“No fucking way.”
I sit up, my blanket pooling around my waist as I stare down at my phone in disbelief.
I click on the image to bring up the profile. I read the bio, laughing at the obvious Halloween reference. There are only three images, but I’d know that flirty smile anywhere.
“Harper.”
I say her name out loud for the first time since I watched her drive away, and it doesn’t escape me how much I like saying it.
For the first time since Rhodes convinced me to sign up for this stupid app, I’m actually excited.
All of my time over the last two weeks has been spent on the ice training and playing exhibition games, so I haven’t had a chance to do much other than scroll a bit. I’ve seen at least four profiles with the same images, one who only had pictures of her feet, and another for a woman who looked old enough to be my mother.
That was enough to keep me away for a while.
But with the regular season starting soon, I need to get my shit together and fast.
So finding Harper? The girl I haven’t been able to forget? Yeah, it lights a fucking spark.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit MATCH, then go back to her profile, looking through the few photos again.
The first one is of her and a friend. They have their arms around one another and are smiling at the camera. It looks like they’re at some sort of dressy function. Her friend is blonde and definitely hot, but that’s not where my focus is. It’s on the floor-length navy-blue dress that seems to fit Harper like it was made for her, showing off her curves and her tits that I know were definitely hiding on our car ride because I’d remember them otherwise. Her hair is curlier than when I met her and she’s wearing a lot more makeup, but she still looks beautiful.
The second is closer to the Harper I met. She’s wearing a worn Fleetwood Mac shirt that looks legit vintage, not one she just picked up at the store, and a pair of cutoff shorts similar to the ones she wore before. Those same glittery Converse are on her feet.
The third is one of her at a Halloween party. She’s dressed up as a dead camper from Camp Crystal Lake, and it makes me laugh because it just seems so…her.
A notification fills my screen.
YOU HAVE BEEN MATCHED!
It goes through several screens of rules for the app—like how we can report users for being inappropriate and unmatch at any time—before I’m finally able to send something.
I type out a few messages.
Hey. It’s Collin. You know, that guy you almost hit with your car.
Straight to the point.
I know what you did this summer.
Hmm. It works with her whole horror theme, but it’s also creepy as shit.
SHOW ME THEM TITTIES
I erase that last one immediately, then glare at my dick because I know it’s him talking. Take it down a notch, bud.
The truth is, I don’t know how to start this conversation with her. Which sucks because talking to her before came so easy.
Now, I don’t know what to say.
I could tell her it’s me, but that’s going to go one of two ways.
1. She’ll laugh at the weird coincidence and we’ll jump back into our banter.
2. She’s going to think I’m a total weirdo and that I stalked her online.
I’d really hope it’s the first one, but I also don’t want to take my chances.
Before I can send anything, a message from her pops up.
HorrorHarper: I’m a big fan of honesty, so here goes: I only clicked MATCH because of your taste in movies. I’m not a sports person at all. *waits to be unmatched*
I’m a big fan of honesty.
Fuck.
I can’t tell her it’s me.
I never told her I played hockey. If I tell her it’s me, she’s going to ask me about my handle. Then she’s going to realize I didn’t tell her the whole truth about me and she’ll no doubt be pissed.
I should unmatch us. Should forget about her. Just move on.
My finger hovers over the UNMATCH button.
One second ticks by.
Then another.
Five more.
I can’t do it.
Because I can’t not talk to her.
Spending those few hours in the car with her were some of the best moments I’ve had in a long time.
I want to feel that again.
HockeyGuy69: You don’t know what you’re missing, then. Hockey is life.
HorrorHarper: A bunch of grown men ramming into each other while they chase down a slice of plastic? No, thanks.
HockeyGuy69: It’s rubber, not plastic.
HockeyGuy69: And it sounds very sexual when you use the word “ramming.” They’re called hits for a reason, you know.
HorrorHarper: I’m not sure you can complain about sexual innuendos with the number 69 in your handle.
I feel a little immature having picked that number, but I never thought I’d find anyone that interesting on this app.
HockeyGuy69: I actually meant to type in 96, but I guess we’ll call it a happy accident. Bob Ross would be proud.
HorrorHarper: Please do not tell me you actually think 69-ing is fun. It’s…so much work. Completely overrated. You have to worry about not suffocating a guy AND doing your part. It’s not fun at all.
HockeyGuy69: If the man you’re 69-ing with doesn’t want to be suffocated, you’re with the wrong man.
HorrorHarper: That is…noted.
I laugh.
Yeah, this is definitely Harper.
HorrorHarper: So, Hockey Guy, got a name?
Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
I somehow wasn’t prepared for that question at all.
What the fuck do I tell her?
HockeyGuy69: I do.
HorrorHarper: Well? You already know mine. Fair is fair.
