Axel (Carolina Reapers 1)

“Anytime. Go Reapers!” she called as we exited the shop.

“I’m still getting used to that,” Harper said.

“What?” Faith asked. “Reapers instead of Sharks?”

“No.” Harper shook her head, her long brown hair tussling with the motion. “The fans. The loyalty to the team. All of it. We haven’t even played a preseason game, and they’re already buying jerseys.”

I nodded, knowing Harper was new to hockey despite having a BFF with connections to the NHL. She’d jumped into the deep end when Noble came along.

“It takes time,” I said. “I’ve been a publicist for years, and sometimes I’m still thrown off balance by the intensity of the fans.” The girl in the shop had been genuine and kind, but I’d seen the worst from fanatics who took things one step too far. The least of my worries were the puck bunnies we’d joked about earlier. Sure, they were out to ruin relationships, but with the right man, it was a non-issue. The biggest concern were the fans who felt they had some kind of ownership on the celebrity athlete simply because they followed their career and private life. A shudder ran down my spine.

The Carolina Reapers were new enough that nothing like that had happened yet, but I’d seen my fair share of creepers with the Seattle Sharks. Part of my job was to catch that behavior before it escalated. That’s why my job was a 24/7 thing. It didn’t matter if it was two a.m on a Tuesday—if a player needed help, I had to be there to put out the fire. I loved my job, the non-stop pace, the challenges, the satisfaction of knowing I’d helped promote a player’s brand to new levels while also raising the Reapers’ public image. But it was demanding. So demanding that my ex-fiancé had checked out of our relationship long before he’d forced the decision..

I’d never put myself in that position again.

Because I believed I deserved someone who would never ask me to choose.

And Axel hadn’t asked me to choose, but it was only a matter of time. A high-power player like him, now one of the highest paid players in the NHL, couldn’t afford to have a wife who wouldn’t put him first. Sure, Noble had come to Charleston for Harper, but Faith had followed Lukas, giving up on her dream of owning a concierge PR company in favor of her husband’s career and a job on my public relations team with the Reapers. Shea, Hudson Porter’s wife, did the same, giving up her entire social work caseload to follow Porter across the country with her daughter.

Noble was the only one who’d come to Charleston because the girl he loved was here.

So maybe Axel hadn’t asked me to choose him yet, but I believed I deserved someone who would never ask me to choose. And maybe that someone was simply me. Maybe after the six months with Axel was up and we parted ways, I would marry myself.

At least I could always count on me.

* * *

The word Scythe was burned into the wooden awning over the entrance to the bar, which was tucked inside a small brick building on a quiet street corner just a few blocks away from Reapers’ arena.

The girls and I pushed through the single dark-glass door and were instantly met with the smells of carved cedar, charcoal, and whiskey. The clash of pool balls and cues rang from the back of the bar where a separated room held a few tables. Amber-colored exposed bulb-lights hung from the beamed ceiling, casting everything in a muted glow. Rich, polished wood tables were scattered about the main floor, and a stage and small gathering space were tucked into the far-right corner.

Since it wasn’t even four o’clock yet, the place was sparse for customers, and the three of us selected stools in the middle of the custom bar that hugged the wall just off the entrance. Built-in shelves made the wall behind the bar, each shelf housing row after row of glass bottles that shimmered under the amber lighting. An ancient looking scythe hung above the top shelf, as long as I was tall.

“Don’t be afraid,” a female voice said as she came through a door next to the bar—likely housing a small kitchen if the delicious fried food smell was any indication. “I haven’t had to use that yet.” She pointed to the scythe before resting her hands atop the bar before us.

She wore a tightly cinched leather vest, her arms decorated with tattoos. With purple-Ombre hair that hit her shoulders, a small diamond piercing in her nose and even more piercings lining her ears, she definitely looked the part of some gorgeous reaper working for Death.

“What’s your poison?” she asked, her nails black as the vest she wore.

“Whiskey,” I said. “Two fingers. Ice.”