Chapter two: My sexy neighbor

∆~∆ Rain's POV ∆~∆

I close my apartment door and lean against it, my heart hammering in my chest like I just went fifteen rounds with the meanest enforcer in the league.

What the fuck was that?

I've been around thousands of women in my eight-year NHL career. Models, actresses, puck bunnies, reporters, all of them gorgeous, all of them available, all of them completely forgettable.

But five minutes with my neighbor in her bathrobe, and I'm standing here like a teenager who just got his first glimpse of cleavage.

It's her scent that's messing with my head. It's clean and sweet, like vanilla and strawberries, that scent wafted to me the second she opened her door. Something that made my wolf sit up and take notice in a way that has never happened before.

Not even with Natasha.

The thought of my ex-fiancée sends a familiar stab of pain through my chest, but it's calmer now. It doesn't hurt before.

For months after everything went to shit, thinking about Natasha felt like shit. But now it's more like a dull ache, the kind you get from an old injury when the weather changes.

But this excitement with Mariah? This feels fresh and dangerous in a completely different way that I couldn't explain.

I scrub my hands over my face, trying to get my shit together. This is exactly what I don't need right now. I came to Chicago to get away from complications, not dive headfirst into new ones.

My phone buzzes with a text from my publicist: ~Reporter from Sports Center wants to do a piece on your comeback. Interested?~

~No,~ I text back immediately.

~Come on, Rain. You can't avoid the media forever.~

~Watch me.~

I toss the phone on the counter and grab a beer from the fridge, even though it's past 2 AM. Sleep isn't happening anyway. Not when I can still smell vanilla and strawberry in the air. I'm not sure I will be able to sleep.

Not when my wolf is pacing restlessly, wanting to go back out in that hallway and find her again.

Mariah Rivera. Even her name is perfect. Rolls off the tongue like honey.

I take a long pull of beer and try to focus on why I'm here. The trade from Toronto was supposed to be a fresh start.

A chance to rebuild my career after the disaster that was last season. The Chicago Blackhawks took a huge gamble signing me, and I can't afford to fuck it up by getting distracted by a pretty neighbor.

No matter how she makes me feel like I'm about to jump out of my own skin.

The smart thing would be to keep my distance. Be polite but distant. Focus on hockey and staying out of trouble. God knows I've had enough trouble to last a lifetime.

But when has Rain Cross ever been accused of being smart?

I finish my beer and head to my bedroom, stepping over boxes of unpacked clothes and equipment.

The moving company delivered everything yesterday, but I haven't had the energy to deal with it. The whole apartment looks more like a bomb went off...boxes everywhere, furniture covered in plastic, my life reduced to cardboard containers and packing tape.

The bed is massive, king-sized, and custom-made because regular furniture doesn't accommodate guys my size...but it feels empty tonight. Hell, it's felt empty for months.

Everything feels empty tonight.

I lie down and close my eyes, but all I can see is Mariah in her white robe, dark hair falling over her shoulders like silk, those whiskey-colored eyes looking up at me like...

Like what? Like she felt it too? That instant recognition, that pull that made conversation feel like foreplay? The way her pupils dilated when I stepped closer, the way her breathing changed when I said her name?

Or am I just projecting because it's been six months since I touched a woman, and she happened to smell like heaven wrapped in terrycloth?

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from my teammate and only real friend on the team, Jackson Morrison.

~How's the new place?~

~Quiet,~ I text back.

Jack's been checking on me since the trade went through. He's one of the few guys in this league who gives a shit about anything beyond stats and playoff runs.

Maybe because he's been through his own hell...lost his dad in a car accident in his rookie year, struggled with depression, came back stronger. Or maybe he's just a decent human being, which is rarer than you'd think in professional sports.

~Good. You need quiet. First practice is on Monday. You ready?~

Am I ready? That's the million-dollar question. Literally. The Blackhawks are paying me twelve million over three years to be ready.

The thing is, I used to know exactly who I was on the ice. Rain Cross, power forward, the guy who could score goals and drop gloves with equal skill.

The guy teammates respected and opponents feared. The guy who never backed down from a fight, on the ice or off.

But that was before everything exploded. Before the playoffs, when I couldn't buy a goal if I'd robbed a bank.

Before the media started questioning whether I'd lost my edge. Before Natasha decided she couldn't handle the pressure and found comfort in my best friend's bed.

Before I realized that maybe they were all right about me being washed up.

~Born ready,~ I text back, because it's easier than explaining that I'm not sure who the hell I am anymore.

~Bullshit. But fake it till you make it, right?~

Jack's one of the few people who knows what really happened in Toronto. Why I requested the trade. I spent the off-season basically becoming a hermit, hiding out in my parents' cabin in Northern Ontario and trying to remember why I fell in love with hockey in the first place.

~Something like that.~

~Get some sleep. Tomorrow's a new day and all that motivational poster crap.~

I set the phone aside and stared at the ceiling. The apartment is too quiet. It's nothing like my place in Toronto, which had been filled with Natasha's things, her books scattered everywhere, her yoga mat permanently rolled out in the living room, her ridiculous collection of throw pillows that I pretended to hate but secretly loved because they made the place feel like home.

This place feels like a hotel. Expensive, impersonal, and temporary.

Tomorrow is a new day. A chance to prove that Rain Cross isn't washed up at twenty-eight. That the critics who said I'd lost my edge were wrong.

That I'm still the same guy who scored forty goals in his rookie season, who made the All-Star team three years running, who had scouts talking about Hart Trophy potential before everything went to hell.

But lying here in the dark, all I can think about is soft brown eyes and the way she said my name.

Like she was tasting it. Like she wanted to say it again. And I'm pretty sure that's going to be a problem.

Because the last thing I need is another complication. Another person who might see through the carefully constructed walls I've built around myself. Another reason to care about something beyond putting the puck in the net and collecting my paycheck.

But there's something about her that makes my wolf restless in the best possible way. Something that makes me want to be the kind of man who deserves to have a woman look at him like that.

Maybe that's the real problem. Maybe I'm not afraid of getting distracted.

Maybe I'm afraid of wanting something I can't have.

Again.