I’ve been around these players for a long time. I’ve seen the trail of women they leave behind season after season, and I vowed early on to never be that woman. My cold coffee tastes even worse when I see Miller fucking Adams, top centerman of the Dallas Oilers—and a walking sex god, according to himself—walking down the hall.
Brian gets up and shakes his hand. The manwhore is wearing jeans and a black Dallas Oilers shirt with a leather jacket on. His hair looks like either he just ran his hands through it or someone else did for him. He looks over at me and smirks like a fucking asshole. I ignore the way my stomach just rose and fell. Shit, is cold office coffee bad for you? Walking into the room with his motorcycle helmet, he places it in one of the two empty chairs.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says. I lean back and vomit in my mouth.
“Layla.” I say my name, and he looks at me. “You know, in case you forgot.”
“I can never forget you,” he says, grabbing the empty chair and pulling it out to sit in it.
“Since when do you ride a death trap?” I ask as I grab my cup of cold, gross coffee and take a drink, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I usually take my bike out when I want to clear my head,” he says. “It’s not every day you feel like you got ass fucked by a cactus.” He mentions last night’s loss, and I want to laugh, but the coffee goes down the wrong pipe, and I end up choking.
Air struggles to find its way to my lungs as I cough. Miller comes to save the day as though he’s some kind of hero by rushing around the desk and slapping my back. “Jesus.”
Pushing his hand away from my back, I say, “Get away,” between coughs. He continues to rub my back, and I shoo him away with both hands.
He grabs a water bottle and opens it, handing it to me. “Here, take a sip.” I can’t even argue with him if I tried. I take the bottle and take a little sip.
“We are back in one minute,” Brian says, and I look up at Miller, who just stands there over me.
Uncomfortable concern sits in Miller’s eyes. “You can go sit down now.” I push him away. “You know that when one is choking, the last thing you should do is slap them on the back. That’s for trick shots and squat challenges in the locker room.” Throwing his head back with a laugh, he sits in the chair in front of me, then grabs the headphones tucked off to the side.
“Welcome back,” I say when I see the on air sign light up. “You guys are in for a real treat today. Miller Adams stopped by the studio today. He’s not here to talk about last night’s game, that’s for sure.” I smirk at him. “I think you still have whiplash from Evan Richards skating by you.” He just looks at me with fire in his eyes. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” I hold up my hands.
His laughter fills my headset. “I’m definitely not here to talk about last night.” He shakes his head. “It was a hard one, and we weren’t ready for them. But we need to give credit where credit is due.” He doesn’t even try to make excuses. “The good news is that we are still early in the season. The bottom line … we need to play better. Not just for ourselves but also for our fans.”
“I can agree with you there,” I say. “So tell us why you’re really here?” I look down at the notes that I made.
“To convince you to go out with me?” There’s that stupid smirk again.
“Not going to happen. Tell us about the Dallas Oilers’ charity auction coming up.”
“It’s a great event that we do every year, benefiting the children’s hospital.” His deep brown eyes go soft as he talks. “We raised a little over seven hundred thousand dollars last year, and this year, we are hoping to double that.”
“Is that why you are auctioning yourself off?” Brian says, laughing.
I swear, my head almost shoots off my body at his comment.
“I’m not the only one,” he says, humor coloring his words. “We have six or seven of us who are up for our bachelor auction. So if you want to come out this weekend,” he says, “there are still tickets available. Plus, the Oilers owner, Nico, sent me with a couple of tickets to give away.” He reaches into his inside pocket and takes out a white envelope. Dropping it on the desk, he says, “So, ladies, polish off that checkbook and come and support an amazing cause.” I swallow down the stupid lump forming in my throat.
“Well, ladies, you heard him. Come one, come all,” I say with fake enthusiasm. “That’ll wrap us up for the day. On behalf of Brian and myself, we wish you the best rest of your day and hope you’ll tune in for our show tomorrow.” My headset is making me hot, so I slide that off and set it on the table.
When Brian enters the room, he approaches Miller, who pushes his chair back, and they shake hands. “This has to be the first time I’ve met you without a woman or two draped over you.” He laughs and slaps him on the shoulder. “I’ll never forget that one time in Vegas—” Brian starts to tell the story, but I put up my hand.
“What happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas,” I remind him, and he laughs, shaking his head as he walks out of the room.
Miller grabs his helmet. “So what do you say? You wanna come ride the pony?” He smirks at me. Always fucking smirking.
“I don’t ride motorcycles,” I say, ignoring his look. “I don’t trust you not to be reckless with my body.”
“I can promise you I wasn’t talking about the bike.” He laughs, and I look up at him with my mouth open. “See you Saturday, gorgeous,” he says, leaving me to pick up my mouth when he walks out of the room.
Chapter 2
Miller
The three trips to see the tailor were definitely worth it because my black suit jacket fits like a glove. As I straighten the sleeves of my shirt, I admire the shine of the black cuff links engraved with my initials. And just like that, with a run of my hand through my black hair, I’m ready.
Walking out of my massive walk-in closet and past the great room, I make my way to the garage where my black BMW is waiting for me. As I’m pulling away, I look back at my house. Is it big? Yes. Do I need all this space? Absolutely not. But I plan on staying here for a long time. I want to bring my wife here and have my kids here. And every time I walk through the doors, it’s so easy to envision. I mean, why the fuck else would I buy a five-bedroom, two-story house for one person? Soon after, I’m pulling through the gates of my community.
Never in a million years did I think I would end up playing in the NHL. Did I want it? Yes. Did I think it was possible? Nope. I played hockey like any other kid in Canada. I was good, but I wasn’t great. I started my junior year in the low category, but something just clicked into place that year, and I moved up to the higher level.
The coach of that team took a liking to me, and he introduced me to one of the scouts he knew. I was drafted one hundred and twenty-ninth overall to Chicago. It was exciting, but I had to be realistic. The chances that I was actually going to play for them were slim to none. So I went hard at school and graduated with a degree in economics and mathematics. Something that only got mentioned when I was on the cover of GQ one year. I got called up one game and, let me tell you, playing your first game in the NHL is a feeling you will never ever forget. The fans on their feet, cheering for the team. The rush of the game is so much faster than you can ever imagine, and I made the best of it. I went on the ice and skated my fastest, passed smartly, and when the third period came around, I scored the game-winning goal.