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BLINDSIDE SINNER
SEATTLE WAVE HOCKEY
BOOK 1

MARIAH WOLFE
Copyright © 2023 by Mariah Wolfe
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
 CONTENTS
Also by Mariah Wolfe
Mailing List
Blindside Sinner
1. Sloan
2. Sloan
3. Sloan
4. Beck
5. Beck
6. Beck
7. Beck
8. Sloan
9. Sloan
10. Sloan
11. Beck
12. Beck
13. Sloan
14. Sloan
15. Beck
16. Beck
17. Sloan
18. Sloan
19. Beck
20. Beck
21. Sloan
22. Sloan
23. Beck
24. Beck
25. Sloan
26. Sloan
27. Beck
28. Sloan
29. Beck
30. Beck
31. Sloan
32. Sloan
33. Sloan
34. Beck
35. Sloan
36. Sloan
37. Sloan
38. Sloan
39. Beck
40. Sloan
41. Sloan
42. Beck
43. Sloan
44. Sloan
45. Beck
46. Sloan
47. Sloan
48. Beck
49. Beck
50. Beck
51. Sloan
52. Beck
53. Beck
54. Beck
55. Sloan
56. Sloan
57. Beck
58. Sloan
59. Beck
60. Sloan
61. Sloan
62. Beck
63. Sloan
64. Beck
65. Sloan
66. Sloan
67. Beck
68. Sloan
69. Sloan
70. Beck
71. Beck
72. Sloan
73. Beck
74. Sloan
75. Beck
ALSO BY MARIAH WOLFE
Dallas Bulls Hockey
Blue Line Lust
Blue Line Love

Seattle Wave Hockey

Blindside Sinner
Blindside Saint
Blindside Devil (novella)
 MAILING LIST

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BLINDSIDE SINNER
 SEATTLE WAVE HOCKEY BOOK 1

Bad boy hockey players don’t fall in love.

Especially not with their assistants.
And they ESPECIALLY don’t get them pregnant.
Beckett Daniels is hockey’s hottest bad boy.
He’s also my newest assignment.
A chance encounter with his ex-handler gets me a job I need to pay off the dangerous debts I inherited.
The only catch?
The job involves making sure that Beck keeps out of the tabloids, the nightclubs, and the beds of women he shouldn’t be
messing with.
So now, I’m living in his house.
Dealing with his venom, his pranks, his shirtless (and pantless) good mornings.
And doing my best not to let the menace on the ice win our little game of “Who Quits First.”
We signed on the dotted line: don’t touch, don’t kiss, do NOT fall in love.
But some deals are made to be broken.

One night, things go too far, and I’m left to wonder…

Does getting pregnant break the rules?
BLINDSIDE SINNER is the first book in the Seattle Wave Hockey duet. The story continues in Book 2 of the series,
BLINDSIDE SAINT.
 1

SLOAN

The irritating bzz, bzz, bzz of my cellphone vibrating wakes me up way too damn early. “You gotta be kidding me,” I mutter. I
slap my hand across the nightstand until I find it.
Prying my eyes open, I swipe to see the notifications. There are some emails and a reminder for my calendar app that I have a
shift at the diner this evening. That’s standard.
But the three that woke me are texts from my best friend, triple texter extraordinaire Cassandra Claymore.
CASSIE: Haven’t heard from you in ages.
CASSIE: Are you still alive? Has someone taken out my bestie Sloan?
CASSIE: If you’re in trouble, text me the code word.
I laugh, though there’s a little bit of guilt on the edge of it. To be fair—mostly to myself—I’ve been slammed. Between two
full-time serving jobs, I’m barely getting enough sleep to function like a human being.
I text her back. No code word, just busy working. You know, that thing that lets us plebeians make money and pay our
bills?
CASSIE: Gross.
I can’t help but laugh at the silver-spooned princess. She’s the heiress to Claymore International, a real estate firm with a
portfolio larger than the GDP of Guam. So, needless to say, Cassie is often a little, shall we say, out of touch with the real
world.
Even when we met in college—for the measly six months I was able to afford it—she’s never had a problem that her AmEx
Black can’t solve.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck paying off a loan that I didn’t take in the first place.
As if he had a direct line to my thoughts, a text comes in from the boogeyman himself.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your payment is late.
I don’t need to save the number to know who it is. The Bloodhound has come calling, as regular as Aunt Flo. I just have to
hope that he isn’t interested in personally collecting this month’s payment.
SLOAN: I’ll have it tonight. Rusty’s.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I’ll send someone to you.
I breathe a sigh of relief. The longer I can avoid a face-to-face with the Bloodhound, the better.
Then another text comes in. This is your one warning. Any more late payments and the amount goes up.
I gulp and put my phone facedown on my lap, as if that’ll stop him from ruining my life any more than he already has.
With that rude awakening, any thoughts of stealing some extra sleep vanish. The afternoon sun shines through the gaps in my
blackout curtains like a needle to the eyeball.
I groan when I realize I’m only ten minutes away from my alarm going off. No rest for the weary always seemed a little
melodramatic to me, but my God, what I wouldn’t do to live in a cave for a month and dream the days away.
Annoyed, I toss the blankets off and get out of bed. My knees and ankles pop like firecrackers.
Bartending most weeknights at a local bar and filling every other free second I have with Rusty’s Diner shifts is taking a toll on
my body. But the eighty-plus hours a week I work are barely enough to scrape by, when the minimum payments on my debt are
four figures a month.
With basic utilities like food and rent to pay for, too—seeing as how your girl likes to, ya know, eat and sleep indoors—I
wouldn’t even be able to afford bus fare if it weren’t for tips.
I must be a glutton for punishment today, because I pull up my bank app and immediately wince.
I have just enough to make this month’s payment to the Bloodhound, but it’ll leave me high and dry until payday. That means
one thing: more shifts.
Honestly, though, I don’t know how much more I can take.
Life ain’t fair—that’s another one of those things people say. Usually not when it’s their life that’s treating them unfairly.
I didn’t make the bad bets. I didn’t sign for the bad loan from the violent loan shark. But here I am, paying for someone else’s
mistake with every drop of blood and sweat and tears I have to give.
If I could, I’d leave. I’d walk away from this nightmare and forget I ever heard of the Bloodhound. Sayonara, asshole.
But men like him don’t play when it comes to money. So in the end, I get my ass in the shower and prepare to work myself to
the bone once again.

When I step into Rusty’s nearly an hour later, it’s already packed with the beginning stages of the dinner rush. The old-school
diner is a mix of old and new. Checkered floors, deep red vinyl booths that fit in snugly with the classic rock posters, and a
jukebox blissfully unaware that the 80s are over.
Guests chat in their seats while Monroe ignores the man who is desperately trying to get her number as she fills drink orders.
Where Cassie is all love, light, and fairytales, my other bestie Monroe is equal parts darkness and sarcasm. Her box-dyed
black hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, leaving her face and crimson lips in sharp relief. Dark eyes with thick eyeliner
and even thicker lashes glare at the customers like they’re irritating the hell out of her, which is almost always the case. Even in
the standard Rusty’s uniform of a checkered button-down and a pair of ripped black jeans, Monroe Vale oozes attitude.
I adore her.
“Hey, babe,” I call, ducking through the kitchen to drop off my bags. I keep the apron with me and tie it around my waist.
“Why are you here?” she replies.
“Can’t a girl come into her favorite job early?” I tease.
She gives me a look that says, I’m not a moron, so don’t treat me like one. “You need money,” she deadpans.
“Yep.” I creep closer and lower my voice so it doesn’t travel past our section of the restaurant. “I’ve got to make a payment
tonight.”
As expected, Monroe just nods. She points over at the schedule with one red-tipped finger. “Ashley called out sick today. Add
yourself to the roster and clock in. I’ve already got almost everyone’s order in, so finish her side work before the food’s up and
you can take over her tables.”
“Thank you!” I grab her face and plank a smacking kiss to her cheek.
She swats at me sourly, though it’s all a big act. She’s a teddy bear inside. “Get to work, foul beastie.” Monroe pauses with the
full drink tray in hand and jerks her chin behind me at something I can’t see. “Oh, and you get the drunk girl.”
She struts off, cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West. I flash a middle finger at her back—all out of love, of course—and
then turn around to see what kind of disaster she’s dropped in my lap.
I’m not particularly surprised to see the kind of woman who’s plastered across the countertop. Her glossy ash blonde hair is
fanned all over, including a thick lock dumped into a cup of coffee. Her clothes look tailored and new, but I’m too busy hoping
she isn’t drooling all over the counter to care.
I clock in and finish fastening my apron around my waist before I slink over to check on the drunk lady.
“Uh, ma’am? Can I get you anything? Water, soda…?”
“A new life,” she mumbles.
I can only laugh at that. “If you find somewhere to buy that, let me know. I could use one myself.”
I fill a large water and set it in front of her before I grab what I need to wrap the silverware and restock napkins. I set myself
up close enough to watch her while I work without crowding her space. I mostly want to make sure she doesn’t choke on her
own vomit à la Jimi Hendrix.
It’s quiet, simple work for a while. The best kind. I try not to think when I get moments like these. Just let my brain drift off
peacefully for a while. “Screensaver mode,” I call it.
All of which is to say that I’m way off in La La Land when I turn my head and see the drunk woman staring right at me. I have
to stifle a scream.
“My boss called me into his office this afternoon to tell me that I have a new client starting immediately,” she informs me.
“Oh. Uh-huh.” I’m only half listening to her.
“The client is my ex.”
I cringe at that. “I don’t even have many exes, but there isn’t enough money in the world to make me want to work with a single
one of them.”
She blinks slowly for a moment. Not that what I said was so hard to process, but like she’s sifting through me in search of
something. What that something is, I have no idea.
Her eyes are pale blue. The microthreaded eyebrows and luxurious fake lashes match the clothes—i.e., expensive. I’m
impressed that they’ve survived the woman’s fierce drinking pace.
Whoever she is, she looks put together and beautiful even while she’s ten drinks deep, whereas I look like a raccoon after half
a beer. Life ain’t fair, indeed.
“Not only do I have to work with him, “ she adds, “I’m practically babysitting the S.O.B.”
I frown. “He’s an adult, right?”
“Exactly!” she crows. “A grown-ass man—a professional athlete, no less—who needs to be babysat because he can’t keep his
shit off the front page of The Seattle goddamn Post! It’s ridiculous. And he’s annoying. God, is he annoying. All he cares about
is hockey.”
“He’s a hockey player. Got it.”
“He’s the hockey player.” She buries her face in her hands again. “I don’t want to have to be around him all the time.”
“So hire someone else to watch him.” When she stares blankly at me, I shrug. “If he’s as big an asshole as you say he is, he’s
going to screw up again regardless of who’s keeping track of him. Why put yourself through the hassle of having it be you? Hire
someone else to watch him and move on with your life. Pass the buck like a hot potato.”
She snorts. “Any chance you know someone masochistic enough to babysit a six-foot-three manchild?”
“How much are you paying?” I joke.
“Six figures.”
I swear I nearly swallow my tongue. The fork in my hand clatters to the counter. She’s joking. Right? No one makes six figures
babysitting.
“Six figures to be a glorified babysitter?”
Dreams of a salary that large flit through my head. I could pay off my debt to the Bloodhound and get current on all my bills. I
could put money in savings again. Hell, I could go to art school if I wanted.
Six figures sure as hell sounds like a dream come true…
… which is exactly why I know it’ll never happen for me.
“Part babysitter, part assistant,” she explains. “It includes room and board in his house and any necessities required for the job,
too.”
“Would your ideal babysitter have to be, uh… ‘nice’ to the hockey player?” I am using nice as a euphemism for sexual favors,
but fortunately, she doesn’t make me elaborate.
She shakes her head. “The exact opposite. Contractually obligated to keep it in his or her pants.”
A job where I wouldn’t have to kiss a single square inch of ass cheek—wouldn’t that be the dream? “Sign me up.”
The drunk woman suddenly doesn’t look as trashed anymore. On the contrary, she’s staring at me, clear-eyed and skeptical, like
she isn’t sure if I’m the answer to her prayers or another problem about to bite her in the rear.
“Are you actually offering?”
I shrug nonchalantly, although the voice in my head is blaring like an alarm saying, It’s a trap—it’s a trap—it’s a trap! “Why
not?”
Another voice in my head wars with the first. Six figures—six figures—six figures.
“Do you have any experience?”
“I’m a server. I deal with entitled people all day.”
She snorts before she finishes the water. “Do you like hockey?”
“I’d rather watch paint dry.”
“So you aren’t a puck bunny?”
“Is that, like, a groupie or something?” I shudder. “Definitely not.”
“Got a boyfriend?”
“Not even close.”
She squints at me. “Do you even like men?”
I laugh. “I have been known to enjoy their company when life really kicks me in the crotch, but I’m too busy and poor to date
right now.”
She grins. She really does not seem drunk anymore. In fact, she’s looking downright bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sparkly,
some might say.
“Fantastic,” she pronounces. “Consider the buck passed. Send me your information. If the background check clears, you’re
hired.” She hops off the barstool and digs in her pristine YSL purse, sliding over a crisp business card once she finds it. “I’m
Vivian, by the way.”
Surely this can’t be happening, right? This is a dream. Any minute now, I’m going to wake up to a blaring alarm and another
text from the Bloodhound, telling me my payment is past due once more.
But the lights buzz overhead like they’re real. The smell of grease floats out of the kitchen like it’s real. And the woman looking
down at me seems really, really real.
I stare at the writing on the card. Vivian St. James, PR Manager for Four Leaf Media.
I realize belatedly that she’s holding out her hand to shake. I can’t tell if this is a “nice to meet you” kind of a shake or a “done
deal” kind of shake. Given my Bloodhound problem, I’m understandably a little wary about shady deals with strangers.
But I take her hand before I can second-guess myself.
“Sloan Reeves,” I mumble. I hold up the embossed business card. “I’ve never heard of Four Leaf Media.”
“We’re the premier public relations firm for professional sports on the West Coast,” Vivian rattles off with a slight note of
disappointment in her voice, as if I should have heard of them. “Email me your info tonight and I’ll call you to set up your
onboarding next week.” Purse slung over her shoulder, she grins. It’s damn near feral with glee. “This is going to be so much
fun, Sloan Reeves.”
Then she zips out of Rusty’s like she’s stone-cold sober.
Leaving me standing there in shock like I just got sucked into a tornado, shaken like a ragdoll, and set right back down on my
own two feet.
Monroe comes to stand beside me, looking out the glass door as a very expensive Jaguar speeds away. “What the hell was that
about?” she asks, snatching the card out of my hand.
“She offered me a job,” I whisper.
And even though I’m sure Vivian isn’t actually going to hire me—nothing good ever happens to a Reeves—something bubbles
in my chest for the first time in ages.
Hope.
 2

