Page 6 of Game Misconduct

She rolls her eyes.

“No, I’m serious. So you study, like, why certain people get cancer or heart disease?”

Biting her lip, she nods.

“What about CTE?”

Call me crazy, but I have a vested interest in the research around the dark cloud hanging above every hockey player’s head. Especially considering I’ve had seven concussions, including one this past season that took me out for almost a week. Each time, the recovery seems to take longer and longer, and I can’t deny I’m concerned about the long-term side effects.

Bex freezes and her eyes flare.

“What?” I ask.

“That’s what my master’s thesis was on,” she whispers, and I go still.

She scans over my form again, lingering on my chest and shoulders, then down to my thick thighs and my hairy, muscular calves poking out from beneath my shorts.

“You’re an athlete,” she says. “And from the build, the beard, and the fact you’re here right now, I’m guessing you’re not interested in football or rugby.”

“Not quite.”

“Please tell me you play beer league,” she whispers, almost pained.

My eyebrows dart up. “You know what beer league is?”

Recreational hockey is popular in most of the country, and there’s nothing to say she’s from the Midwest, but I don’t think it’s well known among the people who aren’t interested in hockey to begin with.

She picks up her drink and takes a big gulp. “Did he put you up to this?” Her voice is bitter.

“Who is he?”

A sick feeling swirls in my stomach. Does she have a boyfriend? Her left hand is bare—no ring. Not married or engaged.

Bex’s lips pinch. “You don’t know him?”

“Who am I supposed to know?”

She shakes her head. “I should go.”

Just then, the bartender sets the cheese fries down in front of us. “You don’t have to leave on my account,” I tell her.

Red splashes across her cheeks while she chews on her bottom lip.

“I don’t know who he is, but I’m not him, and I don’t know him. I walked into this bar for a self-pity party, and now you’re here and I’m here. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

With a sigh, she sinks back onto the barstool. “I have a family member in the league.”

My mouth dries out. “Like… the league?”

“NHL. Yeah.” She gives me a bitter smile. “He’s the kind of douche to try to send someone to watch over me, like I’m not twenty-fucking-eight and a fully functional adult.”

“That sounds like he cares? I think?” I’m an only child and have no close cousins, so all I know are hockey circles—and my best friend, who’s been my ride or die since college.

The bar lights shine off her copper hair, giving her a halo effect as she shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t infantilizing, and if he didn’t try it all the time.”

I rack my brain, trying to figure out who her family member is. “Would I know him?”

“What city are you signed with?” she counters.