It’s Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, and I’m sitting in the Filthy Flamingo with Owens, Volkov, and a few other guys when my phone buzzes with a photo from Hazel.
She’s in the bathtub, covered in bubbles, face flushed with heat and eyes filled with mischief. My fire-breathing dragon.
Thinking about me? I text. My knee bounces as I grin at my phone.
Maybe.
That’s it, I respond. I’m coming straight home.
Don’t you dare. Stay out with the guys and have some fun for once.
For once. It’s laughable. Every moment I’m with Hazel feels like fun.
“Thanks for bringing me to that pickup game,” Owens says. The other players—both professional and pickup league—are debating whether the Storm will make it to the playoffs this season. “Streicher couldn’t make it?”
I shake my head. “Their flight just got in. He said he’d meet us for a drink, though.”
Owens fit right in with the guys on the pickup league, but that’s no surprise. Hayden Owens could be abducted by bloodthirsty aliens, and within an hour, he would have everyone laughing and hanging out and having a great time. The second he stepped on the ice tonight, he understood the team dynamic and played accordingly. Guys passed to him but he didn’t take any shots for himself. To make it more fair on the pickup guys, they made us professional guys play one-handed and in different positions. Volkov made for a terrible goalie, letting shot after shot slip past him while the rest of us howled with laughter, but on offense, Owens was a natural.
My eyes narrow, thinking about a Storm game last week. “You’ve got a hell of a wrist-shot for a D-man,” I tell him.
He shrugs, looking around the bar. “Yeah, well, it was just for fun.”
“It’s a good thing.” Games move so fast, and players need to be ready for anything. “You’re a well-rounded player and an important part of the team.”
Wow. I feel like Ward, saying that. A spark of pride ignites in my chest, rippling through me.
He gives me a close-lipped smile, ducking his head like he’s pleased. “Thanks, Captain.” He clears his throat. “Everything go okay with the stuff I dropped off?”
“Yeah.” I grin, thinking about the gifts Hazel got me. “Thanks for doing that for her. I appreciate it.”
He waves me off. “I owe her for putting up with my lazy ass during physio.” He lifts an eyebrow, teasing me. “She staying at your place tonight?”
I think about Hazel smiling at me from the stands while we played the pickup game tonight, and then the photo she sent me a few minutes ago of her in the bathtub. In a few short days, it’s begun to feel like our place.
My thoughts flip to last night, sinking into her, and how fucking right it felt. And again this morning. The way she moans my name. The way she looks waking up in my bed, tucked against my chest.
Owens crows at whatever my expression is, and a few of the players glance over. “So that’s a yes,” he says, grinning over the rim of his glass.
“She stayed with me the entire break. I’m not going to let her stay alone at her place with a sprained ankle.”
Owens watches me with an expression I can’t name. “Hazel’s the best,” he finally says.
My heart beats harder. “I know.”
“And she deserves the best.”
My gaze turns sharp, and I picture the face my mom made when her friend said I looked like my dad. “I know.”
Owens just gives me that kind, open smile. “So it’s a good thing she has you, buddy.”
He gives me a playful shove. Something in my chest eases.
“You stayed here for the holidays?”
“Yep. Kit’s parents moved to Toronto to be closer to his sister, so I mostly hung out with Darcy.”
Right. Kit’s girlfriend. The one he’s always looking at. My eyes narrow, and guilt flashes in his gaze.
“Nothing’s going on,” he says quickly, clearing his throat and looking away. “I don’t mess around with girls who are taken.” Around his beer glass, his knuckles are white.
“And Darcy’s taken.”
“Yep.”
“You guys went to university together, right?”
He nods. “Kit and I were friends in high school and we met Darcy in our first year. We all lived in the same dorm and Darcy and I had a bunch of classes together.”
“Isn’t she an actuary?” That’s what Hazel mentioned the other day. “Why would you be in math classes?”
“She was in my English classes.”
I sit back and fold my arms over my chest. “You like her.”
“We’re friends.” His mouth tightens. “Best friends. And now Kit’s making comments about them getting married.” He downs the rest of his beer. “I don’t want to make things weird with her.” His throat works. “And I’d never do that to Kit,” he says, like that’s the end of it. His expression turns wry. “Maybe I’ll do what you did and find a girl to play my fake girlfriend to make her jealous.”
I nearly choke on my beer, coughing.
“Come on.” He shoots me a grin. “Hazel fucking hated you, and then McKinnon shows up and you’re together? You don’t have to be a genius to figure that one out.”
I start laughing. “Does everyone know?”
He shakes his head, still grinning. “Nah. I didn’t say anything.” Jordan drops off another beer and he thanks her.
“You’re a good guy, Owens.”
“And you’re a good captain.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Cheers, asshole.”
I finish my beer, and because it’s still the break, I catch Jordan’s eye, silently requesting another.
It’s the holiday, and I’m having fun with my friend. Hazel would say I deserve good things in my life.
“The question is,” Owens says with another playful grin, “does Hazel know it’s not fake?’
My smile stretches from ear to ear as I think about her whispering say it again. “Yep. Told her last night.” Excitement races through me. I can’t wait to get home to her.
“Ah, shit.” Owens stands and moves to my side of the booth, engulfing me in a back-slapping bear hug while I laugh. “Happy for you, man.”
Streicher walks in the door and waves hello to Jordan before making his way over to us.
“Hey,” Owens calls, lifting his glass as Streicher slides into the booth. “There he is. Get a drink. We’re celebrating.”
After saying goodnight to Jordan, we pour out of the bar and into the cold, crisp night.
My head’s spinning, so I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. “You guys. The air smells so good.”
I think about waking up this morning with my face buried in Hazel’s neck, inhaling her.
My Hazel.
I grab the front of Streicher’s jacket as we walk. “Hazel smells incredible. Does Pippa smell good? Why do girls smell so good?”
He shakes his head at me, smiling, and behind him, Owens and Volkov laugh.
“You’re drunk,” Streicher says.
“I’m drunk,” I admit to them. “I haven’t been drunk in years.”