Hooked On Her: Ice Kings, #3 Read online

  Hooked On Her

  Ice Kings, #3

  Stacey Lynn

  Hooked On Her

  Ice Kings, #3

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  Stacey Lynn

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  Copyright © 2020 Stacey Lynn

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  Content Editing: My Brother’s Editor

  Proofreading: Virginia Tesi Carey

  Cover Design: Shanoff Designs

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  Hooked On Her is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, trademarks, and incidents are used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reprinted, reproduced, or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review passages only.

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  This purchased material is for personal use only and NOT to be shared. Thank you so much for respecting the author’s wishes.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by Stacey Lynn

  Chapter One

  Tessa

  * * *

  “What the hell?”

  My purse hits the floor with a thunk and behind me, the closing of my apartment door echoes.

  At least, I’m pretty sure I’m in my apartment. The same one I’ve lived in for three years with my recently ex-fiancé, Will.

  We broke up weeks ago, although I should have kicked his butt out much sooner. I’m either a descendant of a reptile with the matching cold heart, or I’m confident in my decision to end things because I don’t miss him.

  My fingers curl around my keys, my only line of defense, although from what I can see, there’s nothing left to steal or take because there’s nothing in my living room. Not our couches or our small TV stand or our television. The only evidence my furniture was ever here are the imprints in the carpet and edges of a slight dust stain around where bookshelves and couches went unmoved for years.

  My pulse skyrockets and for a moment I think to call Will. I’ve been calling him for weeks to come get his stuff and clear it out. Preferably while I was working. My last message a few days ago was well past the point of rude.

  “Listen here, coke-sniffing probably homeless asshole. Get your crap out of my apartment this weekend when I’m out of town or when I get back, it’s all getting tossed in the dumpster. I mean it, Will.”

  It only makes sense I was robbed after he left the place unlocked, key on the counter, and then it was raided after he hauled away the only things he should have taken—like his clothes, because everything else was bought by me. There’s no way Will came and cleaned out his things and mine. Is there?

  I do a thorough search of the apartment, senses tingling in my fingertips, driving me toward the kitchen first. I expect to open a cabinet and see my dishes, pale blue with yellow stripes around the edges stacked nicely next to the matching bowls. But nope. Gone. In fact, all the cupboards are emptied except for some canned vegetables.

  “Seriously?” I open and then slam the pantry door shut. Even our dry goods are gone. Plus the opened bottle of wine I’d left on the counter the other night. What monster takes an opened bottle of wine?

  Every guest room closet and bathroom cupboard are emptied in the exact same way and as I grow closer to our bedroom, fury spins itself into a heavy and thick knot in my stomach.

  I can’t believe he’s done this to me. Loser. That’s what he is. He didn’t used to be one, or he had me so fooled to not imagine he could become this guy but I still can’t believe he was able to snowball me this hard. When we met, Will Stantham was a personal banker with Toronto Royal. He worked three floors above me, managing millions of dollars of assets while I sat in a cubicle at our headquarters, mindlessly helping design pamphlets and slogans for marketing campaigns.

  A marketing assistant for a bank. Not exactly the high-energy or creative work I hoped for when I stepped foot into what I anticipated would be an exciting world of marketing and advertising.

  Then things changed. He missed out on a promotion, got pissy and insubordinate with his boss, eventually he was let go and struggled to find a new job. Through it all, for the last year, I’ve been nothing but supportive until I couldn’t be anymore. I’ve covered for him, watched as he lost weight, stayed up all hours of the night, and then slept for days.

  I’m not an idiot. At some point, he started using drugs. The white powder on my coffee table wasn’t even the first clue that showed something wasn’t right. It was, however, the final straw.

  But this?

  “How kind of him,” I mutter, kicking the carry-on suitcase he’s left me with. It’s the reason I returned to the apartment this afternoon.

  I have a flight to catch.

  But now… should I even go? I scan the apartment and let out a laugh. It bounces off the walls before I cringe at the sound of my maniacal laughter. It’s either go see my brother or spend the weekend sleeping in a hotel. The bastard didn’t even have the manners to leave me my bed. And I just bought it two months ago. I knew I should have bought two twin beds instead of a king. It’s not like we’ve shared our bed in months anyway.

  I tug on the handle to the suitcase and blow out a breath. My thoughts are scattered. I should call the police. Report Will. But maybe it’s not him? Does renter’s insurance cover this?

  My mind swirls as I release the handle of my suitcase. Regardless of my next move, I can’t stay here. There’s nothing but salad and floors that need to be vacuumed, and no vacuum.

  Figures. Will hasn’t cleaned the apartment in three years, but he steals the vacuum? To what, pawn it?

