Icebound: Chapter 1

“If you don’t tell me to stop, I’m going to kiss you in three seconds.”

“What the—” I start, but her mouth crashes into my face, teeth knocking against mine.

Three seconds?

Pretty sure that was two. I recoil, but the woman latches onto me like an overenthusiastic rookie.

“You taste so good,” she slurs with half-lidded eyes. “Like minty mint mojito leaves.”

I’ve been drinking nonalcoholic beer all night, so there’s no way that’s true. This stranger tastes like she took a bath in a gas-station Merlot. I gag.

If there’s one thing that gives me an awful hangover, it’s red wine, and I can’t let my performance suffer. The media’s already talking about my retirement, so I’m steering clear of alcohol this season.

Maybe forever.

Her fingers tangle in my hair. “I like your lips. So soft. You must use lots of ChapStick.”

I try to say something, but her tongue slithers into my mouth. What made her think she could march up and kiss me?

Yeah, sure, in my twenties, I would’ve been hauling her over my shoulder, but now I’m ready to get down on one knee for a woman.

Well, not any woman—the right one.

My fists tighten, but I’m not going to be a dick about this because the last thing I need is another media scandal. It took years to clean up my image after Quench pulled my sponsorship, thanks to the Tenerife Incident.

I haven’t been able to find another sponsor since, and now, every sportscaster’s calling me a fading legend at the ripe old age of thirty-three. Hell, Brodeur didn’t hang up his skates until his forties.

“Alright, bold move.” I force a grin, gently pushing her back. “How about we start with names, sweetheart?”

She stumbles, and I try to steady her, but she grabs onto the bar ledge in her stilettos. There’s no doubt she’s gorgeous with her full lips, but I care more about what comes out of that mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she slurs. “I’m drunk. So drunk. Not that it’s an excuse. I really shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean, um…” Her brows pinch. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Are you a member of the Nashville cross-stitch club?”

“Uh, no?”

“Then, no, I don’t think we’ve met.” I clench my poor excuse for a beer, wishing I’d worn a feather boa instead of a gray suit tonight, so I’d blend in with this crowd.

Cruz wanted to come to Wonderbar for his twenty-third birthday, and once our rookie gets an idea in his head, there’s no changing his mind. Micah Cruz is more stubborn than my goalie coach, but at least his idea of fun isn’t making me do butterfly slides on the ice.

This club looks like the Lucky Charms leprechaun fucked a unicorn and had a rainbow for a baby. It’s full of sweaty bodies grinding on each other.

Men on men.

Women with women.

People kissing people.

It’s a good time, but I’m done with the clubbing scene.

Three years ago, I would’ve been on the dance floor, chugging my eighth overpriced beer, but that was before my mother looked at me with that disappointed flash in her eyes after the Tenerife scandal resurfaced.

Now, I’m counting down the minutes until I can get home to my cat. Maybe I can bribe someone to turn down the thumping bass.

I should’ve brought earplugs.

“Wait, I do know you.” The woman’s green eyes scan my face, and her expression seems to spark to life as some light bulb goes off in her brain. “You’re Rhode… Rhode something. Rhode Tremblay! I don’t watch hockey, but you were in that underwear commercial, right? My MBA class did a case study on it because it generated millions in revenue. People went feral over your thigh tattoo. Don’t listen to what everyone says. I like the turtle. It’s artsy… and hot.”

“Everyone loves talking about that turtle on my thigh,” I mutter, sipping my beer that tastes like watered-down oats.

That would be the visual seared into the media. Rhode Tremblay: Nashville’s Naughtiest Bachelor. The poster boy of sex appeal carved out of muscle—their words, not mine.

Yeah, I look good naked thanks to the decades of soul-crushing workouts, but the main reason I agreed to do the campaign is because the company donated twenty percent of the profit to charity. But the journalist was more interested in discussing the abstract turtle on my thigh.

They all are.

The woman blinks like she’s confused or dreaming. “Rhode, right?”

“You asked me that already.”

“You’re so hot.”

I sip my beer, glancing around the bar for the nearest exit. “Thanks, you should see my personality.”

“No, but you’ve got those blue eyes and dark waves that always look so shiny.” She tramples right over what I thought was a solid comeback. “What conditioner do you use? I want it, and you even have that dimple right here.”

She pokes her finger above my cheek.

I lurch back, rubbing my jaw. I’m not spending another night making small talk with a stranger at a club, especially one who feels like she has a right to shove her tongue down my throat. I’m not a twenty-two-year-old guy who needs sex to function.

At least, not anymore. Those days are so far behind me that I’d need a telescope to see them.

I slap the bar counter. “Alright, I better head out. Got to get home to feed my cat. He’s a menace when he’s hungry.”

I love the little asshole. If it weren’t for him, I’d come home to an apartment emptier than my fridge.

“We could leave together if you want?” she slurs the innuendo. “Cats love me.”

“Mine would hate you, but he hates everyone, including me. Stay away from him in a thunderstorm. He’d scratch up your pretty dress.”

Her eyes spark. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think all women are beautiful.”

