Page 3 of Shootout Daddies
“Sorry it’s so loud,” Tanner says, nudging a fresh beer into my hand. He looks flushed, cheeks high with adrenaline, his dark brown curls damp and messy under a backward cap. He’s still in his team tee, charcoal gray and hugging his torso like a second skin.
“You did good,” I say over the noise, raising my drink. “Scoring in the second period? Not bad at all.”
Tanner laughs and leans in. “I told you we would win.”
“Brooke must be so happy.”
“She really is. She called me right after the game ended.” He grins, but it’s distracted. I clock the way his gaze flicks toward the corner, where a man in a tailored suit stands nursing a scotch.
“Someone important?”
“A sponsor.”
“One of the sportswear guys?” I ask.
“Mmhmm. From Conquer Athletics. Been trying to get them to sponsor me.”
“Go,” I tell him. “Talk to him before he leaves.”
“You sure?”
“Tanner. I’m a New Yorker. I can totally handle a couple of minutes on my own.”
He chuckles and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Back in a bit.”
I nod and slip away, finding the side patio. The music softens as the glass doors shut behind me, muting the party to a low hum. The balcony wraps around the bar, private enough to breathe, and above it, the moon is drowning in clouds.
I tug my dress down a few inches, the silky hem now brushing just above my knees. Brooke had practically dragged me to some high-end spa two weeks ago, insisting that I couldn’t start a “hot girl summer” in Miami with neglected limbs.
“It’s not just about smooth legs,” she’d said, while a wax strip threatened to end our friendship. “It’s a spiritual reset.”
I’d screamed. She’d laughed.
Now, standing barefoot on the cool tiles in a blue wrap dress, with the night wrapped around me, I kind of get what she meant. Miami’s different. Warm. Open. Like it might actually let me exhale.
So different from New York, where everything is always one breath away from grimy and cold. Here, the air smells like hibiscus and salt.
A beat of laughter floats up from the street. Somewhere in the distance, a bass-heavy car stereo hums. I sip my beer and let my body relax into the moment.
The door clicks opens behind me, and I turn.
He’s taller than I expected—broad and dark, the kind of presence you don’t justseebutregister. Black close-cropped curls, damp at the edges like he just ran a hand through them. Hazel eyes, flecked with gold. They catch the rooftop light like sea glass, locking on mine for a second longer than they should.
He’s changed out of his uniform and is in black joggers and a plain white tee. His arms are covered in tattoos—black and gray sleeves that run down to the backs of his hands. Bold lines. Script. Something that looks like wings curling around a phoenix.
Rhett Collins. Defenseman. Number six.
He gives me a lopsided smile, easy and unapologetic. “Didn’t know this spot was taken.”
“I can leave.”
“Don’t.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I…?”
I arch a brow. “Aren’t you, like, a professional athlete?”
He laughs and lights the cigarette anyway, shielding the flame with one tattooed hand. “Don’t rat me out.”
I lift my beer in mock solemnity. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
