Chapter One
Bex
There are dicks everywhere. Big ones, small ones… crooked ones. I want to run, but instead, I commit to my mission and cover the right side of my face. My long, blonde hair helps to hide my vision as I power walk through the men’s locker room. Avoiding eye contact is easy. But dodging hockey players with smoking hot bodies and abs I would most definitely lick, not so much.
Entering the locker room after practice is a bad idea. Why did my dad ask me to meet him here? Of all the places, it has to be in his office.
My dad has three rules.
No talking to his players.
No hanging out with his players.
No dating his players.
Ever since a life-altering incident back in high school, I have followed his rules. They work for us both. And for the last four years, I haven’t broken any of them. I’ve steered clear of his players, and I’m determined to avoid them… until today.
A few of the guys whistle as I move past them. I’m still covering the side of my face, so I can’t see anyone. One of the guys informs me I’m in the men’s locker room—as if I need a reminder. And one jerk has the nerve to reach out and touch my leg. Gross.
Keeping my eyes to the floor and my hair blocking my peripheral vision, I haul ass to the back of the room. I’ve been back here dozens of times but not when anyone’s around.
I feel like I’m doing the world’s longest walk of shame. Dozens of eyes are on me. The players whisper about me under their breath. But once I’d stepped into the room, I wasn’t turning back. People had already seen me in a place I was never meant to be. So, here I am.
Go me and my walk of shame.
I glance up for a second to look for the hallway door, the one that leads to my dad’s office, and run head-first into a bare chest. Pushing out my palm, my fingers graze a wet, muscular stomach. A few inches lower and I would have ripped the towel from his waist.
Blocked by a wall of muscle, I peek up at Peter “Preston” Parker, all six feet four inches of him. Damn, he’s even bigger close up. Hotter, too.
Everyone calls him by his middle name, Preston. I’ve never heard anyone use his first name on campus. But I know it. He’s the youngest son of the famous hockey player, Alex Parker. His mom is a former college basketball player—like myself—and a powerhouse sports agent, who everyone calls Coach.
If any player were ever off-limits to me, it’s Preston.
The corner of his mouth turns up into a wicked smirk that produces an unusual reaction from me.
“Excuse me.” I shove Preston, desperate to move him to the side, but he’s a big guy. “You’re in my way.”
He doesn’t budge an inch. Preston covers my hand that’s still on his stomach with his. “And you are in mine.”
A rush of heat shoots through my fingertips and runs down my arm. Touching Preston shouldn’t feel this good. He’s my dad’s favorite player and the best defenseman in Division I Men’s Ice Hockey. But most of all, he’s out of my league. Like way out of it. On another planet.
I’m a scholarship kid. He’s a rich athlete with the potential to go pro. We have nothing in common, apart from our athleticism.
Preston holds my hand for a split second before I shake free of his grip, stepping back from him.
“I think you have the wrong locker room.” He pushes his long fingers through his short dark hair that rests on his forehead. Like the rest of him, it’s wet, and now I’m getting wet thinking about how much I’d like to touch him again.
Damn it, Bex. Ignore him.
He smiles, and my silly heart claws its way out of my chest. Water slides down the side of his face, and I have an immediate desire to lick it from his tanned skin.
Focus, Bex.
“No, I don’t,” I counter. “This is the right locker room. Just shitty timing.”
He tilts his head to the side and studies my face long enough to make me feel self-conscious. “I know you. Right? You’re Coach Bryant’s girl. You look different. Were you always so… tall?”
I’m five feet ten inches, which comes in handy when you play basketball. It also makes me close in height to most guys. Preston still has six inches on me.
I force a closed mouth smile. “Yes, I’ve been this tall since freshman year. And it’s Bex. Not Coach Bryant’s girl. I mean, I’m his daughter.” Now I’m rambling. “You get what I’m saying.”
He scratches the stubble along his angular jaw, still smirking at me. “Bex? What an unusual name for an unusual girl.”
“You’re one to talk, Peter Parker. You’re named after Spider-Man. If your spidey sense had kicked in, we wouldn’t be here right now, forced to talk to each other?”