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I wanted more of her, period.

I let out a ragged sigh. Maybe she was right to keep it to just one night. She wasn’t the only one who had life circumstances that demanded attention. All of my attention needed to be on making it to playoffs, winning the Stanley Cup this year, and keeping out of Emma’s warpath. In retrospect, making her think that I had a date may not have been the best move.

Damn, Ari had more discipline than I had—and that was saying something.

The drafted message in CashPay burned a hole in my shorts pocket. I needed to move on.

She already had.

“Oh, come on, Cap, don’t hold out on us. Look how cozy you two look. You had to hit that after looking at each other like that.” Roberts said, shoving his phone at me.

On the screen was a tabloid picture of Ari and me with the headline: “Star Hockey Player Dalton Langley Steps Out with Mystery Woman.” And in a block of smaller text below it: “Was She the Cause of Surprise Split with Longtime Girlfriend Emma Faulk?”

“Sources say Langley was seen cozying up to a mystery woman after snubbing his ex. The two even shared an intimate kiss before leaving together in a cab,” Jimenez read over my shoulder, smacking me on the arm when he got to the kissing part. “Damn it, man, why didn’t you tell me you finally kissed someone other than that bruja?”

“Because I didn’t kiss her. Not then, at least,” I muttered, irritated, looking closer at the photo of me and Ari. The angle from where the picture was taken told me everything I needed to know about who’d snapped it.

I should have anticipated Emma doing something like this.

I studied the grainy photo. Roberts wasn’t wrong. We looked at each other like we couldn’t wait to get home. She’d captured the moment I tucked a strand of Ari’s silky hair behind her ear. All weekend, I dreamt of that hair sprawled across my pillows or gripped in my hand as I pulled it.

Roberts’s voice shattered the fantasy. “So, she’s free game then? Because let me tell you, I⁠—”

Without thinking, I shot out of my seat, shoving the rookie back with more force than needed. Jimenez caught him before he fell on his ass, arching a brow at me. I ignored the silent question, too fired up to think rationally.

“She’s not free game, rookie.” The locker room fell silent, all eyes on us.

Roberts held both hands up in the air, a sly smirk on his baby face. “You got it, Cap. She’s your girl.”

She wasn’t my girl, but I couldn’t seem to get those words out.

Luckily Monroe walked in, saving my ass from explaining to Jimenez why I went off on a teammate over a woman I barely knew. “Hey, assholes, let’s go. You’ve got about thirty minutes before meeting your new strength and conditioning coach this morning. Let’s not start off with all of you being late.” Grunts of agreement mixed with the slamming of locker doors as everyone geared up.

We worked in the weight room all season, but concentrated on it most during the off-season and pre-season. The guy we’d had last year had left about a month before for health reasons, leaving Monroe in a rush to find a replacement.

“Dalt, your dad wants to see you in his office,” he added, giving me a nod. “Make it quick.”

The protein shake from that morning turned into a rock at the bottom of my stomach. “Got it. I’ll head over there now,” I said, making my way out of the locker room and toward my dad’s office near the entrance of the practice rink.

A giant photo of the man in question hung on the wall right outside the double doors. Vincent Langley, former star NHL player, owner of the Dallas Desperados, self-made millionaire, and my father. His intense stare in the image almost captured how imposing the man was in real life. I knocked once, waiting for the go-ahead. Dad had a rule about players entering his space uninvited. Called it a show of disrespect if they did.

No one on the team was called to meet with him as much as I was, though.

“Dalton, you’re not just a player. You’re a brand. You represent my legacy, and I won’t have you tarnishing my image.”

“Come in,” a deep voice snapped.

I walked in, closing the door behind me. “You wanted to see me, Dad?”

The office was an extension of the man who owned it, exuding strength and elegance with its charcoal walls and masculine furniture. Jimenez once asked me if my dad’s desk size was a reflection of his dick size, which, of course, left me with a mental image I’d never wanted.

Without looking up, he gestured toward the club chairs, engrossed in whatever paperwork lay in front of him. “Sit, Dalton.” That’s how it was with him. He gave a command, and I followed it. Whenever it rubbed me the wrong way, I reminded myself that this whole father-son thing was new—at least for me, it was.

“Let’s talk about this season and what I expect,” he finally said, folding his large hands in front of him on the cognac leather blotter.

Seeing the same mossy color I saw staring back at me in the mirror every day reflected in his gaze was always unnerving. And our eyes weren’t the only similarities between us.

My build clearly came from my father, same with the sharp jaw, and before his head of hair turned salt and pepper, we’d shared the same sandy brown hair color, too. Still, I always felt I saw more of my mom in myself. Maybe that had more to do with growing up with only her around—I hadn’t known another parental figure to try and find bits of myself in.