Page 123 of Slapshot Bride

Chicago in four days. I’m not nervous. I’m never nervous until the morning of, and even then, it passes the second I step on the ice.

Right now, all I’m thinking about is getting home. Riley said she’d cook tonight, and we’ll see a movie in bed. And Lord knows, I’m looking forward to having my hands on my girl.

The past week has been amazing with her. Her spark is back full-time, and she’s glowing. I can’t keep my eyes or hands off her.

A smile spreads on my lips as the water from the locker room shower rinses off the last of the soap.

I’m still thinking about her when I turn off the shower and reach for my towel.

The locker room is empty when I come out of the shower, which is wrong. After the morning skate, there’s always someone. Hell, the guys are always here, loud-mouthed, and plotting the next big party after the upcoming game. Wyatt would be finishing tape, Theo on his phone, Kai doing the slow cool-down stretch he’s been doing for years. The room is never empty at this hour.

I have a towel around my waist, and my hair is wet. I look around, and that’s when I notice him. Preston Sinclair is sitting on the bench directly opposite my stall.

Jacket pressed. Hair exactly right. Hands loose in his lap like a man who has nowhere else to be and has bought all the time he needed to get here.

I don’t say anything. I cross to my stall, take out my clothes, and start getting dressed. If he’s going to be in my space, he can wait until I’m ready.

He lets me. He’s patient. Biding his time.

This must be how he builds intimidation. Well, he’s got the wrong person, and I know he knows it.

Cheap antics don’t work here.

“I appreciate you not making a scene,” he says, when I’m pulling on my shirt.

“I could put my fist through your face for a start,” I shoot back.

Now fully dressed, I grab my phone and bag and fully face him.

He smiles. I see the way his eyes light up with interest, and a mix of something dark.

“I’d say you’re invading my privacy, but I think we’ve previously established you’re a stalker. So, to what do I owe this visit, Preston?”

He stands, and this time, he laughs. It lacks warmth, and the sound of it scratches my ears.

“I’ve come to realize that people are generally helpful when you ask the right way.”

He looks around the locker room, and I read the expression on his face. Dislike. He thinks he’s better than the people who come here. “I won’t take much of your time.”

He frowns and mutters the last part under his breath. "Not like I'd want to be here any longer than necessary."

Another look of distaste crosses his face before his eyes finally land on mine. “You’re a smart man, and an… incredible player.”

He starts casually walking around the space. “I’ve looked into you. Your contract numbers are strong, your reputation with the league is solid, and you’ve managed”—he waves a dismissive hand around the space—“to stay largely clean in a sport that doesn’t always reward that.”

His gaze returns to me. “You’ve built something real.”

I don’t say anything, yet, but I know where this is headed.

I’ve heard similar words from a man I lived with for most of my life.

Donovan Blake.

The start of a mildly spoken threat that’ll be acted on. A way to manipulate and curb what he sees as a problem. And Preston… Preston is the apple that didn’t quite fall far from that tree. He’s Donovan Blake, in a different font and form. A younger version.

So, I reach into my jacket pocket and click the recording app on my phone without looking at it. A little skill I picked up after Maya.

“Riley Brooks isn't your problem to solve,” he says. “I understand the appeal. She’s charming, and she’s had a hard time, and you’re the kind of man who responds to that. I mean, I understand. The err…” He pauses and spins around to look at me like he’s trying to recall something. “What is it called? Emotional issues? That comes with living in a broken home? Parents divorce? Even as an older child…”