I’ll take the night to kick back then get back to the grind tomorrow. Nothing is going to stand in the way of me hoisting Lord Stanley’s Cup over my head come June. Then maybe I’ll get the respect I deserve.
Cheering from one of the sectioned-off back areas breaks me from wallowing in my first-world problems. I look over, my height making it easy to see over most of the patrons, and spot a group of ladies cheering for whatever game Freddie has on.
Even from a distance, I can tell they’re all pretty, but it’s the short one in the middle with light pink hair and a body that’s curvy like a 50s pinup girl who has my feet moving of their own accord. Her ass is perfectly cupped in a pair of painted-on skinny jeans and draws me in like a beacon as it shimmies with her celebration dance.
I toss a quick look over my shoulder at my people, but none of them are paying me any attention.
Perfect.
I may not be a man-whore like my buddy Tuck—and no, I’m not judging him; the girls literally call him M-Dubs for short—but I do enjoy playing the field and have been going through one hell of a dry spell lately.
It’s one of the friends who spots me first, and I can tell she recognizes me.
“Ladies.” I make eye contact with each of them, saving the one I want for last.
“Holy shit, you’re Jase Donnelly,” says the one who spotted me. She’s wearing a Storm shirt and is clearly excited to see me up close.
Flashing the smile that launched many an endorsement deal, I say, “That’s what my jersey says. And you are?”
“I’m Zoey. This is Ella.” She points to other girl wearing a Storm shirt. “And this is Melody.” She nudges her pink-haired friend to get her attention.
She turns and I’m hit with the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, the onyx color growing more prominent as they widen when they lock on me.
Fuck. She’s even more gorgeous up close.
I catalog everything about her: pink hair, cute little freckle under her left eye, lips painted in the same shade as her hair and begging to be kissed.
The best part? I’m not the only one scoping out the situation.
But my smile drops when I catch sight of what’s going on below the neck, and before you judge and call me an asshole for being a boobist, I’m not. I’m a proud supporter of members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee.
It’s not Melody’s breasts—which are full, high, and displaying just the right amount of cleavage to draw the eye, by the way. What? I may support the IBT, but I’m still a guy—that have me frowning. No, that honor goes to what is stretched across them.
A Bruisers shirt.
A fucking Bruisers shirt.
Really, universe? A Boston fan?
Chapter Two
I’ve been on cloud ten since this morning. Yes, I know the saying is cloud nine, but I’m so flipping stoked I needed to jump to the next cloud because it wasn’t enough to contain my excitement.
Tony eligibility. The two words have been flashing through my brain like a marquee all day. Freaking Tony eligibility.
God! I’ve acted on Broadway more than half my life and have been blessed to play a few lead roles in major productions, including Wicked and Hamilton—but this?
Holy crap!
Move over, Rose, it’s my turn. Sorry not sorry, Bernadette Peters.
Gypsy, what a fantastic musical—but not the point.
If I land this role, I’ll be eligible for a fucking Tony! A Tony! The holy grail of all that is theater.
Yes, yes I know there is still a long way to go before the role is officially mine, but being requested to audition by the producers tells me my chances of getting cast are more than good.
And shit, the role couldn’t be more perfect for me. Marilyn Monroe. I cannot even begin to explain how much I love the OG bombshell.
Not even the fact that my parents didn’t call or text me back when I told them the news is enough to burst my happiness bubble. Plus, my brother’s surprise FaceTime call helped wipe away the sting of neglect.
Ella and Zoey insisted we go out and celebrate after tonight’s performances—being in the business themselves, they both understand the potential of today—and I was so happy I didn’t even balk when they picked The Sin Bin for drinks.
I’m well aware the bar is a favorite of the city’s hockey team, and though my friends may not be puck bunnies, they dance along the line like one of Zoey’s choreographed pieces. Still, the last thing I expected was to come face to face with one of them, least of all Jase Donnelly.
Yet…here he is, looking pucking sexy AF, and tall—so damn tall. I mean for reals, how is it possible that he seems bigger in person than out on the ice? A pair of skates easily adds six inches to a person’s frame—hello, that’s simple arithmetic.
I have to crane my neck back to practically a ninety-degree angle to be able to see all of him. My breath hitches when I meet his smizing hazel eyes—seriously, he could teach Tyra Banks a thing or two. Combine that with his boyish grin, and I know I’m in trouble.
Involuntarily I run my gaze down his body, taking in the way his broad shoulders stretch the black cotton of his t-shirt, pushing the seams to the limit.
Yes, a lot of my fellow thespians are ripped due to spending countless hours dancing across the stage, but none have the bulk of a hockey player, and like my best friends—though less enthusiastically—I have also gravitated to the bulkier build of puck heads most of my life.
Except…
Jase Donnelly is the last hockey player I should have my eye on. Hell, he is the only person on the entire island of Manhattan I should stay away from.
This is bad. So, so bad.
“Don’t you know it’s against the rules to wear that shirt in here?” He points to the Boston Bruisers V-neck I’m wearing.
Gah! Even his voice is sexy. Deep and husky, it washes over me, and I swear my girls audibly swoon.
“Last time I checked, there wasn’t a dress code,” I sass before taking a step back when the fresh scent of whatever soap he uses after a game hits me. Soap and ice.
“You’re not wrong.” His hand runs over his chiseled jaw, the faintest tint of yellow from a healing bruise decorating the left side. “But maybe you should take it off before Freddie sees. He’s a die-hard Storm fan. I’m surprised he let you in here wearing it.”
My damn hormones pirouette, saying, Yes please, wanting to do as he asks if only he returns the favor, because I know there is a washboard stomach underneath the cotton. Thank you to the four-story billboard in Times Square of him in all his shirtless glory for that piece of information.
“Freddie?” I cross my arms over my chest and don’t miss the way his eyes drop down to my cleavage. Boys.
“The owner.” He brings his gaze back to my face and hooks a thumb in the direction of the white-haired man behind the main bar.
“Oh, you mean Pops?” Zoey chimes in, a blush staining her cafe au lait skin, neither her Brazilian nor her Cuban heritage enough to hide the hockey-god effect. I should really pat her on the back for not going full-on fangirl. “Nah, no worries there. He loves us.”
“You ladies come here a lot?” A knowing smirk plays at the edges of his lips. Full lips…kissable lips. How would they feel pressed against me? And sonofabitch, there go my hormones again. I swear those bitches are drunk, though I’ve only had one glass of champagne.