SLOAN

Early Monday morning finds me seated in the headquarters of Four Leaf Media. The name on the plate-glass office door reads
Vivian St. James in a crisp, modern font.
Actually, everything in here is crisp and modern and alarmingly pristine. It took me less than a minute to shove my hands in the
pockets of my borrowed slacks so I don’t leave grubby fingerprints everywhere like the trailer park trash I am.
The woman of the hour, on the other hand, looks perfect in an all-cream suit that sets off her blonde hair nicely. It’s her eyes
that get me, though. She sits behind her gold and glass desk with a green juice in hand, scrutinizing me like she’s not sure what
she saw in me originally.
Same, girl. Same.
I try telling myself to relax. This is just another job, right? Plus, think of the money.
Right. The money. The six-figure income that will change my whole cursed life as long as I don’t screw it all up in typical
Reeves-like fashion.
No pressure.
The tap-tap-tapping of Vivian’s perfectly manicured nails echoes as she reads off my file. “Sloan Reeves, age twenty-four.
Seattle native. Says here you went to college briefly before dropping out for personal reasons. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been working at Rusty’s and the Tangerine Room full-time for the last year?”
“Mostly full-time. I work over thirty hours at both. Worked,” I correct. “Tonight is my last night at both jobs.”
Monroe has sworn about a thousand times that she’s baking me a cake for my last night at Rusty’s. Meanwhile, I’ll be lucky if
my coworkers at the Tangerine Room don’t physically shove me out the door. To say hours are competitive there is an
understatement.
Vivian doesn’t respond, just hums to herself. It’s weirdly condescending and I have to bite my tongue to keep from snarking at
her.
Focus on the job, Sloan. You need the money.
“I see nothing in your background check that’s an issue, so let’s go over the details while my assistant is getting the employment
contract ready for you to sign.”
I pull a pen and notepad out of my purse and get ready to take notes like there’s going to be a test later.
“The salary for this position is incredibly high, as we discussed, because it’s a Hail Mary to keep our target, Mr. Beckett
Daniels, on the team. The owner, Hank Floyd, is willing to pay big bucks to keep the best—not to mention most expensive—
player he’s got on the roster and out of the tabloids. You’re looking at over a hundred grand for the rest of the season if you do
your job right. Room and board are included in your wages, as well as all expenses. I’ll give you a company card before the
day’s over.”
I swallow and squeak out, “Sounds very generous.”
“It is extremely generous, actually. You’ll be a glorified babysitter. You’re responsible for getting Beck to his practices and
games on time, according to this schedule.” She hands over a piece of paper brimming with color-coded columns. “There’s
also an app your phone that syncs up with the team calendar.”
I’m barely hearing her. Babysitter? Sure, great, who cares. Beckett? Sounds like just another forgettable guy, on a team of
forgettable guys, in a town of forgettable guys. I can so do this.
I’m mostly focused on the dollar signs. Giddiness bubbles in my stomach as I imagine all the things I can do with that money.
No more scrounging for change between paychecks. No Bloodhound on my ass.
This job means freedom, pure and simple.
Vivian pushes a rectangular box across the table towards me. Inside is an iPhone model I’m pretty sure has not yet been
released to the public.
“You’ll be required to go to all away games unless you are physically ill and unable to go.” She gives me a quirked, don’t-you-
dare-be-sick eyebrow. “Travel accommodations will be taken care of by the team. You’ll also get a bonus for those games.
Consider it hazard pay for dealing with Beck, seeing as how he’s an even bigger nightmare on the road.”
Hm. Nightmare. I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.
“Wherever you are,” she continues, “your main job is to keep him away from negative press. He’s this close to being booted
from the team.” She holds her thumb and forefinger a miniscule distance apart to illustrate her point. “Consider him on
lockdown. No parties, no women, absolutely no arrests. Which means it will be your responsibility to keep him away from too
much booze—and for God’s sake, don’t let him anywhere near anything harder than that. I’ll be around for the PR aspect of
this, for the most part, but if there’s a press conference that I can’t attend, your job is to keep him from shoving his foot in his
mouth. We’ll have weekly check-ins to monitor your progress. Does that all sound doable?”
I nod feverishly. I would walk through the fires of hell for six figures. My hand is nearly cramping as I try to write it all down.
Vivian’s soft laugh brings my head up and my focus back on her.
I swallow again. “I just want to do a good job.”
“I can tell that about you.” Vivian tilts her head, those eyes seeing through me again. She must come to some decision about me,
although she doesn’t deem it necessary to share, because she turns off her computer monitor and faces me head-on. “So. Now
that we’re done with the official work business, I’m going to give you the real scoop on Beck.”
“Should I write this part down?”
“In blood.”
I wait for the laugh, but she’s not kidding. My throat feels suddenly dry again. “Got it.”
She folds her hands in front of her. “Beckett Daniels is a hard worker. It’s how he’s come so far in such a short period of time.
He’s also a pleasure kitten. He wants what he wants when he wants it. He doesn’t like to be told what to do and he hates the
word ‘no.’ He’s going to be irritated that he can’t swing his dick and get you out of his face, so don’t be surprised if he gets
nasty in a hurry.”
The luster of the blinking dollar signs is starting to fade. I’m wondering suddenly whether I’ve gotten in over my head. I’m a
waitress, for crying out loud, not a prison warden for a nutcase.
But the look in Vivian’s eyes says I’m in way too deep to turn back now.
“He can also be incredibly charming,” she warns. “He’s hotter than sin and he sees things that other people miss. He’s alert and
focused and, as any number of jilted ex-lovers can tell you, when all of that attention is on you, it’s to die for. Don’t read into it.
Don’t let it get to your head. And this most of all: do not fall in love with him.”
My laugh is acidic. “I doubt that’s going to be an issue. I don’t trust men like him.”
And I don’t. My father was like Beck: charming and charismatic to a fault. I trusted him to take care of us. Instead, he pushed
my life so far off track, I’ll be in the weeds for years.
Falling for the same trick again? Putting myself at some asshole hockey player’s mercy for a scrap of his famed attention?
Yeah, that’s a hard pass.
Vivian shakes her head, that condescending sympathy filling her eyes. “You say that, but Beck is a millionaire playboy. He
knows how to get women to do what he wants.”
Just then, an assistant comes bustling through the door, hands me a half-inch thick binder filled with pages still warm from the
printer, and bustles right back out.
“Just remember,” Vivian adds, “that he’s off-limits for anything other than a platonic working relationship. So look all you
want, but don’t touch. It’s written in your contract. Right there.”
And so it is. Page 3. In plain black ink, the contract states that “an inappropriate relationship with the party known as Beckett
Daniels is grounds for immediate dismissal, under penalty of…”
I go cross-eyed trying to suss out the legalese. But the intent is pretty damn obvious.
Fine by me. As much as I hate being told what to do with my body and my life, sleeping with Beck—or, God forbid, falling in
love with him—would be catastrophic to my plans.
I make myself a promise then and there: I will stay far, far away from Beckett Daniels.
“It won’t be an issue,” I swear.
Vivian scrutinizes me for a long few seconds. Then at last, she nods. “Glad we’re on the same page. Read up and I’ll take you
to your new home. Get ready to see Oz, Dorothy.”
With a mix of excitement and dread, I pull the pages to me and start reading.
 3

