Bex Canfield was going to kill that man.

It was after eleven when he finally strolled into Big Laurie’s Pub, dark hair still damp from the post-game workout and shower, chest puffed out like a damn peacock.

Bex finished wiping down the beer taps and tossed her rag into the sink, drying her hands on her apron. She was glad the bar was mostly empty now—Henny looked like he was still gunning for trouble, and she wasn’t in the mood to referee a fight. She’d seen enough of that on the ice tonight.

Instead of acknowledging him, she shifted her attention to the liquor display, making sure that each bottle faced forward, tallest ones in the back row, shortest in front. So what if she’d been counting down the minutes until he walked through that door? Henny didn’t need to know that. His ego was big enough already.

“Cocky prick,” she whispered, biting back a smile. Why was it so hard to stay mad at him?

“Mmm.” Fiona, Bex’s cocktail waitress, set down her serving tray at the end of the bar, staring at Henny as he hung his coat on the rack up front. “That cocky prick makes my lady parts tingle. Good lord, look at those forearms.”

“Please don’t pee your panties on account of his arm porn.”

“Only if he asked me to.” Fee gave Bex a playful wink, then leaned across the bar and lowered her voice. “Too bad he’s only got a hard-on for you, babe.”

Bex rolled her eyes and gave Fee the finger, but that was all the fight she had left for that tired old argument. She needed to save her strength for her best friend. Jokes aside, he was heading down a dark road faster than she could follow, and she needed to reign him in. The conversation was long overdue.

Henny strutted up to the bar and sat down like he owned the place, all muscle and hard angles and that damn attitude that would eventually get him thrown out of the league, even if it had earned him the title of NHL’s sexiest athlete. What had the newspaper coined him last week? The Bad-Boy Bachelor of Buffalo? God. She cringed to think what all the bunnies were saying about him on the hockey forums.

“Don’t say a word,” he said, resting his arms on the bar. He was wearing a black cashmere sweater, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, and okay fine, the man had really nice arms. But muscles would not save him from Bex’s wrath. Not tonight.

Bex folded her arms over her chest and stared him down. “You’re in serious trouble.”

“I’ve been beat up enough for one night, thanks.” He finally met her gaze.

He was definitely sexy in that make-a-good-girl-go-bad kind of way, but when he fixed those ocean-blue eyes on her now, Bex saw only Henny. Her Henny. Not the macho, bad-boy NHL star who’d broken as many hearts as he’d broken records, but the sweet, big-hearted friend she’d known for twenty-five of her thirty years on this planet. The one who’d walked a mile out of his way every day all through grade school just to keep her safe from the junior high bullies who’d once chased and catcalled her. The one who’d taught her how to drive stick and check the oil and change a tire. The one who’d cut short his vacation in Spain this past summer and hopped a plane to San Francisco instead, packing up her tiny apartment and bringing her back home to Buffalo when she’d barely had the strength to get out of bed.

Six months had passed since that move, most of which was still a blur. But every day since then, Bex had gotten a little stronger. A little better. All because she had a friend like Henny who cared enough to show up, give her a hug, and then promptly kick her ass.

Now it was her turn.

She ducked out under the server’s entrance at the end of the bar and hopped up onto the stool next to him, her knees brushing against his thigh as she looked him over. The team docs had taped some of his fingers together, stitched up a small cut near his hairline. His upper lip was puffy, his jaw red and swollen beneath a few days’ stubble, and there in his eyes—just behind the still-smoldering rage—were a thousand regrets.

“Let me see,” Bex said softly. Taking his big hand into hers, she ran her fingers lightly over the tape, tears stinging her eyes. Hockey was a brutal sport, and he’d been playing since they were kids, but she’d never get used to seeing him so banged up. “Oh, Hen.”

“I’m good,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. “Really. I’m okay.”

Bex nodded, stowing the worst of her fears. At least he wasn’t seriously hurt. “Eva figured you’d show up here.”

“She called?”

“Just after the game,” Bex said. Eva was the team’s skating coach. They’d become fast friends after Henny had introduced them a few months back, and Eva often texted her after the games—sometimes to meet up, sometimes just to say hi or get Bex’s opinion on the latest wedding plans. She and Walker Dunn were getting married later that summer.

“Women.” Henny gave her hand another squeeze. “If I’d known you two would make a habit of gossiping about me, I wouldn’t have introduced you.”

