by Amanda Cowen
“Hey! I asked you something,” he says, his deep, dark voice sending a tingle of awareness up my spine. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Quinn!” My stupid sister shouts, looking up at him and batting her eyes. “We’re sisters.”
“Last name?” he commands, pointing a long finger at me.
I shoot Lyndsey a warning look, which I’m sure she’s about to ignore, but I’m saved when the buzzer sounds, releasing him from the penalty box. His stare burns into me while I stand there speechless, hearing nothing but the hectic pounding on my heart. Opening the gate, he never takes his eyes off mine.
He gives me a dangerous heart-thudding smile and shouts, “Next goal I get—it’s for you, Mittens.”
He tosses on his helmet, and in an instant, he is unleashed like a bat out of hell, flying across the ice. The cheers of his fans pick up and ricochet into the rafters, piercing my ears with chants of “Brooks! Brooks! Brooks!”
“Holy shit!” Lyndsey grips my arm. “Did that just happen? Did Cash Brooks just practically climb over the penalty box and ask you your name? Like really? Next goal is for you? Are you kidding me? I hate you!” She pushes me, and I fall back into my seat.
“Excuse me? I hate you.” I rise to my feet. “Why on earth did you tell him my name?”
“Have you lost your mind? When Cash Brooks, the absolute hottest guy on the planet, asks you who you are, you tell him.”
“That man is a jackass, and all you girls are out of your minds,” I mumble.
Lyndsey folds her arms on her chest. The look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Yeah, right. Sex on legs said his next goal is for you, and you don’t even care.”
“He is a raging lunatic and clearly full of himself.”
“I have been coming to every game, making Dad drag me to every team event for the past few months trying to get Cash to notice me. Then you show up, dressed like a walking Banana Republic ad, and he asks you your name and he says he is going to score a goal for you and you don’t even care?” She glares at me with her big brown eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Unbelievable.”
The sirens go off and the crowd goes wild, bringing our attention back to the action of the game. My eyes find Cash at the opposite end of the ice, getting smothered by a group of his teammates. His gorgeous smile illuminates the entire rink when he fists pumps the air bringing his stick above his head. The Jumbotron hanging from the rafters’ replays Cash’s spectacular goal. A well-earned top corner shot that blindsided the goalie, reigniting the cheers of the Bexley Bruisers fans.
“He did not just score that goal!” Lyndsey shrieks, jumping up and down, yanking on my arm. “What did it take, like thirty seconds? That’s what I call making good on a promise.”
Cash’s powerful legs slice across the ice in his black skates toward our section. The closer he gets, the more the yelling and the movement of the crowd escalates to a feverish pace. He slows down, his eyes tauntingly hot, his grin enticing. He lowers his victory fist from the air, thumping it once, twice against his chest, then points his finger right at me. With a wink, he skates away, leaving me in a hot mess as the sirens blow, ending the first period.
Shuffling footsteps and the buzz of excited chatter fills the arena, mingling with the techno beats blaring from the speakers. I watch tensely from my seat, as the Bexley Bruisers and their opposing team the Jersey Heat, are escorted by their coaches toward their respective dressing rooms. But something about the way Cash lingers behind, his stare fixed in my direction from across the rink, makes my knees weaken.
“Somebody looks a little hot and bothered.” Lyndsey arches a perfectly waxed brow at me. “He’s hot, right? Admit it.”
“Shut up, Lynds.” I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m changing seats. There must be some horny girl stuck in the nosebleeds dying to be harassed by Cash Brooks during the second period. I’m going to find her and trade spots.” I shuffle my way down the cramped row to the aisle.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” Lyndsey says, following me. “I don’t want to sit next to some puck bunny.”
“Then you can change seats too,” I say, marching up the concrete steps.
“Seriously?” Lyndsey whines.
“Seriously.”
I dodge every drunk and jersey-wearing fan double fisting sky-high beers. Lyndsey’s heels click behind me as I push upward through the crowds. I’m tempted to head for the exit instead of the nosebleeds.
