It's the first day of my big-girl job—the kind of opportunity one should really try not to fuck up, and I'm already screwing myself by running late. After all, it wasn't just my impeccable GPA and references that landed me this gig. No, I have Brian to thank for this.

Growing up, the man was a second father figure to me. His daughter Esme and I met in elementary school, and soon enough, I spent more time at their lavish mansion than I did at my own home. I didn't care what her father did for a living when we were younger, but now, as I stare at my reflection in the body-length mirror in my bedroom, I'm more than grateful to be connected with the owner of the California Cyclones, Los Angeles's professional hockey team.

Flicking my stare over my body in the reflection, I nod in approval at my outfit—capris that hug my figure, a pair of chucks, and a black and white Cyclones jersey gifted to me by Brian himself. Sometimes, I suspect he granted me this position out of pity, but I never dwell on that assumption for too long. If I do, I'll wind up declining this job, and I need this job. Fresh out of college with a mountain of debt, any twenty-two-year-old couldn't refuse this offer. For the next two years, I'm contracted to be the team's newest photographer, and today I'm getting a chance to meet the boys.

And I'm already running behind.

Never letting my eyes drift above my shoulders, I deem the outfit acceptable and race out of the apartment. Because of this job, I can move to a swankier place further away from the city in a few weeks. The apartment I currently live in is decent, but it's not in the best section of town, and I'd prefer a quieter, suburban area rather than attempting to fall asleep to horns wailing and drunk people shouting throughout the night.

I lock the apartment door and head for the stairs, cursing when that nagging, unnecessary voice floods my head. Did you turn the stove off? Are you sure you locked the door?

Yes, I checked the stove three times after finishing my eggs, but I know how this will play out, and I'd rather not be even more late than I currently am. This checking thing happens frequently, and as much as I try to ignore it, my body seems incapable of doing so.

With my nails making tiny crescents in my palms, I sigh and re-enter the apartment to ensure the stove is off for the fourth time. Then, while I'm already tanking any chance I have at making a good first impression, I twist the handle of the front door three times in order to ease my fears.

***

As expected, LA traffic was horrendous, and I swear, it took even longer to make it through security and gain the proper clearance to get inside the stadium. Then, I had to wait while a badge was created for me. They claimed carrying this badge would make it easier to come and go from now on, but none of that information helped today because when all was finally said and done, I was almost thirty minutes late for the photoshoot.

Fuck me.

I didn't even give myself the chance to look around the stadium. I was too busy awkwardly holding the map, following the route I needed in order to get to—

Rounding a corner, I bump into a tall... Scratch that—very tall man. Tall, dark, and handsome, to be exact. He's as large as a damn building, towering over me with an amused expression. His eyes dart down to the badge before he asks, "I take it you're the new photographer?"

My cheeks redden with embarrassment. "Is it that obvious?"

He points to the camera around my neck and arches a brow. "Kinda."

Oh my god. I totally forgot a literal camera is strapped to me. Could this get any more embarrassing? I wasn't sure if I would need it, so I brought it regardless, but maybe I should have—

"I'm Levi." Sticking his hand out for me to shake, I tuck the map at an odd angle in my elbow and return the gesture. "The goalie."

Goalie. Right. Why didn't I do my research? I should know their names and positions by heart, but I just found out about this job last week, so I didn't exactly have the time to prepare.

"I'm Aria. Would you, uh, happen to know where we're meeting? Brian told me it was here on the lower levels, but I—"

He lets out a deep chuckle that's more handsome than it should be. "Down this hall, first door on the left. I'm just getting some water real quick, and then I'll be back." I watch him turn the corner where we accidentally bumped into each other, smiling when he calls out, "It's nice to meet you! Try not to let the boys overwhelm you. They can be...immature." Although I can't see him, I assume he's telling the truth. I'm about to walk into a rowdy, testosterone-focused group of men. I wouldn't expect anything less.

I've handled far worse, and if Levi greeted me without staring and making any comments, hopefully, the others will be as polite and respectful as him.

A sense of determination washes over me as I follow Levi's instructions. It's not hard to contemplate if I've reached the right door with all the laughter and shouting echoing from the other side.

Oh, boy.

Here we go.

I'm Aria Monroe, and I've gotten through worse than this.

With a final deep breath, I step through the door and attempt to keep my eyes focused on the back wall, but holy hell. I'm surrounded by...men. Not just any men, but hot, built, six-foot walking sex magnets. I'm unsure if some of them just got done working out, but many are sweating and wearing nothing but a pair of briefs.

Dear lord. I can't decide if I just won the lottery or dove face-first into temptation. No matter what, I have to remain professional. Brian reiterated that relentlessly last week when he offered me the job. After all, that's how the last photographer got fired. I wouldn't make the same mistake. No matter how attractive these men look.

This meeting is being held in the locker room? My cheeks are on fucking fire as I try to avert my gaze from one of the men with just a towel wrapped around his waist, clinging dangerously low on his hips. Maybe they haven't noticed me yet. Maybe, just maybe, I can whirl right back around and make a run for it. I'll ask Brian to reschedule the meeting on more...professional terms.

But then the door slams shut behind me, and the chatter and laughter instantly cease, all eyes turning to me. Has it only been a few seconds since I stepped in here? It feels like an eternity.

