Page 2 of He Has MVP (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 1
Aiden
Cru is a fucking loud bar for a quiet island like Nantucket. I’m waiting here with most of the bridal party for the ferry back to the mainland—Hyannis on Cape Cod. Rather than try to talk, I doodle on my standard-issue Cru napkin. My drawing of a suspension bridge isn’t half bad, but I doubt anyone would build a suspension bridge to span a river this narrow. I need to scale it up, but my fucking team captain and his new bride are distracting as hell. They discuss in high volume what to do with their dogs next weekend when they’re gone. It’s not my problem—or it wouldn’t be if they weren’t so loud about it. So I feel justified in butting in. It’s either that or move to a different table.
“If you two shut the fuck up and stop the bickering, I’ll dog-sit for you,” I say without looking up from my napkin.
Ryan gives me the finger. I see the offending digit in my peripheral vision. He warns me, “Don’t say that twice—”
“You’re on,” Chelsea interrupts. She grabs my hand—the one with the pen in it—and shakes it. “It’s a deal. Be here on Friday by ten.”
“No fucking way,” Ryan says, kicking me under the table. “This guy knows nothing about dogs.”
“How hard could it be?” I ask, mildly insulted. “You feed ‘em, water ‘em, and walk ‘em. Job done.” I don’t bother with any real reassurance. I happened to grow up with dogs, but what the hell. Let’s see how desperate they are.
“You idiot,” Pink—Allie Pinkerton—mutters from her seat beside me. I don’t think she meant me to hear her, or at least I hope not because she doesn’t generally insult people. Allie is serious as fuck and hotter than that in a blonde, ice-princess way. But she’s a nice girl. Off-limits to a not-so-nice guy like me. So I’m told.
“What’s that?” I ask, looking at her as she scrolls her phone.
She shakes her head. “Never mind. You don’t know anything about dogs. Or anything.”
“What the—?” I’m about to take issue with theor anythingcrack, but Chelsea grabs my pen and napkin.
“I’ll write down instructions, Aiden. You’ll be fine.”
“Hey, not on my bridge.” I reach to take the napkin back from her.
Ryan snorts, snatching the napkin from Chelsea before I can. “Dude takes his bridge doodles seriously.” He waves it around, then examines it, nodding. “Why don’t you draw hockey sticks or something, like a real hockey player?”
Chelsea jumps in before I can respond to the legit star of the NHL who I love trading insults with almost as much as winning games.
“I’ll send you a text with instructions,” she says, smiling. She throws her arms around me. “Thank you for stepping up.”
“I’m glad to. It’ll be fun coming back to Nantucket for another weekend. Me and the pups will have a last hurrah party before the season starts.”
Pink slams her phone onto the table and we all look at her. She blushes and I’m thinking maybe this is why she got her nickname, not because her last name is Pinkerton. Fuck that. The blush is perfect and lights up my dick.
“Sorry. It’s just a headache. I’m not used to partying.”
“You’re working too hard, Pink,” Chelsea says. “You should get away more often.”
Pink waves a hand. “You kidding? I’m fine. Having a ball being an entrepreneur. Nothing’s more fun than walking into my office suite with my company name on the door.”
“Cha-cha-cha,” I say, unimpressed with the fun meter of an office suite. I don’t care who the fuck’s name is on the door. “Does your office door sayPinkon it?” I don’t mind needling her.
“My company name is AP Accounting.” She glares at me. Then she turns to Chelsea. “I can’t believe you’re letting this guy take care of your dogs. He needs more than a text to help him.”
“Maybe you’re right, Pink,” Ryan says. “I think he needsyouto help him.”
Chelsea says, “That’s right—you grew up with dogs. You’d be perfect. The both of you. Three puppieswouldbe hard for one person to handle alone for a three-day weekend.” She’s earnest as shit and so I decide to go along. Why not? Pink can be fun. Or she used to be fun before she started her own business, back when she used to come out with us after games last season.
“Sounds like a great plan to me,” I say. “A last hurrah with Pink and the pups.”
Pink shakes her head with more violence than necessary to get her point across. So I take it to mean she’s on the fence. It’s human nature to overcompensate. I nudge her with my elbow.
“Come on—what are you afraid of? Me?”
She gives me a look that should insult me down to my sneakers, but I grin because it’s another overreaction and that’s encouraging. She must like me deep down, but she’s repressing it in the name of serious business.