  I can’t wrap my head around this.

  As if he knows my struggle, because Sawyer and I have always been able to read each other’s moods better than a dollar store mood ring, my phone starts belting out the lyrics to “Whatta Man” circa 1993 Salt-N-Pepa. He despises it when I sing it to him every time he does something nice for me.

  And as his little sister, my job is to drive Sawyer to certifiable insane levels.

  I rush to the muted lyrics coming from my phone where I dropped my purse and grab it, hitting the talk button before I miss his call.

  “Sawyer,” I say, breathless.

  “What’s wrong?” He has somehow honed his mind-reading capabilities from twelve hundred plus kilometers.

  His voice is a boom. I can picture his scowl. Black brows, thicker than mine mostly because he’d rather have his balls chopped off than step into a salon, are most likely yanked together.

  “I…” The shock of what I’ve stepped into hits me like a two by four to the stomach. And that hurts. Sawyer did it to me once when I was twelve. He still claims it was an accident. I still remember him doubled over in laughter. “I…”

  “Tessa. Damn it. Talk to me.”r />
  Patience isn’t his strength.

  Tears well and fall down my cheeks, dribble off my chin before I can stop them. “Sawyer,” I cry. “Something happened. My place… I think Will took everything.”

  He curses like I’m his opponent on the ice, smack-talking my ex, and then he does what he always does.

  He takes control, looks after me and does his job as big brother—he protects me and helps me when everything goes sideways.

  Hours later, I’m a grimy mess after shuffling through customs, waiting for the plane, and sitting crammed in the middle seat of a full flight.

  But then I’m wrapped in my big brother’s rib-crushing hug, my face burrowing into his chest.

  “Hey, sis.”

  I sniff, probably leaving a snot stain across his T-shirt. I’ll point it out later when I’m in the mood to laugh.

  “Sawyer,” I groan. It’s possible I’m trying to claw my way into my brother’s embrace. I stink. My hair is a greasy mess and I need a six-pack of beer and a huge plate of nachos to forget this day.

  “Hey. I love you, but you fuckin’ reek.”

  I slap his shoulder and pull back, wiping my finger under my nose and then swipe it beneath my other snot stain on his shirt.

  “Gross.” He smacks my hand away and then grabs my chin. He cringes at it and I shove him again, laughing.

  “You suck.”

  “You smell like a dumpster.”

  “It’s the plane. Should have bought me a better ticket.”

  Laughter aside, I feel better, but the ugliness of the day is still there, weighing me down.

  “You okay? Serious.”

  “I don’t know. About ending things with Will, well, I was… until today. But everything is gone.”

  My artwork. My books. Journals I wrote in when I was a teenager and saved in a box. What kind of jerk does that? He took every single thing from our apartment except for a few crumbs of lint fuzz. What’s the point he’s trying to make?

  And why?

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re here.” He throws his arm over my shoulders and pulls me to him. With the ease of a guy who travels weekly during the season, he grabs my suitcase and ushers me through the crowd of the Charlotte airport and out to the short-term parking lot.

  “Where’s Debbie?” Usually she comes with, screeching and squealing and throwing her arms around me possibly tighter than Sawyer’s grip.

  “She’s uh… she’s not feeling well.” His jaw tightens and his hand scrubs his shoulder-length brown hair. He’s in need of a haircut but his hockey team’s pre-season starts next week. Sawyer won’t cut his hair until the season’s over whether that’s in early April or well after if the Ice Kings make it to the playoffs.

  “Not feeling well?”

  “Just a bug. Or something. She’ll be fine. She’s excited to see you, though.”

  “Anyone else?” I hate that I ask. I hate I always ask about him. I’ve had a crush on my brother’s best friend since before I could drive a car. It’s embarrassing and a habit I’ve tried to kick, but it’s no use. Jason Taylor is firmly cemented in my brain as the most perfect guy in existence and no one else measures up.

  “I’m sure Jason can’t wait to see you, too.”

  “Right.” I doubt it. Jason barely talks to me anymore and when he does, it’s usually with both of us sharing tight-lipped verbal barbs to see who will walk away first.

  Usually, it’s me. Except on New Year’s. Jason did the walking away then.

  Stop! I shout to myself silently. New Year’s Eve was a mirage. I’m certain he didn’t brush my hair off my shoulder, skim his lips across my cheek and linger, whispering, “You’ll find the guy for you who deserves you when you’re ready to open your eyes.”

  Oddly enough, I’d been plastered against a dark hallway, eyes closed as he spoke, and when I did manage to pry them open… the hallway was empty.

  But no. I’ve convinced myself that night was one of my many dream-induced fantasies I’ve created over the years starring my brother’s teammate, one of the best wingers in professional hockey.

