Don’t miss NHL insider and #BookTok influencer Lexi LaFleur Brown’s steamy and superstitious hockey rom-com debut!

When Jaylen Jones doesn’t secure an NHL contract at the end of training camp, he worries his hockey career is over. But after an anonymous one-night stand on his last night in town, his luck turns around and a last-minute roster spot opens up on the Seattle Rainiers. Connecting his fortune to the girl he spent the night with, superstitious Jaylen is suddenly desperate to keep her around.

Aspiring tattoo artist Lucy isn’t so sure about the proposition to remain Jaylen’s lucky charm — she’s been called a lot of things in her life, but good luck has never been one of them. But stuck in a career slump, Lucy has everything to gain. Hoping for an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlour hasn’t offered her much stability, and Jaylen is willing to pay any price to get Lucy to agree…so maybe sending him a routine text message before each game won’t be too hard.

What starts as an agreement to trade favours — a good luck text for an appearance at a charity event, or well wishes in exchange for prime game tickets — quickly turns into sizzling chemistry that’s too delicious not to give in to. But Lucy’s been in too many situationships to even think about getting attached again, and Jaylen is clearly only with Lucy as long as it’s helping his career…neither of them expecting getting lucky could be so complicated.

LUCY

I don’t need an online personality test to tell me I’m a bitch when there are plenty of men who do that for me without the hassle of entering my email address. Just my luck, be-cause tonight the club is filled to the brim with willing and able potential.

“Turn that hockey crap off. The Emeralds are playing tonight,” I say, ordering the bartender to change the station on the TVs mounted behind the bar. I don’t necessarily follow sports, but my boss is obsessed with the National Women’s Soccer League and maybe if Seattle wins, she’ll be in a good mood for once. The Emeralds are down two goals in the final seconds of the game. With my optimism and the Emeralds’ shot at a spot in the playoffs shattered, I scoop up my three beer bottles by the necks and brace myself for the crowd.

I push my way through the overstuffed club with my hands full, desperate to reach the booth at the back of the bar where my friends promised to save me a seat. I’m late, but at least I’m not empty-handed. Wiggling my way through unmov-able bodies, I gasp for air that doesn’t smell like cheap co-logne. I try to shout, “Excuse me,” but it’s a waste of breath. Eventually, after being elbowed a few too many times for my liking, I bear down and push my way through the wall of people, a technique I perfected in the punk rock mosh pits that raised me.

The crowd opens up as I near the back corner, but before I can reach my friends, a giant behemoth slides in my way. I slam right into its rock-hard exterior and the impact practi-cally knocks the wind out of me, and along with it, the beers out of my hands. They spill all over my shirt and fall to the floor; there goes an hour of pay. I look up to see what I’ve hit. It isn’t a behemoth; it’s just some guy. He flies forward onto a tabletop, catching himself before he topples over and falls on the floor.

“What the fuck!?” He stands and turns around with fists clenched and cocked up near his chest. He takes a step, but the crunch of broken glass prevents him from getting any closer. He looks around for the perpetrator until his gaze finally drops down onto me.

My look has always scared off guys like him: I’m covered in tattoos, and have recently cut, bluntly chopped bangs and box-dyed hair—a blue black that says all anyone needs to know about my current mental state. I’m only five foot something, but my tone is obvious: Don’t fuck with me; I’m not the one.

Despite the fact that he stands at least a foot taller than me, my arms are tightly crossed over my chest as I proudly show off my long-serving resting bitch face, determined to scare him out of my way without a hassle. If looks could kill, I would be a wanted woman.

With his freshly ironed shirt, a professional haircut, and unpainted fingernails, I know exactly how he’s going to react. I could hiss at him, and he would run off with his tail between his legs just as quickly as he had appeared.

“Whoa,” he says at the sight of me, recoiling like he’s touched a hot burner.

This is not an endearing whoa, rather the type of whoa you hear after trauma-dumping your life’s story to a stranger you just met on the bus.

It’s the reaction I was hoping for.

“Excuse me,” I say, snapping at him, still trying to get past my annoying roadblock.

His mouth is slightly agape as he stares me down. Maybe the impact has left him incapable of stringing together a coherent sentence, or maybe he’s always this dumbfounded. I don’t care to stick around and find out.

“Nice hit,” he says, followed by something so muffled by the loud bass that I don’t catch it.

Before I get a chance to have the last word, a guy as broad as a door frame drags him back into the crowd. A sight that only irritates me more because I never got to officially tell him to fuck off for knocking my drinks out of my hands and getting my shirt wet.

“Lucy!”

