Page 12 of King

“It doesn’t have to be tonight,” she interrupts me. “It can be anytime, really.”

Christ, this is difficult. I could lie and tell her I’m gay or have a girlfriend or I’m terminally celibate, none of which are true. But I’m a big believer in chemical attraction and I’m not feeling it here, despite the fact she’s beautiful. It’s something you just can’t put your finger on, I guess.

Ultimately, I decide to go with the truth because I’m a believer in karma and I don’t want it to bite me in the ass later. “Listen… Chrissy…” Her eyes light up with a faith that I’m getting ready to make her dreams come true. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not something I’m interested in. I’m flattered, of course, as you’re very beautiful, but…”

She’s crestfallen, her mouth sagging into a frown and her brows drawing in. “Oh, okay… sure… I understand.”

“I really am sorry,” I repeat.

“It’s fine.” She gives an overly bright smile. “Never hurts to ask, right?”

“Right.” I smile back at her. “It never hurts to ask.”

She mumbles something about getting our drinks and hurries off. Stone immediately turns around, eyes shining with amusement.

“You heard all of that?” I query.

“Every word,” he replies with a laugh. “And dude… it’s commendable the way you let her down. Sweet, even. You’re a good guy.”

“I try to be.” It’s the way my parents raised me. It’s the way my sister Jenny looks up to me. I treat women the way I would want Jenny to be treated and I’ve been in this league enough to see other guys who take their fame as a license to be dicks. That’s not going to be me.

Rafferty walks up to the table to take a drink of his beer. He clearly saw that as well. “You’re hopeless.” He laughs with a light punch to my arm. “She’s been practically throwing herself at you since we started coming in here.”

“So I’ve been told,” I reply in a dry tone.

“Leave him alone.” Stone defends my actions. “It’s part of his charm.”

“His charm is going to give him blue balls.” Rafferty chortles.

“And your charm is going to give you an STI,” I shoot back, causing Stone to snort.

“Hey,” Rafferty says, looking completely offended. “I practice safe sex.”

“Yeah, I know.” Grinning, I squeeze his shoulder. “And as much as you have it, I’m going to buy stock in condoms.”

“Don’t hate on me because I’m getting it regularly,” he scoffs.

“I could never hate you, Raff.” I laugh. “Even if you had syphilis.”

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters and pushes my hand off him. “But you don’t mind if I take a crack at Chrissy, do you?”

“Be my guest.” I wave my hand in her general direction. “Just keep it wrapped.”

“Always,” he quips with a twinkle in his eye.

CHAPTER 4

Willa

Istand atthe stove, flipping pancakes, the familiar sizzle and aroma filling the modest kitchen. My home, a cozy two-story house in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood, is just outside the Pittsburgh city limits. It’s a quiet, friendly area with tree-lined streets and well-kept houses, the kind of place where neighbors still greet one another from their porches. The house itself, built in the 1950s, has a charming brick exterior with white trim and a small front porch. It’s not grand, but it’s home, and it’s all mine since Scott and I divorced.

Inside, the house has a warm, welcoming feel. The living room, with its hardwood floors and a large bay window, lets in plenty of natural light. The walls are painted a soft beige, adorned with a few family photos and some abstract art pieces I’ve picked up over the years. The kitchen, where I spend a lot of my time, is functional and homey. It has white cabinets, a simple but sturdy dining table, and a small island with a couple of stools.

“What is this?” Brittany exclaims upon walking in. She beelines for the coffee pot and after pouring a cup, leans against the counter giving me a critical once-over.

I look down at my outfit. I’d chosen a cozy, oversized cream-colored sweater with a turtleneck to keep warm in the chilly rink, paired with some dark skinny jeans that are quite stretchy to allow for easy movement. While I very much wanted to wear my camel-colored ankle boots with a low heel, they’re not practical if I need to step out onto the ice to help one of the children.So I went with a pair of black Converse high-tops and hope to God they have enough traction to keep me from falling. “What is what?” I ask, perplexed.

“You’re all gorgeously trendy looking. You look nothing like a hardened, peewee hockey coach ready to take these kids to victory. You’re not even wearing a whistle, for goodness’ sake.”

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