Late January

The overhead monitors broadcast the carnage. Sixteen minutes into the first period and the Outlaws’ turquoise (or what Lauren keeps insisting is “teal”) jerseys look like cupcakes with heads moving across the screen. Cartoon figures. Fucking ridiculous.

I take another pull from my beer and angle toward Brant Cashman, fellow former player and current good friend. “Did you catch that hit Rowley laid on Talmadge? If we had four more defensemen with that kind of nasty, we’d be talking playoffs.”

Cash nods from the barstool next to me, both of us seated at the glossy bar, focused on the action on the sixty-five-inch display above the backlit liquor bottles. “Shepherd’s a keeper.” Brant uses Rowley’s team moniker. “Solid under pressure, reads the ice. Could use some company on the blue line, though.”

That’s Cashie. Economical with words but always on point. The man scouts talent like nobody’s business, partly because he watches rather than talks. I’m glad he let me lure him into Outlaws’ territory away from those other teams. Get him on exclusive contract for the remainder of the season.

Beneath the neon Shiner Bock sign several feet down, sports fans jostle for the bartender’s attention. The Tailgater’s starting to fill up, mostly with regular working stiffs nursing domestic beers. A few bikers cluster near the tables surrounding the back entrance, a huge pull-down-gate sort of thing, rolled up and granting sight lines to the back lot where my Indian Chief sits gleaming under the security lights that came on when the sun went down.

“Rowley’s carrying too much defensive load,” I say, working on my second beer. I downed the first one fast, hoping to feel it. No such luck. No pleasant floaty feeling to smooth the edge of my growing irritation. “Where are the other defensemen? Taking a fucking spa day?”

My mood’s been shit since I got Barbara’s text shortly before I left the house, just rubbing it in. The Queen of Bad Timing struck again—planned her Kauai beach wedding on my weekend with Rett and Lola. Not that I care about her marrying Chad the King of Financial Planning (to hear her sing his refined praises—blech), not as long as he treats my kids right, but she knew damn well it was my weekend.

Seven years divorced, and she’s still finding ways to twist the knife.

Wanted to make sure I saw how happy the kids looked, dressed in their wedding finery. Of course, she couldn’t just send a picture of the kids, no. She had to plop herself in the goddamn middle—wearing white.

If I print it out—because both my kids look great, thoroughly happy, which I’m dad enough to appreciate—the chunky black marker on my coffee table will take care of the blot in the middle…

Last game of the month, the team’s ending an extended road trip in Tucson tonight. After the rash of away games in Northeast Canada and Washington state where they’ve gone a disappointing 1-2-2, they’re wrapping things up tonight and then returning home before the league all stars take the stage next week.

Far as I’m concerned, the week of rest can’t come too soon.

I snag a handful of beer nuts from the bowl and grind them between my molars. “You see that pass? Hix has the vision, but he needs a partner who can finish.”

Cash tilts his bottle toward the screen. “McCarthy’s in position, but not sure Hix saw him.”

“McCarthy isn’t the fucking answer.”

“Someone’s cheerful tonight.”

The wall behind the liquor bottles glow turquoise and purple tonight, matching the damn uniforms. Glenn would’ve had a stroke if he’d seen what his daughter did to his team.

Thinking of my frustrating co-owner, Lauren, I’m surprised I haven’t seen her on the screen, cheering on the guys. Away games or at home, she’s usually there, front and center.

The only reason I’m not with the team in person, aside from this normally being my weekend with my kids, is because I’ve been intentionally staying out of the spotlight, giving Lauren every chance to be the new face of the organization, which is what Glenn wanted.

Glenn Dixson. How I miss that man.

I’d been working as an assistant coach on another team when Glenn hired me away to handle some of the day-to-day after he bought the franchise into existence, brought the Outlaws to his hometown.

I was his man on the ground, liaising between him and core management, duties that increased once he got sick and decided not to make it public. Me, Lauren, and Glenn against the world those last difficult months. Maybe why getting stabbed in the back with her purple-and-turquoise-glitter-painted sword cut so deep.

“Should’ve been home with my kids,” I grumble, gesturing to the bartender for another round. “Instead, I’m watching grown men glide around the ice as though they’re at a tea party. Men dressed like the Easter Bunny downed a barrel of cotton candy, then puked all over them.”

“You’re still pissed about the rebrand.” Cash states it, doesn’t ask.

“Those aren’t hockey colors. They’re what you’d find on an eight-year-old girl’s fucking backpack.”

