He’s Not My Type
: Prologue

Over a year ago . . .

“Are those new loafers?” Posey asks as we make our way down the hallway of the Agitators arena toward our locker room.

I glance down at my probably year-old shoes, then back up at him. “No.”

“Huh.” He takes another sip of his Gatorade. “They look new.”

Levi Posey, one of my best friends and teammates. The self-appointed bruiser on the team acts like a devil in skates, but off the ice, he’s a cinnamon roll—all ooey and gooey on the inside. He has made it quite clear his first love is bologna, and his second love is hockey.

And he can be the most annoyingly invasive human being you’ll ever meet.

“Are you sure?” Posey puts the cap on his Gatorade. “They’re very shiny.”

“Positive,” I answer.

“Do you not wear them often?”

Jesus Christ, what is happening?

“Dude,” I say, stopping in the hallway. “What’s with the shoe talk?”

Posey stops as well and shrugs. “Just trying to make conversation with my buddy.” He pokes me in the arm. “My good old pal. Don’t you want to have a conversation with me?”

Yeah, not buying it one bit.

My eyes fall to where he poked me, then back to him. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, looking anything but innocent. “Nothing’s going on. I’m just talking about shoes.”

“Did the boys put you up to something?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I don’t know what you could possibly be talking about.” He goes to uncap his drink again, but I swat it out of his hand, sending the bottle straight into the wall next to us. “Hey!” he protests. “That’s for preventive cramping, treat it with respect.”

He picks up his bottle as I say, “Don’t bullshit me. Why are you being weird?”

“Can’t a man ask another man about his shiny loafers without being questioned?”

“No,” I answer.

He sighs and tosses his hands up in the air as if surrendering. “Fine, but if they ask, tell them I was smooth about this.”

Levi Posey is anything but smooth.

Also . . . I knew something was up.

“Sure. Now, what’s going on?”

Posey glances over his shoulder, looking around to see if we’re alone, then he leans in with a conspiratorial tone. “Well, we had a meeting the other night—”

“Who is we?” I ask, a brow raised.

“Pacey, Hornsby, and Taters.”

Typical.

Eli Hornsby—the pretty boy.

Pacey Lawes—the elder of the group.

And Silas Taters—the asshole.

My other three best friends like to stick their noses in my business whenever they get the chance.

I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. “And what exactly was this meeting about? And if you say you’re worried about me, I’m walking away.”

He winces and looks toward the ceiling. “Uh, well . . . okay, we were, well . . . we were talking about how we’re . . . uh”—he scratches his chin—“we were conversing about certain things that pertained to you, but we didn’t particularly mention worried . . . more concerned about you.”

I push off the wall and walk away when he stops me by gripping my arm. “I didn’t say worried, I said concerned. Not the same thing.”

“It is the same thing.”

“Whatever, we’re just worried.” I raise my brow at him. “I mean concerned . . . we’re concerned.” He grips me tighter, preventing me from leaving.

“There’s nothing to be concerned about. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he groans in frustration. “You barely hang out with us outside of the arena. When we were in Banff, you just read the entire time. We feel like you’re pushing the world away and—”

“Hey, sorry, am I interrupting?” a female voice says, cutting Posey off from talking about shit I don’t want to talk about.

I glance to the right, down the hall to where a tall brunette stands, holding an iPad to her chest. It takes me a second for my eyes to focus, but once they do, every muscle in my body softens. Because . . . holy . . . shit.

I don’t know who this is or what she’s doing here, but she is easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my tired eyes on.

Long, dark eyelashes frame sage-green eyes so light that they almost look gray. Rosy cheeks and painted pink lips draw my attention from her soul-rendering eyes, where I feel this deep ache to get closer to see if her lips are naturally glossy. Her slender neck is just the right length for a man to explore . . . to hold . . . to mark.

Her gray dress leaves nothing to the imagination as it clings to her longer, curvy frame. The hem falls to her mid-thigh, showing off her tan legs propped up by a pair of gray heels with tiny bows on the back.

Jesus Christ.

She’s so fucking pretty.

“Not interrupting at all,” Posey says as he steps forward and lends out his hand. “Hi, I’m Levi Posey.”

The brunette takes his hand, stepping forward as well, sending a wave of her perfume in our direction. Not overly sweet but just the right mix of earthy and feminine. The lethal combination has my heart racing.

“Oh, I know who you are.” Her smile stretches across her face, twinkling under the fluorescent lights of the hallway. Christ, that smile. Like a goddamn warm hug on a cold day. “I’m Blakely White. I work in the VIP relations and marketing department.”

