I’m fucking late.

I’m never late. Call me Mr. Punctual, if you want, but I’ve made it this far in my life by playing it easy, chill—the guy everyone wants to be around because I don’t make a fuss. Ever.

Then days like today happen, and shit hits the fan.

Between my brother calling me for another “business” loan and my washing machine eating the dress shirt I’d planned to wear . . . not to mention the fact that I ran a red light and got pulled over, and oh yeah, apparently, there was the matter of two unpaid (forgotten) tickets on my record.

It’s safe to say that Mr. Chill has been replaced with Mr. Get The Fuck Out Of My Way.

My dress shoes eat up the concrete pavement, frozen over with ice, as I maneuver my big body through the throngs of people waiting their turn to take a spin around the makeshift ice rink in the Boston Commons. The fact that I’m not stopped a single time for an autograph or a selfie goes to show that I’m not acting myself today.

My reputation as the NHL’s most charming forward is about to be blown to smithereens in favor of returning to my roots: just plain, old Marshall Hunt, Pissed-Off Bostonian.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, planting a hand on some dude’s back and giving him a little push to the side, “coming through.”

The sight of the front door of Cheers Restaurant might as well be the Stanley Cup right now, I’m so thankful to finally have it within reach. My teammate, Andre Beaumont, is having his engagement party on the second floor of the property, which, from what I understand, isn’t associated with Cheers.

Even so, I’m Beaumont’s best man and I’m currently . . . I dig my cell phone out of my slacks to check the time, letting out a low groan when I realize that the festivities began an hour ago.

Fucking fantastic.

A body bumps into mine just as I’m about to cross the street. Instinct has me reaching out, wrapping an arm around a set of slim shoulders to keep the person from tumbling down to the icy pavement.

And then I catch it—the scent of lemon, delicious and tart. There’s only one person I know who ever wears that perfume.

Gwen James.

I glance down at her vibrant red hair and think back to a time when she was blonde. Honey blonde, none of that platinum hue for her. But it’s been years since then—six, to be precise—and the honey blond curls I used to imagine fisting as I settled myself between her legs are long gone.

“Excuse me,” she says, her husky voice both familiar and totally foreign all at once. “Sorry about that.”

She tries to untangle herself from my grasp, but I clamp down, keeping her lithe figure pressed against my side. “So nice to run into you this chilly evening, Gwen. Heading to the festivities?”

Her head jerks up at the sound of my voice, and those beautiful blue eyes of hers go momentarily wide before narrowing. “Marshall.”

I grin at her clipped tone. I opted to go by my surname the minute the Blades drafted me from Northeastern University. Besides my brother, Gwen might be the only person I’m still in contact with who calls me “Marshall.”

Coming off her lush lips, I love it.

Though I’d prefer to hear her moaning it while we’re fucking on my bed, but hey, I’ve been hoping for that outcome since I sat behind her in Accounting 201, my sophomore year at Northeastern. When it comes to me, Gwen James has done a pretty solid job of ignoring all my attempts to take her out on a date.

Which means that having her up against my side right now? Yeah, I totally plan to live in the moment.

I give her hip a little squeeze, enjoying the way her brows pull low like she’s not sure if she likes it or if she wants to knee me in the balls. “You didn’t answer my question, Gwen.”

“I’m not playing your games today.”

God, it’s so much fun to tease her. After the shit day I’ve had so far, it feels like I’ve suddenly won the lottery I never even entered. Ducking my chin against her ear, I murmur, “I’m sorry, did I issue you an invitation to play my games?”

I hear her teeth clack together. “We’re late.”

“What’s another five minutes? I’m sure Zoe and Beaumont will be ecstatic when they see us walk in together.”

“We’re not walking in together.”

“What? Embarrassed to be seen with me?” There’s always time for a first. I’ve gained a bit of a reputation over the last few years for only dating supermodels. I’m not going to deny it—the rumors are true. But what can I say? Supermodels work a chaotic schedule just like I do. There aren’t hurt feelings when I’m on the road for a week, and I definitely don’t get my briefs in a twist when a photoshoot or runway show has them taking the red-eye to Paris.