I hear Cooper call out for me and make a run for it before any other giants can stand in my way. I’m not looking to get kicked out of Club Purple Haze tonight for causing trouble and miss Cooper’s half-birthday celebration. It’s a ridiculous tradition but fitting for an over-the-top guy like him.

I spot my friends Cooper and Maya at the back of the club waiting for me. Cooper waves me down, though he’s hard to miss in his bright pink button-up shirt and white sash that says Birthday Bitch; apparently, the party supply shop was fresh out of Half Birthday Bitch sashes.

“We got shots!” Cooper says, slurring his words a bit. He stands up from the small booth tucked in the back corner of the club, but stumbles over a chair. Although he plays it off as intentional, it’s obvious that he is well on his way to posting regrettable Instagram stories.

Judging by the empty glasses littering the tabletop, I am very late to the party. While I have earned a reputation of being late, half birthdays only happen once a year, and I feel bad that I have already missed so much of the celebration.

A look of concern replaces his toothy smile as he looks my wet shirt up and down. “Is it raining?”

“Just another thing making me even later to the party. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.” I squeeze into the booth.

“Let me guess, the dictator boss strikes again?” Maya scoots over so I can cram into the booth beside her.

I nod. “Sam kept me super late at the shop, and then there was this whole thing with Kit. I’ve got to stop getting involved with women named after American Girl dolls,” I say as I greet them both with hugs and kisses on their cheeks.

I am desperate to break into the tattoo scene in Seattle. So desperate, in fact, that I work a job I hate as the shop assistant for the world’s most ruthless tattoo artist—one who still times my bathroom breaks and makes me cover the tip on her daily lunch orders. I’m hopeful that if I continue to pay my dues (and her gratuities), Sam will offer me a tattoo apprenticeship. Until then, I’m stuck answering the phone, replying to emails, and taking out the trash.

Just as I settle into my seat, I get a text. The sweat on my brow from deep cleaning the shop hasn’t even dried and I’m already getting a text from my boss.

SAM: I expect my coffee waiting for me tomorrow morning when I get to the shop.

I give her a digital thumbs-up and tuck my phone away, wishing I could also temporarily tuck all my problems away for the night along with it. Surviving her unruly tyranny is a small price to pay on the journey of achieving my dream job.

“Oh no,” Cooper whines. “I like Kit. She always lets me into the museum for free.”

“Yeah, well, her boyfriend really likes her too.” Kit was a promising partner until I found out on our six-month anniversary that she was celebrating her third anniversary with her boyfriend. At the very least I expect to be made aware when I’m the side chick. Chivalry is as dead as our relation-ship. She came by the shop at the end of my shift tonight to pick up her stuff, making me even later to this party.

“Again?” Maya says.

“Enough about my cursed love life. You guys look great!” I lean back to admire my stunning friends.

Cooper is glowing, gleaming ear to ear with a wide smile. His high cheekbones shimmer when the strobe lights catch his face. Gone is the responsible demeanor of a business owner, and in its place is the Cooper I met freshman year of college who convinced me to pierce my conch with a sewing needle. He is wild and free and half a year older.

Maya looks comfortable in her white flowy maxi skirt and worn vintage T-shirt. Her voluminous coiled curls add a couple of inches to her already poised stature. A collage of social justice movement pins she’s collected from work decorate the tote tucked by her side.

I didn’t have time to stop at my apartment and change my outfit before getting to the club. My skirt has ink stains on the front and my baby tee—which was chosen for comfort earlier today—is now practically transparent. I look like I lost a wet T-shirt contest.

Unfortunately, it’s not that kind of event. Every twenty-something-year-old in Seattle is packed into this club to see some DJ I’ve never heard of. The crowd is a real mixed bag. I haven’t seen the gays and the straights this united since “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen dropped. I don’t care much for the music or the venue, but I do love my friends.

“Here, catch up. Cooper’s lit and has been very active on Grindr,” Maya says, handing me a tiny glass of something.

I bring it up to my face and take a whiff—tequila. I toss it back and hope it makes my migraine disappear, or at least loosens me up enough to brave the mass of people for some requisite dancing. I will need at least two more shots before I am stress-free enough to wave my arms overhead as I sway my hips off beat to the rhythm. If I’m really lucky, Cooper will find a far cuter dance partner and I will be off the hook altogether.

“What else have I missed?” I ask, sucking on a lime to ease the burn.

“We’ve already seen like a hundred of your exes here tonight,” Cooper shouts across the table.

“I swear I can’t go anywhere in this city without bumping into an ex-partner.” I survey the room. For a big city, it really starts to narrow in on you as your twenties pass by.

