When I saw Chloe that evening on her porch with a bunch of roses in her arms, I couldn’t help but feel a little protective of her. Granted, I didn’t have a right to feel that way. We maybe spoke once or twice in the half a year I’d lived here - since Seraphina Hanson got me after the holidays before the trade deadline - but I couldn’t help but watch Chloe every now and then from my place - make sure she got home okay.

She dropped her keys a lot while she attempted to lock or unlock her door. She slipped on her steps occasionally.

The girl was a hazard to herself.

It was weird but it made her more... attractive. She was independent, there was no doubt about that - what other woman would live by herself even if it was in a safe city like Irvine - but she couldn’t walk in a straight line without tripping over air.

It was cute - and that word wasn’t in my vocabulary.

There was something about these flowers and about her reaction to them. Either she hated big, romantic gestures - and what woman actually hated those? - or there was something wrong with the sender that made her nervous.

I hadn’t been there when she first saw the flowers. I thought I came out a moment or two after, once what’s her name realized we weren’t going to go on any dates anytime soon. Now that the Gulls were one round away from the Stanley Cup finals, suddenly I was hot shit.

Yeah, right.

My face had permanent bumps, bruises, and scars I would never be able to rid myself of, even with the best plastic surgery money could buy. Over half my teeth were fake. I’d taken three pucks to the face in my career, had two concussions, and still refused to wear a shield to protect my eyes. I still dropped the gloves when I needed to. Dean and I weren’t officially enforcers but there was a different feel to the ice when either one of us was out there. If anyone took a shot at our skilled players - Ryan, Schumacher, Underwood - they would pay for it. Either by us or by them.

The fact of the matter was, my face wasn’t as pretty as it had been at the start of my career. And that was something I was okay with. I liked to think I was rough around the edges. It certainly didn’t scare away any potential bedmates.

I guess Stephanie wasn’t in love with me like she told me last night. And this morning.

Oh well. Good riddance.

Girls like her were the reason I avoided relationships. I didn’t want to deal with the games and I sure as shit didn’t want to deal with the bullshit.

If a girl didn’t like me, I wanted her to tell me. If a girl wanted me to buy her shit, I wasn’t going to do it but at least I’d have liked a head’s up. It shouldn’t be this hard to figure it out.

Chloe wasn’t like those girls. Granted, I was sure a lot of women weren’t like the women I associated myself with. Not all women were easy and laughed at all my jokes. When I was younger, I loved immersing myself in them because I was young and an idiot and needed the facade of beautiful women hanging off of me and every word I said to feel good about myself. Now, I didn’t need that shit but I still needed to release. I still needed to get this tension out of my body and these were the only women who I could do that with.

Chloe looked like someone I needed to work for. She looked like someone I wouldn’t mind working for - if relationships were my thing.

I went to my kitchen and grabbed a glass of whiskey. I didn’t drink much, especially during the season, but today wasn’t what I expected.

I couldn’t get Chloe out of my head if I tried. I didn’t understand why, though. She was cute, beautiful even, but I had seen prettier. Even so, there was something about her, something I couldn’t put my finger on. She had straight blonde hair and blue eyes. She was slender, not overly curvy, but she knew how to dress to flatter herself. She was short, petite, which I had always found attractive. It made me feel powerful and strong, which was definitely egotistical but it was also true.

Chloe was also clumsy and awkward, which was different. She wasn’t purposefully trying to fall down because she always picked herself up. She never waited for help, never needed to be rescued, even from herself.

There was something deeper there, too.

I took a long sip of the amber liquid, letting it sink down my throat and into my stomach. I liked the fire, liked the way it burned my throat and sharpened my senses.

I hadn’t seen her reaction to the flowers but I had watched her. I saw the glimmer of fear in her eyes even from my distance on my porch. Whoever sent her these flowers had a history with her, and from what I could see, it wasn’t a good one. Women did not throw out this many flowers unless she had an issue with a sender. And Chloe clearly had an issue.

I wished I had paid more attention to anyone lingering outside her home. I would have noticed her getting a delivery of three dozen roses. Granted, the asshole who actually sent them might not be the one to deliver them, but still. I could have kept an eye out for her.

I snorted at my thoughts. What the hell was I thinking? Did I really need to get involved with someone else’s drama?

I sipped at my whiskey, leaning back in my chair and shifting my eyes out my window. This townhouse was a joke. I paid to have it already be furnished so I didn’t have to worry about buying furniture. I had no idea why I let the real estate agent talk me into renting a two-bedroom townhouse when it was just me. Sure, the space was nice but it was too open, too overwhelming. It was too quiet, too...