“Lauren thinks they’ll help sell the team. Pay off in merchandising revenues and increased fan interactions.” Brant chuckles, then takes a long sip of his beer. “At least that’s what I read in the emailed press release.”

Thbbft. I blow a raspberry. “Lauren has her MBA shoved so far up her ass that it’s—”

The buzzer sounds, marking the end of the first period. The Outlaws trail 2–1.

“I hope Hardaway shakes them up in the locker room,” I say as the feed cuts to commercials. Coach Buck Hardaway is every bit as frustrated as I am with the slow progress. “They need it.”

I’ve got a right to be pissed. As newly named co-owner of the Austin Outlaws, an unexpected “boon” to the misery of my closest friend’s death last year, I’ve got skin in this game. Neither Lauren nor I had any idea he was leaving me 49.5% of his team. His baby.

Lauren’s smart. Savvy. But she doesn’t play, never has, and she’s still young. Especially for this type of role in this industry. I don’t know if wisdom and book learning outweigh experience or not, but this rebranding color scheme is the first area we’ve disagreed on. Vehemently. I’m still shocked she went behind my back and applied for the change with the league, knowing how strongly I was against it.

But right now, I’m the one feeling like a whiny toddler. Lauren acting like she knows best, stomping all over my protests about rebranding the new expansion team so soon? I thought we were still discussing it, only to find out she’d already submitted the change to the league, and a few months later here we are…

Easter Bunny backpack puke skating around on the ice, missing shots.

Cashman playing wingman to my cranky ass tonight.

We spend the intermission shooting the shit in between analyst commentary. I finish off beer number two. Think Brant’s still nursing his first.

“You got your eye on any miracles?” I ask. Brant’s freelancing as a scout, currently under contract to the Outlaws, and heading out tomorrow. Out-of-state road trip to check out some prospects in person.

“We can only hope. Buck and Jonas both gave me names. I’ve also got a couple of my own.”

Good. Between Coach and our general manager, Jonas, putting their heads together with Brant’s ability to spot up-and-coming talent, maybe we do have a chance to pull this ragtag group into something better. In a year or three.

But not with them looking like candy-sprinkled cupcakes whirling back into the rink. “Those uniforms…” I can’t help but cringe as the players take the ice. “Make it look like the designer lost a bet with Lisa Frank.”

“Loud and clear, Grizz. You hate the uniforms. Moving on—what do you think of the new kid, Reese?”

I’m about to answer when the second period begins, and within thirty seconds, I’m on my feet.

“What the fuck was that?” I roar at the screen.

The arena camera zooms in on Rocket Spence, the Outlaws’ captain and star winger, crumpled on the ice. A Tucson player skates away, stick held high like he’s innocent—or celebrating.

“That was dirty,” Cash mutters, standing too.

“And Shepherd can’t even answer it.” My hands curl around the edge of the bar, squeak against the wood as I hold onto my temper by a hair. “Not after that charging major he took in the first for planting the same asshole into the boards.”

“Nasty-ass motherf—” Cashman’s eyes narrow, the side of his fist slams against the bar top at a slow-motion replay.

Then the camera zooms in on Shepherd, two teammates holding him back, his face looking as though he’s just swallowed a handful of roofing nails. “He’s feeling the restriction,” Cashie observes. “Straitjacketed. Another one tonight and he’s asking the league to take a closer look.”

The longer Spence remains prone, the more times they replay that hit, the more my anger skyrockets. “That’s a fucking suspension!” I’m shouting now, not caring who hears. “Where’s the call, ref? Open your fucking eyes!”

Spence isn’t moving. Trainer’s on the ice. This is bad.

“Tucson goons,” I snarl, slumping back onto my stool and motioning the bartender over. “Cheapest rotgut you’ve got,” I tell the guy. “I want it to hurt going down.”

Last one, Grizz. I promise myself. You rode the Indian.

“Over ice,” I add, snarling at him because I’m beyond riled and don’t care who knows it. “No penalty? Are you shitting me?”

The mood in the bar darkens as Rocket gets taken off the ice on a stretcher.

“Team’s a damn joke.” The first swallow of whiskey burns going down, but not enough to ash my growing frustration. “Candy-colored uniforms, no defensive strategy beyond Shepherd doing his thing, no response to that hit. Just floating around out there like somebody confiscated their fucking spines.”

