Page 5 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

He’s looking right at me, those bright blue eyes meeting mine, and for some inexplicable reason, I flush. Embarrassed, I jerk my gaze away, turning back to face the bar, once again rescued by the bartender with impeccable timing.

But when I turn to head back to my table, I find my way blocked by the Frat Boy Brigade, Frat Boy One leading the charge.

“You’re breaking my heart, beautiful,” he claims, clutching his chest dramatically. “First you won’t tell me your name, then you won’t even tell me your drink order, and when I tell the bartender to add your drink to my tab, he tells me there’s no way a classy woman like you’d ever accept a drink from a guy like me. Whaddaya say we prove him wrong.” Even though it should be a question, he says it like a statement, his hand reaching for me, though I’m not sure where he plans on grabbing me. I just know I don’t want him touching me anywhere.

“Hey!” I shout, taking a step back and causing my drink to slosh over my hand. “Dammit!” And once again, Frat Boy One can’t take a hint, following me and making cooing sounds about my drink spilling.

“There you are,” booms a voice, and I look up, startled to see the blue-eyed giant towering over the scrawny frat boys. His eyes are locked on me, and all I manage in response is a squeak. He deftly maneuvers himself past the Frat Boy Brigade, his large hand landing on the scruff of Frat Boy One’s neck and gently but firmly moving him out of the way. “You were gone for so long, I was beginning to worry something’d happened to you.”

“Hey!” protests Frat Boy One, his bros chiming in with their own noises, but they’re silenced with one look from the gentle giant.

But when he turns to face them, their protests turn to sounds of amazement. “Holy shit! That’s Troy Easton!” one of them practically shouts.

I see the gentle giant’s—Troy’s, presumably—shoulders tense. “Hey, guys. Thanks for looking out for my girl here.”

I snort, and he glances at me over his shoulder with a reassuring grin, making it clear that he knows as well as I do that they were doing no such thing. And also, his girl?

The Frat Boy Brigade, however, is now stumbling all over themselves to reassure him that of course they’d look out for his girl. Any girl. All girls. Women! Not girls! They respect women! Some of their best friends are women! Or at least they know one or two. Their moms, for sure. Grandmas. The neighbor girl across the street. Woman. Neighbor woman.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Troy says, clapping one of them on the shoulder hard enough that he stumbles, and I have to stifle a laugh, hiding my smile behind the hand holding my glass. At least I’m mostly behind the wall of man that is Troy Easton. Who’s apparently someone recognizable, though I have no idea who he is or why these guys know him, and all their attention is now on him.

One of the frat boys asks for an autograph, and Troy makes a show of patting his pockets. “Y’know, I don’t have a pen on me right now, but if you call this number”—he pulls a business card out of a pocket on his phone case—“they’ll hook you up with some signed photos, alright?”

More fawning and stumbling over themselves from the frat boys, but Troy ignores them, turning back to face me, and it’s clear that he’s still guarding me from them. Taking me in, he tsks. “They made you spill your drink,” he says quietly, but since he’s standing well inside my personal bubble, I hear him just fine. “Let’s get you a new one.” He signals the bartender over my head. “The lady spilled her drink. Can we get another one? Put it on my table’s tab.”

The bartender nods and sets to work on the drink, while Troy gives me an apologetic smile. “Once he gets your new drink, you should join my friends and me. At least until those assholes clear out. We gotta sell the bit now, right?” His blue eyes twinkle.

I’m all flushed and nervous, but I can’t help smiling back. “I—uh, yeah, I guess so.”

Looking around, he grimaces. “Sorry. I should apologize. You probably don’t need a random guy white knighting for you, but you looked trapped, and I came over on instinct. Look, you don’t have to?—”

“No! I mean, thank you. I appreciate the rescue. I was feeling trapped, and I wasn’t sure how to defuse the situation with them. I’d hoped simply moving away would be enough, but they followed me.”

He nods, his face solemn. “I saw.”

I swallow hard. “Right. So. Yes. Thank you. I appreciate the rescue, and I’ll take you up on the invitation. If—if that’s okay.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, as beautiful as the sunrise. “Trust me. You’d be doing me a favor.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Troy

With my hand on her lower back—to sell the part, obviously—I escort my damsel in distress over to my group. Glancing over my shoulder at the guys who’d cornered her, I catch them watching us. God, I hope they leave us alone. I figured fobbing them off with the business card would do the trick, and it seemed to, but with my luck, they’ll beg the bartender for a pen and come over with a coaster. Shit, since they figured out who I was, odds are they’ll recognize Nick Abernathy and Benjamin “Dozer” Boggs and want their autographs too.

And with guys that obnoxious and annoying? There’s a fifty-fifty chance the bartender will give them a pen to shut them up or toss them out on their asses. Fingers crossed it’s the latter.

As we get closer to the table, Nick’s looking at me, eyebrows raised, but at least his wife, Tina, offers us a welcoming smile. Dozer looks like he thinks the entire situation is hilarious, and the girl he brought with him for the week watches us with wide eyes. I suppose she’s his girlfriend, but he didn’t even mention her until two weeks ago. He apparently thought it was a couple’s trip and we’d all be coupled up. I’m the only one who didn’t get that memo, I guess. I thought it was a post-retirement relaxing trip so I could recover from a rough final season and start trying to figure out what comes next.

In the three days we’ve been here, I’ve made zero progress on the second goal, but it’s only been a month since we got knocked out of the playoffs, ending my final season without winning a Stanley Cup. The galling thing is that I think the team would’ve had a better chance without me. They brought up a guy from the minor leagues to fill in for me while I was out, and the guy is younger, stronger, and faster than me. And after my last surgery, I took fewer risks. Pulled back instead of pressing forward, not wanting to chance another injury.

I’m tired of surgery and rehab, and that weariness plus the fact that recovery takes longer now at thirty-six than it did a decade ago, outweighs the fear of who I am and what I’ll do without hockey being the focus of my life.

I guess I can start a career rescuing young women from douchebags in bars. That thought makes me smirk.

“And who’s this?” asks Tina.

Blinking, I glance down at the woman next to me. “Anna,” she offers, a tight smile on her face.

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