Chapter 2 Beck

Sloane Mercer is standing twenty feet away from me on the other side of the glass, and there is absolutely no reason this should be a problem.

I've played in front of twenty thousand screaming fans, taken a puck directly to the mouth and finished the period before allowing anyone to look at the damage, and played through cracked ribs, a fractured wrist, and enough minor injuries that our medical staff has an entire category of paperwork dedicated to me being stubborn. I've also sat across from reporters who were actively trying to piss me off and, most of the time, managed not to hand them the headline they were hunting for, so one woman standing outside the rink should not be enough to destroy my concentration.

Unfortunately, the woman is Sloane Mercer.

"Hayes."

I look toward Coach and discover him staring at me with the expression he normally reserves for players who have committed particularly stupid penalties.

Fuck.

"What?"

A couple of guys laugh behind me, but Coach doesn't so much as crack a smile. "I asked whether you're planning on joining us today."

"I'm already here."

"Physically, yes."

I lift one gloved hand and flip Carter off, which only encourages him. Coach's attention follows my earlier line of sight toward the glass, where Sloane is talking to Callahan with a tablet tucked against her chest, her hair pulled back and the same cream blouse she wore this morning visible beneath a dark jacket.

Not that I noticed what she was wearing earlier.

I noticed, obviously, along with every other fucking detail my brain apparently decided to store for later use.

"Whatever's out there," Coach says, looking at me again, "will still be there after practice."

That's what he thinks.

Usually hockey is the one place where everything else disappears because there isn't room for anything except instinct, timing, speed, and the next play, but today my brain has apparently decided that eight years of discipline can be undone by one brunette walking into the building.

Carter sends the puck across the slot, and I bury it past our goalie before circling back toward him.

"Finally," he says, grinning through his cage.

"Shut up."

"Touchy."

We reset, but I already know what's coming when his eyes slide toward the glass and then return to me with the particular expression he wears whenever he's about to make himself somebody else's problem.

"Don't," I warn.

His eyebrows rise with exaggerated innocence. "Didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

"My face was wondering who the brunette is."

The next time we battle for possession along the boards, I drive my shoulder into him harder than necessary, and Carter laughs even while stumbling sideways.

"Ah," he says, drawing the sound out.

I glare at him. "Ah what?"

"That's interesting."

"Nothing's interesting."

"The captain nearly takes my shoulder off because I notice a woman, then tells me nothing's interesting. Seems pretty interesting from where I'm standing."

"You're irritating."

"She's hot."

My grip tightens around my stick before I can stop it, and naturally Carter notices because missing opportunities to annoy me isn't one of his weaknesses.

His grin widens. "Do you know her?"

"No."

Carter glances from her to me and back again before giving a quiet laugh. "Bullshit."

I skate away before he can ask anything else.

---

I make it exactly fourteen minutes after practice before Carter corners me in the locker room, and when I come out of the shower with a towel around my waist, he's sitting in my stall as though he's planning to stay for the afternoon.

"Move."

"No."

"Rhodes."

"Hayes."

I stare at him while he grins back at me, completely unbothered. I've known Carter for four years, and although he's one of the best wingers I've ever played beside and one of the few people I'd trust without hesitation on the ice, he's also one of the most relentlessly annoying human beings I've encountered.

He waits until I start dressing before asking, "Who's the woman?"

"Employee."

"Excellent observation."

"Thanks."

"Name?"

I pull my shirt over my head and decide ignoring him is probably my best option, although experience suggests it won't work.

"Carter."

"Beckett."

"Don't call me Beckett."

"Tell me her name and I'll consider it."

"No."

His smile turns dangerous in the way it always does when he realizes he's found something worth pursuing. "Great. I'll ask her myself."

My head snaps toward him before I can stop myself, and the smug bastard immediately knows he's won.

"Thought so."

I swear under my breath, already regretting the entire conversation. "Sloane."

"Sloane what?"

I hesitate for a second, but with Carter that's more than enough, and recognition moves across his face before I can tell him to forget it.

"No fucking way."

I say nothing, which only confirms whatever he's thinking.

"Mercer?" His eyes widen as he sits forward. "Luke Mercer's sister?"

I shut my locker harder than necessary. "Keep your voice down."

"Holy shit. That's the sister?"

Something ugly twists in my chest at the phrasing because I've always hated how easily people reduce her to Luke's connection. Sloane spent most of her teenage years being introduced as Luke Mercer's little sister.

"She's Sloane," I say, and something in my voice must give me away because Carter's amusement slowly disappears.

He studies me for several seconds before leaning back. "Oh."

I know that tone, and I don't like it. "Don't."

"You know what? I don't think I actually need to say anything."

"Great."

"Your face is doing plenty."

I grab my bag and head toward the door, and to his credit he gets out of my way, although the mercy lasts for approximately three seconds.

"Did you sleep with her?"

I turn so quickly that he immediately starts laughing. "Jesus, no."

"Want to?"

"Carter."

"That's a yes."

"That's none of your business."

"Also a yes."

I walk out before I give him anything else to work with, but his laughter follows me into the hallway.

The problem is that he's both wrong and right.

I don't want to sleep with Sloane Mercer, because want makes what I feel sound recent, temporary, and manageable.

I wanted her before my first professional contract, before the money, endorsement deals, captaincy, and strangers wearing my name across their backs. I wanted her when she sat cross-legged on her parents' kitchen counter and stole fries from my plate while pretending she wasn't listening to Luke and me argue about hockey, and I wanted her when she came downstairs on her nineteenth birthday wearing a black dress that made every coherent thought leave my head.

Luke had taken one look at my face that night and understood immediately.

Don't.

One word.

That was all he'd needed to say.

Sloane was his little sister, I was his best friend, and there were lines you didn't cross if you wanted to keep the people who had become your family. So I stayed away, even after she kissed my cheek because I'd bought her the stupid necklace she'd pointed out in a store window three months earlier and apparently forgotten mentioning, and I told myself that eventually whatever I felt would disappear.