"Um, hello." I wave tentatively with a shy smile. "I'm Aria, the new photographer." There's a prickling sensation dragging down the middle of my face, which isn't strange since I've felt it before. It's usually when someone is staring for too long, and it would make sense given an entire room of men are currently gawking at me, but my eyes stray to the man in the middle of the large pack of hockey players, a man with just a pair of briefs on, and in seconds, I'm ready to fucking bolt from this room.

There's no way.

No way in hell.

I try to fight the images, but they pound into my head before I can stop them. This man has been on top of me before. His elbows have been beside my head as he drilled into me, giving me the best orgasm I've ever had in the middle of paradise five years ago. It was during a vacation Esme swept me away for. She and her family wanted to distract me. They wanted to heal me because not even three months prior, I had...

No. I will not think about that night. Not here.

And now, five years later, he's apparently playing for the professional hockey team I'm working for.

Fucking great.

We didn't talk too much prior to sleeping together. I never gave him my name because I didn't want to. I was in pain, and I was grieving, and I took him up on his offer to try and feel something, anything, but sex with him... I shudder as a wave of pleasure coils deep in my stomach. It had made me feel too many things if I'm being honest.

What I thought was a one-night stand with a stranger is now returning to royally bite me in the ass. Mainly because—

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," the man says with a sly grin—a grin that tells me he remembers exactly who I am. Not that it'd be surprising, given the deep, faded scar traveling from the top of my forehead to the middle of my nose. It was much more prominent when we met on that beach because it was fresh, but he doesn't seem stupid. How many women does he know with a fucking gash down the middle of their face?

And that is why this will royally bite me in the ass. There's a reason I didn't give him my name or leave him my number. He seemed like nothing but an arrogant, selfish—

I bite back a groan when he stands up, the ripples of muscles just begging to be touched again. Has he gotten taller over the years? He's certainly become more...built, which is shocking since he was built five years ago when we fucked. And yes, I'm going to say fucked because it was nothing more than that. Just a quick fuck.

"Connor Holden. Center for The California Cyclones." Of fucking course he plays the number one position on the team. Why am I not surprised? He's got the personality and the looks to match. With his golden curls and emerald eyes, I know women probably drop to their knees at the sight.

Like you did for him?

Pushing back the thought, I'm about to reply until one of the men from the bench clears his throat. "Wicked scar," he says. "Check mine out." Lifting his shirt, he reveals jagged flesh down the side of his abdomen. "Fell right on a pair of skates."

"How'd you get yours?" Another asks.

I fight the urge to cover my face just as Connor whips his head to him and says, "Mattie, did your parents teach you manners at all?"

A man with a long beard erupts into a fit of laughter. "As if you're one to talk!"

"He said manners? That's rich," another drawls from somewhere in the locker room.

Connor rolls his eyes, focusing his attention on me again. "It is Aria, right? Wouldn't want to be given a fake name. Or worse, not be given one at all."

Okay, so he didn't forget. He remembers that night, too. Whatever the case, he clearly doesn't want his team to find out we slept together, and I'm glad for it. I need to remain professional, and he probably doesn't want it getting out that he fucked a girl who looks like Frankenstein. He seems like the type to be self-absorbed.

"It's Aria," I confirm.

"And do you have a last name?"

The name badge conceals it for a reason. Plus, I don't need any of these players searching me up and discovering things that need to be kept hidden. "I don't think that's necessary to know," I reply.

He arches a perfectly thick brow up. "This is a meet and greet, is it not?"

I mimic his expression. "And did we not just meet and greet?"

A whistle echoes from somewhere around us, but I'm too pissed off to notice who it was. When I met him five years ago, I overlooked his cockiness and arrogance. I knew that someone with that much self-esteem had to be good at fucking, and I was right, but what we did was only supposed to be a one-night fling. Connor Holden is nowhere near the realm of men I'd pick for myself.

Connor takes a step closer, casting a shadow due to his height. I'm at least a foot shorter than him, so he has to bend almost at the waist for his lips to meet my ear. "We've done more than meet and greet, Aria," he whispers, careful for the others not to hear. "Or have you forgotten?"

My heart is pounding in my chest from the feel of his lips and how my name rolls off his tongue like a sinful prayer. We've been in this predicament before, in multiple positions, and in that one night, he whispered the filthiest of words that had my toes curling, back arching, lips parting...

The door closes behind us, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Seriously?" Levi steps up to Connor, tugging him away from me. "Are you trying to get another photographer fired?"

Ah. Again, why am I not surprised? I'm almost happy Levi revealed this information. Connor is someone I should stay away from, regardless of whether or not he's been in my pants before. The man obviously gets around. Truthfully, I'm amazed I didn't catch anything from our time together in the sheets.

A flicker of emotion passes across Connor's face. Whatever it is, it has Levi walking away to join the rest of the teammates a couple of feet away at the bench. None of the other hockey players seem to have any interest in meeting me, but why should they? I'm just a photographer traveling with them to snap photos of their careers. I don't expect us to sit around a campfire and sing songs.

"Welcome to the team," Connor says with a tilt of his lips. Of course, he has dimples on both cheeks. Why didn't I notice them before? "I have a feeling this will be our most thrilling season yet."

Author's Note:

Apparently, I can't hold myself back from releasing the first chapter. Then again, I'm not surprised.

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