“Maybe,” I agree.

She turns slightly, giving me a glimpse of her profile. Her cheeks are flushed pink. I blink a couple of times, because she seems incredibly familiar.

“I think I know her,” I mumble, more to myself than to Bishop.

“Not as well as our GM does, by the look of things.”

It hits me like a puck in the chest without pads on. I do know her. Queenie. My one-night stand who bailed the next morning and left a Post-it and panties hanging from my doorknob. Destroyed panties. “Oh God.”

Did I sleep with the GM’s girlfriend? Memories come barreling into my brain, and I want to sink into the floor. My behavior that night was highly atypical. Everything about that night was. I chalked it up to the alcohol, the family drama, and the fact that she seemed to be a very eager and willing participant in our adventures. Do not think about the things you did to her.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about Queenie and our night together. I’ve even considered driving by the bar where we met, but I don’t know if she’s likely to show up there. And it’s not as if I can ask the bartender about her without looking like a creep. Besides, if she wanted me to have her number, she would’ve left it.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to hurl,” Bishop asks.

I cover my mouth with my palm, not because I’m going to be ill but to hide the fact that it’s hanging open and I can’t seem to close it. Although my stomach is starting to do those awful somersaults that will soon turn into full-on nausea. The kind I used to get when I’d first hit the ice for a game.

This is bad. Really bad. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I’ve always been in committed relationships, and I prefer to get to know my bed partners before they actually get into bed with me. Teen pregnancy was pretty common where I grew up in Tennessee, because there wasn’t much else to do apart from playing sports or getting into trouble with drugs and alcohol—my brother, Gerald, went the latter route. I obviously fit into the sports category. By the time I became a teenager, my parents had finally learned their lesson. It was drilled into me to never become that kind of statistic, or to turn my girlfriend into a mom before she was ready to take on more than senior-level algebra.

Ironic how my actual mother would’ve been one of those girls had my grandparents not made the choices they had.

“King?” Bishop nudges me. “You’re staring, man.”

Jake whistles with his fingers, causing the woman beside him to cringe but then quickly school her expression into an uncertain smile. “Who’s ready for a new season?”

He’s rewarded with a chorus of cheers from the players. Waters stands off to the side, clapping enthusiastically. He generally runs all team meetings, but Jake is a hands-on GM, so he always manages first-meeting intros before he hands it over to our coach.

Jake waits for everyone to settle down and take their seats before he continues. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to my personal assistant, Queenie.” He throws his arm over her shoulder and pulls her into his side.

A hot spike of anger rushes down my spine—it’s a foreign feeling. I’m usually very levelheaded. But not right now. It’s obvious by the way Jake and Queenie interact that there’s a relationship there. Is she a cheater? Did she make me one? There’s a definite age gap. He’s young for a GM, but he’s in his forties, and I’m pretty sure she’s in her midtwenties.

“She also happens to be my daughter, so don’t get any ideas, boys.” He somehow manages to wink and glare at the same time.

And it just went from bad to worse.

My one-night stand isn’t my GM’s girlfriend; she’s his daughter.

CHAPTER 3

I WISH THE FLOOR WOULD SWALLOW ME

Queenie

This is not happening. I blink several times, hoping that my lack of sleep last night is causing me to hallucinate. It’s not.

My hookup from six weeks ago is sitting front and center amid a sea of hockey players.

What are the freaking chances?

My mouth is suddenly dry and my nipples harden as the memories wash over me. Such a pretty boy. So nicely dressed, so polite. So very, very respectful. But good God, get that man’s clothes off and get him into a bed, and it’s a whole different story. One I’d like to write a few more chapters in, or maybe an entire novel—a long one. I took the Boy Scout out of the polo and unleashed a very dirty man.

Based on his wide-eyed, horror-struck expression, he’s as shocked to see me as I am to see him.

For the past six weeks I’ve replayed that night, and the following morning, in my head. I can’t believe I left a Post-it and my destroyed panties behind. I wonder if he threw them out. Or kept them.

I wonder if he was as disappointed as I was that I didn’t bother to leave a number. I still have his address, thanks to the Uber ride from his place to the diner my dad and I frequent every single Saturday.

The father who I now work for.

Who manages this guy’s team.

Who told me not to get involved with any of the players. It’s day one, and I’ve already inadvertently gone against the one request he made.

This isn’t a great situation, and, based on how pale Ryan’s face has gone, I’m thinking he feels exactly the same way.

I’m so stunned I forget to be embarrassed about the fact that my dad pulled the father card in front of the entire team.

“Queenie?”

I drag my gaze away from my one-night stand—I’ve been staring at him—and give my attention to my dad. I smile questioningly. “Yes, Jake?”

His right eye twitches, like he has something in it. But he doesn’t. It means he’s irritated, likely because I’m calling him by his first name, and there’s some annoyance in my tone. I’m sure I also appear mortified, but not for the reason he probably thinks.

He passes me a stack of folders. “Can you hand these out, please?”

I want to say no, because that means I’ll have to make some kind of purposeful eye contact with Ryan. But since I’m my father’s assistant, my role is literally to do every single menial task that could potentially distract him from anything important. Which means I get the job of handing things out to the team, and collecting them and filing them. Riveting work, really.

If I’d been on the ball this morning, which I was not, I would’ve had the forms already set on the tables to make it easier on myself and the players. And then I could avoid some up close and personal embarrassment.

“Of course.” I take the folders with clammy hands and start on the left side of the room, setting one in front of each player. I get a lot of mumbled thanks and brief, uncomfortable smiles.

Maybe my dad was right about the dress not being the best idea. Most of these guys are wearing some kind of casual pants and T-shirts. A few wear jeans. Ryan has on a pair of gray casual pants and a white polo. I try to keep my breathing even and a smile plastered on my face as I hand him a folder. We make eye contact. My nipples harden further. Thank God I’m wearing a padded bra.

His lips part and his tongue peeks out to wet the bottom one. I remember, very, very vividly, how it felt to have that tongue circling my bare nipple, among other places. Some kind of sound, halfway between a groan and a sigh, slips out of my mouth.

His eyes widen and his cheeks flush. I’m still holding the folder, and he’s trying to free it from my hand. All of this takes place over a few short seconds, but I feel like there’s a spotlight on us and that every single person can read the thoughts in my head.

His deep, rich voice feels like a caress between my thighs when he murmurs thank you. I’m about to step away when his fingers wrap around my wrist to stop me from moving on. His hand is just as big, warm, and rough as I remember. I don’t expect the contact, so I jolt and nearly lose my hold on a few of the folders.

He releases my wrist. “You dropped something.” He leans down and picks up a piece of paper. I have no idea what I could’ve possibly dropped, since all I’m holding are folders. He slips the fallen piece of paper into my hand and mumbles something about needing to talk. I give him a strained smile before I move to the next table.

He’s certainly right about the talking part, but there’s no way it’s going to happen in a roomful of his teammates with my dad watching.

During the meeting—which lasts a good two hours—I find out my hookup’s last name is Kingston and he’s the team goalie. That certainly explains his incredible flexibility. It would be fantastic if I could stop thinking about the time we spent together while naked.