Teaser Jack’s POV
I’ve never seen the need for relationships. I’m never gonna get married or have children. Not in this fucked-up world. So, casual sex is my middle name. I never promise more than I’m capable of giving. I’m so damaged, all I can give is one night of pleasure. Never a second. I’m not sure who I’m protecting—the ladies or me!
“Not bad,” I say, keeping it cool. As captain, I’ve got to at least pretend to be civilized. Sometimes.
“Not bad? Jesus, Beast, you going blind?” Marcus punches my shoulder, and I barely feel it. They started calling me Beast back in juniors—partly because I was already six feet at sixteen and built like a brick shithouse, but mostly because of how I play. I’m not the fastest guy on the ice, but I’m impossible to knock off the puck, and I’ve got a reputation for absolutely destroying anyone who tries. All clean hits, though. The media loves playing up the whole “Beauty and the Beast” angle too. Apparently, being good-looking and willing to draw blood makes me complicated. Whatever. It works.
“Tell you what, let’s make it interesting,” Marcus continues. “You pick one, I pick one. First to score for the night wins.”
“What are we, rookies?” But I’m already looking, because hell yeah, I’m competitive. And some fun before training sets in wouldn’t go amiss. Not that I hadn’t had plenty of fun over the summer.
Then I see her.
Dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, legs that go on for fucking days, and an ass that could start wars. She’s leaning against the bar in a Red Sox jersey that’s just tight enough to show she works out without trying too hard. Who fuckin’ wears a baseball jersey to the bar of the Boston Bruisers hockey team? That’s enough to pique my interest. The way she carries herself, confident, like she belongs here but isn’t looking for attention—makes her even hotter.
“Her,” I say, pointing with my bottle. “The brunette in the Red Sox jersey.”
Marcus whistles low. “Damn, you don’t mess around. Pretty sure that’s Tara Collins, though. She’s a college sports reporter. She interviewed my sister.” Mayhem’s sister, Jenny, plays college basketball. Height runs in the family.
Even better. I love a woman who knows her shit. “Watch and learn, my man.”
I make my way over, saying hello to the fans as I push through the crowd. Years of skating have given me perfect balance, even three beers in. Plus, I know exactly how good I look in my fitted black Henley and dark jeans. Being six-three of solid muscle doesn’t hurt either.
The familiar push of bodies reminds me of the first children’s home—if you can call it that—I got taken to. I was a wild one. But it was learn to fight or be fucked over. I learned to fight. And I fought a lot before I learned to channel that rage into something productive. Now, I’m known for controlled aggression on and off the ice, but it took years to master my emotions. My condo’s pristine organization, my carefully structured routines—they’re all part of maintaining that control. No surprises, no mess, no chance for things to spiral like they did in my childhood.
“Let me guess, Sox fan?” I say, sliding up next to her at the bar.
She turns and, fuck me, if she isn’t even hotter up close. Those eyes are something else. Deep brown with little gold flecks that catch the light. But there’s something sharp in them too, like she’s already got my number.
“What gave it away?” She arches one perfect eyebrow, and I catch her friend—a cute blonde in a sundress—trying not to laugh.
“Just a hunch.” I flash the smile that’s gotten me on two Sports Illustrated covers. “Do I know you?”
She looks me up and down, and I hate that I can’t read what she’s thinking. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of waking up next to you.”
Damn. Direct. I love it. I move in close, loving her sass. “If you’d ever woken up with me, I promise you’d remember. Jack Callahan. Can I buy you a drink?”