“Beerman…”

“Don’t ‘Beer’ me, Cashman.” That’s how I was known on the ice, a play on the first syllable of my last name, Bearden. Haven’t been called that in years outside of the rare media appearance and I’m not about to turn up nice now, not even given how far back Cashie and I go. “Glenn would be rolling in his grave if he saw this shit, and you know it. What kind of team lets their captain get demolished like that and just skates away? And those uniforms—who in their right mind chooses six-year-old-birthday-party colors for hockey? It’s embarrassing as fuck!”

“Are you quite done trashing my work, or should I come back after you’ve run out of profanities? Next decade, maybe?”

The feminine voice behind me is sharper than the best skate blade.

I swivel, find myself face-to-face with a firecracker of a woman. Five foot nothing without the cowboy boots, particularly noticeable because she’s tapping one of them on the concrete floor, reddish-blonde hair piled up in some complicated twist, and eyes flashing with enough heat to melt the ice at Barton Creek Stadium.

“Your work?” I repeat, curious at her obvious ire. And how it’s all directed at me.

“Yes, Grizzly Adams, my work.” She gestures toward the screen with a turquoise fingernail. “Those ‘cupcake’ jerseys that look like a cotton-candy-binging Easter Bunny threw up? My concept. Those ‘Lisa Frank’ colors you’ve been whining about all night? My idea.”

What is her deal? She’s got her panties in a twist even fancier than her hair, and what? Just because I’m bitching about colors that are so garish they hurt the eyes? But she’s a looker and I can’t help but be interested and irritated in equal measure. She’s interrupting my time with Cashman. She’s interrupting the game I came to watch.

I stand up to my full height, knowing it’s intimidating and intending it to be even more so as I scowl down at her. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but—”

“McKenna Lightner. Professional designer, specializing in color psychology. Best friend to Lauren Dixson—you know, the Outlaws’ owner? The one with the MBA apparently shoved up her ass?”

Chapter 2 - McKenna

 Earlier. Shortly before the game began…

I’m here under protest. But Lauren has had enough of my antisocial behavior, said it’s past time I put myself back out there and that she needed me tonight. Lucky me.

I fiddle with my dangly teal earrings—matching the new team colors I helped pick—and scan the crowded bar. The Tailgater isn’t the type of place I frequent, but it beats another Friday night scrolling through design blogs with nothing but a glass of cabernet for company.

My phone sings out “woot-woot,” a custom notification I’d set for my best friend. I dig it out of the small purse strapped over my chest and rest my elbows on the polished bar to read Lauren’s text:

Can’t make it. Held up at work. Sorry!!!!!

Then a second later, another woot-woot:

I’ll try, but no promises.

A loud sigh deflates my lungs. Since inheriting the Outlaws, Lauren schedules everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if her planner says

6:37 AM, coffee
7:03 AM, shit
7:08 AM, shower
7:52 AM, take on the world

She’s that organized. I might not get much time with her these days, but she never cancels. Must be serious.

Now I face a choice: retreat to my safe (boring), color-coordinated apartment (beautiful), or stick around and be Lauren’s eyes and ears for how the new colors are received by the fans. The ones she made happen despite significant pushback from her irritable co-owner, the man she calls The Bearded Bane of her Existence (among others).

She’s been on her own ever since I suggested the unusual color combo during a wine-fueled brainstorming session not long after Lauren buried her dad and was trying to decide how best to honor him while still making the team “hers.”

Turns out The Bearded Bane inherited 49.5% of the team from Lauren’s dad, who thought it was imperative his daughter have the wisdom of one of hockey’s elite in her corner. But to hear Lauren talk about the Hard-ass Hockey Jerk, her co-owner is anything but helpful and supportive.

The massive screens above the bar blare pre-game coverage as the bartender adjusts the volume. I sip my Dr Pepper and steal glances at the two men seated a few stools down. The group who’d been occupying the counter space between us having grabbed a couple pitchers and moved off.

One of the men is particularly intriguing, if you like rough, brawny sorts who command attention even when you don’t want to give it.

He’s extremely tall (I can tell even with him seated), impressively muscled with shoulders that stretch a mile, and he’s dressed like he’s more at home on the back of a Harley than a barstool. Is it any wonder I’m noticing more than I should?

Not my usual type. I typically gravitate toward more refined men, those wearing tailored suits with shoes as polished as their manners. Professional men with professional boundaries.

Yeah, McKenna, because that approach worked so well last time.

The stupid reminder makes me nauseous. Discovering my serious boyfriend of five months, the man I actually thought might be “the one”, was married? Ugh.