SLOAN

It’s not even noon when I pull my beater of a Camry through the wrought iron gates behind Vivian’s sleek BMW. It’s hard to
judge the house from here. I just get an impression of huge windows and an obscene amount of space for one measly hockey
player.
Vivian is waiting by a side door, tapping her foot impatiently. I park and hustle to her, then follow her up a winding set of
stairs.
“Voilà,” she says as she opens the door at the top of the landing. “Home sweet home.”
I try not to let my inner peasant show. The living room alone is at least twice as big as my current hovel.
Every fixture is top of the line and practically untouched. The kitchen is an ocean of gleaming granite and the bathroom has an
honest-to-goodness clawfoot soaking tub that is screaming my name. The bedroom boasts a walk-in closet big enough to house
Cassie’s shoe collection, which is saying something, because that girl can shop.
“As you can see,” Vivian explains, “it’s already furnished. It’s your space, so decorate it more or don’t, I don’t care. If you
need or want anything else, use the company credit card I gave you, but keep the budget low.”
“Exactly how low is a low budget?” I venture to ask, fingering the sheets on the bed. If I have to deal with a manchild twenty-
four/seven, I’m going to need my beauty sleep.
Vivian purses her lips. “Ten thousand?”
My eyes widen. I’d been expecting at least two zeroes less.
“Or whatever,” she continues. “If you need more for a new mattress or something, just let me know and I’ll get it approved.
Most stores around here will rush a same-day order for this address, so you could get everything you need by the end of the
night. I put some local stores in your phone in case you need them.”
“What’s Beck going to say about new furniture coming in and out?”
Vivian waved the concern away like it doesn’t matter. “He’s at practice and then he’ll be out of the house tonight for a meeting
with an energy drink company. They’ve been begging to sign him for an endorsement deal, so he’ll probably come home ready
to party after landing them.”
“Is that a good thing?” I ask distractedly. I’m focused on the cozy little window seat overlooking the backyard. It would be the
perfect place to curl up and read on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
“It’s a million-dollar deal,” Vivian says. “He shoots a commercial or two, keeps their drinks close in the locker room photos,
and it’s money in his pocket.”
A million dollars to drink a Red Bull? Jesus H. Christ. Must be nice.
Vivian turns and points at another door. “That’s the entrance to the main house. You’re connected to it always, but the house is
obviously Beck’s domain outside of working hours. Think of it as your office.”
“Got it. Steer clear unless on official business.”
“Precisely. Beck has a personal chef that comes in three times a week to deliver groceries and prep food. She’ll deliver your
groceries, too, but she’s not your cook. If you want anything special or have any allergies, text Karla. Her number’s on your
phone already. Then there’s…”
As Vivian drones on with more instructions, I tune her out. The apartment is a dream come true. For the first time ever, no one
knows where I live except my closest and most trusted friends. I left no forwarding address at my last apartment. I don’t even
care that I forfeited the security deposit when I broke the lease early.
This place, this job? It feels like a fresh start.
It feels like a step toward my future.
I tune back into Vivian’s monologue at the perfect time. “I know this all moved fast, so I’ve already transferred a signing bonus
to your account. It should be enough to keep you going until your first paycheck comes in, but if not, let me know.”
Signing bonus? I have to stop myself from screaming. Holy hell. This is the promised land. “Oh, wow. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sure you want to unpack, so I’ll let you get settled.”
I nearly snort at the idea of unpacking my stuff. The few items I have are barely enough to fill the trunk of my car. I’ve already
sold everything else.
“You start with Beck first thing tomorrow. He has morning skate at 6:00 A.M. Take one of the cars downstairs and drive him in.
The address is⁠—”
“In my phone?”
Vivian smiles. “You’re catching on. That thing is your lifeline. Don’t lose it. It’s already set up, so you just need to put a good
password on it—and I mean good.”
She hands over the keys to the apartment and the codes to the house and gates. Then she’s gone in a cloud of too-floral perfume.
And I’m alone in my new place for the first time.
“Welcome home,” I mutter to myself.
I flop onto the soft couch and nearly scream as it swallows me whole.
Vivian was right. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.
 4

BECK

My alarm refuses to shut the fuck up.

I thought I broke it for good when I punched it after it went off for the third time in a row. But it looks like lucky number four is
what it’ll take today.
WHACK.
That does it. Plastic circuit boards crunch. Music to my ears. When it finally stops screaming, I crack my eyes open.
The room is dark and silent other than the faint snores of the woman beside me. What was her name again? I don’t remember,
and also, it doesn’t really matter. I don’t bother memorizing the details of the women who warm my bed anymore—my
“conquests,” as Dixon calls them, complete with an obnoxious fake British accent to really sell it.
This one does have some nice tits, though.
I sniff myself. Not great. I’m gonna have to shower if I want to retain any hope of not walking into morning skate smelling like a
distillery that just got laid.
I try to sit up. The world immediately lurches to one side and my head throbs. That’s when I know I’m in for a rough day.
“Fuck this,” I grumble. “I’m calling in sick.”
“You’re not sick—you’re hungover.”
My brows furrow and my hungover brain whirrs as it tries to figure out who the hell just spoke to me. The voice is soft, but the
way it shoots through me is like nothing else.
I peek back at the bed, but the woman in it is still fast asleep. None of the housekeepers nor my personal chef have a voice like
that—one that sounds like they’re purring their dirtiest thoughts out loud. It’s not my manager, who talks like he’s been smoking
a pack a day for forty years, or my ex, thank fucking God.
So who the hell is in my room?
I peer down at the end of my bed, twist my head a little to the left, and close one eye to cheat the double-vision. That’s where I
find my answer.
A woman I’ve never met in my whole damn life stands in front of my bathroom door. She’s beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes,
olive skin, and smooth curves that I can almost feel under my palms. My dick stirs.
Her casual clothes are somewhat worn and fraying from overuse, not out of some sense of fashion. She’s not my type at all—
I’m into plastic, Prada, and perfume, as evidenced by the busty blonde snoozing at my side—but there’s something about her
that I want to prod at. Something that calls to me.
The desire to poke sets me on edge.
I don’t like it.
And, I decide quickly, I don’t like her.
“If this is a strippergram from Dixon again, I’m going to have to decline. As you can tell, I’ve already got someone in my bed.
Next time, though.” Because I can’t help myself, I add, “Although if you want to join, that we can discuss.”
The stranger doesn’t react except to lift that eyebrow a little higher. “I’m not a strippergram, whatever the hell that even is. I’m
your new alarm clock, seeing as how you just went all caveman on your old one. Beep-beep. Time to get up.”
“No can do. I’m sick.” To emphasize my point, I fake a cough and fall back onto the pillow.
“Again: you’re hungover, not sick.” Her voice is dry. Unamused. Disapproving. Hot. “I was told that it wasn’t an excuse for
you to miss practice.”
I lift my head to look at her, fall back to the bed a second time, and pull the blankets up over my head. “Whatever you say,
angel. I’m going to bed.”
The barely-audible whisper of her feet on the hardwood is the only warning I get before the warm covers are ripped
unceremoniously off my body.
“Wrong again,” she proclaims.
I sit up, snarling, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Your new babysitter.”
I wait for her to get to the punchline, but she doesn’t. “Excuse me?” I growl. Last thing I needed is another babysitter or keeper
or watchdog—whatever Vivian is calling it these days.
She tilts her head back and forth. All that hair waves with it. “Assistant, babysitter, alarm clock—it’s all the same thing. Pick
whichever you like—I’m it.”
Disbelief and anger battle in my chest. Is she crazy? She has to be delusional, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting some
five-foot-nothing wisp of a woman boss me around. Not in a million years.
“Like fuck you are. Listen, lady⁠—”
“That’s not my name.”
“Interrupt me again and you’ll find me even less agreeable than I am right now. Do you understand?”
The woman stares at me for a moment, a slight angry flush on her cheeks. I almost want to see how far the blush goes. Would it
pinken her neck? Creep down between her breasts? If I parted her thighs⁠—
Focus, Beck.
The as-yet-nameless woman nods once, then turns to my bedmate. “Time for you to get up, hon,” she prods, orders of magnitude
nicer than she was being to me.
I glance over. I can’t see anything but the shock of bottle blonde hair peeking out of the covers, but I recognize the tattoo at the
base of her neck. The little butterfly symbol is sending hazy memory after hazy memory through my brain.
The not-a-babysitter girl meets my eyes and cocks a brow. I realize she’s waiting for something. When I don’t give it to her, she
rolls her eyes with a scoff.
“What’s her name, Casanova?” she sighs.
I barely curb the desire to ask for her name instead. “Trina. Trixie. Tamara, maybe? Shit, I don’t remember.” I honestly don’t
think I even asked. I scrub my face. “Listen⁠—”
“Tonya,” the woman beside me sighs, face still buried in the pillows. “If you need me to go…”
I wave her off. “Stay right where you are, babe. Round Two is on in about five minutes.”
Tonya twists her head and grins like human Viagra. “You already gave me Round Two last night. Three and Four as well,
actually.”
I can’t help but grin back. “Math was never my strong suit. Sex, on the other hand…”
“Ew.”
I turn back to the firecracker, who just made a retching noise like a cat throwing up a hairball. “Don’t like it? Leave. I didn’t
ask you to stand here and watch, so if you’re a prude, you’re definitely in the wrong place.”
The little hellcat cocks her hip to the side and glares at me. “I’m in the right place, and I don’t give a shit what you do with
your body or your dick. I only care about doing my job. Now, are you planning to get up any time soon or do I need to stand
here and critique your performance?”
“By all means.” She’s not the only one with an attitude. “If you want to watch, pull up a chair, sweetness. It’s about to get
sticky.”
I watch for the blush but it never comes. Instead, she blinks and scowls. “Mr. Daniels⁠—”
“Beckett,” I correct with a shudder.
Just hearing “Mr. Daniels” makes something dark slither through me. I’m not a good man, but my father? He makes me look like
an altar boy. He’s definitely not someone she’d want to know. Hell, I don’t even want to know him, and fifty percent of my
DNA is his.
“Fine. I understand this is a shock, Beckett, but I’m just here to do a job. With all due respect, you aren’t anything to me but a
project.”
“Right. Well, I hate to do this—” That’s a lie. “—but you’re fired. See yourself out.”
Her grin is positively feral. I let myself fantasize for a moment about what else those lips can do before I shut it down.
“You can’t fire me.”
I shrug. “Pretty sure I just did.”
“Pretty sure you didn’t, since I don’t work for you.”
“Does anyone care to explain what’s happening?” Tonya yawns, climbing out of bed and searching the floor for her clothes. I
have a vague memory of throwing her panties on the kitchen counter. I grimace at the thought of Karla finding them. She’s a
mean cook, but she’s just plain mean when it comes to the germ-free sanctity of her space.
I may own the house, but if she says the kitchen is hers, it is. Fucking with the person who makes my food is a level of stupid
I’ll never reach.
Note to self: buy Karla a new kitchen gadget and sanitize the countertops ASAP.
Mystery Woman smiles at Tonya. It’s kinder than she’s looked at me so far, although still withering enough to melt steel.
It pisses me off that she’s my new P.A.—allegedly—but she’s being nicer to my one-night stand than she is to her boss.
Shouldn’t she be bending over backwards for me? Maybe even literally…?
“It means that I was hired by someone else to take care of the world’s biggest man baby,” she explains.
Hired by someone else? There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach as I ask the question I definitely don’t want the answer to.
“Who hired you?”
Sure enough, she gives me the exact reply I was dreading. “Vivian St. James.”
Ah, fuck me sideways. If Vivian hired her, then I’ve got bigger problems than a new assistant. “Is that so?”
The maelstrom of feelings rushing through my chest gets stronger as the implications of Viv’s interference sink in. Underneath it
all, my hangover keeps thumping along merrily.
Phone in hand, I stand from the bed and prowl toward my new assistant. In the half-gloom, I don’t think she quite realized that I
was naked. But as the sun peeks through the sliver in the curtains, she realizes—and boy, does she realize.
Her eyes bulge as she takes in every naked inch of me. To her credit, she keeps her gaze focused above my chin as I step into
her space until we’re nearly chest to chest.
Both of us ignore the fact that my morning wood is trapped between us. Both of us choose not to say anything about it, at least.
I’m sure as hell aware of it, though, and the deepening flush on Hellcat’s cheeks suggests she’s aware of it, too.
I lean down to whisper in her ear, letting myself wrap a single curl of her hair around my finger and tug enough to draw a
wince. “Don’t get comfortable. You won’t be here long.”
Then I shoulder past her and into the bathroom. I need answers and a shower. Not necessarily in that order.
 5