“I spotted Nina, but don’t worry, she’s gone now.” Maya grimaces.

Nina is an ex-girlfriend Maya and I share in common. Horrible girlfriend, but excellent taste in women. When we broke up, Nina took my favorite sweater, pots and pans, and crystal collection with her when she left, and left me more commitment issues and Maya. In the end, I think I made out better than Nina did.

“Glad I came late then.” I shudder, taking another sip of Maya’s beer, which I have stealthily stolen.

Cooper’s phone buzzes against the tabletop, illuminating his home screen of the three of us from his real birthday party six months ago. “Speaking of exes, looks like my future ex just walked in,” he says giddily.

It should take this new guy a good fifteen minutes to wiggle his way through the crowd and steal Cooper away from our group.

As Cooper taps away at his phone feverishly, Maya waves across the club into the throng. “She came,” she says, her eyes growing wide. “You guys remember Arlo, right?” Maya waves her over.
“The girl who lives in her car?” I squint, trying to get a better view of her face.

“She lives in a van-dwelling,” Maya says defensively.

“I guess in elementary school when everyone used to tease me for being trailer trash, I should have told them we were living the carefree nomad lifestyle,” I half-heartedly joke. I search through the crowd hoping to spot my latest mistake, but I can’t get a good view of the potential suitors in attendance tonight.

“I’m going to go get us another round of shots.” I excuse myself from the booth before Maya’s new girlfriend and Coo-per’s fling can join us. I owe them that much for being so late, but selfishly I am also trying to give myself some air; I don’t want to be a fifth wheel. I tried that once and I am way too selfish a lover.

“Tequila!” Cooper says.

“Water for you,” I shout back to him. He rolls his eyes and swats me away.

JAYLEN

In hockey, they say you should always keep your head on a swivel. Drop your head at the wrong time and someone will come by and knock you clean off your feet. It’s a guaran-teed way to wind up in concussion protocol for a few games. I might not have seen her coming, but now that she’s in my view, I can’t look away.

I know I’m staring because my eyes are getting dry. It’s like when you look into a burning firepit and suddenly you don’t remember how to blink. The way the purple strobe light shines down on her stoic face makes me wonder if she’s real or a hologram. How could I not notice her? How could I not stare? She looks terrifying.

As a professional hockey player, I know a solid check when I see one—or take one. I’m not usually so easily knocked around out on the ice. Luckily, my bruised ego makes a full recovery once I see how intimidating she looks.

She’s got the glare of a fourth-liner fighting to avoid a demotion to the minors—scary stuff to come up against. Strap some skates on her and put her out on the ice.

Maybe she’s what the Seattle Rainiers are looking for, since they clearly have no interest in signing a skilled player like me.

I haven’t taken my eyes off her since we collided. I can’t decide if I want to go apologize or ask for bodychecking advice.

“Let it go, JJ,” Wells says. “The last thing you need tonight is to get your ass kicked.” He pulls me back into the roped-off VIP section.

Wells is shorter than me but as sturdy as a tree trunk, which makes it hard to resist his pull. His face and hands are covered in tiny silver scars he’s earned as collateral for the eight minutes of ice time he clocks each night. His career PIMs outnumber his career points, but he’s just as respected in the league as any top scorer. Those guys never get a statue, but they’re the brawn that mixes the metal.

“I wasn’t going to fight a girl.” I might be having a rough night, but I’m not that far gone. “It wouldn’t even be the most embarrassing part of today if she did.”

Wells fishes around in a bucket of melted ice, pulling out a sweaty beer bottle. “You okay?”

We’re slumped over the railing together, perched up high in the VIP section overlooking the rest of the club. I pop the top of the bottle using the railing and nod. I’ve got a few drinks in me now and I’m not sure I can lie to him, so I keep my mouth shut.

Evan Caldwell was my teammate in New York my rookie year with the Skyliners. Wells, as everyone calls him, because hockey players are notorious for giving each other nicknames. Most are just a variation of a last name with an ie or er soundslapped onto the end. Even if the guy has a real simple last name, hockey players will find a way to complicate it.

Wells had already clocked a few years on the Skylin-ers’ roster before I was drafted. Our dynamic was simple: I scored, and he beat the wheels off anyone who tried to touch me. Back then, I was young, arrogant, and thought I was invincible. Wells took me under his wing and showed me the ropes.

When I signed my entry-level contract and collected my fat signing bonus, I thought the struggle was over; I thought I had arrived. I was naive to the business and wouldn’t have lasted a season without his guidance. There’s no handbook for surviving in the NHL, just a few vets who don’t want to see you make the same mistakes they did. Even though I don’t currently have an NHL contract, he’s still looking out for me.

