Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)
Chapter 4

One thing about me? I’m gonna serenade my cat every chance I get so he knows how much I love him.

“Silly kitty, chunky kitty, I kiss your tiny nose. Fluffy kitty, handsome kitty, I love your extra toes.”

Mittens meows, rolling onto his back when I reach the end of my song—his version of a standing ovation. I nuzzle my face into the soft white fur on his belly. He plops one orange paw on my nose, which roughly translates to I love you, Daddy. I guess he’s forgiven me for leaving him. It’s my first real day back to reality, so when I rolled out of bed earlier, still dreaming of the best sex I’ve ever had, I forgot to slap a hand over my junk.

I know what you’re thinking: Jaxon, why would you have to slap a hand over your junk?

Uh, because my cat likes to attack my balls like they’re his favorite dangly toys.

“I’m really worried about you, bud.”

The words startle me right off Mittens’s chaise lounge, where I’ve been sprawled beneath the sunrise seeping through the windows of my condo. I scramble to my feet as Garrett strolls through my door and into my kitchen. “Do you ever knock anymore?”

“Never,” he mumbles, pulling a granola bar from my pantry. He stuffs the entire thing in his mouth, watching me while he chews. His beanie—or toque, as he and Carter call it, ’cause Canadians are weird—is covered in a dusting of snowflakes, same as the shoulders of his blue Vancouver Vipers hoodie. “You singing to your cat again?”

“No.” I press a kiss to Mittens’s nose. “Love you, marshmallow.” I tug on a hoodie and beanie that match Garrett’s. “Why are you worried about me? And why are you eating my food?” I slap the bag of Sour Keys out of his hand before he can open them. First of all, they’re mine. Second, they’re gonna make him sick on the ice in an hour if he eats them now.

“’Cause you’re singing to your cat.”

“You sing to Jennie.” Caught him singing Justin Bieber in her ear just yesterday. When he saw me, he slowly backed away.

“Jennie’s my fiancée. I’ll do anything she wants me to do.” He steals a banana off my counter, peeling it as he follows me to the door, where I step into a pair of sneakers. “She hired an assistant manager for her dance studio. Want me to see if she’ll set you up?”

Heaving a sigh, I lock my door behind us before jamming the elevator button seventeen hundred times. “Why would I wanna be set up?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You seem⁠—”

“I’m not lonely.”

Garrett grins, extra fucking irritating. “Like you might be ready to meet someone, is what I was gonna say.”

“I don’t need to meet someone. I already have eight friends. I’m at capacity. In fact, I could probably do with ditching a few of you.” I step out of the elevator and follow Garrett to his car out front. “Plus, I know where to meet people if I wanna. But I don’t. I’m perfectly happy, just me and Mitts.”

“Uh huh.” He’s still grinning, and if it were a year ago when we didn’t like each other, I probably wouldn’t hesitate to wipe it off his face. But I guess now Garrett Andersen’s, like . . . one of my best friends, or whatever. “Well, forget I asked. Wouldn’t wanna mess with whatever you and Mitts got going on.”

What Mitts and I have going on is possibly the best arrangement ever. Adopting him from the shelter in September was my brightest idea yet, not just because he keeps me company while I drink my morning coffee, but because he hates everyone except my friends. When I bring a woman home, he’s sitting outside the bedroom door glaring at her after we’re done. When she inevitably reaches for him, because awww he’s so sweet, he hisses and swats at her. I apologize profusely for my poorly behaved cat as I walk my date to the elevator, and then Mittens drapes himself over my shoulders on the couch and bops the shit out of my jaw with his cute little head while we eat snacks and watch One Tree Hill reruns. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in crime.

