The Keeper (Playing to Win #1)(3)

Charles’s eyes find mine, and I can already tell it’s going to be a long weekend. “You know the rules, Miss Sinclair.”

Everly leans into my side and whispers, “You know we’re going to have to ditch him at some point, right?”

A small smile tugs at my twitching lips.

Maybe it will be one of those weekends after all.





Easton





“Why did we even bother taking the meeting if you knew you were going to decline the trade offer? Max Kingston has been trying to get your ass to play for the Revolution for years.” Pace has been a broken record about this for the past two hours. “You ever planning on accepting the trade? On going home? Could you even imagine the way the fans would lose their shit over the prodigal son returning?”

“I am home, asshole. Vegas has been my home for a decade. Kroydon Hills . . . Well, Kroydon Hills is the place I visit. That’s it.” I look around to make sure no one’s paying attention and shove my best friend forward. “Seriously? Prodigal son? Who the fuck says that kind of shit?”

“There’s a reason I’m your agent, E-man. I can spin shit into gold.” He’s not lying either. Pace was a good college hockey player, but he knew it wasn’t going any further, so he went into the family business. Now he’s one of the most sought-after sports agents in the country. He’s second only to his older brother, which has always pissed him off. “Now relax. It’s time to see your girl.”

I stop dead in my tracks, and Pace almost runs into me. “Stop with the my girl shit.”

“Dude. What crawled up your ass tonight? I’ve been calling that girl your girl for a fucking decade. She’s the goddamn Kingston princess, for fuck’s sake, and she looks like—”

I cut him off with an icy glare. “Watch it.”

He throws his hands up in front of himself. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself to get through the night, man. You can keep lying to yourself if you want to, but I’m your best friend. You can’t lie to me.”

“There’s nothing there. End of story. Now let’s get this shit over with.” I shake my head and move around some rowdy asshole, not giving a shit that he’s sloshing beer all over himself while a prostitute grinds her ass against his dick. Dumb fuck probably doesn’t realize she’s pay-to-play. Maybe he just doesn’t care. I remember those days. I spent a fuck-ton of nights drinking to forget, and there’s no better place to do that than the city of sin.

Spent half those nights on the phone with her too.

Somewhere along the way, she became my girl.

Not that I said it.

Not that she knew it.

But she fucking felt like it.

“She’s not my fucking girl,” I mumble again as a blonde bombshell catches my eye on the other side of the purple rope designating the VIP area. She’s dancing like she knows she’s drawing every single man and woman’s attention her way, but that’s not why I notice her. No. It’s the woman she’s dancing with. The tiny wisp of a woman, barely five foot two with long dirty-blonde curls and eyes the color of a stormy Bermuda ocean. The one who has her hands raised in the air and her perfect ass up against Everly, shaking her hips in a way that makes my cock hard. The one who’s all woman now.

“Yeah, buddy.” Pace smacks my chest. “Keep telling yourself she’s not your girl.” Pace smiles devilishly at a passing VIP waitress and orders two Macallen 18s. “Now don’t mind me while I go make myself a sandwich.”

“What the fuck—” He moves before I finish my question, and I watch for a moment as the fucker does exactly what he said he’d do and slides between Everly Sinclair and Lindy. My fucking Lindy.

The waitress comes back and hands me two glasses, then steps closer and bats her long, fake lashes. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Hayes?”

Of course, she recognizes me.

Being a professional hockey player used to have it’s perks.

Not anymore.

Now, it’s just exhausting.

Now, I just want to play good hockey and be left the fuck alone.

“Umm, you can get your skanky ass off my brother.” Kenzie moves in front of me, blocking the waitress, then turns and throws her arms around my neck. “Easton,” she squeals. “I missed you so much.”

I wrap an arm around my little sister and squeeze. “Hey, Kenz. Missed you too.”

She pulls back and smacks my chest. “Why did you bail earlier? I thought I was getting a whole day with you. I wouldn’t have flown all the way out here just for tonight.”

“Sorry. Meeting with team management.” I don’t bother adding anything about the trade offer. Max Kingston, the GM and part owner of the Philadelphia Revolution, who also happens to be Lindy’s oldest brother, might tell her at some point, but I don’t want to see the disappointment on her face if she hears it from me.

The Kingstons like to take care of their own, and luckily, they claimed Kenzie and me when our mom died more than a decade ago and our cousin, Juliette, took us in as our legal guardian. She married Becket Kingston a month later, and the family has claimed us ever since.

Most of them, at least.

I remind myself, again, that Lindy’s off-limits.

She always has been. She always will be.