Blakely.

Hell, I like that name.

She turns toward me, her eyes connecting with mine, and fucking hand to heart, I feel this jolt of possession rock through me so fucking hard that I have to catch my breath. I can’t tell you the last time I felt something like this.

Ever since I lost Holden, I’ve felt . . . empty. Like the only reason my body has functioned is to play hockey and nothing else.

Not to feel.

Not to experience the journey of life.

And sure as fuck not to fall in love.

“And you are the hands and skates of the team,” she cutely says. “Halsey Holmes, it’s so nice to meet you.”

She holds her hand out to me, and I attempt to calm my nerves as I take her hand. When our palms connect, and I look her in the eyes, I feel this powerful, electric force bounce between us, jump-starting my heart from its nearly catatonic state. What the actual fuck?

My mouth waters.

The back of my neck starts to sweat.

And a visceral feeling of life pulses through me, reawakening me in a way I never fucking saw coming.

“N-nice to meet you,” I say, hating that I stumbled over my words.

She releases my hand and returns to holding her iPad to her chest. “I was hoping I could borrow Halsey for a second.”

“Sure.” Posey slaps me on the back. “I’ll catch you in the locker room, man.” He moves around Blakely and says, “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” she says sweetly before turning toward me. “Do you mind coming up to the VIP suite with me?”

I swallow hard, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth and my palms sweating. “No, that’s fine.”

“Great.” That smile reappears, and my mind immediately commits it to memory. Blakely’s smile would give Julia Roberts a run for her money. Beaming . . . radiant . . . yet delicate, like she reserves it for certain people. “Let me lead the way.”

Her heels click against the concrete floor, and I attempt to keep my eyes level as I walk behind her, but they greedily betray me as they fall south, right to her heart-shaped ass.

Fuck . . .

With a harmonic sway, she steps one foot in front of the other, and with every shift, her dress curves around her tight, shapely ass. Gently sculpted lines, plump cheeks, the perfect ass to hold.

Or spank.

Yes, the perfect ass to spank.

Jesus, what am I even thinking?

She glances over her shoulder, giving me just enough time to avert my eyes as she says, “I just have a few things for you to sign if that’s okay? I considered bringing them down here, but I figured this might be easier. At least for me.” She winces. “Maybe not for you.”

“It’s good,” I reply, reminding myself she didn’t retrieve me to stare at her ass. You’re in a professional setting, you fucker, remember that.

She falls in step with me so we’re walking side by side. When we reach the elevator that leads to the VIP level, she asks, “I’m not messing up your pregame routine, am I?”

“No.” I shake my head, place my hands in my pockets, and stare at the floor. If you look at the ground, you’re not leering at her.

“Oh, good. I know how superstitious players can be.” She leans in close and whispers, “Are you one of them?”

I lift my eyes to hers, and fuck me . . . she’s so beautiful, it’s impossible not to stare.

Those eyes, I’ve never seen anything like them before. So light with barely a blip of color but so lively at the same time. There’s an energy in her irises that has tapped into a part of me I thought was nonexistent.

That died the night my twin brother died as well.

“Superstitious?” I ask just as the elevator opens. I hold the door for her, and she steps on first before I follow her. “Not really.”

“That’s good. Then I don’t feel that bad pulling you away from the locker room.” The elevator starts moving, and she asks, “Is it true that Levi Posey has to eat a bologna sandwich before every game?”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning against the elevator wall. “There’s always a stack of bologna in the players’ cafeteria for him.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a grown man eating bologna. But he kills it on the ice, so he should keep doing what he’s doing.”

The elevator doors open, and I block them as she exits. I follow closely, and we make our way down the hallway, past a few suites, and straight to the VIP suite that overlooks center ice.

She props the door open for me, but I quickly grab it and gesture for her to lead the way. She smiles sweetly and, as I follow her, I notice how long her legs are. Even with heels, I’m still taller than her. She’s much taller than every other woman we’ve walked by, but that doesn’t prevent her from wearing the shoes she wants, which makes her calves look insane.

“Right over here,” Blakely says as I lift my eyes again, refraining from staring.

There’s a table full of pucks, jerseys, hockey sticks, and pictures. When I glance at her in surprise, she says, “I know, it might be a little much, but this group is a huge donor and massive fans. Is it okay?”