The light in her eyes dims, and a twinge of guilt nags at me, but if I wanted a one-night stand, I’d have one. My DMs are full of offers.

One woman sent me a two-paragraph message saying she was thinking about me while she had sex with her husband.

Reverse cowgirl. Not that I asked.

I hate knowing there’s someone out there imagining me while she has sex. That’s not an image I need in my head, and the last thing I want is to break up a marriage.

I’m not my father.

“Oh no.” The woman’s cheeks bulge like she’s about to gag.

My body goes rigid. “Oh. Shit.”

She begins a series of dry heaves that remind me of the time my cat puked up a hairball, but then she slaps a hand to her lips and bolts toward the bathroom. She drops her drink, splattering pink liquid all over my shirt.

Great, just the nightcap I need.

I’m tempted to go after her to make sure she’s okay, but she disappears into the hazy club.

I’m left standing in the aftermath, my button-down a sticky canvas of cherry sludge. Everyone scrambles to give me a wide berth.

Gritting my teeth, I wave down the bartender in the green cowboy hat. “Hey, man, can I pay my tab? Think I’m gonna head out now.”

The guy gives me a once-over, grimaces, and hands me a napkin. “On the house, my friend.”

He’s getting a big tip. I pick up the empty cocktail glass and hand it over. “Thanks, you might be my favorite person of the night.”

I dab my shirt while eyeing Cruz, sitting with the rest of our first line on a velvet couch that matches his blazer.

Micah Cruz looks like he just won the Stanley Cup with his arms dangling around two women, so I doubt he’ll miss me if I leave.

Patty fires off a text. I’d bet my entire collection of cross-stitches that our beauty of a winger’s checking on his seven-month-old daughter, Betty.

“The Golden Giant,” as the media calls Wyatt Patterson, can barely clock twenty minutes before texting his two moms for an update. He’s lucky he’s got live-in babysitters at his house.

I could barrel through the crowd to tell my teammates I’m going, but I smell like fermented candy, and my feet are sore as hell from these new Brioni loafers. I glance at my Rolex. 10:30 p.m.

If I leave now, I’ll have time for a bath to relax my muscles before our string of away games. I should use the chamomile soap tonight. No, spearmint.

After leaving a hundred-dollar tip for the bartender, I push through the smoky club, step into the cold January air, and order a ride in a white Audi e-tron GT.

It may be high maintenance, but I only get premium rides. I didn’t take a puck to the jaw, causing a laceration that required reconstructive surgery, only to share a pooled ride.

I send a message in our group chat, Puck Buddies.

A muscle twitches in my jaw. I like being called old man about as much as I like freezing my balls in an ice bath, but I’ll never admit it makes me feel ancient to a rookie like Cruz. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up, but my save percentage is still one of the best in the League.

Micah Cruz latched onto me when he signed with the Guardians, and our center annoys the living shit out of me, but he’s one talented player.

There’s a reason every announcer’s talking about him winning the Calder Memorial Trophy. He’s got everything it takes to be Rookie of the Year if he can rein in his attitude.

My phone vibrates with a notification that my driver’s approaching. I scan the neon-lit street but get distracted by the family eating at Taj Kitchen across the road.

The dad looks younger than me, and he’s feeding his son spoons of yellow curry in a highchair. The little boy claps his hands, squealing with each bite.

A corner of my mouth lifts as I watch the kid, but then the guy kisses his girl, and my lips fall back into a flat line.

That’s what I thought my life would look like at thirty-three, but instead, I’m going home alone, covered in someone’s nasty pink drink.

By the time the white Audi pulls up to the curb, my slacks are crusty, and I’m exhausted, irritated, and starving. I yank open the car door and sniff the fresh leather-scented air. Too bad I’m about to ruin the smell.

“Rhode?”

I stiffen at the woman’s voice. It’s smoother than these brown leather seats, nothing like the shrieks in the club. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“How’s your night been?” she throws out. The question hits the air with forced casualness like she’s checking a box.

I climb into the backseat and shut the door. “Not great. Some random woman just kissed me, almost puked, and then spilled her drink all over my shirt. So, sorry if I smell like ass. I’ll pay extra for cleaning if you need it.”

“Well, it could’ve been worse. At least she didn’t actually puke and then kiss you.” She pauses. “Unless she almost puked because you’re a terrible kisser. Then, the other way is worse.”

A laugh bursts through my lips. It’s my first one of the night. I glance at her from the backseat, and once I look up, I can’t turn away.

Holy fuck.

I would’ve shaved if I’d known this woman would be driving me around.

She’s got little tattoos all over her hands and neck. Her hair hangs down her overalls in curls, but I can’t tell whether it’s light brown or blonde in the dim light. Caramel, maybe?

Don’t know where the hell that thought came from.

There’s a piece caught in her small nose piercing, and I’m tempted to pull it out. I absorb every detail of her, from the line of earrings on the curve of her ear to the sunflower tattoo on her inner wrist, all the way up to the gold circular glasses covering the freckles on the bridge of her nose. She’s even got a four-leaf clover etched on her neck.

Maybe this is my lucky night.

