From DIRTY SECRET, Book 1, Ch 1...
Β©Mira Lyn Kelly
Vaughn
Whatβs pissing me off isnβt the phone call from my agent warning me that Coach is going to scratch me from the lineup if I donβt knock off my βconfrontationalβ bullshit.
Itβs not that I walk into Belfast, the one bar I like in this city, and find Greg fucking Baxter and half our team cheering for some chump as he pops the question to his girl.
Itβs not even that I canβt get a fucking beer because all the waitresses are standing around moony-eyed, or that any plans I might have had of getting laid tonight are now securely in the shitter. Trusting my dick to some chick who just watched a happily ever after in action? Hard pass. Might as well cut the hole in the rubber myself.
No. Whatβs pissing me off is her, and that for a single second I wasnβt pissed at all.
For one second, my only thought was sheβs here.
In Chicago.
In the bar Iβve been coming to once a week for the past month and a half.
Allie. The girl from Vancouver eight months ago. The one with the dark curls, gypsy blue eyes, and the sweetest, wettest mouth I ever tasted. The girl who blew my mind and then blew out of my life without even giving me her number.
Hell, I was half off my barstool, the beginnings of an honest-to-fuck smile fighting my chronic case of resting prick face when it registeredβ¦ Sheβs not alone.
And itβs not some random hipster or suit with his arm slung around her shoulders, either. Itβs Ruxton Meyers, my teammate. Fucking Baxterβs best friend.
Thatβs whatβs pissing me off.
I thought she was different.
Hell, I knew she was a fan. She was wearing a Canucks jersey and hanging out at a bar with a bunch of players the first night I saw her. But she wasnβt on the prowl. She wasnβt eyeing every player there like a prize to score. Instead of some skintight getup that left next to nothing to the imagination, sheβd had on jeans. Beat-up, loose, frayed-around-the-hems jeans. And a pair of white Chucks. Her hair was this sexy mess of dark brown waves that I watched her put up into a ponytail in the middle of the bar without a mirror, while she was talking to another player. She didnβt care what she looked like. Didnβt care what anyone thought. Didnβt even have her phone out taking selfies.
So not a puck bunny.
Iβd have bet my life on it, especially when I saw her in the hotel lobby the next night. She was buying a Hersheyβs bar and a lemonade from the convenience store and she just looked up and smiled. Like we were old friends or something. Like she recognized me without the double take. Without the rest of the team. Just me, standing in line behind her buying a water I didnβt need because Iβd seen her there.
And hours later when I could still smell her on my skin, the only thing I had left of her was the note in my hand that no bunny ever would have written: I canβt do this. Iβm sorry.
Sheβd told me from the start. She doesnβt date players. So what the fuck is she doing with Rux?
Was she lying? Because she sure looks comfy tucked beneath his arm.
My knuckles crack as fists form at my sides.
This is the kind of bullshit Iβm supposed to be avoiding if I want a contract with Oregon. And shit, Allie isnβt mine. Sheβs just a chick who isnβt as different as I thought she was.
I can walk out of here. Forget I saw her.
Hit another bar and find another girl.
Great plan.
Thing is, Iβm not going anywhere.
***
Natalie
Life isnβt fair.
After months of dodging out on plans and skipping games it killed me to skip, I join the guys for one stinking night to share a moment Iβm honored to have been included in. One night and who the heck shows up but the one player Iβve been busting my backside to avoid since he was traded to the Slayers this summer.
Vaughn Vassar.
Heβs our second-line center, my brotherβs longest-standing rival, and the indiscretion I should have known would come back to bite me. Hard.
I gulp, hazarding another quick peek past the bulk of Ruxβs arm. My belly knots around the butterflies that have been launching like missiles since the guy walked in. Itβs definitely Vaughn. Even if I didnβt know every face on my brotherβs team and most of the league reallyβ¦ for reasons Iβd rather roll in hot coals than admit out loud, I would know his.
And in the eight months since I was this close to him, he hasnβt changed. The dark waves of his hair still hang loose around a jaw thatβs heavy and square. But itβs that hard edge screaming doesnβt play well with others chiseled into every line of his rugged face I recognize first. Maybe because I know exactly what happens when it softensβ¦ when those hard eyes crinkle at the corners and that slash of a mouth lifts, changing his whole face.
Like the rest of him, that contrast is hard to forget.
Hard not to think about when Iβm not supposed to be thinking about him at all.
Cripes, why does he have to look so good with those dark jeans hugging around the mass of his solid thighs, the assortment of tats peeking out from beneath the deep vee of a T-shirt thatβs barely keeping up with the body itβs been tasked with covering? And why when Iβve been surrounded by guys with this body type for most of my lifeβguys I wisely donβt look twice atβis this guy so hard to ignore?
A breath shudders past my suddenly dry lips, and I lean back.
This is bad.
Honestly, the chances of him remembering a girl he spent a handful of hours with eight months ago are next to none. Most of the single guys I know in the league wouldnβt. But Vaughn Vassar is a man too many people sell short and Iβm not willing to risk being one of them.