I have never ever been so sexually rattled. Beads of sweat pop up on my brow and trickle between my cleavage, an uncomfortable side effect from being mind-fucked by Cash Brooks. I tell myself leaving our prime seats has nothing to do with the butterflies he gave me. I just need a better view of the sponsorships on the boards. Finding a seat in the nosebleeds and far away from the penalty box will help give me a full view of the arena.
Thanks to Cash Brooks, I’ll find an internship in no time.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Lyndsey and I take her bratty little Pekingese for a walk in the off leash dog park, a few blocks west of her condo. Moving along the gravel path, under the tall leafy birch trees, I carry both our hot coffees, while Lyndsey’s eyes are glued to her iPhone, researching Cash Brooks via a Google search.
I act with indifferent disinterest, by rolling my eyes and groaning every time she highlights one of his many his athletic accomplishments. But the truth is I can’t stop hanging on to every word rolling off her tongue about this bad boy hockey star.
Amazing.
Is the only word running through my mind while Lyndsey continues to ramble off his entire hockey career history. His stats are beyond impressive. He must have bookcases full of trophies and awards he’s won. And he’s only 23? Great. He’s gorgeous and talented. How does someone of that caliber even get sent down to the American Hockey League?
“And get this…” Lyndsey smirks, wiggling her brows. “He was ranked #1 Sexiest Male Athlete by Cosmopolitan last year. And he was listed by Business Insider as the #3 Most Eligible Bachelors in Sports.”
“Why are you telling me this? I already told you I don’t care,” I lie.
“Because it is obvious after last night’s spectacle that he wants your ass. He came out during the second period and body checked some rookie to get thrown back into the penalty box. Then when he saw you weren’t in your seat, he went a little crazy, shouting at the girls who took our spot, asking them where the hell you moved to. I’ve been to a lot of games Quinn, and I have never seen him do anything like that.”
“It’s all an act,” I say, even though part of me wants to believe my nosy little sister is right and what he did wasn’t some macho act to get cheers from his fans.
“Don’t get me wrong, Cash is known for his womanizing, but last night was something else. He was like a man possessed, all cave-man like, picking you out in the crowd.” Lyndsey chuckles, not even looking up from her phone. “Any other vagina would be thanking her lucky stars. That includes me.”
“Alright. Enough. Put the phone away.” I grab for her phone.
“Omigod!” Lyndsey shrieks, blocking me with her shoulder. “A video of Cash leaning over the penalty box last night was posted on the Bexley Bruisers Facebook page.”
“What?”
“There are over a thousand comments on the post.” Her eyes are glued to the screen.
“Let me see that,” I demand.
“Hold on!” she says, swatting me away with the back of her hand. “I’m not done reading. The video is called Who is Cash’s Cinderella? Almost every single comment is from a woman asking who’s the mystery girl in mittens! You better watch out, Quinny, his crazy-assed female fans want your blood.”
“You can see me?” I ask in a panic.
“Hardly. The video’s really pixilated, so your face is blurred out. But with your white wool mittens and blue sweater, it isn
’t hard to pick you out. Everyone else has bare hands and is wearing red jerseys.” She chuckles, flashing me the video on her phone.
The second my eyes lock on the screen to see his wavy hair and strong athletic build hanging over the penalty box, my heart starts pumping faster than I’d like. I honestly do not want to be attracted to him, or any other guy for that matter. Right now, I’ve got more important things to worry about—like securing another decent internship to enhance my chances of an acceptance into Harvard.
When Lyndsey’s phone starts ringing, it cuts off the video. She glares down at her screen and groans. “Why’s Dad calling me so early in the morning on a Saturday?”
“Do you think he saw the video?” The horrible thought makes me nearly drop my coffee. Our dad has made his position on hockey players very clear to us over the years:
Stay away. They are nothing but trouble.
Lyndsey has never taken his warning seriously. Since our early teens she’s dated a streamline of hockey jocks. She’s the rule breaking rebel. I on the other hand, would never disobey him.
“Omigod, Quinn, relax. It’s not a sex tape.”