I get it, though. Or at least I think I do. I’ve got eight friends, and they’re all married/dating/engaged to one another. I’m the only single one left, which means I’m always the odd man out. Truthfully, I’m used to being on my own. Before being traded to Vancouver just over a year ago, I played for Nashville. Before Nashville, it was Carolina, and before Carolina, it was Los Angeles. At twenty-seven years old, I’ve already played for four NHL teams. I’ve never been anywhere long enough to plant roots, or make the kind of friends I have in my teammates Garrett, Carter, Adam, and Emmett.

But those four have been playing together for years, built a bond you dream of when you think about a career as a professional hockey player, and I’m just the defenseman who stepped off the plane fourteen months ago after one too many fights that led to too much time off the ice. They took me in because they had to, and they do a damn good job of treating me like, for the time being, I’m really one of them.

When I inevitably get booted from Vancouver, though, they’ll forget about me, just like all my former teammates.

I settle into the passenger seat with a sigh. I’ve had a slow return to life after Cabo, and I can’t wait to get back on the ice this morning, back to the one thing I was born to do. Maybe the only thing I’m good at.

Garrett fiddles with one of the Starbucks cups in his console, reading the label before he passes it to me. “Here.”

I blink at the drink warming my hand. “You got me a coffee?”

“Caramel brulée latte.”

Something thick settles in my throat.

“Isn’t that what you like?”

I clear my throat, nod, and let the drink warm my belly. Instead of asking him why he thought to get me my favorite winter drink on the way to pick me up, I just say, “Thanks.”

By the time we’re in our gear at the arena, I’ve managed to bury my useless thoughts and simply enjoy the way the cool air nips at my cheeks as I whip around the ice for the first time in ten days. I’ve missed this. Missed the way my legs move without thought, gliding quickly down the ice, hands moving effortlessly as I cradle a puck back and forth on the blade of my stick. Out here, on a pair of skates and with a stick in my hands, is maybe the only place I really feel at home.

I pull my stick back, shift my weight to my left foot, and send the puck flying toward Adam.

And like he does 99 percent of the time, he stops the puck from soaring past him and into his net. His legs split as he dives to his right, and his catcher comes up, scooping the puck out of the air. He grins at me as I skid to a stop in front of him.

“When you gonna let me score?”

“The only person I let score is Rosie.” He shifts his mask on top of his head to squirt water into his mouth. “I always know exactly where you’re aiming. You look there right before you let the puck fly.”

“Fuck. I have a tell?”

“You got a fucking tell, bud.”

A body connects with mine from behind, shoving me into Adam. Carter Beckett, our captain, spins with flourish, and for the hundredth time I wonder if he was really meant to be a figure skater, not the leading goal-scorer in the NHL. “You guys hear about Tim?”

“Tim?” I scan the arena seats for our team photographer. “Where is he?”

“Gone. He quit, right after our last game.”

“What? Why?”

Emmett Brodie, our left winger, stops beside us. “Cara says he was having an affair with one of the stewardesses. His wife chased him out of town.”

“What? No way.” Garrett joins us, grabbing Adam’s water bottle, coating his sweat-soaked face. “His wife’s mom was sick. Jennie said they probably moved back home to help take care of her.”

Carter inches closer, voice dropping. “What if, this entire time, he’s been here undercover to run an exposé on us?”

We go quiet, staring at Carter. Slowly, his eyebrows hike higher and higher, his grin growing like he thinks he’s really nailed it, and he’s so impressed with himself.

Adam shakes his head, puts his gloves back on, and turns away. “Yeah, no.”

“Absolutely not,” Emmett agrees.

“What is with you and all your conspiracy theories?” I ask.

“And why do they all revolve around someone being obsessed with us?” Garrett adds.

Carter’s face falls, reminiscent of a six-year-old who’s just found out Santa isn’t real. He aimlessly handles a puck on the tip of his stick. “Well, excuse me for having a creative imagination.”

I snort a laugh, skating off with a shake of my head when my defense coach calls for the defensemen to join him at the other end of the ice. A flash of light catches my attention, and I look up, replaceing the backside of a woman with a beanie shoved over her head as she crouches on the stairs and aims an oversized camera up them. I can’t imagine what makes dirty concrete stairs and shitty red vinyl seats photographable, but I don’t really have an eye for art. If this is the team’s new photographer, I’m not sure she does either.