BECK

By the time I exit the bathroom ready for the day, both women are gone and the house is silent. I give myself a moment to hope
it’s a permanent thing, but my luck isn’t that good. Since my playroom is near the main entrance, I can hear the faint sounds of
voices and the echo of the front door slamming.
In the time it took me to wash the stench of booze and sex off, my confusion has transformed to straight-up anger. Someone
needs to be held accountable for this bullshit.
I call Vivian. It goes straight to voicemail. Fuck that, I think, and I send her a text right away.
What the fuck, Viv?
Of course, she answers immediately. I take it you’ve met Sloan.
“Sloan,” I murmur aloud to my full-length mirror. The name suits her. Sexy, demure, sophisticated in a strange sort of way. But
I’m even more annoyed that I had to learn it from Viv.
I turn my attention back to my phone. Why is an assistant I didn’t hire waking me up?
VIVIAN: She’s a non-returnable gift from Hank.
No fucking way. Why is Hank Floyd, the owner of the Seattle Wave hockey team and the guy who holds my career in the palm
of his pampered little hand, sending me an unrequested and very much undesired assistant?
I mean, I know why. A few too many headlines in the wrong tabloids. A guy can’t even take a few topless women for a drunken
spin in the Mustang without everybody getting their panties in a twist about it these days. But, c’mon—it can’t be that big a
deal.
My phone pings with another text from Vivian. Don’t believe me? Ask Coach.
I debate dialing her again, but decide against it. Vivian is a pawn in a much bigger game. If I want answers, I have to go
directly to the source.
Plan in place, I stomp my way downstairs and find Sloan in the kitchen eating an apple, her arms leaning against the counter
I’m pretty sure I fucked Tonya on last night.
A smirk crosses my lips. Let’s see just how much of a prude Sloan really is.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten breakfast on that counter,” I say casually. “It’s the perfect height for eating dessert,
though.”
The fruit pauses halfway to her mouth as Sloan looks between me and the counter. “Are you saying what I think you’re
saying…? Ugh.” She shakes her head, not in dismay but in disappointment that I thought that would get a rise out of her. “I’m
surprised you’re a fan of eating at all. Big, bad hockey boy like you probably receives more than he gives.”
“Too bad you’ll never know, sweetness.”
She snorts, takes one last bite, and chucks the half-finished apple into the sink. “Ready to go?”
“Been ready. The sooner I talk to Coach, the sooner I get rid of you.”
She says nothing else as I lead her out of the house and into the driveway where my car is normally parked.
But instead of my usual sleek Range Rover, there’s a rusted sedan that looks like it should have been reduced to scrap metal
years ago. It’s dripping oil on my pavement like it’s pissing itself.
I stop short. “What the fuck is this?”
Sloan wrinkles her nose. “It’s my car. What does it look like?”
“God made light. God made animals. God made this car. God rested. Did you get the name of the caveman you bought it from?
Does Fred Flintstone know you stole his ride?”
This piece of shit looks can’t be held together with anything more than duct tape and a prayer. There’s no way I’m riding in that
thing and it pisses me off that she’s been driving something that’s two seconds from falling apart. How did it even pass
inspection?
“It’s not even that old. More like a… a classic.” Sloan’s arms cross in front of her as she defends her jalopy like it can hear us
talking shit about it.
But if this car ever could hear, it isn’t doing any more of that without some hearing aids. “Classics are classics for a reason.
They’re restored. This is a rust bucket death trap.”
“No,” she snaps, “it isn’t.”
I step closer and literally peel a piece of rust off the car to flick at her. “It is, actually, and there’s no goddamn way I’m riding
in it.”
I turn and stomp away. I don’t bother stopping to see if she follows. In fact, I hope she doesn’t.
But like clockwork—very irritating clockwork—her little huff and pitter-pattering footsteps follow me to the garage. “Where
are you going?” she calls.
“To get a car that won’t explode on the first pothole.”
She doesn’t answer. Small blessings. My head hurts like a bitch as it is.
Slipping into the garage, I palm a set of keys from the lockbox and toss them her way. “Here. Earn your keep.”
“Which one is it?” she asks, looking at the four cars I’ve got in the garage.
“Why don’t you press the button and find out, Sherlock?”
She rolls her eyes again, which just makes my smirk broaden. As much as I don’t like her, my initial instinct was right: I do
enjoy poking at her.
With a frown, Sloan pushes the fob. The lights on my SUV beep. “Escalade it is.” I move toward the backseat, turning when
Sloan doesn’t follow. “You coming?”
“This is a hundred-thousand dollar car.”
“And?”
“I’m not driving that thing.” She shivers like the car’s going to bite her.
“Fine by me. It’ll be even easier to get rid of you than I thought.”
Sloan glares at me through the blacked-out windows as I shut the door in her face. I watch her straighten her shoulders like
she’s going to war and can’t help but laugh.
She climbs in, mumbling under her breath until the engine turns over. “What happens if I wreck it?”
I shrug. “I’ll buy another one.”
“Just like that?”
Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. “Baby, I have more money than God. Buying a new car is just a rounding error.”
“Must be nice,” she mumbles, backing out of the garage at a snail’s pace.
“It is. Now, step on it. I don’t want to be around you any longer than I have to.”
 6

BECK

The ride to the rink is silent as the grave. Thank fuck for that. I can’t handle another chat with Sloan yet—but I do need to talk
to someone.
Unlocking my phone, I open up my group chat with the guys.
BECK: Where you motherfuckers at?
It doesn’t take long for me to get a response.
ADRIAN: Doing an early workout before morning skate.
DIXON: Getting another round in with the hottie from last night, Beck?
COLIN: Need a partner, Big B? She looked like she’d be a fun time.
Scowling, I reply, The blonde’s gone. I’ve got a brunette problem now, though. I’ll be there soon to explain. See you
bitches at the rink.
DIXON: Your problems are so much more fun than mine :(
I leave the chat as they begin to discuss all my past problems in great detail. The more they rattle off, the more I realize that ol’
Mr. Floyd might actually have some reason to be a little bit pissy about my behavior of late.
I flick through my apps. My email is bursting with a ton of sponsorship offers, only half of which I could even pretend to care
about. Delete, delete, delete. I send a few terse responses just to keep the PR team off my back.
Then, bada bing bada boom, by the time we get to the rink, I’ve cleared my email just like I hope to clear up my life.
Starting with the little irritant in the driver’s seat.
I hop out of the car and plant myself in front of Sloan’s door before she can get out. I lean close, letting the faint smell of roses
and citrus wash over me. Sloan’s eyes narrow. Her nose flares as I obliterate her personal space. Reaching up, I finger a lock
of hair before tugging it just enough to make her lip curl at me.
“Don’t get comfortable.” I tuck the hair behind her ear before I step back and smirk. “I’ll have your pink slip in hand by tonight.
No pun intended.”
Then I’m gone before she can follow, disappearing into the bowels of the building that’s become my home away from home.
Normally, just the thought of being close to the ice is enough to calm me down. But not today. The ease of being here is gone
and every step seems to amp up my frustration until I’m shoving through Coach Walker’s office door like a fucking Viking
marauder.
Coach sits behind his desk, white hair trimmed close to his scalp and the permanent scowl on his face deeper than ever as he
pours over paperwork. Though he’s been out of the game for a while, he still has the build for a good defender, plus or minus
thirty pounds of post-retirement blubber.
He quirks a bushy eyebrow at me as I stare him down. “Is there a good reason you’re storming in my office like a drama queen,
Daniels?”
“You know exactly why. You hired an assistant for me without my consent.”
“I didn’t hire anyone. Hank did.”
“So it’s Hank’s fault that I now have a babysitter?”
“No.” His eyes darken as he points a meaty finger at me. “It’s your fault.”
Fuck. He’s right and I hate it, so I don’t even deign to respond. Dropping into the chair on the other side of his desk, I rub a
hand over my eyes. “Tell me you get how fucked up this is, Coach. I woke up to a stranger in my bedroom.”
“What difference does that make? You wake up with a stranger in your bedroom every damned morning.” I start to protest, but
he holds up a wrinkled hand to cut me off. “Spare me the bullshit, Beck. We both know you haven’t gone home alone in months,
so I’m not inclined to feel real sorry for you. We both know it isn’t Hank’s fault that she’s there. You fucked up. She’s the
price.”
My teeth grind and my jaw ticks. For once, I don’t have a ready retort.
Coach Walker sits back, sighing like I’ve exhausted him in the last two minutes alone. Hell, I probably have. “I told you all that
shit was going to bite you in the ass one day. You didn’t listen. This is the consequence.”
“Having some uppity brunette up my ass all the time? What am I even supposed to do with her? Braid hair and sing kumbaya?”
“You know, you’re lucky Vivian hates your ass so much or else she’d be the one attached to your hip.”
I shudder. The thought of being in close contact with Viv again makes my skin crawl. That’s one bullet I’d gladly dodge
forever.
“Until you can prove yourself to be a responsible fucking adult, Sloan Reeves is the only way you can keep your position on
the team.” His voice is firm, like it’s to be the exclamation point to the end of our conversation, but I’m calling bullshit.
Literally calling it, actually. “Bullshit. You can’t be serious.”
Coach doesn’t respond. He just pulls out his desk drawer and throws a packet of papers in front of me. He leans back, arms
crossed while I read the page and immediately wish I hadn’t.
CONTRACT TERMINATION is typed in all-caps red across the top.
“In the event that Beckett Daniels, henceforth known as The Party, is found to be in non-compliance with the terms of the
addendum as stated below, he will be held liable and his NHL contract with the Seattle Wave hockey organization,
henceforth known as The Franchise, shall be terminated immediately…”
Holy shit. They’re not playing.
Something I can’t name sits heavy in my chest until I think I’m going to explode. All I know is I can’t be in this claustrophobic
little room anymore. I can’t sit here and watch my dreams circle the drain, all because of a few fucked-up nights that I barely
remember.
“I… I need a break.”
Coach nods. “The boys are in the gym. Go work some of this out and we can talk again before you leave. This doesn’t have to
be the end, Beck.”
But it already feels like it is.
 7

