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Prologue
Damien
We won.
I can’t believe we actually won.
In the beginning, there was a year or so that was complete hell, but this one’s making up for it tenfold.
“The Comeback Kid”
I chuckle to myself under my breath. That damn headline has been following me on every newspaper print and television station I’ve seen for the last eight weeks. The constant ache in my muscles from years of abuse on the ice definitely doesn’t leave me feeling like a kid anymore. But, I’m here. I’m alive when everyone thought I was dead. I guess that’s what matters.
Early morning rehab sessions. Late-night practices and conditioning. Weekends on the road. Years of fighting to succeed.
I defied the odds.
It was all worth it, and tonight we finally get to celebrate a hard-earned victory.
The higher-ups had this bar shut down to the public for us tonight, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty. Far from it actually.
The whole team’s celebrating tonight, which is a party in and of itself. Some of their spouses are here, the ones that are tied down anyway. And, for those that aren’t? There’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of puck bunnies that managed to sweet talk their way past the bouncer.
I sit at the bar alone and slowly sip on the same beer I’ve had since we arrived about an hour ago. It’s warm now, but it doesn’t matter. Not even room temp beer can dampen the high I’m riding tonight. Highlights from the game play on every screen in this place. A not-so-subtle reminder of just how far we’ve come - of how far I’ve come.
The atmosphere shifts. Awareness puts my senses on high-alert. I’m captivated by her presence the moment she walks in.
Dark brown hair frames her face in wild tresses of untamed curls that bounce with each step she takes. Her eyes are the color of rich milk chocolate as she searches through the sea of people that separate us. Skin-tight denim covers her toned legs from hip to toe. Her top is made of delicate white lace, a contrast to her dark almond skin. She’s not delicate.
My eyes are quickly drawn up from the exposed skin that teases me between the waistline of her pants and the hem of her top, to the smirk on her red-painted lips the second her eyes lock in on mine. With a target in mind, she slowly begins her saunter of seduction in black stilettos that should be illegal.
I hold her gaze, refusing to be the one to look away first. I need her to see me. I’ve been waiting, not so patiently, for her arrival.
She doesn’t stop until she reaches the barstool next to mine, sitting without further invitation. She doesn’t need one. Her scent invades my space, stealing all intelligent thoughts from my mind and rendering my words useless.
She taps on the worn wooden bar top. She garners the attention of the bartender and easily every man and woman within a six-foot vicinity. She sits perched on the barstool like a queen on her throne.
“Whiskey, sprite, two fresh lime wedges. Make it a double.” She orders without thought. It’s a ballsy choice, whiskey, and Sprite, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.
The bartender moves into action quickly. He concocts her drink, sliding it across the bar without spilling a single drop. His eyes study her. He’s just as entranced by her exotic beauty as I am. She’s unimpressed.
Every set of eyes surrounding us watches her, but she doesn’t take notice. Or, if she does, she remains completely unphased by the attention.
She delicately squeezes the fresh slices of lime into her drink, unceremoniously drops them into the glass, and stirs, before lifting the neat elixir to her lips and gulping down two man-sized swallows.
My eyes widen at the contradiction she presents. She sets her glass down, and only then does she turn her attention to me.
She props her elbow up onto the bar, leaning into it, cradling her chin in her open palm. Her long eyelashes tease me as she looks up into my green eyes before finally speaking. “Anybody ever tell you, you’re the sexiest man in the entire country?” She asks lazily. As if, merely stating a fact, not offering up a compliment.
“Only every woman I’ve ever met.” I find my words again before I make a fool of myself.
I allow myself a moment to lean into her space, breathing her in. She doesn’t wear perfume; she doesn’t need it. She smells naturally of something floral with a hint of masculinity that sends a pulsing need through each and every nerve ending in my body.
“Anybody ever tell you, you’re an arrogant son of a bitch?” She laughs, and the sound is raspy, yet sweet. Ever the paradox. She lifts her glass again and takes down another large gulp, leaving less than half of her tall order remaining.
Her eyes swim, but she’s not drunk. She toes the line of tipsy with the precision of a tight-rope walker. A woman like this one doesn’t lose control. She fucking owns it.
“Anybody ever tell you that you have a filthy mouth when you drink whiskey?” I nod toward where her drink is magically disappearing.
