‘Damn sun,’ I mutter at the early morning light streaming through the expensive ckout curtains,nding squarely on my face. It’s the kind of light that demands you wake up, even when you don’t want to.


    I groan softly, stretching my arms above my head as I try to burrow deeper under the silk sheets. The smell of his deodorant and a hint of me still clings to the bedding, along with the faint smell of sex fromst night and then again early this morning before we fell asleep.


    Three years of saying no to Jon Paul Dumont, to avoid being another notch on his bedpost, and here I am,pletely worn out yet deliciously sated in the guest bedroom of his teammate’s beach house. I allow myself a brief, blissful moment, letting myself sink into the mattress, soaking up the tenderness of my nipples from his teeth and the beautiful soreness between my thighs where he took me—over and over again.


    Trying to also forget that he’s the reason my team, the Seattle Hawkeyes, were bumped out of their spot in the championship, beating them out of contention three weeks ago. Though watching him y against my dad was something else entirely. Goalies on opposing teams—on opposite sides of the rink.


    It’s been three years since I caught him staring at me from the ice, his face hidden behind his mask, except for the sharp curve of his smirk. He tossed pucks over the plexiss, scribbled in silver sharpie… <em ss="calibre12">Dinner?</em>


    I shook my head no, assuming he thought I was just another puck bunny and feeling insulted by it, but JP didn’t stop there. Every game after that, every charity event, every time our paths crossed, he’d toss another puck my way or drop a smoothment walking past me in the hallway during post-game media interviews, that perfect cupid’s bow pulled tight.


    JP came with a warningbel—his reputation preceding him. Though not the same reputation as his father’s, which I’d heard whispers about in hockey circles. The great Jon Paul Dumont Sr., whose drinking had cost him everything—his career, his marriage, his rtionship with his son. JP never talks about it, but I’d seen the way he tensed up whenever someone mentioned his father’s name.


    Three years of saying no. Three years of trading barbs at charity events and all-star games, pretending I don’t secretly look forward to the start of a new season when we’ll be pushed back into proximity because of our jobs. Because I do.


    And now, he’s the same man who whispered French in my earst night—words I didn’t understand but melted for anyway—who looked at me across the ice as he won another yoff game, like I was the only thing that mattered.


    For once, someone in my life means what they say.


    I let out an audible groan at the idea that I can’t stay in bed with the sexy goalie a little while longer. After all this time—all those moments where we’d talk for hours, where he’d find excuses to linger longer before getting on the team bus, and all those times I pretended his attention meant nothing—I finally gave in. And now, ordering breakfast and partaking in a few more rounds under these silk sheets with JP would be more fun, but the reality of today hits me like a p.


    I have to get up.


    My flight home leaves this morning, and I need to return my rental car. What was I thinking,ing to a Blue Devils’ yoff win celebration? If anyone from the Hawkeyes’ front office found out that their General Manager’s assistant spent the night with the rival team’s goalie, I’d never live it down. If my dad found out… I push the thought away.


    Besides,st night was supposed to be a quick appearance at Danny Cooper’s house—the Blue Devils’ right winger. But the second JP’s eyes met mine from across the room, his gaze dipped to the puck in my hand—the one he’d tossed me before second period with Cooper’s address scribbled on it—and his smile spread. Not the cocky grin I’ve spent years brushing off, but something real. Genuine. And all at once, I wasn’t thinking about the reasons I’d been saying no.


    When he suggested we escape the chaotic celebration downstairs and order Chinese food to one of the guestrooms, my usual defenses crumbled. Instead of my typical witty rejection, I found myself following him up the grand staircase, my hand in his, my heart racing with every step.


    But one of the biggest reasons I usually decline crosses my mind this morning. The Hawkeyes and the Blue Devils share the longest rivalry in NHL history—a fact neither of us ever let the other forget.


    Suddenly theck of sound and movement on the other side of the bed feels off. I reach across the bed, and my hand brushes cold sheets.


    My eyes snap open.


    The spot where JP was lying just hours ago is cold, the silk sheets pulled back like he got out of bed in a rush. My heart stutters as I push myself up onto my elbows, scanning the room.


    There’s a sleek dresser in the corner, his suit jacket still draped over the chair beside it. All of his stuff is still here, besides his keys, wallet, and cell phone that he had on the nightstand before we fell asleep. Wherever he went… he took them with him.


    On the dresser, five empty Chinese takeout containers fromst night sit next to an untouched ss of water. The sight brings back memories of sharing spring rolls andughing about all the times I’ve shot down his dinner invitations. Though I reminded him that he sucker-punched my dad three weeks ago in their head-to-head and might not have the warm wee he thinks he will.


    Almost all of his belongings are here, evidence that I didn’t dreamst night into existence.


    But no JP.


    I listen for him, but all I hear are muffled conversations from downstairs, doors opening and closing, and the asional burst ofughter as the mansion slowly wakes up to its post-game hangover.


    He’s probably just downstairs brewing coffee. Maybe ordering breakfast in bed.


    Dread pools in my stomach anyway. My gut is warning me to lower my expectations and prepare for the worst.


    I reach for my phone, scrolling quickly to his number—the one he programmedst night with a confident grin and a promise to keep in touch. He’d even winked and said, ‘The season’s over. If Ie to Seattle, will you see me, mon petit oiseau?’


    The way my heart leaped at the thought of him already making future ns with me has me hoping that my gut isn’t right, but my past experiences with my family, specifically my mother, tell me to expect disappointment.


    I press call.