“It’s fine,” I say. Just means I get to spend a little more time with her. If only I could pull my head out of my ass long enough to actually strike up a conversation, something with more substance than Posey’s bologna sandwiches.

But hell, this girl has me all twisted up inside. One look and my palms started sweating, I felt tongue-tied, and my heart raced faster than when I was chasing down a puck against an opponent.

With one look, she brought me back to life.

“You can sit here,” Blakely says, patting a stool in front of the memorabilia. She uncaps a Sharpie and hands it to me before placing a small stack of photos in front of me.

That dreaded fucking picture.

I hate this picture.

Not because I look bad in it or any narcissistic thoughts like that.

I hate it because I know the exact game when this photo was taken.

I know it so well because it was a game-winning shot on the night Holden died.

Unfortunately for me, the team uses this picture for every promotion under the sun. For them, it’s a moment in Agitators’ history that comes with great celebration. For me, it’s a reminder of the dark, life-altering night that I lost my brother . . .

“Are you okay?” Blakely asks, startling me from my thoughts.

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. Don’t go there, Halsey. Don’t fucking go there.

“You sure?”

“Yup.” I sit taller, pushing away the darkness clouding my mind, flooding my spirit. But unlike every other time, I push it away. I can’t sit in it. I can’t wallow in the pain and let it consume me. Not in front of her.

So I sign the first picture.

“Okay, because if this is too much, I can pare down—”

“No, you’re good,” I say, trying to use a lighter tone. When I see she’s still concerned, I try to change the subject. “Have you worked here long?”

“Not too long, but long enough to become immensely involved in the outcomes of the games.” She helps me with the photos, pulling them away after I sign them. “The other night, when you scored that goal with only forty-five seconds to spare, I nearly ripped my pencil skirt from cheering so much. Between you and me and the skirt, there was a slight tear near the zipper.”

And just like that, I don’t have to be the one to pull my mind from that dark cloud. I don’t have to push it away all on my own.

She did it effortlessly with her real, unfiltered response.

“How did you manage that?” I ask.

She cutely shrugs. “Apparently, I like to do lunges while celebrating. Let’s just say the skirt has been retired. I told myself I’d hold off on wearing form-fitting clothes on game days, but here I am, in a dress bound to rip if you score again.” She points at me. “So if you see me waddling away with a towel wrapped around my waist after the game, you’ll know the celebratory lunges struck again.”

A light chuckle falls past my lips, the sound so fucking foreign to me.

“Gives me more reason to wait until the last second to score.”

“Please don’t.” She clutches her heart. “I can’t take that kind of anxiety and excitement all at the same time . . . neither can my clothes.”

She’s so easy to talk to.

“Might need to ask for hazard pay for more clothing.”

“Now there’s an idea.” She takes the photos and stacks them together before handing me a jersey. “Here, let me stretch it out for you. I’ve learned these are a pain to sign.”

“I always sign on the number for that very reason,” I say while I scrawl my name across the raised number on the back of the jersey.

“The veterans on the team know best.” She winks at me, and my stomach bottoms out from the innocent gesture.

Jesus, is that all it takes, Holmes?

A pair of pretty eyes and you’re a goner?

I glance up at her while she shuffles for the next jersey, her lips quirked to the side in concentration, her tongue peeking out in the corner.

Yup . . . that’s all it takes.

One look into those eyes and I’m fucking lost.

So lost that I want to prolong this interaction. I want to get to know her more. I want to . . . hell, I think I want to ask her out.

But am I mentally ready to even handle something like that? Taking a girl out?

I’ve had one-night stands just to expel adrenaline after a game.

But am I going out on a date? Possibly starting a relationship? That’s a level I’m not sure I’m ready for.

I glance at her again, taking in those tempting lips. Yeah, I don’t think I could walk away and not ask for more.

“Okay, this is going to be very brazen, and I swear, I’m not trying to hit on you or anything.” She hands me a hockey stick, and my brain inwardly begs her to hit on me. It would make this so much easier. “But your hands are huge. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen hands that big before. No wonder you can handle your stick so well . . .” Her eyes widen, and she quickly says, “Hockey stick. I mean hockey stick, not like . . . you know . . . penis stick.”

A snort pops out of me, and a genuine smile crosses her lips.

“Did I just make you snort?”

“Unfortunately,” I answer as I swipe at my nose.

“And they told me you were the toughest to crack.” She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Looks like I have something to add to my résumé. Made Halsey Holmes snort. Who knew all it took was to say penis stick.”

Penis stick and a fast-growing crush.

