Page 2 of Lawson

Clearly, that shit didn’t work for me.

But whenever I felt the pity party coming on, I remind myself that I busted my ass for four years in college in order to be irresistible to an NHL team. I passed on two different NHL offers straight out of high school because college was important to my mom, and she sacrificed everything for me to be where I'm at today.

She gifted me my first pair of hand-me-down skates at the age of three—the only kind we could afford at the time. I wouldn’t let her down because I got drafted onto a losing team.

Like I told all the guys a few minutes ago, that would change now.

I chat with a few of the new guys and answer their questions—all the surface-level, get-to-know-you stuff: Where did I come from? When did I start playing? Who’s my favorite team?

I'm in the middle of telling one of the other rookies how much I love the Seattle Sharks when my eyes snag on a pretty blonde sitting at the bar across the room. She’s stirring the ice in her drink, talking to the bartender with an easy smile on her face. Even from here I can tell she's gorgeous. Her long legs are clad in a pair of jeans, and a loose-fitting cream top covers some deliciously toned curves.

I'm already working out the best way to gain her enthusiastic consent for a night full of fun—because the last thing I'm looking for is a relationship when my first love is the ice—when my thoughts are abruptly interrupted as a guy approaches her.

The rookie I was chatting with pushes away from the table, heading to talk to another group of guys at the next one over. I know I should get back to mingling too—bonding with my new teammates will be crucial before the actual season starts—but there's something about this girl. I can't take my eyes off her, even when my hopes are slightly dashed by the guy talking to her. She seems to know him, at least by the way she turns toward him, leaving her back to me. The only thing I can see now are those beautiful long blonde waves.

He's not sitting down though, which means he’s either a stranger trying to do what I was about to do, or he's a familiar person she doesn'twantto sit down.

I'm up before I can tell myself not to cross the room. There's just no way that I can let the night go by without at least getting this girl's name. If the dude standing next to her with a scowl on his face is her boyfriend, then I'll leave it be.

But if she's unattached, then I'm all about a little friendly competition.

In fact, I fucking thrive off of it.

I set my empty drink on the end of the bar. The bartender smiles at me and flashes me a silent question if I want another. I shake my head as my spot at the bar puts me in earshot to hear the blonde say, “I told you, you can't keep showing up like this.”

The concern in her voice fires up all my protective instincts.

I've heard that tone several times from my little sister, on the rare occasions we’re in town at the same time and are able to hit the bar scene together.

I hesitate, knowing I really have no fucking place interfering like I would with my little sister. But I can't deny the urge to interfere, especially when she turns away from the guy, the tense set of her body language clearly stating she’s uncomfortable.

“I'm not gonna quit showing up,” the guy says, leaning over the bar to make sure that she’s looking at his face. “Not until you listen.”

She maneuvers away again, and I've lost all fucks to give about social propriety. She clearly doesn't want this fucker in her face. And if she doesn’t want me to butt in, then I’ll apologize and walk away.

“Not until you realize you're making a mistake?—”

“Babe, I'm sorry I'm late,” I cut the guy off, boldly sliding my arm around her shoulders and looking down at her.

Fuck me, she has the most beautiful blue-gray eyes I've ever seen, out here looking like the sky after an afternoon rainstorm.

She doesn't immediately jerk out of my touch. Instead, she looks up at me and smiles the most breathtaking smile I've ever seen.

“It's okay,” she says effortlessly. “You can make it up to me later.”

Well if that doesn't make heat slice through my veins then I don't know what will.

I grin down at her, cocking a brow. “Which way will it be this time?” I ask.

“Ice cream in bed or a Bridgerton marathon between orgasms?”

Her lips part at my second suggestion, a delightful little flush crossing her cheeks before she purses her full lips.

“This is your new boyfriend?” the guy cuts in between our little back and forth. “A jock fuckboy?”

“You know I can't resist Bridgerton,” the girl says, completely ignoring the other guy and shocking the hell out of me by choosing that scenario. I’m already more than willing to carry through with that offer. She just has to say the word.

“You've got to be kidding me,” the guy grumbles. He smacks the bar, and the move makes her flinch.

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