Page 3 of The One Night Dash
“Yeah. Johnny. He hates anything green—like, irrationally—because Philly cut him right after his first season and their jerseys are green. Guy won’t even touch broccoli. But then, out of nowhere, he’s walking into team dinner in a custom emerald suit. You know why, Briar?”
“Because he changed his mind?” she asks, zero emotion.
“Nope. Three dates in, this girl tells him her favorite color is green.” I fight a yawn and keep going. “Next thing we know, he’s talking about joint gym memberships when he’s already got state-of-the-art facilities both at the arena and in his own damn building. Another week later, he’s planning a romantic getaway to Tuscany.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “How romantic!”
“She dumped him five days after he surprised her with a plane ticket,” I say flatly.
“What? Why?”
“She told him she didn’t have vacation time. He offered to cover her lost wages. Didn’t matter—she still bailed. Ghosted him, blocked his number. Between you and me, I think he scared the hell out of her. Too much, too fast.”
“Is he okay?”
“Who?” I ask, like a moron.
She groans. “Johnny.”
Shit. “Yeah … if you count doing it all over again with three more chicks okay.” I pause, letting that sink in. “Word got around he was desperate, and then people started calling him a player. Even the Icehouse bunnies steered clear.”
She goes quiet, which is rare for Briar, so I twist the knife a little more with a smirk.
“His hype playlist was nothing but Adele. And not the fun ones. Full-on heartbreak ballads. Guy cried during warmups.”
“That’s awful.”
“He swore off women for an entire season,” I say, stretching out on the bed, “and then, a year later, he’s at the dentist getting a chipped tooth fixed, a hygienist walks in. She’s sweet, zero interest in hockey. She’s got gloves on, a scraper in her hand, and tells him to ‘open wide.’ Johnny swears it was the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.”
Briar snorts. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Married now. Kid on the way. Moral of the story? Until you stop hunting for ‘the one,’ you’re not gonna find them. Sometimes they sneak up on you when you’ve got a drool bib around your neck and a dentist’s drill in your mouth.”
She sighs in that dreamy kind of way she does, and I’m sure I got through this time.
“One man’s drool bib is another’s highlighter rescue.”Apparently fucking not.“I think this could be it.”
“Love you, Briar, and need to get a few more minutes sleep. I have a promo to do today. Gotta look fresh.”
“Love you, too.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure,” she says.
“If this guy isn’t the one, stop looking and let ‘the one’ find you.” I yawn. “And he better deserve you, or I will ruin him.”
Duffle still slungover my shoulder, I push out of my bedroom, head down the hall, and into the kitchen of the Puck Palace. My roommates are already there, hunched over the island, eating like they’ve never seen food before.
“Oh, hell no,” I bark when I see Alex Kilovak—The Killer—and Lenzin Faulker—The Mother F’er—digging into the breakfast bowls I prepped for the week.
“You two heathens know how to read?” I jab a finger at the bowls. “My name was clearly on those.”
They glance at me, then each other, then back again, chewing slow, like maybe if they stall long enough, I’ll let it go.
That’s when I catch him.
Paul Bronski.ThePaul Bronski. The man who’s held the cup more times than anyone in the league’s history, and somehow, he’s living under our roof. Koa’s girl rents one of his places, but with the building under construction, we offered him a spot. I still can’t believe he said yes.
