally right, Elijah, let’s fuck I was hoping for, but it’s better than I still won’t let you in my tight little power suit.

“You know, if this PR thing doesn’t work for you, you can always buy one of those little carts and sell hot dogs. You’d be great at it.” I smile up at the ceiling. “Because you already know how to make a wiener stand.”

She rewards my ridiculous pickup line with her adorable laugh again. “That one is groan-worthy.”

“But you’re not groaning,” I reply. “I can make you groan…or moan. Moaning is better actually.”

“Good-bye, Elijah.”

“See you tomorrow, sweet Dixie.”

The line disconnects, and I drop my phone beside me on the bed. My hand goes directly to my half-hard cock. I palm it and press down, giving it a firm rub through the rough towel. It feels good. I would love to make it feel even better, while fantasizing about Dixie, but I can’t. I have to finish packing, and Jasper will want to go out to eat soon, which means he’ll come barging in here.

I reluctantly let go of my dick after a few more rubs and pick up my phone again. Pulling the thin towel as taut as I can, I snap a picture. The outline of my now fully erect cock is perfectly visible. I text it to Dixie with the words See? You make wieners stand.

I don’t get a response and I don’t expect one. She’s working and I’ve got to give her some space to think about what I said. I don’t want her to lose her job, but the idea that I’ll be near her again and not be able to pick up where we left off is painful.

She just came back into my life at the right time. She is turning into the perfect distraction from the trouble I’m having on the ice. I don’t think this can go anywhere because our career trajectories make it impossible, which is probably fine. I just think we should work it out of our systems as soon as possible. A little harmless naked fun before it’s completely off-limits. She’s like this prize now. Something I have to conquer. And if I can win Dixie I’ll feel like I can do anything, maybe even get my damn hockey mojo back.

I spend the next several hours hanging out with Jasper—going out for food and coming home and playing video games—but the whole time I’m hoping I can convince her to feel the same way when I see her this weekend. Then, around eleven thirty when I crawl into bed, she texts me again. It’s a photo—a selfie taken in a mirror with her head cropped out. She’s wearing only a lacy black bra and undies with red piping. My jaw hits the ground and my cock grows rock-hard in seconds.

Before I can get my hand into my underwear and around my cock, she texts again.

I’m smiling so big it aches. This fucking girl…I text her back.

Then I put the phone down to take care of the riot she’s causing in my boxer briefs. Man, she better reread her HR paperwork and see my point. I have to have this girl.