Page 1 of Rafferty

CHAPTER 1

Rafferty

I’m yanking offmy sweat-soaked jersey, reveling in the shakiness in my legs that tells me I worked my ass off. Practice today was a beast, and Coach wasn’t pulling any punches, especially after our too-close-for-comfort win over the Nashville Badgers. My muscles ache and I’m starving, again more signs of giving a hundred and ten percent to my team.

The locker room is alive with chatter, as it usually is. This group has developed such a camaraderie over the last two years since the original team was lost to a plane crash. Even though this is my first season with the Titans, I’ve become so immersed in the brotherhood of these men who share the ice with me, I can’t really imagine playing anywhere else ever again.

The low rumble of voices mixes with bursts of laughter—guys unwinding after being put through the wringer and happy like me to have had another successful practice. Everything is coming together for us this season and this team is the talk of the hockey world. I imagine the odds in Vegas are heavily in our favor of winning the championship at our current trajectory, but none of us look at stuff like that. Every day we put forth every bit of blood, sweat and tears to make ourselves the best hockey team we can be.

I lean back against my locker, towel draped over my head, trying to catch my breath. Atlas Karolak, our second-line left-winger, is recounting a moment from last night’s game.

“Seriously, man, you should’ve seen your face!” Atlas cackles, punching North lightly on the shoulder. North Paquette is his line mate and right-winger. “Thought you were about to take that puck to your grill.”

North rolls his eyes, grinning. “Yeah, right, as if I’d let that happen. My mom always said I had a face for cameras, not stitches.”

I chuckle, sliding the towel off my head and joining in the banter. “Better keep that pretty smile intact. We can’t all rock the rugged look like I do.”

Foster chimes in, nodding toward me. “Raff here doesn’t need any more scars. Aren’t a couple of them from your junior league fights?”

“Guilty as charged,” I admit, running a hand over a faint scar above my eyebrow—a memento from a fight that earned me more than just a few stitches but a story worth telling.

The laughter grows as we continue to rib each other, the camaraderie a stark contrast to the intensity on the ice. It’s moments like these that I remind myself why I love this sport, why I push through every punishing practice and game. It’s not just about the thrill of competition; it’s about these guys, this brotherhood.

After an ice bath for a sore knee and a shower, I pack up my gear slowly, not particularly eager to head out just yet. I love the atmosphere of this place and would just as soon be here than at my condo.

As I zip up my duffel, my phone buzzes and a reminder pops up.

Grocery run.

I curse under my breath, forgetting that I’m pretty much out of food except for protein bars, and I need more than that after such an intense practice.

I hate grocery shopping.

Any shopping for that matter, but it’s a necessity in this instance. I make mental calculations on general items I need because I’m not the type to write a proper list, as well as what I’ll eat for dinner tonight. I consider indulging my sweet tooth because I can easily justify it after the calories I burned today. Chocolate chip cookies would hit the spot, but I’ll probably talk myself out of it by the time I’m cruising the aisles. I’m pretty diligent about not putting processed sugar into my body unless it’s a special occasion, and having a really good practice doesn’t pass muster.

In the players’ garage, I toss my bag into the back seat of my Escalade and head toward the grocery store closest to my North Shore condo. The day is fading, the sky a canvas of oranges and purples as the sun sets. It’s beautiful, in a postcard kind of way, and the cityscape across the river is magical.

By the time I walk into the store, my thoughts have left the practice session behind and I’m focused on our home game tomorrow against the Seattle Storm. I stroll the aisles, pulling stuff off shelves without any great thought since I’m so lost in game brain.

I round the canned goods aisle to head into the international foods and nearly collide with a store worker who is stocking the shelves. My cart bumps her flatbed and I mutter a curse. “Shit. Sorry.”

Her head swivels my way and she gives me a smile that pops out a dimple on each corner of her mouth. “No worries. Hard to hurt this thing.”

I’m struck dumb for a moment by the straight teeth and full lips set on a face that is insanely pretty—gorgeous actually. Vivid green eyes set against caramel-colored hair pulled up in a ponytail. Sure, the grocery store uniform is a horrid shade of mustard yellow and made of what looks to be polyester, but it can’t hide a slamming body.

Suddenly, thoughts of the game are gone and I have a strong desire for Thai food, even though I’ve never cooked a Thai dish in my life. I scoot past her and peruse the shelves right beside where she continues to stock cans of coconut milk.

I’m considering how to ask her for help so I can strike up a casual conversation when movement catches the corner of my eye.

I glance left and nearly do a double take at the woman walking my way.

Tansy Carmichael.

Her blond hair is impossible to miss, her stride determined as she makes a beeline right for me. Panic flares in my chest.

This woman has turned from an annoyance to a concern, not just because I slept with her one time over a month ago and have since tried to brush her off, but because she’s Brienne Norcross’s cousin and works for the Titans’ organization as the director of marketing.

I’ve tried to be polite and gentle in making my lack of interest clear to her, but I’ve apparently not been doing a good job. She seems to pop up wherever I go and I’m wondering if I have a real stalker on my hands.

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