Page 69 of North

We didn’t have a place like this when I played for the Seattle Storm and I’m not sure why. I love having a place where we can choose to interact with the fans in a bit more of a close-up manner than just hurried autographs outside the players’ parking garage. Of course, there are the times we like more anonymity, so we head to Stevie’s bar.

Our victory over the LA Demons tonight was a decisive 5–0 massacre, which helps alleviate the sting of our losses in the last three games. Drake is riding high on his shutout and almost the entire team and their significant others came out tonight. But the evening is getting late and most are heading home.

Farren and I are finishing up our drinks at one of the high-top tables. Atlas is with us and Rafferty just left to go home. While I love that he’s got a woman like Tempein his life right now, he’s admittedly having a bit of a hard time with her gone and didn’t want to hang out too long. I feel for the guy and wonder how I’d feel if Farren moved away.

It would fucking suck.

While I’m careful not to show any overt PDA with Farren, because she’s still firmly against that when hanging with the team, she is standing very close beside me with our elbows touching where they rest on the table.

She’s sipping a margarita, her gaze flicking across the room now and then.

“I’m telling you, that was not icing,” Atlas says, gesturing with his beer. “The refs were blind tonight.”

I snort with amusement. “Funny how you think they were blind when you get called on something, but they see just fine on all the calls that went our way.”

Farren laughs, her hand idly tracing patterns on the edge of her glass. “Don’t tell me you don’t do the same thing, North Paquette.” She bumps me with her hip playfully. “I know my brother sure as hell does that.”

“Yeah, we probably all do it,” I grumble.

“North!” A woman’s voice cuts through the noise, and I glance up to see a tall blond standing on the other side of the velvet rope that sets our tables apart from the rest of the bar. She’s dressed to kill—tight jeans, a low-cut top and heels that look like they could double asweapons. Her gaze moves to Atlas, and she smiles at him. “Think I could grab some pics with you?”

Atlas grins at me and in a low voice says, “That looks like trouble.”

“With a capitalT,” I gripe, already bracing myself.

This sort of thing happens all the time and ordinarily, I laugh it off. But the blond has that look in her eyes that she wants more than a photo and I’ve got my girl standing beside me.

The blond steps over the velvet rope and Atlas gives me a pointed look. “I’ve got this.”

Atlas meets the woman just a few feet from our table. She beams a smile at him, then looks to me and her eyes lock with mine. “Hi, North,” she purrs, her voice dripping with a kind of practiced flirtation that sets my teeth on edge. “I am your biggest fan. You played amazing tonight.” And then, as if she forgot Atlas was right there, she says, “And you did too, of course. I just love you both.”

I lift my chin and smile politely while Atlas runs interference. “Want a picture?” he asks, turning his body to stand beside her so she can do a selfie.

She gushes appreciation. “That would be awesome. Can North get in on this too?”

She asks this of Atlas, ignoring Farren. From the corner of my eye, I can’t see her expression, but her body language is as relaxed as it’s been all night.

“Sure,” I say and meander over to stand beside Atlas. That’s not good enough for the blond and she rearranges us so she’s in the middle.

I do the Keanu Reeves move, which I’ve always found to be classy as hell, and refuse to put my arm around her. Instead, I hold it out and away from her, although Atlas has no compunction about slipping his around the woman’s waist. I’d like to say he’s doing that to take the heat off me, but I wouldn’t put it past Atlas to try for her phone number.

The woman snaps a few selfies, tilting her head and pouting her lips. “Thank you so much,” she says when she’s done, and I return to Farren’s side.

The blond lingers, her gaze darting between me and Atlas. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang out for a bit? I’d love to buy you guys a drink.”

It’s an offer we’ve heard before and is no big deal, but in this instance it’s rude since Farren is clearly with me. I resist the urge to drape my arm over her shoulders, afraid she might elbow me in the ribs.

Atlas smoothly lets her down. “Actually… we’re sort of in the middle of something.” He nods to me and Farren. “But thank you for the offer.”

The woman pouts but eventually saunters off, her hips swinging like she’s trying to put on a show. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Atlas bursts into laughter as he comes back to the table.

“Classic puck bunny,” he says, shaking his head.

“Puck bunny?” Farren asks, although her tone suggests she knows what Atlas is referring to.

Atlas nods, eager to explain. “It’s what we call women who want to get themselves a hockey player. They’re everywhere. Dressed to get attention. Looking for the hookup and hoping it leads to more. Women like her are a dime a dozen.”

Farren doesn’t smile. In fact, her eyes look at little heated. “Yes, I know exactly what a puck bunny is. And yet I only heard her offer to buy you a drink. Maybe that’s all she wanted.”

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