Army’s phone pinged and he peered at the screen. “Great. An email from my mom warning me Lovey’s on her way. Thanks, Mom.” He shook his head as he tapped a reply. “She wants me to make sure Lovey’s okay in the big city. Jesus.”

Yeah, Lovey seemed like she was going to be okay.

They arrived at the dealership and while Army signed the paperwork, Marc wandered around looking at the vehicles, trying to ignore the attention from the staff, male and female. The receptionist approached him for an autograph.

“You’re my favorite player.” She let out a breathy laugh. “I watch all the games.”

“Yeah?” He obliged by scrawling his messy signature across the Land Rover pamphlet she held out, adding his jersey number beneath it. “You watch that last game against Philly?”

“Of course! You guys played great.”

He stuck his tongue into one cheek and nodded. “Thanks.” They’d sucked. They’d lost three-one, probably their worst game so far, another game added to their losing streak.

“D’you speak French?” Her eyes widened.

“Mais oui.” He grinned.

“That is soooo sexy.” She stared at him.

Câlisse. He resisted the urge to sigh and smiled instead. “Merci.”

“I love your accent.”

He wanted to frown. He barely had an accent. He’d been raised by a Francophone mother and Anglophone father, and although his education had been all in French growing up in Quebec, he spoke both languages fluently. Maybe there was a bit of an accent. Whatever.

“Hey, Armdog,” he called to his friend. “I’m gonna head out. Meet you at the Sin Bin?”

“Yeah. Be there soon.”

The Sin Bin was a restaurant/bar owned by one of their teammates, Jared Rupp. They often hung out there with other Aces players. Friday night, no game, afternoon practice, they’d all planned to head there for food and drinks. Army would meet him there, driving in his sweet new ride.

Marc had to smile at Army’s choice. You could take the boy out of the farm, but you couldn’t take the farm out of the boy. Army had grown up on a dairy farm in the heart of Wisconsin, feeding and milking cows. He was a total redneck, wearing a camo baseball cap backward, dressed in faded jeans and boots, and had recently grown a heavy beard. He liked to fish and hunt and spend time in the great outdoors, and living in Chicago had driven him nuts at first. Even now, he still got antsy surrounded by skyscrapers and concrete and glittery lights.

Apparently Lovey Armstrong had grown up on the same dairy farm. You’d never know it to look at her, though. Other than the sprinkle of faint freckles over her nose and cheeks, she looked all city girl, with bright hair parted in the middle and curling over her shoulders, shiny lips, and stylish clothes, including sexy high-heeled boots…yeah, she was no redneck. Or whatever the female term for redneck was. Wasn’t there a song about a redneck woman…Whatever. That was clearly not her.

Marc headed downtown, where Rupper’s restaurant was located. The place was super popular, especially since the Aces had won the Stanley Cup two years ago. Lots of puck bunnies hoping to run into hockey players. Nothing wrong with that. More important, the food was fantastic and it was a fun place, so it wasn’t just people hanging out to meet hockey players, it was actually a well-respected Chicago restaurant.

He walked into the Sin Bin and turned left to enter the bar, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck. Voices filled the room along with a tune by Imagine Dragons. Marc’s eyes swept the room and spotted teammate and owner of the bar Jared Rupp, aka the Ruppinator. Or just Rupper. Or GQ, since he was always all duded up.

Rupper stood at a tall table where four women sat on stools. They were all gazing raptly at him as he talked, and as Marc approached the table, he caught smiles, a lot of hair flipping, and then laughter. Rupper was such a womanizer.

Rupper flashed a smile, then spotted Marc as he neared the table. “Dupe! Get over here, man.”

All four female heads swiveled to look at him and four flirty smiles beamed at him in recognition. He grinned in return. “Hey, Rupper.”

All the women were pretty, dressed professionally, apparently there for happy hour after work.

“Marc Dupuis.” A sophisticated blonde spoke up in a husky voice. “Team captain. Nice to meet you. I’m Angel.” She extended a hand and Marc found himself shaking hands with a beautiful woman for the second time that day, and then three more times as each of Angel’s friends introduced themselves.

“I was just telling them about that time Pilker and Hughie ordered breakfast for me and Stoykers on a road trip.” Rupper grinned.

Marc gave a brief eye roll. “Kids these days.” They’d arrived at the hotel in New York at two in the morning, and Pilker and Hughie had filled out a room service card requesting breakfast, enough for ten guys—eggs, three kinds of juice, sausages, bacon, cereal, fruit—to be served in the room at six a.m.—and hung the card on Rupper and goalie Brent Stoyko’s door. They’d been so pissed to be woken up that early, when they didn’t have a meeting until eleven, not to mention they had to foot the bill for the entire breakfast feast.

Marc had never been big into the jokes and pranks some of the other guys pulled. Unfortunately that often meant he was the victim of such pranks, like the nearly-cut-through skate laces that snapped when he yanked on them, or the cup of water in the shin pads on the upper shelf in his locker that hit him in the face when he pulled his shin pads down. Har. At least he’d never been rolled up in a mattress, duct-taped, and sent to the lobby in the hotel elevator like Benny.

“Where’s Army?” Rupper asked.

“Left him at the dealership. He should be here any minute.” He explained to the women, “Duncan Armstrong. He just bought a new vehicle.”

“Need a beer?” Rupper asked. “Whatcha want? Moens lager? Or Pale Ale?”

“Pale Ale.”

Rupper left to get it. Moens Breweries was part owner and sponsor of the Chicago Aces. Nobody’d ever told them they had to drink Moens beer but it was pretty much understood. Good thing he liked it.

He chatted with the four women. Rupper returned with his beer and rejoined them, and it wasn’t long before Army arrived, followed by Aces goaltender Brent Stoyko and their newest team member, Andrew Ross, who’d been traded to them from the LA Kings at the end of last season. They pulled over another table and more stools. Marc found himself beside Angel, who engaged him in a side conversation about his hockey background.

She gave him a flirty look. “So are you seeing anyone right now?”

“Nope.” He took a pull of his beer. Since Marissa had dumped his ass six months ago, he was single and free, free to flirt and pick up chicks and bang their brains out for one night. Eh. Too bad that wasn’t really his style.

The truth was, he’d been pretty settled down with Marissa. They’d been together three years, and lived together for nearly two of those. He’d been thinking about asking her to marry him. And then, wham, she’d cut him loose, because he wasn’t romantic enough, for Chrissakes, and he still felt kind of…adrift. Or something.

“I’m single too.” Angel smiled.

He studied her, with her sleek hair and perfect makeup. He wasn’t gonna lie, he’d had some hookups, trying to forget Marissa, or sometimes just because he was horny.

He drank more beer. What the hell. Maybe this was one of those nights. He could take Angel to his place—his mind screeched to a halt, remembering the woman staying there.

Crap.

He focused his attention back on Angel and their conversation. She was coming on strong now, and he knew he could have her in his bed no problem…Wait.

Was he supposed to be sleeping on the couch?

No, Army’d said he would sleep on the couch. Okay, this could still work…