Page 16 of The Nanny Goal

I just hate what I would have given him that night if we weren’t interrupted. Even though we didn’t do everything I’d planned, I pickedhimto pluck my cherry, proverbially and literally.

What a near miss that was.

Shuddering, I jerk back and bump into the person next to me, who clearly ignored theno food or beveragesign at the front of the store, because he’s holding an iced coffee. Or he was, until I knocked into him, and now that coffee is quickly seeping into my long-sleeved cotton shirt.

“What the fuck, lady?”

He gestures wildly, and coffee droplets spray onto the display jersey in front of us.

I snatch the cup from his hand. “This isn’t allowed in here.”

He disappears into the crowd, leaving me looking responsible for a stained jersey.

One of the shop staff narrows their eyes at me and pulls a mobile card payment device out of a holster on their hip. “Would you like me to ring that up for you, miss?”

Me? I didn’t bring a coffee in here!

But I can just see the hockey gossip spreading if I make a scene.Jeff Granger’s daughter…Or insert any of my brothers. Connor, maybe. He’s the most conventionally good-looking of them. Or Forrest. People write fan fiction about him. Wouldn’t take much to twist the idea that his sister is a spoiled brat into A Whole Thing.

Heart in my throat, I accept my fate. Apparently, I’m going to pay…

He scans the tag.

Three hundred and fifty dollars?

Mother of God.

That’s a serious punishment.

“What do I have to do to make this better?” I mutter under my breath.

The clerk is clearly not listening. “Enjoy the game!”

I most certainly will not.

I drag myself to the line for the nearest bathroom. By the time I get inside, my Minnesota t-shirt is pretty ugly looking. It actually looks like a fan deliberately threw something at me for daring to wear the visitor’s colours.

I take it off and set it on the counter and focus on the brand-new jersey I just bought instead, since that has fewer coffee spots on it. I rinse the arm under the sink, rubbing at the marks until they fade. Then I grab some paper towels and turn it over to dry it from all angles.

That’s when I see the name on the back.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Heart sinking, I pull Alexei’s jersey over my head. It’s way too big for me. I try to style it in the mirror, but quickly give up.

Whatever.

My mother will be amused, at the very least.

I toss the ruined shirt in the garbage, then make my way through the concourse. It’s my first time visiting the Hamilton arena, and I like it. I know a bunch of the players on the team from spending a week with them last summer—before Alexei was traded here—so if circumstances were different, I would be happy to cheer for them.

Right now, some of the friends I made on that trip are probably gathering in a suite upstairs for the WAGs and other family members.

I haven’t told them I’m here, for complicated reasons I don’t really want to think about.

Reason, singular. Six feet, four inches tall. Two hundred and ten pounds before a game, one ninety-nine after a hard match, apparently, according to Forrest, who doesn’t know that I never want to know interesting facts about his best friend.

And now I’m thinking about himagain.

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