Which is why I need to get out of here. And why Iβm going to continue missing games and dodging out on plans with the team until Vaughnβs contract is up and Chicagoβs most reluctant player moves on to a team he actually wants to play for.
Peering up at Rux, I give his shoulder a light slug. βHey, look, it was great seeing you guys, but Iβve got to take off.β
He checks his watch and shakes the overlong mess of ginger he lovingly refers to as his flow. βYou got practice or something?β
That would be a great excuse. Unfortunately the 12U girls hockey team I coach doesnβt practice until Tuesday. βNot tonight. Iβm just whipped.β
With an understanding nod, he pulls me in to his giant chest, practically suffocating me in his armpit, before setting me back with a wink. βGood seeing you.β
I steal one last glance at Vaughn. A waitress is taking his order, or maybe sheβs just chatting him up. I can hardly see past the rack sheβs got on offer about six inches in front of his nose. Subtle.
A twinge of jealousy blinks through me and itβs definitely time to go.
I cut around our group and slip out the front into the cool October evening. The streetlights are on and thereβs a steady flow of traffic from either direction but no available cabs, so I order an Uber with less than a two-minute wait. The bar door opens behind me, and I turn toward the laughter, music and light spilling out onto the sidewalkβand freeze.
Itβs not him. It canβt be.
He hadnβt even gotten a beer yet.
He didnβt see me. Wouldnβt recognize me even if he had.
Itβs notβ
My belly folds in on itself as eyes like granite lock with mine, and the one guy I was praying to avoid pulls the door closed behind him. βThought you didnβt date players?β
God, heβs even hotter up close.
Arms crossed, he walks out to where Iβm standing and props a massive shoulder against the streetlight.
The breath whooshes from my lungs, dragging his name behind in a shaky whisper. βVaughn. I didnβt think youβd remember me.β
Iβd been banking on it.
His brows lift, and his mouthβwell, itβs not exactly a smile heβs offering so much as the absence of his scowl. βNo?β
He looks like heβs waiting for me to say something, but when I donβt, the scowl returns, and he nods back to the bar. βSo you and Meyers?β
What? βRux?β God no. While most of Gregβs team thinks of me as a little sister in some capacity or another, Rux has taken the back-up-brother thing to the next level. βWeβre friends. Thatβs all.β
He makes an indifferent sound like he couldnβt care less, but the way heβs looking at me says something different.
This I remember from Vancouver. This dizzying sense of there not being enough air when I had the full focus of his attention. This feeling of being caught in some kind of gravitational pull toward an object of greater mass. This borderline compulsion to reach out and touch. To run my fingers over the corded muscles of his forearm, trace the lines of black ink.
The door to the bar opens again, and I jump back, heart racing. Itβs just a couple girls huddled close as their thumbs fly over their phones. But it could have been my brother. Or Rux, or any one of the guys in there who would turn around and tell Greg who I was talking to, pretty much ensuring the start of World War III right here on the sidewalk in front of Belfast.
Clearing my throat, I shake my head. βSo, itβs ummβ¦ nice to see you again. But Iβm uhβ¦ I need to get home.β
Thereβs another jump in that muscle beneath the scruff of his stubble, and even over the wind and roar of a passing bike, Iβm pretty sure I just heard his molars grinding.
βBack to Washington? Yeah, quite the trip ahead of you.β
My mouth opens, but I exhausted all my lies the last time we were together. Not that I can give him the truth. Vaughnβs a better guy than most people give him credit for, but knowing how he feels about my brotherβ¦ Iβm not sure he could resist the temptation to shove our hookup in Gregβs face.
A teal Prius pulls up to the curb and my breath rushes out in relief. βThis is my ride,β I say apologetically as I climb into the car. I know what Iβm doing isnβt fair, but itβs the only way. βTake care.β
***
Vaughn
Take care?
No fucking way that just happened.
But yeah, Iβm standing on the street in front of Belfast, the spot Allie previously occupied, as empty as my bed the night she skipped out.
I ought to let her go. Thatβs twice sheβs taken off on me. Twice I felt that weird fucking pull toward a girl I barely know, twice I was ready to break a few of my own rules, and twice sheβs left me standing wondering what the fuck just happened.
I donβt need that shit, especially now. Exceptβ
βChrist, Vassar, what happened to laying off Baxter?β
I turn to find my left-winger, Quinn OβBrian, behind me on the sidewalk, accusation pouring off him. I get it. Laying Baxter out at the beginning of the season was a fuck-up. One Iβve been paying for ever since. And if I fuck up again, it fucks things for our line. It fucks the team. And while Iβm basically biding my time until Oregon can pick me up, no fucking way am I going to make this team a loser.
βLook, man, I just came out for a beer. I didnβt know Baxter and half the team were here.β Or Allie.
Is this a regular hangout?
βYeah, and what about her?β
Her? Now heβs got my full attention. βWhat about her? Who is she?β
βYou donβt know?β He shoots me a pissy glare Iβm not in the mood for. βNatalie Baxterβ¦ Sheβs Greg Baxterβs little sister, and sheβs off limits, dipshit.β
No. Fucking. Way.
