After the meeting there’s a team workout led by the coach, Alex Waters. He appears to be younger than my dad, by five years or so if I had to guess. He’s built the same as the hockey players and looks like he should be an underwear model or something.

I don’t have a chance to check the piece of paper Ryan gave me—or “King,” as everyone else seems to call him, including my father—because I’m too busy trying to decipher the players’ barely legible handwriting. Except for Ryan’s, which is ridiculously neat.

I don’t even have time to look Ryan up on social media because I’m too busy transcribing notes, making copies, and getting my father coffee. By five I’ve decided I need to wean him down to fewer than six cups a day, or at least alternate between decaf and caffeinated since he drinks so much of it. And I’m going to try to switch out the cream for milk to save his poor arteries.

I set the one-sugar, one-cream coffee on his desk. “Can I get you anything else?”

He peers over the frames of his reading glasses—they’re new, and he hates them. “I think I’m good for now. You did a great job today, Queenie. You should be proud of yourself.”

I feel like a glorified lackey in a pretty dress, but I appreciate his trying to make me feel good with the compliment. “Thanks, Dad.”

He smiles and taps the end of his pen on the desk. “I’ve got another hour or so of paperwork to finish up, but you can head out if you want.”

“I can wait; it’s not a big deal.” I’ll just internet stalk my hookup.

“No point in you hanging around for nothing. You can take an Uber, and I’ll meet you at home.”

“Sure. Okay. That sounds good.”

I leave my dad to his paperwork, quickly tidy my desk, order an Uber, and head for the front doors of the arena. It’s quiet in the building, the team workout long over, and most of the administrative staff have already left.

The car is already waiting for me, so I slip into the back seat. Uber Man is super chatty. I Mm-hmm and make other affirmative sounds while he regales me with his plan to open up his street-taco shop. At least he has a dream and a plan to go after it. By the time he drops me off at the house, I’m craving tacos.

I walk around the side of the house and down the short path to the guesthouse, which is a one-bedroom miniature bungalow—it’s three times as big as my previous apartment and much, much nicer. Not that I need the space, or the luxury. In fact, I’d trade it in a heartbeat if it meant I’d be more self-sufficient and would have a real direction in life. At least my dad is understanding, and he likes having me around.

As soon as I’m inside my apartment, I flip open my planner and retrieve the piece of paper Ryan gave me this morning. It’s actually a grocery receipt. I get caught up in scanning the items he purchased. Four gallons of milk? Geez, he must really love dairy.

I flip it over and scan the rushed but neat writing on the back. Receipt paper is notorious for smudging, and my hands were clammy when I took this from him, so the ink is smeared across the white paper, making it difficult to read. I think it says Please call me, and there’s a phone number, but I can’t tell if the second number is a three or a six or a nine, or what.

I drop down on the couch and squint at the receipt some more. I definitely need to figure out how to handle this. The last thing I want is my dad finding out I messed around with one of these guys, when he specifically asked me not to.

I exhale a long breath and watch the ceiling fan spin for a minute. How the hell am I going to see this guy every single day and not think about all the amazing things he did to my body?

CHAPTER 4

CREEPING CREEPER

Kingston

“I think it might be better for both of us if we didn’t talk for a while.” I cringe and turn down the volume as Jessica’s sob comes through the surround sound. I’ve been sitting in my car for the past hour. At first I was waiting for Queenie to leave the arena, but Jessica called, so now I’m trying to explain, again, why her texting me every day isn’t in either of our best interests.

“D-d-don’t you still care about me?” she says between sobs.

“Of course I still care, Jessica, but this is making it impossible for either of us to move on.”

My response is followed by more sobbing. I spend the next ten minutes trying to reassure her that it’s not her, it’s me, and that not talking for a while doesn’t mean we’ll never speak again. I’m so busy talking her down from the emotional ledge that I nearly miss Queenie leaving for the day.

As it is, I watch her get into an Uber. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to talk to her, so I hastily end the call with Jessica and follow the Uber, hoping I can catch her. I have to drive over the speed limit and run a couple of stale yellows to avoid losing her.

Based on the neighborhood, and the direction we’re headed, I have a feeling she might live with her dad. I’ve been to Jake’s a couple of times for team get-togethers over the years. He lives on the corner, so I pass the driveway and make a right before parking on the street at the side of the house.

Jake is still at the arena, although I have no idea how far behind Queenie he’ll be, so I need to make a move. I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs and cut the engine. After stepping out of the vehicle, I round the corner and knock on the front door, then ring the doorbell, but no one answers. It’s a nice day, so maybe she’s outside.

I have limited options, so I follow the driveway to the back of the house, past the detached garage, and down a short path that leads to a quaint bungalow. Beyond that is an Olympic-size pool.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, scaring the crap out of me, and I nearly stumble into a rosebush. I check to see if maybe it’s Queenie messaging, finally, but it’s Hanna. While I’m generally pretty open with her about things, I never mentioned my one-night stand, and I’ve been avoiding the family chat today because I’m freaked out. I’m sure she’s noticed.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and knock on the door of the bungalow. After thirty seconds, no one answers, so I knock a second time but still get nothing. Maybe she’s by the pool. I round the back of the bungalow. A small table and a pair of lounge chairs are arranged close to the back door.

I scan the pool area, but it’s empty of Queenie. She has to be inside.

I approach the back door and have to step over a potted plant and some empty containers. I open the screen door, which groans on its hinges, and knock for the third time. Curtains cover the windows, but there’s a small gap in the gauzy fabric, allowing me an inadvertent glimpse inside.

The floor plan is open concept, so I can see from one end of the small bungalow to the other. The place is messy, dishes littering the counter, clothes layered over chairs. In one corner of the kitchen is an easel draped with a paint-streaked white sheet.

I’m poised to knock again, when Queenie appears in the narrow gap. Between one blink and the next the pretty navy dress she was wearing today slips over her shoulders, exposing her bra straps. She’s undressing in the middle of her living room.

I take a quick step back, aware this is a horrible invasion of privacy. I trip over a ceramic flowerpot and stumble into one of the lounge chairs. It tips over, landing on the stone patio with a loud crash.

I freeze as the curtain is yanked open. One of her arms is barred across her chest, covering most of her bra and her cleavage. Most, but not all. The top half of her dress hangs loose around her waist. It takes an incredible amount of willpower to keep my eyes from dipping down, away from her face.

Queenie’s gorgeous wide eyes meet mine through the glass. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows pull down and then shoot up. “What the fuck?” Her voice is slightly muffled through the glass, but I can still hear her as clearly as I can see her.

The curtain drops, and her form moves away from the window. I hope she doesn’t call the police on me.

“Queenie?” I knock on the window and whisper-yell. “I’m sorry. It’s not what it looks like!”

A few seconds later the lock clicks. The storm door flies open as Queenie appears, again. “So you weren’t watching me get undressed?”

“I knocked a bunch of times, but you didn’t answer. I didn’t know you were getting changed. I’m sorry.” I’ve raised a hand to cover my eyes when she lowers the arm barred across her chest. I’m not quite fast enough, so I catch a glimpse of pink lace cups before my hand is in place and my lids are closed.

Several very long seconds later, she tugs on the back of my hand. I allow it to drop but keep my eyes closed. “Are you decent?”

“You didn’t seem to be too worried about my decency when you were peeking in my window.”

“It was an accident. And you were changing in your living room.”

“Usually there aren’t random hockey players spying on me. And you can open your eyes.”

I crack a lid, relieved to find she’s wearing a wrinkled tank top. “I’m so—”