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His face twists in shock. He just stands with his mouth hanging open, shaking his head. I step past him into the waiting room, where the faint smell of clean fragrance reaches me–soap or shampoo, feminine. My body clenches when I see an athletic woman standing there. She’s wearing an Uprising polo — the pro women’s team. She’s mid-stride, leaving Odin’s office, fussing with her phone.
It’s Briar “BB” Beckett, star forward and Olympic gold medalist. She is gorgeous.
She looks up from her phone to find me staring, her red lips forming a confused little O.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone here.”
“Mm,” she nods. “I usually try to get the last appointment, but someone beat me to it this week.”
I point to my chest. “Guilty.” God, this woman is everything. She’s tall and muscular, wearing black sweats that hug her muscular backside. Her dark hair is pulled back, damp from what I assume was a post-workout shower.
Briar shrugs. “Guess I’ll have extra time to eat samples at Costco.” She slides her phone into the pocket of her sweats, and my gaze lingers a beat longer than is polite.
The Fury and the Uprising share space, some staff, and a few publicity events. Now, looking at Briar up close, I wonder why we don’t spend more time together.
I am seconds away from admitting that maybe my friends are right, that maybe putting myself out there wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I lean against the wall, open my mouth to say something clever, and nearly jump out of my skin when Spinner stomps into the room, growling.
“Mayhem, I just think that was really out of line. I would never–oh.” He looks between Briar and me, and his face morphs into infantile joy. Like he just found money in last winter’s coat pocket. "You could have just said." He spreads his hands with great generosity. "I get it. You're not going out because you're already — I mean, are you two —" Spinner must be rubbing his two brain cells together and making a decision. "Wait. Are you here together? Like, officially?”
Briar’s eyes cut sideways to mine, sharp, confused.
I open my mouth, but Spinner is still talking, something about how he knew it, he called it, and Howie owes him twenty dollars. Briar purses her lips, her eyebrows furrowed in either confusion or outrage.
“Secret relationship with the women’s forward,” Spinner yammers on, so pleased with himself. He threatens to post something on social media, and suddenly years of outings, well-meaning nudges, and pressure from every man on the Fury roster erupt into a wave of impulsive pettiness.
“You’re right,” I say.
Spinner stops talking.
I reach an arm behind me, snaking it around Briar’s waist, feeling the firm warmth of her body. “BB and I are here to report our relationship to HR.”
The woman under my arm shivers, looking up at me with sparks flying from her brown eyes. Her voice is shaky and quiet as she steps back, gapes up at me, and says, "Excuse me?"
Chapter 2
Briar
I really thought the most humiliating part of my day would be the sports psychologist agreeing with my teammates about “putting myself out there.”
But here I stand next to Cameron “Mayhem” Miller, who has never spoken a word to me before today, listening to him explain to his winger that we are about to “declare our relationship” to the top brass. Is this supposed to be a joke? Is he making fun of me?
“Come again?” I sputter my confusion as I stare up into the dark eyes of the league’s most notorious grouch.
Spinner snickers and mutters a quiet “that’s what she said.”
Everyone knows Mayhem is deadly on the ice and nearly silent on dry land. Right now he’s nearly vibrating with some sort of emotion. “I can explain,” Mayhem says, clearly sensing my discomfort as he steps back. I must be losing it because I miss the warmth of his big, hairy arm around my shoulders.
I stay very still. Spinner grins at me like I’m offering him endorsement money. “This is great, guys.” Spinner claps Mayhem on the shoulder and fires off a series of finger guns. “I’m going to tell the guys. And no worries about the mom joke.” He gives us an exaggerated wink. “You two have fun in there.”
He backs down the hall as Mayhem drags a hand through his hair. I twist my face in utter confusion because I’m pretty sure a guy from the men’s team just said we’re in a serious romantic relationship.
Not an hour ago, my teammate Cleo had the entire Uprising bench agreeing that I should drive to the Busy Beaver hardware store and find a nice lady to “load my caulk gun.”
And then my flipping therapist agreed, though he left gender out of his homework assignment. Odin Stag explained that he thinks I’m giving my ex more power than I should, and I guess that’s true. Literally everyone thinks dating will help me get my head on straight as the Uprising rounds out a storybook season.
I know they all mean well. Tate, Ducky, and Odin … but I can’t be in a romantic relationship with Mayhem. I can barely survive a 40-second shift on the ice.
I agree that riding the wrong horse doesn’t mean I’m done with equestrian. But damn it, the last horse threw me off and kicked me in the ribs. I’m not ready.