I hear Lyndsey give our father a warm greeting. Unlike my little sister, who can get away with murder when it comes to our father, I can’t seem to catch a break from his constant demands. Ever since we were kids, I was the one he pushed and she was the one he coddled. While I was expected to attend one of the top undergrad business programs in the country, maintaining a 4.0, Lyndsey went to a local college in Bexley, with an undeclared major, slutting it up around campus and frivolously spending her trust fund.
“Alright, Daddy. I promise we’ll be there.” Lyndsey smiles over at me. “Yup, seven o’clock.” I can hear our father’s deep voice on the other end of the line. “Okay. Sounds like fun. Love you too. See you then.”
“Okay, what’s going on?” I frown at her.
“I’m not sure I should tell you.” A devilish grin spreads across my sister’s glossy lips. “If I do, you might not go with me.”
“Go where?”
“Promise me that no matter what I say, you’ll come along.” She smiles like a gloating idiot.
“Promise.”
“Dad’s flying to Bexley and he asked us to meet him for dinner.”
“And…?”
She takes a sip of her coffee, her big brown eyes lighting up behind the rim of her paper cup. “And he wants us to meet him at The Nomad Bar & Grill.”
“And…?”
She slowly lowers her coffee. “And he’s hosting a team dinner for the Bruisers. I’m sure you’re Prince Charming will be there, Cinderella.”
For a moment, after rounding the corner leading into The Nomad Bar & Grill I lean against the concrete pillars leading up to the restaurant, hesitating. Lyndsey spent all afternoon teasing me with pictures of Cash Brooks that she flashed in my face from the Bexley Bruisers website. I have no clue what I am going to do if I see him.
Hopefully, he won’t even remember me. I mean, the man has thousands of women screaming his name when he’s on the ice. What’s one more face in the crowd?
Lyndsey taps her foot impatiently at top of the steps. “Come on, Quinn. I bet he won’t even recognize you without your thick wool mittens.”
“Shut up,” I mumble straightening out my cream-colored peplum dress.
“Who knows, maybe he won’t even be here,” Lyndsey says over her shoulder, walking up the steps. “Last team dinner, he didn’t bother showing up. He’s kind of a dick like that.”
I let out a sigh, hope she’s right, and reluctantly follow her inside the dimly lit restaurant. The hostess at the front door leads us down more steps then through a long hallway to the right. Lyndsey turns around and basks at my discomfort. She’s in a skin-tight neon pink dress that she insisted she wear, ignoring my requests that she not attract any more attention to us.
There is a low buzz emanating from behind the black lacquer doors leading into the private area our father reserved for his beloved team. The closer we get, the louder it becomes and the clearer the sound of multiple male voices is from the other side. When the hostess places her hand on the shiny silver knob, I know there is no turning back.
When the doors open, I stop dead in my tracks. The room is packed with a hundred or so men and maybe a handful of women, making it impossible to move forward. The place has the ambience of a swanky lounge. High top tables for mingling and velvet red sofas are thrown in random corners for seating. This barely looks like a dinner setting, and I am a little confused, until my eyes find three long and formal tables set up in the far back corner.
“Hey, Lyndsey, over here,” a rough, deep voice shouts from the left.
Lyndsey looks over at a tall, broad blond with hair in a wild spiky mess waving her over. He’s in a group of four guys gathered around the bar. Wearing expensive tailored suits, they all look to be around our age, in their early twenties. Based on their spectacular physiques, I assume they are all teammates on the Bruisers.
“Hi, Louis,” Lyndsey says as we approach their circle.
Louis practically blushes, taking a sip from his drink. I have to smile, noticing my sister’s oblivion to the way he keeps sneaking lustful looks at her. He’s definitely the best looking one of out the four, with his broad shoulders and soft hazel eyes. The two guys on either side of him are both a bit shorter, stocky with the same crooked nose. The fourth guy has a buzz cut and scar above his right eye.
They all must know about Louis’s unspoken claim on Lyndsey, because all three of them gawk in my direction.
“Well, well, Miss Ashby. What a pleasant surprise.” Louis smiles, draping his arm around her bare shoulders, then looks in my direction. “Are you going to introduce us to your friend?”