By the time practice is done, I’m ready for a nap. I keep my head down as we stomp through the tunnel, heading back to our dressing room while a camera clicks and flashes. I hate having my picture taken. Everyone always comments on how I’m never smiling. Our team’s Instagram comment section is always at least 30 percent filled with remarks about how I don’t look as friendly or as happy as my friends, another reminder that I don’t fit with them.

“Dude.” Charlie McCarthy, my D partner, elbows my side. “You see her?”

“Her who?”

He tips his head behind us. “The new photographer. She’s hot as balls.”

“Not interested,” I mumble, pulling off my helmet and sinking to the bench at my cubby. I like to fuck around, sure, but with someone involved with the team? Doesn’t seem like the brightest idea, no matter how hot she is.

“Suit yourself.” Charlie shrugs. “Maybe I’ll shoot my shot.”

“Go for it, bud.”

By the time I’m showered and back in my sweats, I’m fucking starving. We’ve got a team meeting, and the breakfast buffet is the only reason we race there. A full belly always makes for a banging midday nap cuddled up on the couch with Mitts.

“Fuck yeah,” Carter mutters, shouldering me out of the way to hit the spread at the back of the conference room. “Come to Daddy.”

“Hey.” I tug the paper plate from his hand, shoving him down the table. “No butting. And stop calling yourself Daddy in every scenario that presents itself.”

“I cannot simply stop calling myself Daddy. Not when the opportunity arises. Plus”—he grabs two giant blueberry muffins, shoving half of one in his mouth—“I’m wike da team daddy, wight?”

It’s best not to entertain him in these types of scenarios, so I don’t.

“Technically . . .” Axel Larsen, the Vipers’ general manager, pokes his head over our shoulders. “I’m the team daddy.” He winks at Carter. “Maybe I’ll be your daddy, Beckett.”

Carter gasps, shoving a finger in Axel’s shoulder. “Holly Beckett is so far out of your league, she’s in outer space.”

I roll my eyes, filling my plate and replaceing a seat near the back of the room. The boys collapse beside me a minute later, plates full, talking about how they spent their week off.

Carter and his wife, Olivia, took their daughter, Ireland, to Disneyland. Adam and Rosie took their kid, Connor, to Colorado to visit Adam’s parents, and then spent the rest of the week making up one of their spare bedrooms for Lily, a little girl they’re hoping to foster as soon as they’ve finished their training. Emmett and his wife, Cara, spent the week⁠—

“—fucking like animals. Literally everywhere. Kitchen counter, bathroom counter, dining room table, living room couch, basement couch, the chaise lounge in the bedroom, you name it. If it supports my weight, I fucked her on it.”

“That’s how I should’ve spent my week,” I grumble, shoving a gooey pastry topped with cinnamon sugar into my mouth. That was my plan when I originally invited Brenda, but by the time we stepped off the plane in Cabo I already couldn’t stand her. It was still my plan three days later when I found God inside Lennon’s pussy, but then she took off on me. Easiest one-night stand of my life, but I would’ve preferred to spend the rest of my week fucking the attitude out of her before never seeing her again.

“I see you’re still bitter about being ditched by two girls on your vacation,” Garrett says.

“I don’t care about Brenda.”

“Brielle,” Adam corrects. “Or was it Breanne?” He frowns. “Breanna? I feel like you’ve called her a million different names that all start with B.”

I wave him off. “Dunno, can’t remember. But the girl next door⁠—”

“The one who was supposed to be on her honeymoon,” Carter confirms, nodding.

“Yeah, her. She was⁠—”

“The reason Breanna left?” Emmett asks.

“No. Well, yeah, kinda. ’Cause I was checking her out, and Breanna got pissed ’cause I wasn’t giving her enough attention.”

