Page 56 of Playoff

Not even because I’d hooked up with my ex.

I regretted it because it was the best damn sex of my life, but we’d already agreed that it was a one-and-done kind of thing. A relationship wasn’t in the cards, so it absolutely can’t happen again, but I want it to.

Re-enacting our first time had been oddly romantic and sexy, reminding me of who we’d both been and also what we were when we were together.

Good.

Happy.

Relaxed.

Sex with Blake hadn’t been awkward the first time—beyond the uncertainty of our inexperience—and it wasn’t now, even after so many years apart. In fact, it was the best it had ever been, and it had been pretty damn good once we’d figured out what made us tick.

Now I’m on a plane, sitting in the front with Bristol, who’s busily tapping away on her laptop. I’m a workaholic, but she puts me to shame sometimes. Sheneverstops. I take little breaks to chat with the guys or someone on the coaching staff, eat something, or just breathe. Bristol doesn’t. The only time I’ve ever seen her not actively working is the rare occasion we go out to eat, and I think she’s joined us at the bar on a road trip just once since she got hired.

As a woman, I get that she has something to prove—we all do—but it’s wild how focused she can be.

Today, the tap-tapping of her nails on her keyboard is driving me nuts.

“Do you have to work?” I ask, nudging her in what I hope is a playful manner that belies how annoyed I am. I’m not mad at her, obviously, but it feels like everything is getting on my last nerve.

Bristol freezes and then slides a curious glance my way. “What?”

“Sorry.” I blow out a breath. “I’m agitated. Don’t mind me.”

She snaps her laptop shut and turns to me. “Okay. What do we need to talk about?”

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question?

Not that I can tell her that I just spent the night getting horizontal with my ex-boyfriend. Who happens to be playing for the Phantoms now.

“Do you date?” I blurt instead.

She blinks.

Then understanding dawns.

I don’t know how, or what exactly she knows, but she knows.

Something.

“Well… yes and no. I don’t date within the hockey industry, and since this is all I do right now, I haven’t been meeting guys who aren’t somehow related to hockey.”

“How come you don’t date within the industry?” I ask, even though I probably know the answer.

“Well, first and foremost is the no fraternization clause,” she says matter-of-factly. “But I wouldn’t date a player anyway.” She mock shudders. “They’re not…my type.”

Now I’m curious.

“Not your type? None of them? I mean, they’re all very different. You can’t compare Gabe to Connor—they’re worlds apart in looks, personality, even playing style. Not to mention the age gap.”

That gives her pause and she chews the inside of her cheek. “Okay, that’s fair, but what I mean is, in general, they’re a bunch of insecure, narcissistic man whores who want a—” She drops her voice. “—supermodel on their arm and someone with the patience of the saint the rest of the time, popping out babies and following them wherever they want to go. And that’s not me. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with that.”

“Sure, but don’t you think that’s an unfair stereotype?”

She shakes her head. “Statistics was my minor in college—along with communication—and the numbers don’t lie. The divorce rate in the U.S. is approximately fifty percent. Among pro athletes it’s around seventy percent.”

“Is it that high?” I murmur. For some reason that bothers me.

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