HockeyGuy69: Wright.
HorrorHarper: Your name is Wright?
HockeyGuy69: Yep.
It’s not a complete lie.
It’s my last name.
And it’s a test.
With my handle being hockey-related and my obvious reference to my jersey number, if she really isn’t a hockey fan, she’ll have no clue it’s me.
This will also mean she wasn’t lying the night I met her—she really didn’t know me.
I swallow down the bile that rises in my throat.
She’s not the liar. I am.
HorrorHarper: That’s…different. I like it.
HockeyGuy69: Thanks, but I can’t take any credit for it.
HockeyGuy69: What’s your favorite scary movie?
HorrorHarper: No. Please. Stop. The originality is killing me.
HorrorHarper: Also, it’s Halloween. I know, I know—not the most original answer. But it’s a classic and it breathed life into the horror genre.
I knew that. At least Collin knew that.
But Wright didn’t.
HockeyGuy69: Eh. Freddy’s better.
HorrorHarper: You know, I had someone tell me that same thing recently.
Oh shit.
HorrorHarper: He was wrong too.
HockeyGuy69: *right
HockeyGuy69: So, Harper, tell me about yourself.
HorrorHarper: Well, I like long walks alone in the woods, enjoy taking showers when there’s a killer on the loose, and never, ever turn down the chance to yell, “Who’s there?” when I hear a strange noise in my apartment, even though I live alone.
I laugh. Smartass.
HockeyGuy69: That actually made me laugh out loud.
HorrorHarper: Thank you. I’ll be here all night.
HorrorHarper: Wait—that sounded way too desperate, like I’ll be sleeping with my phone next to me all night.
HorrorHarper: I mean, I WILL be sleeping with my phone next to me. It’s also my alarm clock because who actually owns an alarm clock anymore? I’m not a psychologist, but I feel like that’s a red flag of some sort.
HorrorHarper: I’m going to just stop talking now.
HockeyGuy69: What if I told you I have an alarm clock?
HorrorHarper: OH GOD. *dies of embarrassment*
HockeyGuy69: I’m kidding. It’s definitely a red flag.
HorrorHarper: *wipes brow* Phew!
HorrorHarper: I really was kidding about being here all night though. I was just crawling into bed when I got the match notification. I should probably try to get some sleep.
HockeyGuy69: You’re…in bed?
HorrorHarper: I am NOT sending you pictures of me in bed.
HockeyGuy69: I didn’t ask for any.
HorrorHarper: Is this some sort of reverse psychology thing where you think that just because you’re all “gentlemanly” I’ll be like, “Poor dude, here’s a tit pic”?
HockeyGuy69: Are you offering a tit pic?
HorrorHarper: What?! NO!
HorrorHarper: Oh god. This is going awful.
HorrorHarper: Please feel free to unmatch me at any time now.
HockeyGuy69: Nah. I don’t scare that easily.
HorrorHarper: Is that a red flag?
HockeyGuy69: You’re the psychologist. You tell me.
HorrorHarper: I said I WASN’T one. I’m an artist.
HockeyGuy69: Artist? What kind?
HorrorHarper: Nope, sorry, Hockey Guy. I’m tired. You’ll get answers tomorrow.
HockeyGuy69: Does this mean I get to talk to you again?
HorrorHarper: That’s up to you.
HorrorHarper: Good night, Wright.
HockeyGuy69: Night, Harper.
I was destined to love hockey since the day I was born and came home from the hospital wrapped in my father’s old St. Louis Blues t-shirt.
Once, when I was four, I slipped away from my parents to go to the frozen pond out on our property and glided around for the ten minutes it took them to find me.
I got my butt whooped, but my parents could see it that day too—the ice is where I belong.
So, they bought me skates and signed me up for everything I was old enough for. I was a natural. Born to be out here. Hockey became second nature to me.
The ice? It’s my home. It’s where I feel most comfortable. Where I find my peace.
So the fact that I’m playing like shit right now? It fucking blows.
“Come on, Wright. Get it together, man. Tape to fucking tape, not tape to the Indian Ocean.”
I grimace at Coach’s words. He’s been on my ass every day and has every right to be. If it’s not Rhodes out on the ice to catch my puck, it’s not going to hit the tape.
It’s official: I’m off my game, and everyone knows it.
Maybe Rhodes was onto something about the stress after all. Maybe I do need to find a way to unwind, to get my mind off last season.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I couldn’t sleep last night because I couldn’t stop thinking about Harper.
I can’t believe I found her.
Well, I didn’t find her.
I stumbled upon her. On a dating app.
The girl I haven’t been able to get out of my head has fallen back into my lap just as randomly as she did the first time.
A big, six-foot-four frame skids to a stop in front of me. “Get your head in the game. We can’t have you blowing our chance at the Cup again.”