BECK

The gym always has a scent of musk and sweat that I both loathe and love. It’s familiar, is what I’m trying to say.
Which makes sense. I’ve spent damn near all of my life in the gym. As a kid, I came to learn how to box with my dad. When
things got bad with him, I went to purge the rage. Now, it’s my safe haven for both work and pleasure. A place where nothing
matters but pushing myself to the limits and beyond.
“There he is—ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour. Mr. Beckett Daniels!” Dixon announces melodramatically, waving his
towel around like a lunatic. Since he normally has the thing tucked down his pants, I avoid getting hit like the plague. No
secondhand ball sweat for me, thank you very much.
Dix has his surfer boy blonde hair pulled back in a little ponytail that looks ridiculous, not that he cares. Adrian is bench
pressing, his face a mask of concentration with Colin poised over him to grab the bar if he falters.
The two are polar opposites. Adrian is all darkness. Deep tan skin, black hair, dark eyes. He’s got the cool, clinical outlook on
life, taking just about everything way too damn serious. It makes him a great leader for our rowdy bunch of misfits, though. The
man has an iron fist and he knows how to use it.
Colin, on the other hand, looks light and fluffy. The ginger bastard is Irish through and through, complete with the Lucky Charms
leprechaun’s pale skin, rosy cheeks, and freckles. The whole nine yards. He’s got the temper to match, too.
But there’s an undercurrent of anger in Colin that’s close to my own. It’s why we’re the best at what we do. We throw down
every game to keep our teammates safe.
“So who’s the brunette?” Colin doesn’t take his eyes off the barbell while we talk.
“My new babysitter, apparently.”
That gets his attention. Adrian’s, too, since he racks the bar back and sits up. “Woah, woah, woah. Start from the beginning.”
So I do. As I talk, Dixon looks more and more pissed on my behalf, though Colin is obviously trying not to laugh. Adrian just
looks like he’s thinking it all over. A blank slate, that one.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Dix asks when I’m done.
“I either accept Sloan is here to stay or I lose my spot on the team.”
Damn—saying it out loud sucks.
“Bullshit.” Colin grabs my face between his meaty paws. “You’re Beckett motherfucking Daniels. Who decided you have to
have a sitter? You’re a fucking legend.”
Adrian rolls his eyes because being a legend isn’t enough to save any of us. Ice time, points, hits, trophies: all of it will be
permanently out of reach if I can’t keep my ass out of trouble.
But as skeptical as he is, Adrian is loyal to the death. “What this idiot is trying to say is, you’ve never let anything get in the
way of hockey before. Why let it happen now?”
“He’s right,” Colin says. “Get rid of Sloan and your problems will go out the door with her.”
“Christ, do you even attempt to listen?” Adrian growls. “This girl is just doing her job, so leave her alone. She didn’t cause
this shit and getting rid of her is like putting a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound: fucking pointless because the actual problem is
still going to be there.”
Dixon elbows me in the side and stage whispers, “It’s you. You’re the problem.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the explanation, jackass. Like I don’t know that.” I turn to Adrian. “So then what’s your suggestion,
o wise one?”
“Toe the line,” he answers at once. When I scowl at him, he just scowls right back. “You fucked up, Beck. I’m sure I’m not the
only one who’s told you that, and I doubt I’ll be the last. You want to keep your job? Focus more on it than anything else. Forget
the noise. Do what Coach and Hank want.”
“Fuck being a good boy,” Colin argues. “I say we get rid of her.”
“How?” I ask.
He shrugs like I’m the dumbass. “Easy: make her life hell. A girl like that isn’t meant for a world like ours. The traveling, the
parties, the puck bunnies. This life ain’t easy on fresh meat.” His grin is telling. “I’ve got ideas if you need them.”
There’s a gleam in his eyes that reminds me that Colin isn’t exactly stable all the time. He’d never hurt a woman, but he’d have
no problem making them wish they’d never met him.
I’m wary, though. Despite how much I don’t like Sloan, I’m not ready to set Colin loose on her. There’s a weird, prickly
protective instinct there that I have no interest in delving into.
Still, I appreciate that he’s all-in to help me get what I want. I clap him on the back on my way out the door. “I’m good, man,
but thanks.”
With a wave to the others, I’m out the door and headed back to Coach’s office.
If I want Sloan out of my life, I need to get my shit together. At least enough that Hank will get off my case and fire her. Adrian
was right—Sloan is a symptom of a much bigger problem.
But that doesn’t mean she can stay.
Coach’s narrowed eyes greet me when I step inside. “It’s too damn early for this shit. I’m not arguing with you again, Beck.
Take the babysitter or Hank will cut you faster than you can pack your skates. Your choice.”
I nod at the ground, putting my best good boy face on. I need to tread carefully here. “What if she… quits?”
Coach raises one fluffy eyebrow at me. “You planning on making her quit? Because I don’t employ bullies. Not off-the-ice
ones, at least.”
I wouldn’t call it a plan, necessarily. “No, sir. But we both know I can be a… difficult person to be around.”
Coach snorts into his coffee. I know he’s remembering all the times I’ve made things difficult for him. I don’t set out to be a
dick; it’s just that I have no time or tolerance for idiots or bullshit. Anything that falls into those categories can take a long walk
off a short pier for all I care.
“I’ve got a deal for you,” I continue. “I’ll try this thing with her—I’ll even agree to be on my best behavior—but if she quits,
you tell Hank no more babysitters.”
Coach stares at me. I do my damndest to keep my face and mind blank. Then, finally, he sighs. “No harassing her or making her
uncomfortable. Nothing physical. If she leaves, it’s because she chooses to. But I swear to the Big Man Upstairs, Beck: if I find
out you’ve hurt her or treated her with any form of disrespect, I’ll cut your ass myself.”
“Agreed.”
I can work within those parameters. I just have to make Sloan as miserable as she makes me. Easy.
“Fan-fuckin’-tastic,” he mutters. “Now, go home and get yourself situated with the new girl. You can come back for practice
tomorrow morning.” I lean forward and shake his hand. But he doesn’t let me go. “If you make an ass of yourself or this team
again, I’m not going to be able to help you, Beck. Don’t put me in that position.”
“Understood, Coach.”
He nods, shooing me out of his office with a grimace that says he has zero faith in me. Too bad he’s forgotten one thing: I
always play by my own rules.
I’m not even two feet out the door when I pull out my phone and start texting the group chat.
What are you guys doing this weekend? I’ve got ideas.
 8

SLOAN

Two days after my initial meeting with Beck, I wake up to a text from an unknown number on my phone.
Come to the kitchen for breakfast. I have pastries. —Karla
Bless her. She already knows the way to my heart.
I throw on some clothes and dash over to the big house. Inside the mansion, I pretend I’m not majorly uncomfortable with the
priceless rugs and paintings that cost more than I’ve made in my whole life.
Part of me is bitter. Money may not buy happiness, but it definitely buys comfort. And some ugly art.
The other part of me isn’t sure I’d ever be happy in a mega McMansion. It feels so heartless.
Brushing those thoughts away, I finally make it to the kitchen and the woman who very obviously commands it.
The woman I presume to be Karla is shorter than me and seems somewhere near her mid-fifties. As she bounces from the
double oven on the wall to the stovetop, the only thing marring her pristine white apron is the mass of silky black curls that
threaten to escape their ponytail.
She peeks over her shoulder to smile at me. I’m shocked at how warm and friendly it is coming from a total stranger. “You must
be Sloan. I’m Karla. I hope you’re hungry.”
I smile back, hopping onto a barstool all nonchalant as if the smell of baked goods doesn’t have me nearly salivating. “That’s
me. Please tell me I can have a bite of whatever you just made.”
She laughs. “I made it for you, so yes. Beck won’t have any during the season.”
I grimace. What kind of maniac refuses baked goods?
As if mentioning his name called him like a demon, the asshole himself strides into the kitchen just then. “Oh, look,” he drawls.
“The princess is awake.”
“Be nice to the new girl!” Karla snaps her dish towel at him.
“Fine. I’ll be nice for you. Speaking of…” Beck ducks behind the counter and slips an arm over her shoulder. “Good morning,
Karla. How’s my favorite person today?”
I have no idea how this woman works with Beck on the daily. The emotional whiplash is making me dizzy, and I’m just a
neutral observer.
It’s different for Karla because he likes her, some part of me says. I eye their easy embrace and the way Beck gives her a soft
smile. The way they’re so comfortable around each other, it’s more like they’re family.
Which makes me… what, exactly? A Peeping Tom at the window?
Just as I’m about to quietly slide off my barstool and out of the room, Karla plops the world’s biggest cinnamon roll on a plate
in front of me.
There are people in this world who hesitate to eat around new acquaintances.
I’m not one of those people.
I dig into the cinnamon roll like it’s my last meal on earth and groan through the first bite. The usual sugar and cinnamon is cut
through with an orange zest so fresh, I’m sure Karla grated it herself.
It is, hands down, the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
“This is incredible,” I tell her. “If all your other food is this good, I’ll let you put whatever you want in my mouth.”
Beck’s eyes snap to mine at once. The heat in them is enough to make me choke on my pastry. He leans over the counter, far too
close for my liking. His lips tickle my ear as he whispers, “Careful who you make promises around, sweetness.”
Then his hand is gone and so is he, grabbing a shake from the fridge and heading out without so much as another glance my
way.
I blink in confusion. What the hell was that?
Karla looks blissfully unaware as she leans across the counter toward me. “Now that Prince Moody is gone, tell me all about
yourself.”
I shrug, pulling off another piece of the soft dough. “Not much to tell. Just a college dropout working three jobs to make ends
meet.”
And to pay off someone else’s debts.
“Really? No hobbies? Boyfriends? Girlfriends?”
I snort. “No hobbies. No boy- or girlfriends. Pretty boring, like I said.”
She scrutinizes me like she sees something I don’t want her to see. “Somehow, I doubt that. You have to have grit to consider
taking a job with Beck. I love that boy, but he’s a pain in the ass.” She shakes her head, laughing.
Curiosity swamps me. I figure Karla’s the perfect person to give me more information about my new charge. “How long have
you known Beck?”
“Oh, most of his life. I worked for his father and followed him as soon as he could afford me.”
“So you must have plenty of stories about his wayward youth,” I joke. Although there’s probably truth to it. Naughty men start
as naughty little boys.
She doesn’t laugh with me.
I glance quickly at her and the friendliness in Karla’s gaze is swapped for something else. Protectiveness, if I had to guess. Of
a fairly angry and intimidating variety.
“Beck’s history is his own and I won’t be sharing it with anyone,” she says in a low, dangerous voice. “The media gets enough
of him from the shenanigans he’s constantly pulling. If that’s what you’re here for, some story to sell somewhere, you can take
yourself elsewhere.”
The tension is crackling. In a weird way, it’s oddly endearing to know that hockey’s biggest asshole has someone as fierce as
Karla in his corner. It makes me wonder what side of him I’m missing.
Probably all of them. The only side of him I’ve seen is the asshole side.
I mean that figuratively, of course. Literally speaking, I’ve seen all his sides, sans clothing, and the image of that chiseled body
is stuck in my head like a bad jingle.
I raise my hands. “I’m just here to make sure Beck sticks to the rules so he can keep playing hockey. That’s it.”
She narrows her eyes at me, still a little wary. “Hm.”
I decide to give her a piece of my own history. “My father was a gambler. I spent my whole life trying to keep him from
wasting everything we had and in the end, all it got me was his crippling debt packed onto my shoulders. This job is my way
out. I’m not going to risk that for a quick buck with the tabloids.”
Finally, she nods. “Good. Despite how he acts most days, Beck’s a good man.”
Then she chatters on about all the things she can make that Beck goes bananas for, as if that snarly Mama Bear act never
happened. As she talks, I let out a slow breath, feeling like I just passed some sort of Karla-approval test.
When she leaves to go get grocery supplies for the week, I breathe out a sigh of relief and press my forehead to the cool marble
countertop.
It might be a very long season ahead.
 9

