Page 7 of The Nanny Goal

No more international divas who like to tag NHL players on their Instagram posts but have no interest in moving to Calgary, Alberta. Who will dangle promises for years that itmighthappen.

In other words, no more Tatyana.

I may have only dated one woman who fits that profile, off and on over the last three years, but she’s been enough of a handful for a lifetime.

Which is why I’m arriving fifteen minutes early at the address Forrest texted me. I can’t get into trouble at a Granger family dinner.

I give my name to the hostess, and she gestures for me to wait in the small bar to the side.

The only other customer in that space is a compact little blonde woman who has exploded out of an oversized puffy jacket, a thick wool toque, and a bright purple pair of fuzzy mittens, all of which are scattered over the barstools around her.

She’s on the phone, nodding with an aggressive level of agreement as she listens to whoever she’s talking to, so I take a seat at the far end to give her space.

“What’ll you have?” The bartender asks.

“Lime and soda,” I say.

No drinking the night before a game where I’m getting a rare start. As the third-string goalie, I sit on the bench more often than not, so knowing I’m in net tomorrow is a big deal.

The woman on the phone tips her head back to stare at the ceiling, a dramatic reaction to whatever is being said to her, and her black turtleneck slides down, revealing the delicate curve of her throat and jaw. Her hair is a wild but short mane of sunshine rays.

It would look incredible spread across my pillow.

Alexei Artyomov, at the very least find out if she is local before you jump straight to picturing her naked.

Not that I need her naked for what I could do with her.

That turtleneck is no match for my hands.

And her loose-fitting, high-waisted jeans could be unzipped in a flash.

It’s not the sexiest outfit ever invented, but I find myself cataloguing every little piece of it.

As if she can feel me looking at her, she rolls her neck and glances sideways, bringing her bright gaze to lock on my face. Her brows jump in surprise when I don’t look away.

And her eyes spark with undeniable interest.

“K, well, I have to go. No, they aren’t here yet, but— Why do you think I’d get into trouble?” She laughs, and it rolls through me like thick honey. “Cecilia, go practice. Love you.”

She sets her phone down as the bartender slides an Old Fashioned in front of her. She lifts her drink in the air to me. “To anxious friends.”

Friends. Not lovers.

I gratefully take the soda the bartender hands me, and salute her back.

“Cheers to that,” I murmur, watching her mouth work.

Trouble, I’m sure.

I still get up and circle around the bar.

She holds my gaze again, and holy fuck I like the way she looks at me.

Her lips are wet from her drink, soft and wet and curling up at the edges?—

“There’s my little sister,” Forrest says from out of nowhere.

“Come here, Em Bear,” says a matching voice.

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