They live their lives, I live mine.

When, and if, we’re in the same place at the same time, we hook up.

It’s a win-win situation.

There’s only been one woman I’d ever consider changing my ways for, and it’s the one currently trying to escape me.

So much for a romantic stroll through the gentle snowfall.

With a sigh, I lift my arm and she doesn’t waste her opportunity. Her fuck-me heels sink into the ice, puncturing the frozen water the same way she takes on her adversaries. Quickly, without a single regret.

Screw it—I’m not wasting my first opportunity to be alone with her in years. I catch up to her in two strides and we cross the street together. “I know why I’m late,” I murmur, “but what’s your deal?”

Her lashes sweep down, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to watch her step or avoid making eye contact. “I . . .” She blows out a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it, Marshall.”

She never has.

In her eyes, I’ve always been the too-charming, too-young jock. And, yeah, she’d be right about that. But unlike what most people think, I do have a brain rattling around in my skull—a surprise, I know. Concussions from playing hockey or not, I’m not a meathead.

Just like how I know she’s always been more than what she shows off to the world: standoffish and ice-cold.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “Anything that I can do to help?”

That stops her.

Her stride pauses, just as she’s reaching for the wrought-iron railing to Cheers’s front stoop. “Why would you want to do that?”

Cocking my head to the side, I say, “Definitely doesn’t have anything to do with your prickly attitude, that’s for sure.”

She snorts, and then takes the stairs. “I prefer feisty.”

Unable to help myself, my hand goes to her back. Just to make sure she doesn’t fall. Safety and all that. “Feisty? Is that so? In some circles, they might even go so far as to throw out the word ‘bitchy.’ Not that I’m calling you that, of course.”

Her shoulders twitch under her trench coat. “Of course.”

I grip the door handle and pull it open for her to step through first. Heat blasts my face, reminding me that even as a professional hockey player, five-degrees Fahrenheit feels like my own slice of hell. As warmth returns to my bare fingers, I tell her, “I’d be willing to lend an ear, if you wanted—for a price.”

Blue eyes flick up to my face, and for a moment, I’m convinced that the impenetrable Gwen James is going to break into a smile. But then she just shakes her head, purses her lips against happiness, and quips, “I know your price, Marshall, and I’m not interested in being shackled and chained to your basement walls.”

Fuck, but she’s witty when she wants to be. I chuckle softly, enjoying her subtle teasing, and step to the side as an attendant offers to take Gwen’s jacket. “You’ve heard the stories, huh?”

“Every single one.”

“And?” I prompt as she slips the coat off her shoulders. “Feelin’ a little turned on?”

The coat is whisked away and, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I die. Right then and there, I’m fucking dead. Because Gwen James has always been unbelievably gorgeous to me, even in the jeans and university sweatshirts she once wore to class because she couldn’t be bothered to doll herself up for two hours of hell on earth.

But right now . . . I take her in, all of her, not bothering at all to hide my once-over. It’s a game we’ve played for years, and even if it hadn’t been, I doubt I could hide my appreciation. In theory, her red dress should clash with her red hair. It doesn’t.

The material is silk, like rippling water over her bare skin, and though it’s wintertime in Boston, Gwen’s dress can’t be described as anything other than “slinky.” Thin, hardly-there straps arch over her shoulders, and the front V-neck is deep and enticing. A slit creases the skirt, and I spot a toned thigh slipping through.

Like Gwen, the dress is classy with a sexual edge—and a very clear reminder that I’ve never stopped looking and have never been given the opportunity to touch.

Unfortunately, my cock has never gotten the memo, and even now, in the middle of fucking Cheers, I’m hard as a rock.

Gwen’s fingers to my chin snaps me out of it, and I meet her gaze unapologetically. Her plum-painted lips move, and I register the words just as she steps away toward the stairwell leading up to the second floor.

Feeling turned on, Marshall?

She knows I am. And for the first time since I’ve met Gwen, I decide I’m not willing to play our games anymore.

The woman owes me a date, and I plan to finally collect.