Page 5 of Checking Mr. Wrong
I open it, finding a brief note:Here’s the bio and pic of thatplayer you need to talk to—Asher Tremblay. Here’s his number, touch base with him when you can.
Attached is a photo of Asher Tremblay in full hockey gear, grinning like he’s just won the Stanley Cup, a bio, and his digits so I can call him.
My head snaps up, my gaze darting to the man sitting next to me. The easy smile. The blond hair. The stupidly carefree energy.
Of course, it’s him.
He glances my way, catching my stunned expression. “Something wrong?”
“Nope.” I clamp my phone to my chest and force a tight smile. “Everything’s just peachy.”
But inside, I’m screaming.
CHAPTER 2
ASHER
The road snakesthrough the mountains, the asphalt twisting and turning like a puck in overtime. On either side, the trees are on fire—not literally, but the colors make it look like the hills are ablaze. Reds so rich they make stop signs jealous, oranges that look like they were plucked right from a pumpkin patch, and yellows so bright they could outshine a team’s championship banner.
As we crest the ridge, the town of Maple Falls spreads out below us, nestled snugly in a valley like it’s trying to hide from the rest of the world. It’s picture-perfect, almost like someone planned it for a postcard. There’s a creek cutting through the middle, its surface shimmering in the late afternoon sun. When I first arrived and went down Main Street, I was blown away at how the buildings look like they’ve been there forever, with their brick facades and hand-painted signs advertising things likeShirley May’s Diner,The Glass Olive, andFalling for Books.
It’s the kind of scenery that makes me wish I had someone with me who appreciates it as much as I do. Playing hockey and choosing to make it a career has meant that some things have nothad as much attention as I would like to have given them. Like my love life.
I let my line of sight make its way over to the other passenger sharing the backseat with me, and judging from the scowl across her face, I don’t think she’s as impressed with this view as I am. In fact, she’s spent most of the ride so far rage-chomping on the ice from her drink. I’ll bet you one hundred dollars she sleeps with a mouthguard. Someone this tightly wound would have to grind their teeth all night long.
“Stunning, huh?” My lame attempt at small talk.
“What?” she asks, not even bothering to turn to look my way.
I gesture to the scenery outside of our speeding car. “This area. Maple Falls. It’s pretty here.”
“That’s a matter of personal interpretation,” she says as she turns to face me, still crunching on her ice with her mouth wide open. It’s as if she’s daring me to ask her to stop.
When our building supervisor at the Maple Falls Arena overheard me yesterday saying I needed to get to the airport today, he’d been quick to offer me some last-minute help. I’d just gotten here, but there was a predicament: I made it but my hockey gear didn’t. When I called the airline, the news got even better. Normally, they’d deliver a lost bag like this one, but because of its size, I needed to be at the airport to sign for it, no ifs, ands, or buts.
And, considering today is my first day of practice in the NHL, I did not want to show up without my gear, because how sad would that be?
That’s when Murray jumped in, saying his buddy Joe was picking up his stepdaughter who was coming in on an early morning flight. I think I hugged him, I was so happy, but he’d started laughing. I asked if she would mind, and he kept laughing, telling me good luck and that she’s “a lot” before he was called away for an emergency in the coaches’ offices.
While yesterday I was left curious about this woman, this stepdaughter I’d be sharing a car with, I’ll admit I was a bitbefuddled by how he acted. Only now that she’s here in front of me, I’m beginning to understand the undertone of his message.
What Murray also did not share was that his stepdaughter is beyondgorgeous.I’m not a guy who grabs a fashion magazine, but when I tell you she looks like she is fresh off the cover of one, I mean it. This woman might be rocking a chip on her shoulder the size of a loaf of sourdough, but she’s stunning—like take-my-breath-away beautiful.
“I’m Asher,” I say with a nod, hoping she’ll come to understand that I am not a foe. Not a friend either, yet, but definitely not a foe.
She eyes me, looking at me as if she half expects me to grab her purse and toss it out the window. “Mabel.”
“Nice to meet you, Mabel. You from here?”
She nods. “Born and raised in Maple Falls.”
She still watches me while I take a pause. The tiniest of jokes pops up like a cartoon bubble over my head. “Wait. You’re Mabel. From Maple Falls?”
“I know where this is headed, and you’re not funny,” she retorts dryly as she shoots another glare my way.
“Is your last name ‘Syrup’?” I ask innocently as Joe does me a solid and cracks up from the front seat. “That would be hilarious.”
Even when she glares, it’s kinda sexy. I keep her pinned in my line of sight as I’m hit with a subtle wave of recognition. “Do we know each other from?—”