That’s exactly what this feeling is: a crush.

But how could I not?

She’s funny.

Cute.

Fucking adorable.

Gorgeous.

A breath of fresh air.

I need to see more of her.

It might be scary as shit, but I can’t end the interaction here. I have to ask her out.

Adrenaline pumps through me as I realize that I’m taking that first step to living my life for the first time since I lost my brother.

“Can I tell you something that might scare you off, and you might never want to talk to me again, but I have no filter and can’t seem to control myself?” she says, breaking into my thoughts.

“Sure,” I say while in the back of my mind, I try to figure out how to ask this girl out. Maybe I should talk to Posey first, see what he thinks the best approach is . . . eh, maybe not Posey. Hornsby might be better; he always has the best of luck with women, and I don’t think he’d make a big deal about it. Posey would probably clap like a moron and praise the bologna gods for answering his ridiculous prayers. I’m not sure Pacey would have much to say—he usually doesn’t care about this kind of shit—and Silas, well, he’s going through his own personal hell, so he’s not the one to talk to.

Yeah, I’ll ask Hornsby. It’s not like Blakely is going anywhere.

“Okay, but you can’t judge me,” Blakely says, tearing me away from my thoughts again.

Pay attention, you fucker. If you want a chance with her, you need to make sure she knows you’re interested.

“Would never consider judging you,” I say.

“Thank you.” She hands me the last item to sign. “So the other night, I was playing fuck, chuck, and marry, and I’m ashamed to come clean, but I chucked you.” I lift my gaze to hers, my eyebrows shooting up. She holds up her hand. “Before you get mad at me, I need to explain that I was under pressure and I didn’t know much about you, but then my boyfriend went on a tirade about how perfect you are—he has a huge man crush on you—and he convinced me to marry you.”

Boyfriend?

She has a fucking boyfriend?

“I know, I know. Why am I telling you this? Like, why would you want to know that I chucked you when my boyfriend married you? An odd thing to say to someone, but I feel like it was sitting on my chest this entire time, and I had to come clean.” She lets out a long breath. “Ooof, feels good to admit that.”

A boyfriend.

Fuck.

Of course she has a boyfriend.

Why wouldn’t she?

She’s perfect. Girls like her are snatched up quickly.

“And I know what you’re thinking: who did I fuck? Well, it was Rivers. And I know he’s gay, but that’s where the curiosity came about. I wanted to see what kind of moves he’d have. I married Posey, and my boyfriend quickly corrected me and said Posey would have way too much bologna in the house. He then told me that you would be a loyal husband and went into great detail about it, so . . . yeah, I was convinced otherwise.” She winces at me. “Are you mad?”

Mad at her?

No.

Mad that she has a boyfriend?

Fuck yes.

I snap out of my disappointment and say, “No . . . seems like your boyfriend knows his stuff.”

“He does. And trust me, I won’t make that mistake again.” She claps her hands together. “Well, it looks like we’re done here. Do you want me to walk you back to the locker room?”

“Nah, that’s okay,” I say as I stand from the stool, disappointment heavy in my chest.

“Okay. Well, thank you so much for taking the time to do this for me. I really appreciate it, Halsey.”

“Sure, any time.” I offer her a generic smile.

“And I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with that whole fuck, chuck, or marry thing. I realize maybe that wasn’t professional.”

“It’s fine.” I take a step away. “Glad your boyfriend taught you a lesson.”

“Lesson learned, won’t make that mistake again.” Her smile nearly cuts me in fucking two. “Well, good luck today, Halsey. Please no skirt-splitting end-of-game goals.”

“I’ll do my best.” I wave and take off out of the room, my heart beating so fast that my breathing feels labored.

A boyfriend.

The perfect girl has a boyfriend.

Fuck . . .

Just my luck. The one girl who made me feel something for the first time in a while has a boyfriend. That seems to be my luck in this fucking life. The ounce of hope, of replaceing my way out of this fog, is so quickly squandered the minute I give in to it.

Let’s just fucking pray I don’t see her again because I don’t think I could stomach being around her knowing I can’t ask her out. That I have no chance of claiming her as mine.

Fuck . . . me.

All I can ask for is that this was a one-and-done interaction.

Narrator: Unfortunately for Halsey Holmes . . . it wasn’t a one-and-done interaction. In fact, he’s seen her almost every day in the hallway of the arena, which has only enabled his crush to the point that when he runs into her . . . he burns. Poor, poor Halsey.