    The line doesn’t even ring before it goes straight to voicemail.


    The sinking feeling worsens.


    I hit redial.


    Still voicemail. Panic begins to heat under my skin, but I try to shake it off. This isn’t the time to jump to conclusions. Maybe he forgot to plug in his phonest night. After all, his hands were a little preupied… with me.


    But my stomach doesn’t buy it.


    I sit on the edge of the bed, with only a pair of panties on, pulling the silk sheet up and around my chest, feeling more naked now than I’ve ever felt in my life. More exposed than all those times I felt his eyes on me across a crowded room, more vulnerable than when I finally let him kiss mest night.


    I would have pulled on a t-shirtst night—I usually can’t sleep without something on, but his request made my whole body flutter. ‘No clothes Cammy, please? I want to be able to feel your bare skin against mine,’ he whispered against my neck.


    I guess there were a lot of things he said, and yet, he’s not here.


    I grab my dress off the floor. It’s crumpled, the fabric wrinkled from where he’d tugged it offst night, his voice a low growl as he spoke French into my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory.


    I take a steadying breath and head toward the door. I crack it open, peering into the hallway. The mansion is already alive with movement. Across the hall, a woman in a cocktail dress, just as wrinkled as mine, steps out of another guest room, fluffing her hair as she turns to the yer inside.


    ‘You’ll call me, right?’ she asks hopefully.


    ‘Yeah, totally,’ he says, but the bored tone of his voice tells me that he won’t.


    The woman doesn’t seem to notice as she struts down the hallway inst night’s heels.


    I nce back at my phone, clutched tightly in my hand. As I’m about to step into the hallway, it dings.


    The headline shes on my screen like a gut punch: <b ss="calibre13">STAR GOALIE JON PAUL DUMONT GETS DUI AFTER PLAYOFF CELEBRATION.</b>


    My chest tightens as I tap the notification, skimming the story quickly in disbelief.


    ‘JP Dumont, star goalie for the Blue Devils and son of Hockey Legend Jon Paul Dumont Sr., was in a car ident early this morning. Reports say Dumont was driving under the influence with an unnamed female passenger. The couple left a post-game win celebration shortly before the crash in his Ferrari. Dumont hit a guardrail and waster taken into custody by the sheriff’s department, while his female passenger was taken to the hospital for non-life-threatening injuries.’


    The couple.


    The room spins as the implications hit me. The ‘unnamed female passenger’ wasn’t me.


    A door creaks open, and footsteps echo down the hall. I nce up and freeze as two yers step out of a room. One of them has his phone in hand, shaking his head with augh.


    ‘JP was busy. Two girls in one night—epic,’ one yer snickers.


    The other yer elbows him, grinning. ‘Yeah, and I think one of them is still in the guest room.’


    My throat tightens.


    Another yer’s wife walks past, phone pressed to her ear. ‘Did you see who he left with? That blonde attorney that’s been hanging around the team all season—Angelica Ludwig. Looks like she finallynded herself a yer.’


    I step back into the room closing the door to just a crack and then realize I’m forgetting something. I look around for my bright green hair band. The one that JP had taken out of my hair when things started getting heatedst night. He wanted to see my hair down and then slid the hairband over his wrist.


    It was thest thing I saw before I fell asleep—my bright green hair band stretched over his tanned wrist as he held me. How stupid it feels now, thinking it meant something.


    I hear more voices in the hall. ‘If Angelica was really all that smart, she should have gone for one of the other single yers instead. JP takes after his old man. She wouldn’t get more than just one dirty fuck,’ one of them snickers.


    ‘His dad’s that retired all-time hockey hall of famer from Montréal, right?’ another asks.


    ‘Yep,’ a deep voice chimes in. ‘His dad was a hockey hall-of-famer and a yer on and off the ice. That apple doesn’t fall far from that tree, if you know what I mean.’


    The heat of humiliation rushes through me as theirughter fades down the hall. I clutch my phone, the weight of everything crashing down at once: the story, the whispers, the realization that I was just another conquest.


    I should have known better.


    No… actually, I did know better.


    My face burns as I hurry down the grand staircase, past the remnants of the celebration—empty champagne bottles, red solo cups, the faint smell of stale beer, the women slipping out with the same dazed expressions I must be wearing.


    By the time I reach my rental car in the circr driveway, my humiliation has hardened into anger. And then I remember the stupid thing I sent Brynn, my stepmom, when she textedst night to check in.


    <b ss="calibre13">Brynn:</b> Did you have fun tonight?


    <b ss="calibre13">Me:</b> Yeah, and I take back what I saidst week. I think you’re right about happily ever after’sing from the most unexpected ces.


    I cringe, my eyshes fluttering closed at my error. I never should have sent that. I shouldn’t have believed a word he said as he held me close to him, his lips against my temple.


    ‘I don’t want this to end after tonight. My contract is up with the Blue Devils. I’ll tell my agent to get me a deal with the Hawkeyes… whatever it takes to sign me.’


    I’d been warned about guys like JP Dumont. Everyone in hockey knows the type: talented, entitled, and fully aware of both. Following in their fathers’ footsteps, making the same mistakes, breaking all the hearts. But I thought I was different—I thought I was different <em ss="calibre12">to him</em>.


    I grit my teeth, gripping the steering wheel as I start the engine. Through the rearview mirror, I can see the mansion that housed the Blue Devils’ game win celebration, now the site of my biggest mistake.


    ‘Hope I never see that asshole again,’ I mutter under my breath as I pull away.


    And I mean it.