Page 1 of Home Ice

CHAPTER 1

RAGE POOPING

BRANT

I get along fine with my neighbors. I give them a smiling wave, and they respect my privacy. That's the deal. I don't need to know them. I've already got friends. I've got family. I don't want anyone else in my life. Especially not when the only reason they want to get close to me is because I'm the star goalie for the Salt Lake City Sting. It doesn't matter if they're so fucking gorgeous I have to shift the way I'm standing to keep my dick from hurting itself in these shorts that are suddenly too tight.

It shouldn't matter.

I've only been away from home for three weeks. That can't be enough time for a woman like her to just appear in the house next door, can it? Shouldn't things like this need zoning approval? Aren't there permits to apply for? But there she is.

And here I am. Staring when I should be starting my workout.

Everything has to be perfect in just a few weeks. I have to be perfect. When that puck drops, I have to be just as good as I was seventeen months ago. When my entire world went to shit. I don't have time for distractions, and this woman sure as hell is an enormous distraction.

I pull my right leg back to stretch my thigh. It's my good leg, but it still makes me wince because of the way it pulls my shorts even tighter. But I have to pretend I'm doing something. I can't just stand here and stare at her. Stare at the way her long black ponytail swings side to side. At those legs that are hotter than the tongs I left on the barbecue at the cookout last week. At those breasts. Fuck me.

I've seen plenty of breasts. After nine years in the league, I should be used to them. How many times have I gone to the restroom at a bar or a restaurant and come back to find a woman sitting at my table? Two women? That's always been the part of the sport I hate the most. It's exhausting. If I could play this game without anyone knowing who I am, I would do it. But I can't at this level. The point is, I've seen it all, and none of it has affected me the way this woman is right now.

I'm supposed to be jogging to the park. An easy warmup before the interval sprints I have planned. Then a jog back home to go to my gym for the real fun. Nowhere in my workout plan does it say "Stalk the woman next door. Three sets. Max creepiness."

But it's not really stalking if I'm stopped for a legitimate reason, right? There's no way I'm going to try stretching the other leg. So I suddenly find myself very interested in this bird feeder that just happens to be across the street from the woman. And I just happen to be looking at it from a direction that also lets me see her front door. And a flock of sparrows in the tree above me just happens to be shouting angry curses while I keep them from eating their lunch. I'm surprised they're not rage pooping on me. Maybe they are. I probably wouldn't notice. All my senses are directed toward that little grey house across the street.

There's a trailer parked in the driveway. The kind people use when they move into a new house. And at first, I thought that's what she was doing. But she's taking things out, not hauling them in. I've watched her haul three loads so far. Stared as her perfect ass, barely covered by those tight white shorts, swayed in time with every step. Gaped at the way those breasts bounced just a little under the skintight light purple tank top she's wearing. Shit, maybe I am a stalker who deserves to be covered in spite-fueled bird droppings.

She's probably inside calling the police on me now. That would be a great way to start off the new season. In handcuffs before training camp even starts. Not that I plan on being in them after camp starts, either. New rule: no handcuffs at any time. She's not worth breaking the new rule. I can't let her distract me from what I need to do. Right now, that's going through the routine that the physios have laid out for me. I feel stronger than I ever have in my career, but I have to be sure.

I start jogging toward the park again. Past the open turquoise door that I never paid attention to until today. I don't look at it as I draw up closer. I don't imagine the black-haired woman calling out to me. I don't imagine taking baked goods to welcome her to the neighborhood. I don't imagine where things might go after that. My brain doesn't do those things once. Nope.

I'm almost past her house and past these thoughts that I'm definitely not having when I hear a shriek. It makes every hair stand on end, and I slam to a stop.

"How could you do this? I hate you so much!"

In the corner of my eye, I see something fly out of the house. It clangs against the concrete and skids to a stop against the column of the covered porch.My heart races as the adrenaline pumps through me, and now all I see is the doorway I'd been trying to avoid. I sprint across the lawn and hop onto the porch, bypassing the steps, just as she walks out the door. When I see her red eyes and the shining trail of tears on her cheeks, something roars inside me. I press my left hand against her shoulder and nudge her behind me while I block the doorway. I might not know her, but I know this situation. Growing up, my best friend's dad never thought twice before laying a hand on his wife. I was too young and scared of him to do anything then. Not now.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

My hands squeeze into fists and my body tenses until I realize she's the one asking me this. I flash a glance at her. Her cheeks are as red as her eyes now. "Who is it? Husband? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?" She doesn't answer me, but I don't look at her again. I'm waiting for whoever is in the house to show themselves. "Who are you fighting with?"

She snorts. "They're not here, and that's exactly why we're fighting. But back to my question, what the hell are you doing?"

I look into the house one more time to make sure no one is going to come charging out. "You were fighting. Someone threw something at you. I heard it. And you've been crying, and…" Shit. "You weren't fighting?"

She purses her lips so tight they go white. Then she blows out a long breath, shaking her head and glowering at me. "Look, Captain America, I'm doing just fine on my own. The last thing I need is you storming in here with this..." Her eyes run up and down my body. I swear they hesitate just a fraction of a second around my abs, and I really wish I would have put a shirt on before leaving the house. "This macho hero complex you have."

"Hold on." I take a step back to put some space between us, but it gives me a chance to really see her. Her eyes are almost as dark as a hockey puck. The tears are drying now, but there's a drop of sweat beside her left eye. It rolls down her cheek to her chin and then her throat. Down to her—damn it, Brant. I force myself to look away. To the wood post in the center of the porch. "This." I pick up the piece of metal at its base. It's heavier than it looks. From the side, it looks like an L. One leg is flat metal. The other is intricate scrollwork with a three-pedaled flower in the center. It reminds me of the trinity knots my mom used to have all over the house when I was growing up. There's a fresh chip in the white enamel on the top edge. "Someone threw this."

She doesn't say a word at first. She just holds out her hand. "I threw it," she finally says.

My attention is drawn to the brown and black snake tattoo twisting around her wrist. "What is that?" I ask.

"None of your business." She yanks that arm behind her while she reaches out with the other. "And this is a bookend. You've probably never seen one before. You don't seem like the type to have books. Now, I obviously have everything under control, so thank you for that wonderfully kind act of bravery you demonstrated for me, but you can go rescue a kitten from a well now or whatever it is you spend your day doing."

I open my mouth to defend myself, but I can't. "I'm an ass."

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to be a good person and disagree so you can save face?" she asks. "Turns out I'm not a good person. Ask anyone in this town."

Despite myself, my gaze falls from her eyes to her mouth and then to her breasts as she's talking. I'll never get out of this hole I'm digging. "I'm sorry. I overreacted." I extend my hand to formally introduce myself, but now it's her turn to stare. "I'm Brant." I hook my thumb and motion to the left. "I live right there."

---