SLOAN

Stepping into Rusty’s after a week away has me feeling all sorts of nostalgic. I never thought I’d miss the smell of oil from the
fryer or the sounds of patrons demanding coffee refills, but I do.
Waving at the line cook, Antonio, behind the bar, I make my way to the corner booth where Cassie and Monroe are already
seated.
“Please tell me you have fries on the way,” I beg, flopping down.
Monroe rolls her eyes with a huff. “Two baskets and a burger for each of us. How you eat grease like that and still have
flawless skin is beyond me, and honestly, I hate you for it.”
“When it’s all you eat some days, your body sorts its shit out.” I grin when a basket of fries drops in front of me and snatch one.
It’s hot enough to burn my fingers, but I don’t even care. “Besides, that’s not going to be an issue anymore.”
“That’s right—you left us for your new swanky job. How’s the high life treating you?” Monroe crosses her arms and leans
back. “Go on. Make me jealous.”
“Except for the asshat I’m responsible for herding around town, everything is just dandy. I got a massive budget to redecorate
the staff apartment and I’ve got access to Beck’s personal chef.”
Karla even gave me her personal cell with explicit instructions to text her with any random cravings I may have. The woman is
a saint.
Cassie smiles, darting in to steal one of my fries. Little thief. “How is Mr. Fine Ass Hockey Player? I’d be all over that man
every day of the week.”
I scrunch my nose. “He’s… fine.”
The truth is that Beck’s been weird all week. He hasn’t gotten in my face or snapped at me since the first day in his bedroom.
He gets up when I ask and goes to practice with no problems. No talking back, no dirty talk in my ear, no whispered threats.
Nothing. He’s even nice when Karla isn’t around. So far, being his babysitter seems like the cushiest job in the world.
It makes me nervous. I learned a long time ago that when something looks too good to be true, it usually is.
“Oh, no. Your boss isn’t actually a raging douchebag. How tragic,” Monroe deadpans.
Cassie smiles at me. “I, for one, am glad that the universe is giving you a break. You’ve had a rough year. You deserve good
things happening to you.”
I smile back, shoving the rest of my burger in my mouth. I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but it’s not working.
I’ve got my father’s luck in me. Nothing good like this can last. Still, I’m determined to enjoy the ride as long as I can.
We finish our meal in record time. After a round of hugs and promises to meet up again soon, it’s time to go. I walk Cassie to
her car, then slip back through the kitchens and out the back door.
It’s payment day.
The alley behind Rusty’s is darker than sin and smells like old trash and spoiled food. It’s gross and creepy and probably
riddled with disease.
But that’s not what sends shivers down my spine.
No, those are reserved for the man leaning against the wall across from me.
The Bloodhound is six and half feet of muscle and rage. He’s handsome enough, with features that almost remind me of Beck’s
in a weird, shivery sort of way, but everything about him is just too sharp to be appealing. He looks pissed at the world and
willing to do some damage to any part of it he can get his hands on.
I, however, am not interested in filling the position of his punching bag.
“Reeves.” His voice is snakes-on-a-gravestone creepy and my hindbrain is desperately shrieking at me to run as far and as fast
as I can. “You got my money?”
I peek at the end of the alley where two shadows lurk, only visible by the cherries of their cigarettes. The Bloodhound brought
enforcers for a routine payment pickup.
Not a good sign.
I pull the fat envelope out of my bag and hand it over. “It’s all here, with the late fee included.”
“Excellent. How’s work going?”
I try very hard to keep my body from freezing up. I don’t want the Bloodhound to know about my new job. Not only because I
don’t want my situation to blow back on Beck, but he has a habit of upping my payments so that no matter how much I make,
I’m barely surviving.
I shrug, a stilted attempt at being casual. “It’s good. Busy, as usual.”
“Haven’t seen you in the diner lately.”
Fuck. I need to remind Monroe to keep the staff silent about my whereabouts. “I’ve been taking on some other work.
Babysitting, mostly. It pays better.”
That’s sort of the truth, right? My pulse is racing. God, I hope he believes me.
The Bloodhound stares at me, dead eyes peering into my soul until my back breaks out in a cold sweat. Finally, he nods and
tucks the envelope in his back pocket.
“This was your last grace period, Reeves. Next time, the late fee will be something a little more… personal.” He steps
forward, his body dwarfing mine as he strokes a finger down my cheek.
Coming from a lover, it would feel like adoration. But when the Bloodhound does it, there’s no doubting what it is: a threat.
“Copy that. I won’t be late again.”
He holds my gaze for another nauseating few breaths. Then he and the goons disappear and I’m left bent in half, sucking in
rancid air like I’ve been underwater for an hour.
 10

SLOAN

By the time I get back to Beck’s, I’m exhausted. All I care about is washing the stench of fear from my skin and going to bed.
Instead, the gates open to reveal…
Absolute mayhem.
“I knew this was too good to be true,” I snarl, hopping out of my car and wading through the drunken crowd spilling out Beck’s
front door.
There are people everywhere. On the patio. The porch, The terrace.
I sigh and stop just inside the door, awed by the hundred-plus beautiful bodies crammed into the space. Women in dresses short
enough to show flashes of panties prance around with brightly colored drinks, laughing wildly. Men flirt and smile, coaxing
them onto the dance floor for a grind or two. It’s a clusterfuck that smells like sex and booze.
And at the heart of it all, there’s Beck.
Sitting on his pristine couch with arms and legs spread, he looks like a king lording over his court. All the women nearby sneak
glances like he might notice them, but he’s too busy laughing with his buddies to care.
I know the exact moment he sees me.
“Sloan, you’re back!” Beck calls as I step into his section of the party. “Just in time for our little soirée.” His eyes are glassy,
but there’s not enough booze in the world to hide the evil calculation in them.
The fucker planned this. He’s been biding his time all week, fronting with his best behavior, just to lull me into a false sense of
security⁠—
And I fucking let him.
“So I see,” I reply dryly. “What about your game tomorrow?”
Beck waves me off with a smirk. “We’ve all played a little hungover. Right, boys?”
A cheer goes up. Drunk hockey players have a decibel level all their own and the noise spreads until the entire party is on its
feet, glasses raised, voices blending into a single cheer. It’s deafening. I don’t even attempt to fight the urge to roll my eyes.
If the big, bad idiots want to go out onto the ice still hammered, that’s their prerogative.
Except Beck.
He’s my prerogative.
“Right.” I don’t have the energy for this tonight. Not after dealing with the Bloodhound. “How long are you planning on having
this shindig?”
Beck smirks, downs the rest of his beer, and signals to one of the hovering puck bunnies for another. She hurries over, ass and
tits nearly falling out of her dress as she takes the empty and replaces it with a full cold one, but he barely even notices because
his eyes are on me.
“As long as I want,” he purrs.
I don’t like the dip his attention causes in my stomach.
No, Sloan. You don’t get to think the hockey douche is hot. He’s a fuckboy and your job. Hands off. Remember the contract.
“Well, some of us have work to do, so keep it down. I’ll see you all in the morning.” I move toward my apartment. “And by the
way, I’m not cleaning any of this shit up.”
The smile that tips my lips is as short-lived as my jaunt through the crowd.
Because about thirty seconds after I turn my back on Beck, it’s his huge hand clamping onto my bicep. I’d scream, but the
music’s so loud that there’s no point.
He drags me through the room, everyone parting around him like he’s Moses, and into a relatively empty hallway. His big body
maneuvers in front of me. All I see, all I smell, is him. Booze and cologne and beneath it all, something that I still can’t quite
wrap my head around.
He stalks forward. Instinct forces me back. Every step he takes forward, I take one back, until I’m wedged into the corner with
nowhere to go.
“You need to watch your mouth when you speak to me.” Beck’s voice is low and gravelly with warning. What does it say about
me that it makes me shiver in the best kind of way?
“Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t learn some respect on your own, I’ll have to teach you another way to use your mouth.” He brushes a
finger down my cheek in a move so similar to the Bloodhound that I shiver.
But where the debt collector made me cold with fear, Beck lights me up. The temptation to see how far I can push him before
he keeps his promise is strong.
Damn it, Sloan. Pull your head out of your hormones and focus.
I want to, but he’s too close and his cologne makes my heart thrum under my skin. I hate it.
He smells like sex and danger. It’s catnip for someone like me who’s been struggling to survive for so long that she’s forgotten
her basic needs.
I shake my head. I have to find my focus. “Don’t worry, big guy. I know exactly what to do with my mouth, thanks. Namely,
remind you of your schedule. You have a game tomorrow you should be resting for.”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Actually, it is.” I’ve got precisely one hundred thousand reasons to care.
He laughs. There’s a cruel edge to it that makes me shiver. “Did you really think I was going to let you waltz in here like Mary
fucking Poppins and control my life?”
“You will if you want to keep playing hockey.”
Oh, that hits home.
Beck’s face twists and he slides his body closer. “I don’t want you here.”
“How ironic! I don’t want to be here.”
“Then leave.”
I laugh. I know I shouldn’t provoke him, but I can’t help it. “There’s not a thing you could do to me to get me out of this house.”
For a moment, all I see is frustration. Like he can’t understand why I’d stay. Then it’s gone and cockiness takes its place. “I
guess we’ll find out.”
“Bring it on, puckboy. I’ve handled way worse than you.”
He grins. “Feel free to ‘handle me’ anytime you want. In the meantime, don’t bother unpacking your shit. I’ll be shocked if you
last another week.”
He steps back and the crowd swallows him. I want to rage, but I’m seriously burnt out for the day. He can have this one.
Too bad there’s nothing he could do to make me give up this job.
Not when it’s my only shot at a future worth having.
 11

BECK

On game days, I like to start slow and quiet. Find the headspace I need to be in before I step onto the ice.
Instead, I get Sloan, sipping a cappuccino in my kitchen like it’s right where she belongs.
Fucking perfect.
“What are you doing here?”
As usual, my personal pain in the ass ignores me. “Have a good time at the party?” she asks innocently.
I grunt in response, hoping she gets the hint. If she’s not going to answer my question, she can fuck right off.
Of course, she doesn’t. She sits her perky ass down next to me after digging out one of Karla’s cinnamon rolls.
“You’re not going to offer me a bite?” I drawl.
Sloan snorts. “I don’t share my things.”
“Likewise. But it’s rude not to offer.”
Her body twists just enough to look me in the eyes. “Would you eat it if I did?”
I grin. “No.”
“Exactly why I didn’t offer you any.” She sighs. “Look,” she says around a mouth full of food, “I think we got off on the wrong
foot.”
I don’t even have to answer because, well, No shit, Sherlock.
“All I’m saying is, if you’re going to try and push me out, take your best shot. I get that you don’t want me to be here, but I
won’t leave. I can’t leave.”
Now, I’m frowning into my coffee. “Can’t” is a lot different than “won’t.” There’s obviously something keeping Sloan attached
to my hip. Something I need to figure out if I want her gone for good.
Setting the cup down, I twist in my chair and take her in.
Her shoulders are tight, brows just tense enough to create a furrow between them. She’s fidgeting in her seat and twisting the
mug around and around by the handle while she waits for me to respond.
This girl is wound tight.
I could fix that for her. I swallow the groan that comes with the images of Sloan sprawled naked on my bed, my dick hardening
in my shorts at the thought of my hands roaming over her body.
I don’t have to like her to want to fuck her, right?
I pretend to focus on my drink so I can subtly rearrange myself without it being a whole ordeal. The second-to-last thing I need
to be thinking about is Sloan coming on my cock. The last thing I need is for her to know I’m thinking about it.
An idea strikes me suddenly. I don’t bother to hide the slow grin that spreads across my face.
“You want to stay?” I ask. “Fine. Let’s talk about the house rules.”
Sloan frowns. “House rules?”
I lean back with a smirk, my brain whirling as new plans come together. Oh yeah, this’ll work. “It’s all basic shit. Do your job,
keep your stuff in your apartment, stay out of the house unless you have to be here.”
She rolls her eyes, but nods. “That’s fine.”
“Good. Onto the juicy stuff.”
Sloan’s whole body stiffens next to me. Now, I know I’ve got her attention.
“For as long as you live in my house, there will be no dates, no sleepovers, no house guests. No guests of any kind, as a matter
of fact. No fuck buddies, no boyfriends, no friends with benefits. You want to get your rocks off? Buy a toy. Otherwise, you’re
a nun for the duration of your stay. Capisci?"
I’m a genius. Einstein ain’t got shit on me.
And her reactions confirm it. The tight smile she’s been wearing morphs into pure female rage. Her hands clench against her
thighs, her teeth grinding hard enough that I can hear it.
“You don’t get to control who I sleep with.”
I wave her off, even as the idea of her fucking someone else makes me grit my molars. “Of course not. You can fuck whoever
you want—as long as you don’t do it in my house.” I lean over until we’re nearly cheek to cheek. “Unless that’s going to be a
problem for you…?”
I tilt my head back just enough to see her face as she decides out how to respond. It’s like reading a book. I can tell she doesn’t
want to agree, though I’m not sure if it’s because these new rules exist or because I’m the one who gave them to her.
When she finally answers, she’s practically spitting fire. “I think I can handle my extracurriculars happening somewhere else.”
“I’m sure you can. Not that you’ll have time to go out much,” I say with a smile. “You’re supposed to be watching my every
move. Having your head so far up my ass you can’t breathe hardly leaves time for a quick romp in the back of some hipster’s
hybrid or whatever you’re into.”
Her eyes narrow in a glare as she gives me a tight smile. “Good thing I’ve got other outlets in my bedside table.”
An image of Sloan with a vibrator in hand sears across my mind and I’m harder than ever. Goddammit.
“So those are the rules,” I finish with a croak in my voice. “Any questions?”
I expect her not to agree, but she surprises me by nodding crisply. “Fine. I’ll follow your made-up rules, but…”
She flashes a smile at me. It’s a wicked, dark thing.
“… only if they apply to you as well.”
I choke on my laugh. “Excuse me? Last I checked, this was my house.”
“And the staff apartment is mine.” She shrugs. “It’s in my contract that you don't have control over what I do there. I could host
an orgy every night, so long as it doesn’t interfere with my duties. So, if you want me to follow your rules, you'll need to follow
mine.”
Now, it’s my turn to be frustrated. Heat sears the back of my neck as I try to keep my calm. I refuse to let this irritating woman
get the best of me. “I don't think you understand. This is my house and these are my rules. You don't like them? Get out.”
“I'm not leaving.”
“Then you'll do what I say.”
“Not a chance. You want me to give up sex, you can do the same.” This time she gets close, her hair brushing my arms as she
invades my space. Her voice is low and soft, something better suited for dark rooms at midnight than the sunlight of early
morning. “Don’t play chicken with me, Beckett Daniels. I'm just as stubborn as you are, but I have way less to lose. So if you
want me to follow your rules, then they apply to us both. Deal or no deal?”
For a moment, I just stare at her. There’s something about the way she holds herself that tells me she’s telling the truth. It’s been
a long time since I’ve had something I cared about losing, but Sloan is a distraction I can’t afford. Not when my career hangs in
the balance.
So be it. I know I’m going to play her game, but only because I have no doubt that I can outlast her. I don’t accept bets that I’m
not sure I’ll win.
I definitely don’t agree just because I don’t want to see some random dickhead hanging all over her. Not at all.
“Looks like you’ve got a deal, Sloan Reeves. We'll be celibate and miserable together.”
She holds her hand out. I shake it once, then let go before the warmth of her skin can draw me in. Two seconds into my forced
celibacy and I can already tell I’m going to hate this.
The only upside is that I’m an asshole on a good day—and without sex as an outlet, any good days I might’ve had are far
behind us.
“Now that that’s settled, get the fuck out of my house until it’s time to leave.”
 12