Colter came to the team last year when we were primed to win the Cup. I think he’s the saltiest of them all that I let the team down.
I grit my teeth.
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t fucking react.
“Hey, Colter, get anyone else pregnant this weekend?” Rhodes bumps into the giant hard enough to knock him off-balance. “What? Your mama not teach you to wrap your willy, silly?”
Colter glares at him, and I don’t bother to try to hide my smirk.
It really shouldn’t be funny that Rhodes, who is wider than me and has a good inch or two on my frame, is calling a grown-ass man silly, but it is.
And it pisses Colter right off.
He glares at Rhodes and gets up in his face. The two stare each other down.
“Just a friendly reminder,” Rhodes says, “these hands are rated E for everyone. I don’t give a shit if you’re my teammate or not.”
I should get in the way, try to pull them apart, but a sick part of me would love to watch Rhodes take Colter down a few notches. He’s a big fucker, but Rhodes is the kind of guy you don’t want to drop the gloves with. He might be the laid-back quiet one most of the time, but when you set him off, he’s really off.
“Something wrong, boys?” Lowell stops in front of us, eyes bouncing between the three of us.
After several beats, Colter drops back, sneering over at Rhodes. “It’s nothing, Cap.”
“Good,” Lowell says, ignoring the dig, probably used to it. “Let’s get back to it, then.”
Lowell waits for Colter to skate away before turning to face Rhodes and me.
“Does it make me a bad captain to say I fucking hate that kid?”
Rhodes grins. “No. Guy’s a fucking cock.”
“A cock?”
“Yeah,” Rhodes calls over his shoulder as he skates away. “Ugly and weak.”
Lowell shakes his head, watching as Rhodes intentionally skates up to Colter and steals his puck, taunting him.
“I swear, sometimes it feels like I’m trying to corral children.”
“You’re like two years older than us.”
“I stand by what I said.”
I don’t challenge him. I’m sure it does feel like that sometimes, especially with some of these fools.
He steps closer, crossing his arms. “I say this with all the respect in the world: you’re off your shit.”
I sigh. “Fuck, you think I don’t know that, man?”
“It’s a contract year, yeah?”
I grit my teeth again, not needing that little reminder too, and give him a single nod.
He looks out at our teammates as they skate effortlessly across the ice. “I’m pushing for you with the team and with Coach for as long as I can, but…”
He trails off, and I know where he’s going.
I need to get my shit together.
And fast.
“All right. Just wanted you to know I’m here.”
“Thanks, Lowell,” I say quietly.
He nods once, then skates away.
We wrap up practice, and instead of heading home, I hit the gym, trying to work out my frustrations.
Rhodes comes strolling in, picking up a few dumbbells at the station beside me.
I’m on a bench doing overhead presses. He’s doing some goblet squats.
“Saw you talking to Lowell.” Rhodes finally breaks the silence we’ve been working in.
“Yeah.” I do another rep.
“You good?”
“As I can be.”
Another rep.
“You know, I really think you need to—”
“Relax. I know.” I drop my weights with a thud and sit up, resting my arms on my thighs. “I downloaded that app.”
“Yeah?” He stops doing squats and looks at me with wide eyes. “Meet anyone yet?”
I give him a noncommittal shrug because I haven’t told Rhodes about Harper yet. I don’t know why. Maybe because the story just sounds too fucking crazy to believe? Maybe I want to keep her to myself for a little longer? I don’t know.
“I heard Miller and Lowell talking about hitting up Slapshots tonight. We could”—his lips curl—“tag along.”
I laugh. He can barely get the words out. Rhodes is as much of a homebody as I am.
“I appreciate the willingness to sacrifice a night in, but you don’t need to play my wingman.”
“Thank fuck,” he mutters. “I hate going out.”
“And that’s why we get along so well.”
He grunts and returns his weights to the rack. “Wanna come over and watch some tapes tonight?”
No. I want to stay home and message Harper.
“Probably should,” I say instead. “But I think I’m gonna just try to get some rest.”
“You should take a bath.”
I don’t even pretend to not be shocked by his words. “You take baths? Like candles, bubbles, the whole thing?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Get the right music going and it’s relaxing as fuck.”
“I’ll, uh, take that into consideration.”
“Hey, don’t knock that shit until you try it. Besides, it’s for the team, right?”
He lifts a brow, and I know what he’s getting at.
You’re on thin ice.
I try to push everything out of my mind the rest of my workout, but all my fuckups are hovering at the periphery, just vying for attention.
After an intense forty-five minutes, I bid goodbye to Rhodes and hit the showers.
Coach stops me as I’m heading to my car. He doesn’t even have to say anything to me. The disappointment is clear in his eyes.