“What was her name again?” Adam asks.

Garrett snickers. “He probably doesn’t remember.”

“Actually, I do. Her name was⁠—”

“Is there something you’d like to share with the class, gentlemen?” Coach’s voice cuts through the room, and the sharp look in his eyes silences us immediately. “Christ, the number of times I wonder if I’m coaching men’s professional hockey or teaching kindergarten is astounding.”

“Sorry, Coach,” the five of us mumble, picking quietly at our food.

“All right, let’s get on with this. I know you’re all probably ready for a nap, and I want everyone fresh for our game tomorrow, so I won’t keep you long.” Coach sighs, sifting through the papers spread out on the table in front of him, his other hand buried in his hair. “Oh, right. If you haven’t heard by now, Tim’s no longer with us.”

The five of us perk up, leaning toward Coach. Carter’s particularly eager, and Garrett’s hand is already outstretched over Carter’s lap, waiting.

“His mother-in-law isn’t doing well, so he and his wife moved back home to help out.”

“Aw, fuck,” Carter groans beneath his breath.

“Fuck yeah,” Garrett mutters, curling his fingers into his palm. “Pay up.”

Carter slaps a handful of bills into Garrett’s hand before crossing his arms over his chest, glaring at the front of the room.

“We’re really excited about the new addition to our Vipers crew, though. She’s got a great eye, and promises to get our social media buzzing.” Chatter trickles in from the hallway, and Coach peeks out the door. “Ah, here she is now.”

I swear I’ve heard this voice before, the one growing closer. It itches my brain in a funny way, and I slip my fingers beneath my beanie, scratching my head as I try to place it.

She laughs, a carefree giggle that has my mind flashing back to a humid night with too many drinks, trading truths for insults, sweat-soaked bodies, tequila kisses, and trying to outfuck a dragon dildo.

“Boys, please give a warm welcome to our new photographer and social media content manager: Miss Hayes.”

She steps into the room, and my world spins to a stop. My pastry might make a reappearance, along with my caramel brulée latte.

“Hey, guys,” she says with a wave and a wide smile. “Super stoked to be jumping on board. Thanks for having . . . having . . .” Dark amber eyes lock on mine, widening, and a deep flush works its way into those sharp copper cheekbones. She’s ditched the beanie she was wearing in the rink while she was hiding behind her camera, and now all I can see is her hair, the chestnut curls I had fisted in my hands while I pounded into her, fucked her the way a bride deserves to be fucked on her honeymoon. She swallows then, finally tacking on that last word she’s been searching for. “Me.”

“Lennon,” I whisper, the contents of my plate falling to my feet.

Adam snaps his fingers. “Lennon! Yeah! That was the name of the girl you . . .” His smile falls. “You . . .” From the corner of my eye, I catch the way his head whips back and forth, between me and the woman at the front of the room as we watch each other. He swallows. “Oh. Oh no.”

Oh no is right.

Somewhere, I’m conscious of Carter short-circuiting over my food scattered on the ground, the fact that I haven’t swooped down to save it yet.

But I can’t take my eyes off the woman who rode my cock like a queen a week ago, made me beg before she snuck out on me. And right now, she looks like she’s come face-to-face with the ghost of her worst mistake.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, covering her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Adam’s eyes stay straight ahead, head bobbing as Lennon flees the room. “So that was the girl you met in Cabo.”

“Correction,” Garrett mumbles around a doughnut. “That was the girl he fucked in Cabo.”

Emmett’s typing out a message on his phone. “Cara’s gonna eat this the fuck up.”

“Unbelievable,” Carter mutters, stooping down to swipe my food off the ground. He aggressively shoves it back on the plate, shooting his disappointment at me through narrowed eyes. “We do not waste baked goods, Riley.”

He sinks down to his seat, slipping mini doughnuts on each of his fingers like rings. “Anyway. What did I miss?”