BECK

With Sloan gone and the house quiet, I try to go through my regular game day schedule. I make a smoothie and take it outside in
the sunshine before I change my clothes. Usually, I’d have a gym session, then fall into bed for a few rounds of sex before
heading to the arena, but the interlude with Sloan completely fucked my routine and I’m not sure how to get it back on track.
Like clockwork, my phone lights up a text.
STACY: I’m available if you need to relax. I know you’ve got a game tonight.
My fingers are already flying across the screen with a firm yes. Shoving myself face-first into the warm pussy of a casual
hookup is exactly what I need to get my head on right before I hit the ice.
Too bad the faint sound of music rips that idea out of my head.
I look up. It’s coming from the staff house windows.
Sloan.
I may be an asshole, but I’m still a man of my word. I made her a deal and I’m not going to break it on the first fucking day.
“Goddammit!” I snarl, dangerously close to throwing the phone. Especially because the more I think about it, the less appealing
Stacy’s offer is.
With gritted teeth, I delete my text and send two short words instead.
Not interested.
I need to get into the gym and work out some of this pent-up frustration. Hockey’s a rough sport, but the refs still frown on
outright slaughter and that’s exactly what I’ll be giving our opponents tonight if I don’t get my shit under control.
Especially since I won’t be able to fuck the irritation out of my system.
I march downstairs to my home gym and start ripping into a brutal workout. By the time I hear Sloan’s car start up an hour later,
my body is slick with sweat and I’m almost desperate for a different kind of release.
I’ve always liked sex. Who doesn’t? But I didn’t realize that, by making it impossible to have, it would become the only thing
on my mind. The idea of making Sloan take Stacy’s place has been running through my head with every rep I crank out. As is
the reminder that I could have any woman I want—until now.
It’s driving me insane.
That’s the only excuse I have for what I do next. I drop my dumbbells to the ground and pace the room like it’s my fucking cage
as more thoughts of Sloan spring to my mind. Desperate thoughts.
I want her as pent up as I am.
I want to see her go wild.
I can’t touch her, but I can make her as crazy as she is making me.
An idea peeks through the mayhem. I’m out the door before I can second-guess myself. Not that it would matter—once I’ve
decided on a path, that’s the one I’m taking and this is only the beginning.
All Sloan’s done since she’s got here is nip at my heels.
Now, it’s my turn to bite back.

The spare key slips into the lock of her apartment easily, giving me access to a place I’ve never stepped foot in.
It’s cozy. The walls are mostly white, with some painted a deep forest green. The furniture throughout is deep blue mixed with
dark woods. The rugs are soft gray and blues. It’s like standing beside a river in the woods.
The scheme flows into her bedroom—my target—making the whole place soothing. Peaceful. The urge to shatter that peace is
almost a compulsion.
Without giving myself a chance to think it through, I pull open the top drawer of Sloan’s bedside table and stare, taking in
everything at once.
When she mentioned it earlier, I knew what she meant. It’s not a surprise that a single woman has toys, but this is something
else.
Dildos of all shapes and sizes with suction cups on the bottom, vibrators with bunny ears and little roses that pulse and suck.
Satin bags hidden in the back have my fingers twitching to unwrap them, desperate to unveil what else Sloan’s got. The whole
drawer is a treasure trove of sex toys just waiting for the little she-devil to take them out.
Fuck, why is that so hot?
Probably because I can see her stepping into the room after a long day of tolerating my bullshit, her eyes weary but her body
tight. I bet this drawer is the first place she stops after she leaves me each night.
I have the most intense desire to watch it happen.
As much as I enjoy annoying her, Sloan isn’t the type to let her walls down for anyone. I bet she’s spectacular when she comes.
It’d be so easy to imagine. I can picture her in the shower, her moans muffled by the water as she fucks herself with a suction
toy or the detachable shower head.
I can picture her on the couch, her hand down her panties as she rubs her clit and calls up her wildest fantasies.
I can picture her in the bed, legs spread and body flush as she rides the vibrator until she comes in a sputtering, whimpering
mess. Writhing on the sheets as that little flower consumes her clit.
In her room, surrounded by Sloan’s things, I can practically taste her on my tongue. I shake my head to get rid of the unwanted
thoughts before I do something stupid about them.
Then I reach into the bedside drawer and do what I came here to do: snatch every single cord and battery that I can find.
Let’s see how frustrated she gets with just her inadequate little fingers to get her off.
I head back into the house, more relaxed than I’ve been all day. After the clusterfuck of a morning, it’s a surprise to feel myself
sink easily into my game day headspace. I’m not worried about my place on the team or frustrated about some shit Sloan’s
pulled.
I’m calm. Eager. Ready to dominate the ice.
As I go upstairs for a desperately needed shower, I let myself think about everything. Pushing Sloan’s buttons is becoming an
addiction that I’m pretty damn sure I shouldn’t indulge—and also one that I’m positive I can’t control.
It’s obvious my plan has changed. I still want her gone…
But I think I need a taste of her before she goes.
New plan: fuck her, then get her gone. That should be easy enough. Just one taste, and then everything can go back to the way it
should be.
I just have to make Sloan give in first.
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 CHAPTER XIII.
A STRUGGLE IN THE DARK.

The further Frank went along the cavern wall, the more fearful he
became that he would not be able to find Barney again.
This was most dismaying and the young inventor’s heart sank.
But he set his lips firmly.
“I must find him,” he muttered, resolutely. “Separation will be fatal.”
In vain he called.
No answer came back.
The Celt, wherever he was, was certainly beyond hearing.
In this quandary and a state of mind most indescribable, Frank
strove to make his way along in the darkness.
He kept on, at intervals shouting for his companion.
But ever that same oppressive death-like stillness reigned.
Finally Frank was forced to abandon all hope of finding Barney.
He next turned his attention to the problem of finding his way out
of the place himself.
Once he should succeed in doing this and in joining his friends
there was no doubt but that he could devise a way to return and
make a successful quest for Barney.
With this resolution uppermost in his breast he kept on.
Suddenly a strange sound burst upon his hearing.
 It was a distant sound like the mumbling of voices and gave Frank
a queer thrill of comprehension.
In an instant he realized that he had reached a point in close
proximity to those who were searching for him.
With this belief Frank cautiously came to a halt.
As he did so he heard a slight crunching noise in his rear.
Involuntarily he turned about.
The next moment he felt a clutch upon his shoulder and then talon
fingers closed about his windpipe.
Not a word did his assailant speak. Who or what he was Frank
could only conjecture.
Naturally he believed him to be one of the greasers.
But if this was the case, somewhat singularly the fellow made no
effort to cry out for his companions.
His purpose seemed to overcome Frank without an outcry.
But the young inventor had no idea of submitting without a
struggle.
He grappled with him and a struggle followed which baffles
description.
Backward and forward they swayed and reeled. Now one held the
advantage and now the other.
In this manner the struggle continued for some time.
In vain Frank tried to throw his adversary.
“Who are you?” he finally panted, nigh overcome with exertion.
“That’s nothin’ to you,” gritted the other, huskily. “I’m after yer scalp
an’ I’m goin’ ter have it.”
 “Not if I can prevent,” retorted Frank.
“Ye can’t help yerself.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Ye’d better give in at onct. If ye’ll surrender now I’ll spare yer life
an’ take ye down to Costello.”
“I have no intention of surrendering to you.”
“Ye don’t, eh?”
“No.”
“Curse ye, then I’ll kill ye!”
“If you can.”
“Wall, I kin.”
“Look here!” said Frank, sharply. “I want to know what sort of a
chap you are. I can tell by your talk that you are not a greaser.”
The fellow laughed.
“In course I ain’t,” he replied. “But what of that?”
“Well, you must be a miserable wretch to mix up with them.”
“That’s nothin’ to you.”
“Of course not. Yet I would give one of my own countrymen credit
for better sense than that.”
“Wall, I don’t ax any odds of you nor nobody else. Let go of my
wrist or I’ll stick this knife atwixt yer ribs.”
“I have no idea of it.”
“Ye haven’t, eh?”
“No.”
 “Wall, I’ll show ye.”
With a curse the villain strove to carry out his threat; but Frank
hung on to his grip well.
Backward and forward they swayed in a severe test of muscular
strength.
Frank Reade, Jr., was not a heavy man, but extremely quick and
muscular. He managed to hold his own.
Suddenly voices were heard in the distance, and lights flashed.
Frank knew at once that the greasers were coming that way, and
he understood well the result.
If they should come up while in struggle thus, his fate would be
sealed.
They would no doubt kill him on the spot.
This filled him with desperate resolution, and he made a reckless
attempt to end the struggle then and there.
Exerting all his strength, he swung his adversary against the wall
of the passage.
With such force did the villain strike the wall that he was for a
moment stunned.
It was Frank’s chance.
Quick as a flash he severed his hold with the foe and darted away
in the darkness.
When the fellow recovered an instant later, his would-be victim
was missing.
His wrath is not easily depicted in words or with the pen.
Yelling oaths and fierce imprecations he started in pursuit.
 But Frank had got a good start, and went flying down the dark
shaft like a meteor.
On he kept at full speed, taking the chances of falling into a hole.
In a few moments he had distanced his pursuer. He came to a halt
somewhat out of breath.
There was no doubt but that the villain had taken another corridor
and was far astray.
The lights and the sound of voices had disappeared.
For the nonce Frank knew that he was safe, and he felt relieved.
He sank down upon the damp floor of the mine passage to recover
his breath and strength.
Every muscle in his body was aching from his experience with the
villain.
It had been a hard tussle and he came off victorious only at a
great expense of muscular power.
For some moments Frank rested in this manner.
Then he once more regained his feet.
He knew the great importance of escaping from the place. He
thought of Barney, and at that moment a singular sound came to his
hearing.
It was like the yawn of a waking person. The next moment a
familiar voice in a muttering key broke the air:
“Bejabers, I’ve been ashleep, an’ more’s the shame to me.
Phwativer will Misther Frank think, whin I tell him of it? But shure I
was that tired I could niver kape me eyes open at all, at all.”
Frank gave a start of joy.
How familiar were those tones to him. It was Barney.
 Impulsively he cried:
“Hullo, Barney! Thank Heaven we are reunited.”
“Misther Frank!” cried the Celt, with wildest joy. “Shure is that yez,
sor?”
“It’s nobody else.”
“Begorra, I’m that glad to see yez that I cud sthand on me head.”
The next moment the faithful Celt was by Frank’s side, wringing
his hand.
That was an affectionate meeting between master and servant.
One was scarcely less glad than the other. Both were overjoyed.
Then they recounted experiences.
It seemed that Barney had wandered into another passage and
completely lost his way.
The thickness of the separate walls had prevented Frank’s voice
from reaching him or his voice from reaching Frank.
However, they had been brought together again by good fortune.
It was now determined not to get into another such a scrape.
“Bejabers, I’ll kape close enough to yez now, Misther
Frank,“declared Barney, vigorously. “Not a minnit will I lave yez,
shure.”
“It will be the safest way,” agreed Frank. “We will have to look
sharp to avoid the foe. Ah!”
The exclamation was caused by the distant flashing of a light.
“They are coming this way,” cried Frank, hurriedly.
“Shure ye’re right sor.”
 “We must get out of the way.”
“Begorra, it’s roight yez are.”
“Come on!”
“I’ll folly yez, sor.”
Frank darted into another passage and Barney followed him.
Suddenly, as they were forging along, light was seen ahead.
“What is it?” cried Frank. “As I live I believe it is daylight!”
“Bejabers, sor, it’s not the roight color for that!” cried Barney.
“I guess you’re right.”
“Shure, it’s back into the main mine we be comin’, sor.”
It was certainly a fact that at last they had found their way into a
passage leading into the main body of the mine.
Imbued with new hope, Frank kept on at a rapid pace.
Soon the light grew stronger, and they became certain that they
were coming back to the very point they had started from.
Nearer every moment they drew to the entrance to the shaft.
Nothing was seen or heard of the greasers now. They were
doubtless exploring the passages yet in pursuit of the fugitives.
“Shure, it’s a nice slip we gave them intoirely,” declared Barney,
with a chuckle.
“You are right,” agreed Frank. “Now, if fortune favors us, we will be
able to escape from this den.”
“Shure, I hope so, sor.”
At length they reached the end of the passage and once more
came out into the gallery of the mine.
 There were none of the greasers in the gallery, but venturing to
look down into the pit below Frank saw that there were fully as many
of them yet gathered about the fire.
It was now a serious question as to what it was best to do.
To attempt to pass through the main part of the mine unobserved
was utterly out of the question.
They would be sure to be spotted by the foe, but Frank had
decided upon a move and started to creep along down the gallery,
when a startling thing occurred.
Frank heard a rasping sound almost at his shoulder and then a
whisper came, shrill and clear:
“Whist! are you friends to me?”
Frank turned with utter amazement.
 CHAPTER XIV.
THE END.