“This is Quinn, my sister. The other Ashby,” Lyndsey says with an adorable smile that makes Louis zero in on her lips. “She’s the one I told you about that ditched me for the past four years to study at the University of Pennsylvania.”
I give them an awkward wave, watching them study my uncomfortable presence.
“Quinn, this is Louis.” Lyndsey peels his hand off her shoulders. Then she points at one of the look-alikes. “This is Fisher.” Her finger slides over to the buzz cut. “This is Viktor.” And then she points to the other look-alike. “And this is Jeremy. They all play on the Bruisers”
“Ah Hilton’s other pride and joy,” Jeremy says with a half-smile. “When Hilton became President of Hockey Operations he told us he had a second daughter. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“So where’s Cash?” Lyndsey interrupts.
“You’re not still into him are you?” Louis asks, sounding jealous.
“No, just curious,” she says, sending a smug look in my direction.
“Fuck, who knows where he is?” Viktor shrugs. “He’d better show up in the next fifteen minutes. Theo is going to be furious if he has to drive to his penthouse again and yank him out of an orgy.”
“He’s having an orgy?” Lyndsey asks, looking intrigued.
“When I left his place, he had two girls there.” Louis mumbles.
Great. Not only is he a goon on the ice, he’s also some sort of sex demon.
“Can we get you ladies a drink?” Louis changes the subject, with his eyes stuck on Lyndsey’s cleavage.
“Yes, I’ll have a martini,” she says. I shoot her an annoyed look. Lyndsey’s constant need to have a drink in her hand worries me. For what we’ve been though, I’d wish she would stop associating fun with alcohol.
“What about you, Quinn?” Viktor asks.
“Oh no thank you. I don’t drink.” I reply, and look over at Lyndsey. She avoids my gaze, and shrugs at Viktor like she’s forgotten why I’ve chosen to steer clear of alcohol, which only irritates me further.
“Really?” he asks in disbelief.
I nod, “Yes really. But thank you for offering.”
“Can I get you something else? A water?” Viktor asks.
“One drink isn’t going to kill you.” Lyndsey says.
“A water would be great. Thank you.” I reply to Viktor, biting back my continued annoyance with my sister.
“Wait here, ladies. I'll grab your drinks.” Viktor says.
“I’ll come with you.” Fisher follows Viktor to the bar.
The hole where Viktor and Fisher stood is replaced by a view of our father a few feet away talking among a group of men. In mid-laugh, his eyes travel over to our circle, a pleased grin on his face.
“Girls, you’re here.” He pushes through the crowd.
Lyndsey squeals, running in his direction, and wraps her arms around his neck. “Daddy!”
“You girls look beautiful.” He smiles proudly, straightening out his tie that Lyndsey ruffled. He glances over at his players. “You boys better treat my daughters like ladies or I’ll have your asses traded.” He chuckles, and Louis and Jeremy awkwardly join in, but I know from experience he isn’t joking.
When it comes to Lyndsey and me, he turns into Super Dad— a mix of protective and loving all rolled into one hell of a man. After our mother passed away, he took a very active role in raising us on his own. I’ll be the first to admit he needs to ease up a bit when it comes to men and potential boyfriends sniffing around his daughters. But I get it. After everything we’ve been through, he wants a sane, steady life for us.
“Don’t worry, old man. They’re in good hands,” Louis replies.
“They better be.” My dad pulls a cigar from the front pocket of his suit jacket. He looks over my right shoulder as a guest catches his attention. “Quinn darling, can you come with me? It will only be a second. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Sure, Dad.” I catch Lyndsey wiggling her eyebrows at me.
I follow our father through the crowd, weaving through the swarm of men. We squeeze through two high-top tables, and I trip on my heels, stumbling forward into two strong arms. When I look up, two dark brown eyes sparkle in front of me with a boyish glimmer. The stranger steadies me on my feet as I note his clean-shaven face and strong jaw line. I assure myself that I’m glad this isn’t Cash Brooks.
