Page 2 of Puck of the Irish

“Maybe it was,” I tell him with a sly grin, the usual playful ease that we always have settling into place. Another problematic thing about Anthony Rizzo? I always have fun and feel like the most authentic version of myself with him—which is crazy, really, because I’m honestly not sure even I know who myself is these days. I’m slowly figuring it out, and taking the job with the Vipers has been a huge help in that regard, but I’m still not completely sure who Natalie Morgan is. So how the fuck does Rizzo make me somehow know exactly who I am whenever I’m with him?

Sure, at first, I was a little starstruck and completely distracted by the Rizzo-ness of him. I’ve been following hockey my whole life, but especially the Vipers being Seattle born and bred, so meeting him was like meeting a celebrity. But once that initial jolt wore off and we started hanging out with our little group, things were just easy.

And dangerous.

And stupid.

Yet here I am, possibly making the dumbest decision of my life…and I can’t help but smile at the gorgeous man in the tux standing beside me as he offers me his arm.

“Hmm, how about that drink then, Houdini?”

Two

RIZZO

“Jewel thief?”I ask over our second round of drinks. We ended up at one of my favorite spots just around the corner from the event, a small, almost hole-in-the-wall Irish pub called Delaney’s where I can almost always come and not be bombarded. All the regulars and staff know me by now and don’t think much of my appearances anymore. The owner, Sean, actually grew up not too far from my mom, so I’d immediately loved the place and they’ve had more than one FaceTime chat while I sat at the bar, reminiscing over childhood haunts and finding all the people they knew in common. Small world and all that.

Nat grins and damn does she have a great smile. She’s beautiful, not just hot or sexy—though she’s those things too—but really fuckingbeautiful.Don’t ask me to explain the differences, but they exist, I promise you.

Whether she’s done up to the nines, like she is tonight, or in leggings and a hoodie hanging out at Shep’s place watching a game while we cook out, she’s gorgeous, plain and simple. Justbecause I know better than to fuck around with anyone within the organization doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed…or thought about her in ways that I really shouldn’t an embarrassingly large number of times. I tell myself that it’s just that whole it-being-forbidden-makes-it-hotter thing that keeps Nat on my mind, but that’s only half true, really. There’s something about the girl that caught my eye the second I met her. I’ve even slowed my man-whoring as Shep calls it since Nat came along. I’m not ashamed of the way I live my life by any means, but for some reason…I don’t know, I don’t want Nat to think of me as just the hockey playing fuck boy who can’t keep it in my pants. What the fuck is that about? I try not to read anything into it, but I can’t ignore it completely no matter how hard I try.

But it doesn’t matter either way. Nothing can happen between us like that.

She watches me over the rim of her glass, her gray eyes as mesmerizing as always. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that has eyes like that. They’re like gray marble, but with so much depth I sometimes feel like she’s seeing way too much. Shep always says I do that to him, see more than he’s trying to show everyone, so I guess Nat and I have that in common, but it makes me nervous when she looks at me that way. I like to dish out but not take it, apparently.

We sit close together at a small two-top table in the back corner beneath a glowing Guinness sign. She brushes my arm when she reaches for a fry and it sends a small jolt through me. And then I realize that this is the first time just the two of us have hung out. Sure, we end up chatting in a corner together when the group hangs out more often than not, or team up for Wii nights or cornhole, but everyone else is still there to keep us both in check—because with the way we click and the looks she gives me when she thinks I’m not watching, I know damn well that it isn’t just me that’s feeling it.

But now, there’s no buffer, no one to make sure we don’t do something stupid. There’s just me, and Nat, and my good-decision-making brain slowly fucking off and letting the other one located a little farther south take over…

I clear my throat and meet her gaze, waiting for an answer.

“Nope, try again.”

“Hmm. Witness protection?” I snap and point at her, eyes lighting up. “I know! You turned state’s evidence and put a big mafia boss in prison for life and now he’s out for revenge and you saw one of his henchmen in the gala?” She giggles and I can’t help but grin.

“You watch too muchLaw & Order. Plus to turn state’s evidence, I would have to be a criminal myself.” She quirks a brow.

“I could see you doing all sorts of nefarious activities, Natalie.” Her lips curl upwards and she shrugs a shoulder.

“Fair.”

I take another drink and try to figure out the absolute mystery that is Nat Morgan. She has a way of answering personal questions yet notactuallyanswering them, and somehow you don’t really notice it until hours later. It’s an art, really. Very impressive.

I know that she’s from Seattle and went to Yale, which I actually only know because Hattie—or Mac, as we all call her—made a comment about being surrounded by all the Ivy Leaguers giving her a complex, and worked on the East Coast after graduation for a few years. I know she came back this way about a year ago after her mom died and that she’s not very close to her dad who’s a realtor or something. I know she’s way overqualified for her job as an assistant but seems content in it for now. I know she loves Kona Big Waves and cheese fries, and is an absolute menace when it comes to hustling guys at the pool table. I may or may not have been a victim myself and had to cough up threehundred bucks to the little con woman one of the first few times we all hung out. I will admit it’s kind of hot watching her do it to other poor souls though. Don’t ask me to explain.

But that’s about it. I don’t know much past surface-level stuff like favorite sports teams and that she likes to do Karaoke when she drinks (and can actually carry a pretty good tune). But I want to know. I want to know more about her, therealher that I get the feeling she’s hiding from the world for who knows what reason.

“Well, it’s gotta be an ex then,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

She hikes a shoulder. “I was avoiding someone, yeah. Aaron.” A stupid fucking jolt of annoyance and jealousy spikes in my chest. Who the hell is this Aaron guy? Then I frown, shocked at my response. I don’t fucking do jealousy, especially not with someone I’m not even dating. Not that I date at all. Whatever. Bottom line is that Nat can have as many ex-boyfriends as she wants. Why should that chap my ass?

…But what if he’s the kind of ex that Hattie—or Mac as we all call her—has? I don’t know much, but I know enough, and if this Aaron guy is even half as bad as Mac’s ex, then maybe I need to go back to the gala and have a little chat with him. I’m typically pretty easy going off the ice, but when the situation calls for it, I’m not at all afraid to get my knuckles bloody.

“He’s not like…stalking you, right?” I ask, not wanting to jump into her personal business if I’m not wanted there, but needing an answer at the same time. Her brow furrows for a moment but then amusement sparks in her gray eyes and her lips curl into a soft smile.

“Why? Would you go back and rough him up if I said yes?”

“Hell yeah I would. That shit doesn’t fly,” I answer automatically. Her brows rise in surprise and I know what she’s thinking, so I push on. “Look, I may be a playboy, so I know whatyou’re thinking, but I’m the kind that respects women, fuckingworshipsthem, and guys who don’t understand respect need to be taught some manners.”

---