The woman’s like one of those abstract paintings Cruz drunkenly bid on at a charity auction. There’s so much going on that I need to look closer to figure it out, but I’m intrigued.

Really intrigued.

On instinct, I check her left hand. No ring. What’s this woman doing driving Lyft? I’d never let my younger sister drive around with strangers at night. Hell, if I belonged to this woman, I’d use those overalls to clip her to the headboard.

She turns the volume knob, and some random flute album fills the car. Solid music taste. Her blue-green eyes meet mine in the rearview. “What are you looking at?”

I jerk, missing the click of my seatbelt. “Nothing. Sorry, so what’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart? Oh no, I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, turning on a street lined with brownstones. “I’m not normally this prickly with strangers, but I’ve been having a really shitty week ever since… Never mind. I’m not about to tell some random my life story, but I don’t want to talk to any more grumpy ass—men,” she corrects.

Alright, she’s a straight shooter. I like that. I deal with enough media bullshit that honesty is as rare as a Gordie Howe hat trick. “Grumpy ass-men? That’s a big assumption. What if I’m an eye-man? I was raised by a woman who taught me the only way to see a person’s soul is to look them in the eye.”

She scoffs. “Okay, fine. What color are my eyes?” She turns her head to the side. “Oh, and I already know yours are blue.”

I grin like a first-round draft pick. “Yeah? You noticed my eyes?”

“They’re very bright,” she says with no shame. I can’t tell if that’s a compliment. “Now, go. What color are they?”

“I didn’t get a good look because it’s dark, but I think they’re blue. Maybe green? They remind me of this mood ring my sister gave me. You’ve got the type of eyes a man needs to stare at a little longer to figure out the color, and I don’t mind staring.”

She rolls those stormy eyes of hers. “That’s such an ass-man response.”

I lean forward, getting a whiff of cinnamon and something delicate. It covers up my smell, so I breathe deeper. “Alright, what kind of woman are you?”

“An incredible one,” she deadpans.

I try not to grin, but her answer’s too good to resist. “There’s no doubt, but are you an ass-woman or an eye-woman? Or, hell, maybe a shoulder-woman? And don’t act like women don’t notice those things because I know they do.”

She slows to a stop light. “I’m a personality-woman.”

“Well played.” My smile widens. “What’s your name, personality-woman?”

She sighs like I asked her to drive me across the country. “Fine, don’t check the app. It’s Nina. Well, technically, it’s Philomena, thanks to my grandmother’s dying wish, but I go by Nina because there’s no way I’m going by Phil.”

“Nina…” I swirl the name like it’s a forty-year-old aged whiskey. “Nina, I like it. It fits you.”

“Good. I was really on the edge of my seat, wondering if a stranger would like my name.”

The corner of my mouth lifts higher. Her personality’s got a bite, and it has me wanting more of a taste. “Is this your main job, or do you do something else?”

“You first, ass-man.”

“I’m a plumber,” I lie. No one asks more questions about plumbers, and I talk about my hockey career enough in media interviews since it’s my contract year. The constant questions about my potential retirement are grueling.

She makes some noise in her throat, switching lanes under the flickering streetlights. “Right. If you’re a plumber, then I’m a neurosurgical resident.”

My brows fly to my hairline. I can’t tell if she’s lying, but my sister says I’m so trustworthy that I border on gullible. I’m less naive now since it’s not a good trait for someone in the spotlight, but I like to believe the best in people, even if it bites me in the ass.

When I started my rookie year, the veterans on the team convinced me everyone went commando for home games because it was good luck. I spent that first year in the League rubbing my bare ballsack against a jockstrap. My skin’s still a darker shade from all the chafing.

I narrow my eyes. “Oh, yeah? Prove it. Tell me a fact about the brain.”

“Women’s brains are seven-point-nine-two percent larger than men’s brains.”

There’s no chance in hell I’m arguing that, and the fact is specific enough that I believe her. “Alright, that’s impressive. How old are you? You must’ve been in school for a while.”

It’s awkward, but I always have to ask because I can never tell a woman’s age, and I refuse to date someone under thirty. People in their twenties are still searching for themselves, and I need a woman who’s already found herself. I don’t play games unless I’m on the ice. Not anymore.

“I’m in my residency, so I guess that makes me thirty.”

My shoulders loosen. She looks younger, but I’m not going to call her on it when I know nothing about the medical field. I called a stethoscope a telescope until I was twelve.

She flicks on her turn signal. “So, a plumber and a neurosurgeon get into a car. Sounds like the start of a terrible joke. What do you think the punchline is?”

“I’m pretty sure the neurosurgeon gives the plumber her number.”

She laughs. The raspy sound fills the entire car. I smirk. Damn, do I smirk big. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the—”

A gunshot cuts her off.

She screams, swerving the Audi.

My head slams into the window, and pain bursts through my temple.

Shit, that hurts.

I’m stunned for less than a second before my reflexes kick in, and I lurch for the wheel.

Decades of playing hockey taught me how to perform under an adrenaline rush. There’s no chance I’m letting a future doctor die tonight.

That’s not the punchline of our joke.