Married with kids he’d never mentioned. Not the kids, nor the wife.

His wife had been as clueless as I (I learned once she stopped yelling at me), until her seven-year-old son stumbled across our texts playing a game on Dad’s phone. Her son had come to her, curious why Daddy was telling “McKenna kitten” he couldn’t wait to see her and sending her (me) pictures of his chest and, uh, parts south.

Justifiably irate, she’d called me, hurling nasty accusations she had every right to. Once I connected the dots, I felt a total fool.

Humiliation, meet misery. That and one hell of a crash course in doubting my judgment where the opposite sex is concerned.

I’ve avoided men for over a year now. But damn it, I miss them. I miss the warmth of being pressed against a strong chest. I miss kissing. I miss sex.

So, stupid or not, I’m staying. Because I can’t keep my attention off the big man.

He’s not married, is he? My eyes zip to his hands. Wow. They’re big.

Big hands, big dick?

I glance down to his feet. Definitely big there as well.

And back to his fingers. There’s no hint of a wedding ring, no indentation or tan line.

That doesn’t mean anything.

True, but I can’t stop staring, wishing.

His hands might be a bit worse for wear, nicked up and rough as they hold a beer bottle, and if he dragged them against my dress, it would snag.

Why does that send a naughty thrill through me?

I text Lauren back:

No problem. Happy to wait.

And then, because I don’t want her feeling guilty if she can’t get away, I add:

Take care of what you need to. We can always reschedule.

The announcer yanks my attention up to the screen just as I’m zipping my purse after tucking my phone away. The Outlaws skate onto the ice in their new plum-and-teal away uniforms. I can’t help but be excited. They look great! Every bit as uplifting and attention-getting as we’d hoped.

Now I’m glad I stayed. I’m all ears, anxious for the crowd’s reaction.

What I don’t expect is for the massive biker dude I keep reluctantly noticing to slam his beer down and growl, “What the hell are they wearing? They look like goddamn figure skaters in a beauty pageant.”

His companion says something I don’t catch, but I sit here in stunned silence as the first period of the game wears on and Big & Burly’s irritation with the uniforms only intensifies, given the snippets that reach me over the growing crowd, and the equally loud cheers and groans that keep meeting the Outlaws’ game.

“Lauren has her MBA shoved so far up her—”

Is he insulting my bestie? This overgrown Neanderthal who doesn’t know squat about what he’s talking about?

Or could I be overreacting? There’s got to be a million women named Lauren—

But maybe only fifty thousand with an MBA?

And way less than that who live in Austin.

I spend the time between periods eavesdropping like an idiot. Because, with more people seated between us now and the after-work crowd in full swing, I’m only able to catch a few phrases. But some of them are downright hurtful.

No one else is complaining, at least not about the uniforms. But when one of the Outlaws is injured? There’s a near riot this close to the screens.

The player, Lane Spence, or maybe Spencey or Rocket—I hear the commentators saying so many names it’s hard to keep up—sounds to be a big deal to the Outlaws. I hate that he’s hurt, hate even more how much it must be hurting Lauren, to see one of her men carried off on a stretcher.

But once the game resumes, the complaints start up again, each one worse than the last.

Until the next thing I know, I’m out of my seat and confronting him, and nearly knocked on my ass when he stands up to confront me back.

Oh Lordy. This man is huge. Huge and hot and angry and every bit of his attention is now directed at me, and I swear my lady bits are weeping into my panties, thrilled with the danger staring down at me.

If a refrigerator met a motorcycle met a champion powerlifter, that’s who he’d be. Angry face, short dark hair threaded with silver, trim beard covering his jaw. And I just want to jump into his arms and explore every inch.

That’s not why you’re here. Hot monkey sex with a motorcycle man is nowhere close to supporting Lauren and protecting yourself from further hurt.

Hello!

Right. Bad judgment when it comes to men. I don’t want this one. I can’t.

But I will defend my friend—and my color choices—to the end.

Chapter 3 - Grizz

Best friend to Lauren Dixson.

The unexpected claim rings in my ears as the hot number before me plants her hands on her hips and glares. As though she’s daring me to utter more insults right to her face now that she’s introduced herself.

“And you are…?” she wants to know.

Cash coughs into his fist, clearly enjoying this spectacle. “Lyle,” I answer, not offering my last name. Dedicated hockey fans might know Lyle “Beer” or “Grizz” Bearden, but I doubt this woman follows the sport beyond whatever fashion choices she’s inflicted on it.