I pull out my phone and, despite my better judgment, I scroll through my social media feeds. The news that the once-highly-touted draft pick was released from his PTO—a player tryout contract—is trending, much to the satisfaction of my hungry haters. Everyone is chiming in to proclaim what they’ve been saying for the last few years: Jaylen Jones is the league’s biggest draft bust in history. To the rest of the world, the crash from first overall pick in the NHL draft to being unemployed seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, but to me it was a grueling six-year free fall.

“Put that shit away.” Wells snatches my phone and turns it off before handing it back over.

“They’re right.” I shove my phone in my pocket.

I’m the only Black player to ever go first overall. As if that isn’t pressure enough, I’m still the highest drafted player of color in NHL history. I felt the weight of everyone’s expectations, and for a while I carried it on my shoulders, amassing over sixty points my rookie season and almost taking home the Calder Memorial Trophy for the NHL’s best rookie. Eventually, the load got too heavy and the metaphorical ice beneath my feet began to crack.

I never wanted to be a role model; I wanted to play hockey. When I couldn’t even do that right, I found myself turning into the villain overnight. Thinly veiled racism disguised as critique eventually shattered what was left of my confidence. I know I should stay off social media and ignore the haters, but I’ve never been good at that.

“What’s that saying? Those who can’t do, talk shit on the internet or something.” Wells’s smile resembles that of his six-year-old daughter’s—gummy and proud. A black hole where a front tooth once sat will remain void until retirement. He digs his shoulder into my arm, trying to elicit a smile from my thinly drawn lips.

“What the hell am I going to do next?” I slump over the railing.

“You’re going to go buy that girl another drink. She’s not snarling anymore, and you owe it to her.” Wells points toward the bar, where the goon from earlier is unsuccessfully trying to get the bartender’s attention. It wasn’t what I meant when I asked, but maybe it’s the answer I needed to hear.

I gladly abandon the VIP section, where the entire team is hidden away to celebrate surviving the Rainiers’ training camp with bottle service. I was released this afternoon from my PTO and have little to celebrate, but when the guys found out that my flight home doesn’t leave until the morning, they dragged me out with them. Now, while everyone parties, I quietly wallow.

I would have preferred to stay back in my hotel bed racking up a room service bill that would rival Kevin McCallister’s,but this girl looks like a fun distraction, and I could use one of those tonight.

I’m willing to face the mob of crowded bodies for a chance to get another glance at the five-foot-nothing bruiser who sent me flying into the boards. I need to know her name. Something like Punisher sure fits her demeanor.

I wiggle in next to her, waiting for the right moment to lean down and talk. I’m more apprehensive in my approach than usual because my confidence already took a huge hit today when I was cut from the team, and I’m not sure how much more of a beating I can endure.

I lean over the bar top, and as if the bartender was expecting me, she gleefully greets me with her best customer service smile. She practically bounces over to me like a little bunny. Not only can twenty-some guys show up to a club last-minute, flash their NHL cards, and get a VIP table immediately, but they also rarely have to wait around for someone to serve them. It’s one of the many perks of being a professional athlete that I will miss. I mean, that and all the free hockey tape; you would be surprised what a good roll of hockey tape can fix.

I lean into the mysterious tattooed girl and say, “What are you trying to order?” I do my best to shoot her a disarming smile. Judging by her stone-cold scowl, it might be coming across as creepy.
Right when I think she’s going to tell me to fuck off, she says, “I’m good.” She slumps against the bar with her chin falling into her hand in a defeated exhale.

“You’ve been standing here waiting forever. Tell me your order.”

She glances at me out of the corner of her eyes. They narrow. “You’re not hitting on me, right?”

“Technically,” I say, leaning in, my mouth curving into a slanted smile, “you hit me first.”

“Fine, but only because you owe me for spilling all my beer earlier. Five shots of tequila,” she says dryly.

“Damn!” My head snaps back. She drinks more than any goon I’ve ever met too. At this point, I really want to ask her if she can skate. I turn to the bartender, who is patiently awaiting my instruction. “Six tequila shots, please.”

The bartender sets up six glasses and fills them each with top-shelf tequila. As I’m pulling my credit card out of my wallet, someone squeezes by and knocks my card out of my hand and onto the ground. Having retrieved it from the floor, I hand it over to the bartender and turn to formally introduce myself. “I’m Jaylen. What’s your name?” I say as I grab my shot off the bar top and turn to clink glasses with my new friend. Only she’s already disappeared back into the crowd…

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