  Please. He can have any woman. He doesn’t need his best friend’s little sister.

  And the fact he still only sees me as a little sister is part of the reason why I’m so angry around him. I’m aware enough to realize it.

  “You know,” Sawyer says, lifting my suitcase into the back of his Tundra with ease. “I still can’t figure it out. Jason gets along with everyone and yet somehow, you two can’t be in a room together without me needing to hide the knives.”

  Well, you see, big brother, when you fall in love with a guy six years older than you and spend years trying to find someone to replace him because you can’t get over the fantasy version you’ve created for yourself, it makes you a wee bit sassy in his presence.

  No big deal, really.

  That’s right… hours ago, Will emptied my apartment and stole everything from me, and it’s all Jason Taylor’s fault. I can trace that web of ridiculous thought all the way back to him one thin, silken strand at a time.

  Chapter Two

  Tessa

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  I shove a toasted bagel into my mouth and chew slowly. Hard to force food down when the sound of retching can still be heard down the hall. I’m not certain if my brother still thinks I’m a naive nine-year-old, but if he does, he’s a bigger idiot than I usually think he is.

  A behemoth on the ice. A dolt in person.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Yesterday, Debbie had a bug. She was fine when I got here and then passed out on the couch at eight o’clock. I woke this morning to the sound of her throwing up, her laughing, throwing up again, and Sawyer’s murmurs through the wall—apparently their bathroom is on the other side of my bedroom—telling her she only has a few more weeks to go.

  Whether they’re hiding it from me because of everything that’s happening with Will, or they’re waiting to tell the team and family until she’s past the first trimester is the only question I have.

  And it better not have anything to do with me.

  The heavy thud of Sawyer heading down their wood staircase draws my attention from my spot in their open kitchen and I grin as Sawyer saunters toward me. He’s showered, dressed in his athletic gear. I’m assuming he’s headed to the team’s practice facility for a workout. As a defenseman for the Ice Kings, and with their season starting soon, if I know my brother, he’s in full-on, last minute, kick ass on the ice mode twenty-four seven.

  Or at least he usually would be, if he didn’t look like he was getting ready to puke himself.

  I snort and chomp down on my bagel.

  He glances at me and heads to the coffee pot.

  “When is she due?” I ask. There’s no point in beating around the bush.

  He curses and I laugh. Coffee drips down his wife-beater tank top and he’s swiping at his crotch.

  “Damn it, Tess. Don’t startle me like that.”

  I swivel on my stool and cross my arms. “She has a bug.” I use finger quotes and he glares at me. “She was comatose on the couch by eight last night and she and I usually stay up until one in the morning drinking wine, which by the way, I noticed she didn’t touch, and then she’s been puking all morning. I’m single and Canadian, Sawyer. Not an imbecile.”

  He rips off paper towels from the holder next to the sink and keeps cleaning his pants. Wadding them into a ball, he tosses them at the garbage can near me.

  He misses by a long shot.

  “Nice.” I slide off the stool and toss them inside. “Are you keeping it a secret from everyone or just me?”

  He huffs and takes his second turn at his coffee. This time I wait until he’s done. Making him spill once was an accident, if I do it again, he’ll probably toss his mug at my face.

  “Debbie wants to wait until she’s passed the first trimester.” He glances down the hall before lowering his voice and returning to me. “She’s only eight weeks. Sick all the
time.”

  His coffee mug trembles in his hand. It rattles like my heart and while I logically knew my brother’s long-term girlfriend was pregnant, as it settles in and he confirms, my emotions take over.

  My brother is going to be a dad. Hell. I’m going to be an aunt!

  “Sawyer!” I screech, shove to my feet, and I throw myself at him. The move makes coffee slosh over the rim, his stomach, and pants again and this time I end up as soaked as him. “This is so exciting!”

  “You’re such a brat,” he groans and shoves me back. “Why are you doing this to me?” He brushes his hand down his shirt and drips of coffee fly into the air before splattering onto his white tile floor.

  “Sorry.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  “A little.” I shrug. “I’m more happy than anything, though.”

  “Yeah.” His smile wavers before he points a finger at me. “Two steps away. I want a cup of my own damn coffee before I’m wearing all of it.”

  I raise my hands and step back, questions bubble. They’ve been dating for years and have lived together for two.

  And now they’re having a baby.

  “Was this… was this planned?” I ask.

  “No.” The mug in his hand shakes again and I laugh. I haven’t seen my brother nervous since, well… ever. Even when he was in college and knew he was going to be drafted, he didn’t tremble.

  I’m itching to give him crap for it but in truth, his nerves make me nervous.