Third Man In: An Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 2)

unearthingopportunities for them to save money that they’d gone and hired a full-timer todo what she did. They’d offered Natalie the position—a nice ego boost—butfrankly, the work wasn’t that challenging, and she loathed being restricted toan office, once again at the mercy of self-important bosses.
Nope, bank account balances aside, she preferred struggling and independence. Besides, shestill had a tidy sum in savings—even after repaying Mom for her collegetuition. She only needed to add a few more clients or sell one of her magazinearticles to stave off dipping into her reserves. Or I could accept Kevin’s generosity.She’d rather eat Ramen for a year than take money from her boyfriend—nomatter that he could more than afford it, or that he’d offered her a loan.
“Enough,” she admonished herself aloud. “You’re fine.”
Running her finger along the desk’s clean edge recalled whata great flea market find she’d scored, helping her cast off her worries.
Ten feet, and she was in her bedroom, where she toed offsneaks and traded jeans and a sweatshirt covered in dog fur for a clean pair ofyoga pants, a soft sweater, and socks. Though she still faced a mound of work,she gave herself permission to watch the end of the San Diego Storm game.Tonight they played their old rival, the San Jose Earthquake, and it was bound to be heated. What fireworks had she alreadymissed?
Her father’s voice often chose these moments to echo in hermind. It’s okayto take a break once in a while, Nat-Nat, as long as you remember to always doyour best work. Oh, and always under-promise and over-deliver. Shesmiled and silently answered.Yes, Dad.
Humming, she glided across the living room floor with theballet scene from RedSparrow playing in her head. Not her favorite movie—too bleak—exceptfor the dancing. Why did ballet movies have to be so tragic?
“And now it’s time for a different sort of dance,” she saidaloud. Really, she had to stop talking to herself. With a silent vow to do justthat, she picked up the remote, and the TV screen flickered to life. She foundthe hockey channel and cranked up the volume.
They must have been between periods or on a TV time-outbecause commercials bled one into another in the background as she pouredherself a measure of red wine. She glanced at her only touch of whimsy in thehouse, a puppy wall clock that ticked out time with its tail. Damn. Had shemissed all three periods?
The ads stopped, and a name drifted from the TV, ticklingher insides. Kevinmust have done something special tonight. Dating a hockey player—anyprofessional athlete—was different for her, and hearing his name or seeing hisface on TV always rendered her a bit off-kilter, as though electrifiedbutterflies tethered to concrete blocks were trying to fly in her stomach. Sort of fluttery while leaden at the same time.
She sipped her wine. Her phone buzzed, and she grabbed itoff the counter. Her brother. Again.
“Drew! I am notbailing your ass out this time. It’s your turn to bring the salad to Mom’s. End of discussion. So put those man muscles to work and gettossing!”
“Nat. You home yet?”
Huh.No snarky comeback?
“Just got in. A dog-sitting client had me stick around tokeep his furry fiend from pulling his cushions apart. I have got to find anew client so I can fire this one. How that feather duster of a dog can—”
“Did you catch any of the game?”
“Not yet. Just turned it on.”
“Nat, sit, if you’re not already.” Drew’s tone was clippedand grim, like the time he’d herded her into the basement when a twister hadthreatened Grandma’s house. Prickles raced up and down her spine. Her bigbrother teased her mercilessly, but when it came to protecting her, he wasfront and center. It was one of the things she loved best about him, thoughshe’d never admit it. Not to him.
Phone pressed to her ear, she pivoted slowly toward the TV.The sight of a stretcher being wheeled off the ice confused her. A pronefigure, skates on, his helmeted head taped to a neck board. “Oh my God, Drew.Who got hurt?”
As though the TV was sentient, the camera zeroed in on theplayer while an announcer’s grave voice said, “We’ve learned they’re taking himstraight to the hospital.” She narrowed her eyes but couldn’t make out theface. “We just hope Kevin May will be all right.”
Whatthe …? Her stomach plummeted to her knees.
“Drew?” she squeaked.
Her brother exhaled. “Kevin got sucker-punched.” The broadcastcut to an Earthquake player—T.J. something or other—as he stood in front of hishome bench. It was hard to make out his features for the helmet, visor, andmountain-man beard. “That’s T.J. Shanstrom,” Drewgrowled, “the dickhead who put Kevin in the hospital.”
As realization took hold, Natalie sank into her couch, eyesglued to the screen, heart pounding as though it would burst from her chest.She set the wineglass on the coffee table with a wobble and clapped her handover her mouth, stifling a wail that rushed up from her gut.
Ohno! No, no, no!

CHAPTER 2
 
Do You Know the Way to San Jose?
The flight home dragged. Normally,T.J. would’ve plugged into music or Roman history and maybe dozed, but tonight hecouldn’t shut his brain off. His teammates gave him a wide berth, barelyspeaking to him—not the typical rally-around behavior of a team. Consequently,he sat alone. When T.J. had approached Coach Rogers, he’d gotten a terse, “Notnow.”
T.J. couldn’t decide if everyone was leaving him to brood byhimself or if they were dodging him. The vibe was distinctly the latter. Left to its own devices, his mind churned and grinded, turning overthe night’s events. In addition to wondering about May’s condition—he hadto be out of the hospital by now, right?—he tried towrap his head around the Storm fans’ vitriol. They’d waited for him outside thearena. Taunts so ugly he’d been hustled back inside the arena’s underbellyuntil San Diego’s finest could escort him to the team bus. The human barricadehadn’t blocked out the verbal abuse the crowd spewed, though. Not that T.J.wasn’t used to heckling. But this was heckling on steroids, and for an instanthe’d questioned his safety.
“Mob mentality” was no longer a generic term