Set in the wall of the gallery was a door heavily barred with iron.
A white face was pressed against it, and as Frank looked up he
barely repressed a loud cry of amazement.
“Heavens!” he gasped, “Harvey Montaine!”
“My soul!” came back in a thrilled whisper. “Is that you Frank
Reade, Jr.?”
“It is nobody else.”
“God be praised!”
“I have found you.”
“My prayers are answered.”
“But I fear we are in as bad a position as you,” said Frank.
“How so?” asked Montaine.
“We are alone and unaided here. We escaped into this place from
an old shaft near here into which we had been cast to die.”
“Heaven is with you!” cried Montaine, feverishly. “The Almighty has
sent you to effect my rescue. Oh, Frank, I cannot tell you what I have
suffered in the last month.”
“You have my sympathy,” replied Frank, warmly. “And if it lies
within my power I mean to wrest you from the power of Miguel
Costello.”
“Then you got my message asking for succor?”
 “I did.”
“I knew that you would answer it.”
“Of course I would. I can imagine what you have suffered, dear
friend. But this fiend—Costello—what was his purpose?”
“Partly revenge, and partly a scheme to defraud me of my legal
claim to the mine.”
“Is this the mine?”
“Oh, no; the claim is a richer one and a full two miles from here.
This is an old, disused Spanish mine, worked by the early
Spaniards.”
“Ah! then this is simply a rendezvous for the greasers?”
“Exactly.”
“But Costello—does he spend most of his time here?”
“I think he is sinking a shaft at my mine. He comes here only to
taunt and deride me in my helplessness.”
“The scoundrel!” exclaimed Frank; “but how are we to get you out
of there?”
“Oh, Heaven help you to succeed!” exclaimed the prisoner. “These
bars are too strong to break. But I think it is a simple matter to raise
the barriers which are below. There is no lock, and no key is used.
Simply steel bars are shot into their sockets. They should be easily
opened from the outside.”
“Of course,” replied Frank, eagerly. “It is as you say. Have patience
for a brief moment, and you shall come out of your cell.”
It required but a few moments’ work for Frank to lift the bars, and
then the cell door swung back.
Montaine came staggering out.
 He was a tall, finely formed man with an intelligent cast of
features.
He was but a trifle older than Frank, and much after his type. The
two friends embraced warmly.
“Oh, God, you cannot know what a joy it is to be relieved from that
cursed cell,” said Montaine, fervidly. “It is like entering upon an
entirely new life.”
“I can imagine it well,” replied Frank, “but the danger is not over.
We are still in the lion’s den.”
“Right, my friend,” said Montaine. “But we must find a way out.”
He went to the railing of the gallery and looked over.
There was a light of despair in his fine eyes as he turned back.
“Ah, I fear that we will never see daylight again,” he whispered,
hopelessly. “There is but one entrance to this place that I know of
and that is securely guarded as you see.”
“But we must find a way to escape,” said Frank.
The words, however, had barely left his lips when a thrilling thing
occurred.
Up the stone steps came the sound of feet.
Three of the greasers suddenly appeared not ten feet below. They
saw the escaped prisoners and a cry of alarm escaped their lips.
“My soul! we are lost!” cried Montaine.
But Frank Reade, Jr., was seized with a mighty desperation.
Weapons they had none, save the shovel and the iron bar which
they had brought with them from the old shaft.
But Frank raised the bar and hurled it with all his might at the foe.
It struck one of the greasers fair across the breast.
 He went down like a shot.
The other greasers retreated, giving yells of alarm.
Frank recovered the iron bar and Montaine secured a couple of
pistols from the fallen greaser.
The heroic little trio meant to die game if the foe should venture up
the stairway again.
But they did not.
Circumstances occurred to prevent this contingency. Loud shouts
went up from below, and great excitement seemed to ensue.
Then the distant exchange of rifle shots was heard.
Frank exchanged startled glances with Montaine, and a sudden
inspiration seized him.
“My soul!” he cried. “Do you believe it possible that Silver Sam and
his men have whipped the greasers and have penetrated to this
place?”
“Begorra, there’s a fight goin’ on out there phwativer it
manes!“cried Barney.
“Yes, and a hot one,” added Montaine.
This was true.
The report of rifle shots were now rapid and near at hand. The
yells and cries of the contestants could be plainly heard.
The amphitheater had been cleared of greasers in a twinkling.
It seemed to the prisoners a good opportunity to make an attempt
to escape.
So they rushed down into the place, but scarcely had their feet
touched the cavern floor when half a dozen armed men burst into the
cavern.
 At first Frank thought they might be some of the greasers returned,
and consequently foes.
But a loud cry of joy went up the next moment.
“Hooray!” shouted a hearty voice, “however did you come here,
Mr. Reade?”
It was Silver Sam and five of the hardy miners in his employ.
“We are saved!” cried Frank, joyfully. “Your men have the best of it,
Sam?”
“Cert,” replied the sport, readily. “We scattered them like chaff. Oh,
I tell ye, one good man can whip three greasers any time.”
It was the truth.
The prospectors had given the greasers a tremendous defeat.
Miguel Costello fell at the head of his men.
After his fall, the band became demoralized and was easily broken
up.
The mine and the whole mountain was quickly in the possession
of the miners.
Montaine was surrounded by a legion of his friends.
Frank Reade, Jr., turned to Barney and said:
“Our mission is ended, Barney. Now let us return to Readestown
the quickest way.”
“All roight Misther Frank. I suppose the fust thing is to find the
naygur and the Steam Man.”
“Yes, if Pomp is still in the place where we left him all will be well.”
But at that hour it was not deemed safe to venture down the
mountain side.
But daylight was close at hand and they decided to wait for it.
 A sort of jubilee was held in the old Spanish mine that night.
The miners celebrated their victory in royal good shape.
Harvey Montaine was in high spirits.
He gripped Frank’s hand warmly, saying:
“I can never fully repay you, Frank, old friend. But for you I might
never have seen daylight again.”
“I was glad to be able to help you,” said Frank, sincerely.
“I knew that you would do it, so I sent for you. The time may come
when I can return the favor.”
“Do not speak of it,” said Frank, warmly. “It is all right.”
“I have a very rich claim upon the other side of the mountain. I
shall make a large fortune out of it.”
“I hope you will.”
“You shall see that I will not forget you, old friend.”
When daylight came not a greaser was to be found in the hills.
The gang was thoroughly broken up with the death of Costello,
and they dispersed to the settlements a hundred miles south.
No further trouble in working the gold claims was to be
apprehended.
The prospectors from Saint’s Repose at once staked out their
claims and began to sink a shaft.
Harvey Montaine had no trouble in finding plenty of men who were
willing to take hold with him in opening up his own claim.
His predictions proved true, and he eventually reaped a large
fortune from his claim.
 Frank and Barney were escorted down the pass to the place
where they had left Pomp and the Steam Man by Silver Sam,
Diamond Jake and a party of the prospectors.
Pomp, as we have seen in a preceding chapter, had released
himself from his bonds after being captured by the greasers, had got
aboard the Steam Man and taken to the plain for safety.
All that night he kept on the move in the vicinity, taking care to
guard against a second surprise.
But he was not attacked again, and some time after daylight he
ventured to return to the spot where Barney and Frank upon
returning would expect to find him.
He had hardly done so when they appeared accompanied by
Silver Sam and his crowd.
Of course an exchange of experiences followed and then Frank
and Barney boarded the Steam Man.
“Three cheers for Frank Reade, Jr., and the Steam Man, boys,”
cried Silver Sam, heartily.
They were given with a will. Frank replied with several sharp notes
from the whistle and then the Man was off.
Soon the Los Pueblos Mountains faded away in the distance.
For days the Steam Man kept on over wide plains until at length
Laredo was reached again. Then once more the Steam Man was put
aboard the cars.
The great quest was ended.
Harvey Montaine did not forget the favor done him, for two years
later he sent Frank’s wife a valuable solitaire diamond worth many
thousand of dollars from the mines of South America.
And so ends the story of hot work among the greasers, but it does
not conclude the experiences of the Steam Man, a further account of
which may be found in No. 6, of the Frank Reade Library, entitled:
“FRANK READE, JR., WITH HIS NEW STEAM MAN CHASING A
GANG OF ’RUSTLERS;’ or,
Wild Adventures in Montana.”

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