This woman. McKenna Lightner.

McKenna.

Why do you keep repeating her name? It’s not like you need to remember it.

No shit.

But, damn. McKenna. She’s memorable, even without the repetition.

She’s wearing a purple leather jacket that matches the uniforms. Even her purse is that obnoxious turquoise color. Lauren’s best friend? Who obviously dressed for tonight.

Hell, I’m in the presence of the enemy.

“Well, Lyle,” she says, scooting up onto the empty stool beside me like she owns it, “those colors are plum and teal, not purple and turquoise, and since they were introduced in the gift shop at the stadium, happen to be on track to doubling merchandise sales for the prior comparative period.”

Stalling, I take another sip of whiskey. Because, damn.

Given how righteously she’s standing up for the change, whether I agree with it or not, makes me more curious about her. And her choices.

And I’m not just thinking about the new colors and uniforms, either. “Doesn’t mean they don’t look ridiculous.”

“Says the man dressed like he’s auditioning for Sons of Anarchy.”

Cash bursts out laughing and stands, grabbing his jacket. “Think I’ll give you two some privacy.”

“Don’t go far, Cashie,” I warn.

“I’ll be at the pool tables.” He winks at the woman—McKenna—and extends his hand. “Brant Cashman, pleasure to meet you. Don’t kill him; the arrest wouldn’t be worth the hassle. He’s just cranky because his kids are in Hawaii without him.”

With that, he leaves me with this firebrand in purple plum leather.

“Your kids are in Hawaii?” she asks, with a flip of one hand that causes the silver bracelet on her wrist to slide. “And without your pleasant presence? Good for them.”

“Yeah, but none of your business.”

“Okay. But I’m not the one who brought it up.”

One of the waitresses swings by to pick up drink orders. Pure eye candy. Whoever decided on the waitress uniforms for women working at The Tailgater should either be shot or lauded. There’s at least four or five different “uniforms,” all variations of actual sports if pro players wanted to show a lot of skin. Think French maid meets football. Or burlesque dancer meets baseball. Either way, the girls working the floor are cute, no lie.

They might be cute, but I’ve only got eyes for the one next to me. The female responsible for having me rethink my position on these stupid colors. Have retail sales really increased? I’ll pull the report and take a look, speak with the retail manager. It’s been a bit of a challenge, getting Southern, hot Texas to really get behind hockey. But the sport is booming across the country, and we’ve certainly got our share of rabid fans.

The bartender glides in front of my color-obsessed companion and asks if she wants another Dr Pepper. Behind the bar, male or female, employees wear black button-downs or bright collared shirts embroidered with The Tailgater. “Nope. I’m changing it up,” she says. “An Old Fashioned, please, with maple syrup if you have it and orange bitters.”

La-di-da. So the lady knows her liquor. Before I can rib her about being pretentious—not that I care what she orders, but just to keep her here and talking—she turns back to me. “Married, with kids?”

“Hell no. Not any longer. The kids I happily claim. Their mother can go drown herself in a big wave.” When she nearly chokes on her tongue, I realize how horrible that sounds. “Forgive me.” I rub one hand over my face. It’s cool from holding the iced whiskey. The dampness from the glass feels good. “The ex is getting remarried, which I’m fine with. But things didn’t end well and we don’t get along. Next subject.”

Her nostrils flare when she hauls in a deep breath, as if she’s centering herself. That or debating whether or not to stay.

“Hey, not trying to run you off. I’m not a total asshole,” I confess, because I don’t want her leaving. Not yet. “But the ex planned her wedding on my weekend with the kids, and yeah, I’m in a mood.”

There. Let her chew on that. Big guy with baggage.

I shouldn’t be so pleased when all she does is nod once, breathe out and ask, “Why do you care so much about the Outlaws if you hate everything about them?”

“I don’t hate everything about them.”

“Just my colors.”

“And their defensive strategy. And their lack of response to that hit.”

She studies me as though I’m a conundrum, and I want to pull out that stick holding up her hair. I want to see it down. “You know a lot about hockey.”

She states that as the fact it is, and I concede, “Used to play.”

“College?”

I snort, not bothering to correct her. Let her think what she wants.

“Let me guess,” she continues, smiling at the bartender with a nod when he returns, places the drink with a cherry on the bottom and orange peel on top in front of her, “you think the team would do better if they went back to boring black and silver and gold, played like it’s 1990 and they’re the Detroit Pistons? Never met a fight they didn’t love?”

