Page 1 of Rule 5: Never Crush on the Captain
CHAPTER ONE
Vinnie
There are some things in hockey you’re not supposed to do. You might call them rules.
The first rule? Never crush on your captain.
Everyone in the US knows Evan McAllister, Captain of the Boston Blizzards. His sandy hair, slate-blue eyes, and symmetrical, sun-kissed face can be picked from any lineup.
Even those who don’t watch hockey know about his sultry Argentinian supermodel ex-girlfriend. She normally appears in commercials requiring haughty glares, hair tosses, or ice cream licking.
Those who do watch hockey know about the adorable girl he’s raising. Evan’s earned every article proclaiming him sports dad of every year, usually with an accompanying photo of Stella perched on his broad, brawny shoulders.
The lockers slam, and my teammates put on their pads and jerseys, a flurry of freshly laundered pale blue and navy and white. Boston’s colors are fucking proper.
The guys whoop and holler around me, outdoing one another as they discuss how we’re going to destroy Montreal.
I wrap my hockey stick with tape and keep my gaze fixed on the aggressive-looking snowflake emblazed on the locker room floor.
Evan saunters toward me, flashing a shiny smile as if he’s in the middle of a commercial. But then, he stars in enough of those.
His presence stops everything. My fingers wobble despite their simple task.
I have to remind my body that this is real life and not sometime between the hours of two and six, when my body is so exhausted that it succumbs to sleep and its accompanying fantasies. He’s not going to wander through the locker room and kiss me.
I know better. I really do.
But then, I’m also certain what I’m feeling isn’t a crush anymore, not after three years.
I’m absolutely not going to look at Evan McAllister.
Nope, absolutely not.
My gaze swerves to him. How can it not?
Because despite all my efforts, I’ve found myself being the dreaded cliché: closeted and hopelessly in love with my straight best friend.
Evan plops beside me, and every cell in my body stiffens, warning me not to betray myself. His thigh touches mine, and even though I know it means nothing, and even though we’re covered by fabric and pads, his touch burns my soul.
I finish taping my stick, scowl as if I’m already facing Montreal, and rise.
He places a hand on my arm, unaware of the mini explosions of nerve endings his touch detonates.
I stiffen and sink back onto the wooden bench.
“You should visit,” Evan announces. “We haven’t hung out in forever. Come for movie night at my house.”
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine it. I allow myself to imagine showing up at his Beacon Hill townhouse and being led to his massive movie room with the oversized screen that rolls down at the press of the button. Nope, super bad idea. Evan and I are not going to share a couch in a dark room even if we’re chaperoned by his seven-year-old daughter.
Absolutely no way.
I do my best shrug and feign deep regret. “Busy.”
“Oh.” He flicks lint off his thigh. The action shouldn’t be distracting. Hockey uniforms are famously unsexy. Strapping pads to muscular men and obscuring their bodies should be a sin. But all I can think is that he’s right beside me.
I hate the way my heart constricts and contracts at random in his presence. I hate the way that even now it’s excited he’s beside me as if part of it thinks his next move is going to whisper sweet nothings or something similarly ridiculous.
“Are we cool?” His words wobble, and I hate the note of uncertainty.