“Well, us womenfolk do talk about other things on occasion, Kyle Henderson. Believe it or not, the sun doesn’t rise and set on you.” Bex’s teasing smile lasted only a second before melting into a frown. The truth was, most of their recent texts had been about Henny. “She’s worried about you. We all are.”

The way Eva had put it, it was as though Henny had been erecting a wall this season, one brick at time. He was showing up at every practice, playing every game, scoring enough goals to keep justifying that insane salary. But he was mostly going through the motions, drifting out of reach from the people who cared for him. Bex had sensed it, too; even in the relatively short time she’d been back in Buffalo, she’d watched him pulling away. Already he was spending less time with his friends, less time at the team’s social and charity events, less time even on hookups—a first since high school.

Something was definitely going on with him, but she couldn’t figure out what. He claimed to love hockey. He was one of the top paid players in the league, still skating at the top of his game. He had a good group of friends. And even though his schedule kept him busy with constant travel, practice, and games, he’d still managed to find time for Bex and her mom.

So what was missing?

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice soft and reassuring. But Bex saw the lie in his eyes, that now-familiar darkness settling into their blue-green depths.

“Hen, just tell me what’s going on with you. You can’t keep—”

“You tell me something, beautiful.” Henny tugged on one of her curls and turned up the megawatt smile, melting a bit of her anger. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a beer in this place?”

“Don’t even try that charm on me,” Bex said, finally releasing his hand. She hopped off the stool and ducked behind the bar again. “For your information, we are officially in a fight.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to fight?”

“Yes, and that’s working out brilliantly, isn’t it?” She filled up a pint of Labatt Blue from the tap, then set it down on a cocktail napkin in front of him. “Are you trying to get fired? Or put into a coma? Or killed?”

“Is this, like, a multiple choice thing or—”

“It’s an I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass thing. Henny…” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. God, he was infuriating. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so many warnings and what-ifs and can’t-you-sees. But that was just it—he could see. Eva might think that Henny was lost or confused, but Bex knew better. Henny knew exactly what he was doing—always had. Nothing about him was ever accidental, and that scared the hell out of her.

Because for the first time in more than two decades, she couldn’t figure out his end game.

“Why did you go after Fellino like that?” she finally asked.

“He was screwing with my boys.”

“Isn’t that part of the game?”

“He’s dirty, Bex. Needed to be taken down a notch.”

“You could’ve put him in the hospital. Was that your plan?”

Henny’s eyes lowered to his beer, hands wrapped around the glass. His jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

Before she could press, Bex was called away by a customer claiming the jukebox ate his twenty bucks.

By the time she got it sorted and returned to her spot behind the bar, Poison was blaring out “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” and Henny had finished his beer.

She was beginning to think he’d leave without answering her when he finally said, “That’s why you bailed? Because of what I did to Fellino?”

“They ejected you from the game. No point in sticking around after that.” Bex put her hands on her hips, trying to look tough, but she couldn’t lie to him. Resigned, she said, “I have to close with Fee tonight. Mom’s still in Florida.” Her mother had taken off a few weeks ago to go stay with Bex’s aunt, who was recovering from a double mastectomy. She’d left Bex in charge of the pub. They really needed a second cocktail waitress—another bartender and cook, too—but right now they couldn’t afford new hires. Bex was working on a plan, but until things got rolling, she’d have to pick up the slack.

Henny drummed his fingers on the bar, a grin lighting up his face. “So where’s my sign?”

“Maybe I chucked it.”

“Maybe you’re full of shit.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s in the car. But you’re not getting it until you tell—”

“Got time for a bite?” Henny nodded toward the booths behind the pool table at the other end of the pub. “I’m starving.”

“You deserve to go hungry tonight, jerkface,” Bex said. But she ducked into the kitchen and put in an order with Nico anyway.

“Black-and-bleu burgers, huh?” Henny said when she came back out. “That’s new.”

“To match the shiner I’m about to give you.” Bex raised a fist, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. No matter how badly he’d fucked up, Henny could always bring the smile right back to her face. She felt it now, stretching from ear to ear as Henny grabbed her fist. The tape on his fingers felt rough and foreign against her skin.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” she said.

“Because you love me.” Henny kissed her fingers. “Now shut up and feed me, woman.”