I never had a problem with being alone. I didn’t have things. I had my trophies at my parents’ place. Just some clothes and my equipment. I wasn’t a collector.

Why did I need this much space? I didn’t care if it was the same amount of money. I didn’t need this much space.

It was still light outside. We had practice in the morning and the first game of the second to last round of the Stanley Cup playoffs the day after. I should be focused on that. In my entire NHL career, I had never made it past the second round of the playoffs. Ever since the Gulls acquired me back before the AllStar break, I played my ass off. I doubted we would actually make it to the playoffs because the Gulls had never done such a thing before in their entire history, even under their original owner, Ken Brown.

But we somehow skirted by. We fought, we sweat, we bled, we did what we had to do and somehow, even with uneven penalties, even with injuries, we were still here. We were still in it.

Did I think we could make it further? Everyone asked me that. The media, people on the street, the goddamn grocery clerk. Everyone who barely paid attention to me before was suddenly asking me all of these questions, like I had any idea.

I didn’t even think about it, to be honest. I took it one game, one shift, at a time. I couldn’t look at the long-term, I could only look at what was in front of me. It was how I played and I felt that that helped me be successful. I didn’t overthink things. I let my game happen naturally without overanalyzing.

I couldn’t focus on that, however, with Chloe on my mind. I couldn’t multitask for shit.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I honestly shouldn’t give a shit about her problems. I refused to involve myself in shit that didn’t have anything to do with me.

But there was something about her...

Despite her independence, there was something there that made me want to protect her. She probably didn’t need me to but I wanted to.

Not that I would without her consent. I wasn’t an asshole.

But I would definitely make sure to keep an eye on her when I could.

—

The next morning, we had an early practice at Sea Side Ice Palace. I slept well and made sure to watch Chloe pull out of her garage. She seemed fine. I couldn’t see much from where I was but she seemed tired.

Like she hadn’t slept that much the night before.

I couldn’t blame the kid. She had a lot on her plate. I hoped she had someone to talk to about her shit. Keeping it inside wasn’t healthy. At least with me, I got to get out my anger on the ice. Slapping slapshots, checking assholes, dropping the gloves. I felt delighted after my games. I practically skipped off the ice.

My defense partner was another vet with the same mentality as me. Same size. Same strength. He talked more than I did. Was more of a charmer. I was quiet about the women I picked up. He was a flirt.

On the ice, though, we both had the same mentality: defend, protect, and fuck up.

We were out on the ice with the first line. Cherney wanted us out there because even though we weren’t as fast as some of these younger defensemen, we were stronger. We had presence. We intimidated the shit out of the opposing players because Dean and I weren’t afraid to drop the gloves. We packed powerful punches and unless our opponents were bitches who fought with visors on, we didn’t mind bruised knuckles or minor cuts.

We were goddamn hockey players, after all. Not basketball players who needed to get put on a stretcher after pulling a hamstring. Not soccer players who flopped on the grass every time someone breathed on them. Hockey players took pucks to the face, lost teeth, required stitches, and were ready for their next shift. 

I loved being a hockey player. I took pride in my job. The fact that I was thirty-six and still able to play lit a fire underneath me so I played even harder than I did when I was a kid.

Practice was gritty, which I appreciated. There was a sense of desire among the team. Everyone knew how close we were and there was no way we were going to let it slip through our fingers because of a stupid mistake or because individual egos were bruised. As much as I wanted to right a wrong, I wasn’t about to take a stupid penalty on behalf of my pride.

As with every round, we somehow managed to acquire home ice for the first two games. If we won both games, we would have a good chance of winning the next two in their barn. The Seattle Sounders were a gritty team as well but they had been here before. That gave them experience, sure, but that didn’t give them passion to fight for something they wanted and never had. There was no fucking way we were going to get this fucking close and let it slip out of our fingers.

Not if there was anything I could do about it.

Thorpe was a fucking god in the net. None of our shots got passed him. The guy was rock-solid. His current save percentage in the playoffs was 0.92. He let in one or two goals every game, stopping thirty-plus shots. He also had a reputation of being an asshole in the way where he never spoke and appeared critical. He cared about his appearance in that he wanted us to have pride in the sweaters we wore every game night.

I sure as shit respected him, even if he was a few years younger than me.

Rumor had it, he and Seraphina Hanson, the new owner and manager, were in a relationship. To be honest, I didn’t give a shit. That wasn’t my business. If it was true, good for him.

All that mattered, before women and sex and everything else, was the Cup. And I intended that this was going to be my year. I refused to let myself deal with any distractions.

Even if they were petite, blonde, and cute.