The fucked-up thing is, I’d rather have my parents disappointed in me than my coach.
“Maybe go out with a few of the guys, huh? Do some bonding outside the rink.”
It’s not a suggestion. Not really.
“Yes, sir.”
He eyes me, maybe looking for an answer to my problem.
But first, he’d have to narrow it down.
Is it the Game Six loss that’s throwing me off? Definitely has something to do with it. The arrest and digging into my past and all the attention that’s sucked up my energy? Yeah, because that shit blows too. The rest of my team looking at me like I’m to blame for all their problems? Yep, that’s a big fucking issue.
“You’ll get the groove back, kid. Just need a little time.”
But I hear it…that worry lacing his voice.
And I worry too.
Coach gives me a tightlipped smile, then claps me on the back, dismissing me.
I don’t breathe again until I’m tucked safely in my car.
Instead of heading home right away, I grab lunch and head to a local park, hoping the outdoors might help clear my head a bit.
After a few hours of walking and people-watching, I stop by the garage that’s fixing my Land Cruiser that finally made it here just to check on things, then I make my way home.
“Hey, Beau,” I say to my seventy-something-year-old doorman when I walk into my building.
“Mr. Wright! Good evening, sir. Have a good practice today?”
I want to tell him not to call me sir, but I know it’s no use. In the four years I’ve lived here, he’s never listened to me before, and I know he’s not about to start now.
“It was all right. How was your day? Meghan still giving you trouble?”
His eyes light up at the mention of his wife, who he’s been with for fifty years now.
“Always, but she’s my favorite kind of trouble, sir.”
It’s the same reply he always gives me, and just like always, it makes me grin.
If there’s someone out there who doesn’t believe in love, I’d say give them five minutes with Beau and they’ll change their minds.
“Got you something.” I reach into the paper sack I have in my hand, then give him one of the Oatmeal Creme Pies I picked up at the store down the block.
His eyes get just as excited as they did when I mentioned his wife. After a scare last year, Meghan took to making sure Beau only eats healthy foods. Gone are the snack cakes and cookies he used to bring in to work. It’s all chicken and rice, something he’s complained about frequently.
I’ve been sneaking him some goodies whenever I remember. Not often, but enough to keep him smiling.
“Just between us,” I say on a wink.
“Thank you.” He looks at the snack like it’s his last meal. “Are you in for the night, sir?”
“I am.”
“Would you like me to call the elevator for you?”
“Nah. I got it.” I pat his shoulder. “Have a good night, Beau.”
“Good night, sir. And thank you again.”
I smile at him, then take the elevator up to the twentieth floor.
I kick off my shoes and pop open a beer as soon as I walk inside. I leave the bag on the counter and put the beers into the fridge before flopping down on the couch and turning on the TV.
A mistake.
A big mistake.
My mugshot fills the screen on SportsCenter.
“So, Jonesy, what do you think? Do you think Collin Wright is going to get a hat trick in handcuffs this year?”
The screen pans over to the cohost, and I hit the power button as soon as he opens his mouth.
Great. The season hasn’t even officially started and I’m already being harassed.
I blow out a breath and down the rest of my beer, all the frustration that was just beginning to leave my body hitting me full force again.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, pushing off of the couch.
I drop my empty bottle into the recycling, grab the grocery bag and another beer, and head to the bathroom.
I set my beer down on the counter, then empty my pockets. I turn the water on and let it begin filling up the tub I’ve literally never used in my four years living here.
The real estate agent was super excited about it when I moved in, telling me I could use it to recuperate after games, but I’ve never bothered. The only kind of bath I’ve ever taken is an ice bath, and I do those at the rink.
While the tub fills, I grab the bottle of bubbles and Epsom salt I got from the store and dump a healthy amount of both in. I pull out the single wick lavender candle I bought and give it a light with the matches I picked up, then set it on the ledge of the tub.
When the tub is nice and full and the water is steaming, I strip, grab my beer and Oatmeal Creme Pie—totally fine to eat in the tub, right?—and climb in.
It’s a little warm but not so unbearable I can’t get used to it.
I set my phone to some classical music playlist and lean back, closing my eyes.
Just relax, Collin. Let it all go. You’re healthy, you’re still young. You have a fuckton of playing years left. Get out of your head and chill.
I try to conjure up the last time I felt relaxed, and the only thing that comes to mind is my car ride with Harper.
The way she made me laugh and kept my chicken nuggets sauced. The way she wasn’t afraid to joke around and be playful. Hell, even when she fell asleep next to me and left me alone with my thoughts, I still felt at ease.
I need that feeling back.
I reach for my phone and pull up BeeMine, clicking back to our messages from last night. I read them over, smiling at her smartassery.
She said it was up to me if we talked again.
And I really want to talk again.