Her reckless fearlessness intrigues me. As does her reference to the Pistons.

She’s tiny compared to me. I’ve got at least a foot and a hundred pounds on her, but she’s not backing down an inch. And something about the preposterous way she matches the damn team uniforms tonight has fired my curiosity about more than just the length of her hair. What’s beneath the “plum” jacket? And why is she here by herself?

“I think,” I say, leaning close enough the aroma of bitters and oranges wafts up from her glass, “that hockey has its own traditions, its own aesthetics. It’s not meant to be a fashion show.”

“Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people,” she counters. “And aesthetics evolve.”

“Some things are classic for a reason.”

“Some things are outdated because they’re out of touch. Like men who think they need to mansplain sports to women who are just trying to enjoy a drink at a bar.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t mansplaining. I was complaining. There’s a difference.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” She narrows her eyes, but her lips twitch as though she’s fighting a smile. “And your complaints are noted, and ignored.”

On screen, the Outlaws give up another goal.

3–1 Tucson.

“See?” I gesture at the monitor closest to us. “Your pretty colors aren’t helping them win.”

“And your sour attitude isn’t helping anything at all,” she fires back.

She’s right, but I’ll be damned if I’ll admit it. Instead, I take another drink and really look at her. Up close, she’s striking. Those flashing eyes that I’d say were blue but she and Lauren would probably tell me were teal, that mouth painted almost the exact shade as the plum on the uniforms.

“What brings you to a place like this anyway?” I ask, changing tactics. “Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“What, you think I only frequent places with color swatches and fancy cocktails?” She darts a frown my direction but it doesn’t reach her twinkling eyes. “Fine, I concede. I was supposed to meet Lauren, but she’s running late. Work thing.” She glances at the screen, wincing as another shot goes wide. “So I guess I’m stuck with you and your charming commentary instead.”

“Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” she echoes, and there’s something in her tone that makes my skin tingle. Makes my lips tingle when she takes another drink, and after she swallows, her tongue swipes across her bottom one. “So, Lyle, what do you ride?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your motorcycle.” She points toward my boots. “Those aren’t for show, and I spotted the row of bikes out back when I parked, exchanging the shade for a longer walk. So which one is yours?”

Huh. It’s full dark now, so she’s been here a while. I grunt.

“Fine. Don’t answer me.” She swirls the big sphere of ice in her glass and takes another drink, pointing that turquoise teal-colored pinky my way. “I’ll guess. One of the dozen Harleys? Or maybe—”

“The Indian.”

“Midnight navy with the custom paint job?”

“That’s the one.” I’m impressed, despite myself. But didn’t she mention something about color psychology? Who knew that was even a thing? “Good eye. So, you got a thing for colors?”

“That and maybe motorcycles.”

By damn, she’s flirting with me.

There’ll be hell to pay when Lauren shows up and sees me chatting up her best friend, somewhat incognito I guess, since I’m not about to spoil the next few minutes by confessing I have more than a little reason to be invested in the Outlaws’ success, atrocious fashion choices aside.

Right now? I just want to flirt back. See where this might go. “What about men who ride motorcycles?”

“What about them?” She crosses one booted leg over the other, angles down to pull some imaginary lint off the embroidered leather near the top of the shaft.

The movement gives me a glimpse of cleavage beneath the scooped front of her black dress, and I drag my eyes back up to her face. She catches me looking, and she’s not impressed.

“What? I’m not supposed to look?” I say, trying to regain my footing. Have I read her wrong? “To admire?”

“You’re not supposed to pretend like you’re not.”

“So obvious admiration and leering is approved?” Just to make sure, I dip my chin and stare straight down her dress. Can’t see anything from this angle, but we’re still learning each other, and yeah, I’m curious how far I can push.

“In your case, I’ll allow it.” She starts by smiling and then she’s laughing outright. “It was the leering that did it.”

Good. She’s got a sense of humor. And she gets mine, too. “About those uniforms…” I swing back to what brought us together tonight. “Do you really think purple and turquoise scream ‘aggressive hockey team’?”

“Teal and plum, you mean?” Yeah, I’d screwed them up on purpose that time. With another toss of that bracelet, she finishes, “I think they scream ‘memorable,’ which is exactly what an expansion team needs.” She turns on her stool to fully face me. “But you know what? I don’t need to defend my work to some random grump in a bar.”

“Then why are you still sitting here?”

Her smile widens. “Maybe I like talking about rides and arguing with difficult men.”

No, I didn’t read her wrong at all.