Enticing (Red Lips & White Lies Book 3)

Three Months Later

“Hockey Tots?” I ask my agent, hoping like hell I heard him wrong, but the amused grin on Hunter’s smug face doubles in size. “Like teaching ankle biters how to play hockey?”

“Probably more like teaching ankle biters to skate.” Hunter crosses one Brioni-suit-clad leg over the other and stares back at me from the other side of the table in my favorite lunch spot in Kroydon Hills.

He looks ridiculous.

Nobody wears a suit like that to eat greasy bar food, but I’m pretty sure Hunter wears a suit to fuck his wife, so him wearing it here probably shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s as buttoned-up and boring as they come. Probably means he’s a freak in the sheets. “You want to boost your image for sponsors, and lucky you, Serena Kingston needs to add another volunteer to her very high-profile project.” He lifts his beer and looks at me over the edge of the bottle. “It’s a win-win.”

“How will Hockey Tots help my image with sponsors?” I lean back in the booth and wait, skeptical. This feels like a stretch, even for my insane agent.

As long as I’ve known Hunter, and I’ve known him since I was a kid and he was Dad’s agent, he’s always had an answer. He’s that guy. The one who can’t help but think thirteen steps ahead. He’s won a game of chess before you make your first move, and I should know because he’s beat my ass on more than one family vacation.

“You’d be helping kids with a high-profile project for the team owner’s daughter. Trust me, kid. I can spin this shit into gold.”

“Okay, Rumpelstiltskin. Then riddle me this . . . how am I supposed to do that when we’re barely a month into the season? It’s November. Between practice, home games, away games, and the amount of time we spend traveling for the away games, I’d like you to show me where I can fit this in.”

Hunter clicks his tongue like he’s chiding a small child. The fucker. “Serena is using the Revolution’s ice, and she’s only asking a few key players to volunteer. She’s going to work around the team’s schedule, Sinclair.” His fingers fly across his phone before mine pings in my pocket. “Now you’ve got the schedule. Notice that there are very few events when you’re out of town, and the few there are will be handled by Kroydon University players. If you’re out of town for a game, you obviously can’t be there for the Tots.”

The way he over-enunciates each T grates on my last fucking nerve. “Well obviously,” I agree with a dramatic flair, confident there’s basically no way for me to say no. “Fine. Sign me up.”

And there goes that smug grin. Again.

“Hockey Tots . . .” I groan. “Seriously? They couldn’t come up with a better name? You think a bunch of little boys want to be called tots?”

Hunter stands and throws a fifty on the table. “Who said anything about boys?”

“The hell?” I practically trip over myself to get out of the booth. “You’re joking, right? I don’t know the first thing about teaching a bunch of little girls how to skate.”

“YouTube it, Sinclair. Serena Kingston is expecting you tomorrow at ten a.m., and we wouldn’t want to disappoint the kids.” He holds open the door of West End and shakes his head. “Have fun.”

I pull my phone out and shoot off a text to my group chat with my brothers and brothers-in-law.

Damn.

I figured my big brother would be the sap who got suckered into doing this with me.

Twins run in our family, and there’s always one twin who tends to be way louder than the other. Jake is crazy loud, but I never really thought of Molly as quiet.

Turns out, Hunter was wrong about one thing.

Most of the girls know how to skate.

That’s about all the hockey most of them know, but according to what Serena told me when I got here, being able to skate was a prerequisite for the program. Ten little girls are disbursed between six coaches. Three guys from the Revolution and three guys from Kroydon University’s team.

They’re here.

They’re excited.

And they’re talkative.

Really talkative.

My niece Molly is leading the pack in her tiny pink camo skates, gliding across the ice like she was born there. And rightfully. My brother-in-law Ares is right behind her, watching Molly beam like she just won the championship game when she manages to make it from one of the small nets set up to the other without falling.

Meanwhile, the tiny tot in front of me isn’t so lucky. When she goes down, it’s hard.

“You okay, kid?” Please don’t cry. With gentle hands, I set her back on her feet and hold her shoulders until she’s steady again. It only takes a moment before the short stack with the bright pink helmet tips her head back and shrugs out of my hold. Wild chocolate-brown hair dangles from two braids over her shoulders. “I don’t need help.”

My chest vibrates with silent laughter. “Okay, short stack.”

“I’m a full stack, thank you very much,” she answers, and I bite my lips, pretty sure this kid would be offended if I laughed at her.

Instead, I narrow my eyes and tilt my head. She’s a tiny little thing. Far from a full stack of pancakes. “A short stack with very good manners.” I wink. “Do you have a name?”

She rolls her eyes so hard they should hurt. “Of course.” Her small hand plays with the edge of her mint-green coat. “Izzy.”

“You’re pretty good on skates, Izzy.”

“My aunt taught me last year,” she tells me proudly with a little iron will in her eye that makes me think this kid has that fuck you, watch me mentality that all great athletes have. It’s a mentality that can’t be taught, and if she’s got it already, she’s got more going for her than most grown men I know.

Cohen Kingston, a college senior and captain of the Kroydon University hockey team who also got roped into doing this thing by his cousin Serena, blows the whistle, and the short stack and I look up. “That’s a wrap for today. Time to get off the ice. Let your coach know if you need help getting your skates off. Your mommies and daddies will be waiting when you’re done.”

Izzy looks from Cohen to me and sighs. “Does he think we’re babies?”

This kid’s too much.

“How old are you?” I ask as we skate back to the open panel by the player’s bench, and I watch carefully as Izzy walks over the lip.

“I’m five and a half,” she tells me as she concentrates on staying up. “Well, Mom says it’s more like five and a quarter. But half sounds older.”

“Definitely not a baby,” I agree as Molly comes flying in behind me.

“Uncle Leo, did you see? I scored a goal.” She squeals as Ares picks her up and plops her down on the bench before he unlaces her skates. Molly looks so much like my sister, it’s scary, but her boisterous personality is all her father. At least when she’s with people she’s comfortable with. And apparently when her brother isn’t around.

I catch Izzy side-eyeing me. “Hey, Molly . . . have you met Izzy?”

Ares watches me carefully, like I’m negotiating with tiny terrorists.

Molly shakes her head and bites down on her lips while Izzy looks from me to Molly. “I like your skates,” Izzy breaks the ice like a little pro.

Golden curls bounce around Molly’s shoulders as she checks out her own skates, then tentatively makes eye contact with Izzy. “Thanks. I like your braids.”

Izzy beams. “Thanks. My mom taught me to do them myself.”

Ares elbows me and nods.

To quote Step Brothers . . . I think they may have just become best friends.

A few minutes later, all the kids have been picked up. Everyone except Izzy, who’s lost some of her earlier toddler bravado as she waits for her parents . . .

Wait—is a five-year-old a toddler?

I make a mental note to ask one of my sisters and wave Cohen off as I tell him I’ll wait with Izzy.

“Do you know I work here?” I ask, her big brown eyes looking everywhere but at me. The Revolution Arena is massive, seating twenty thousand rowdy fans during a game. I imagine it’s overwhelming to someone small.

“What do you do here?”

“I play hockey.” I point back toward the ice. “I’m a winger.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Do you fly?”

“No. Well . . . I mean . . . I’m pretty fast. Sometimes they say I can fly on the ice.”

“Oh my God,” a sexy as sin voice I’m certain I’ll never forget breaks through the quiet hum of the stadium. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

When I turn to see just who that voice belongs to, I’m dumbstruck.

Ho-ly fuck.

A literal angel is rushing toward us.

Long white-blonde hair falls down her back over a creamy sweater that’s hitting her mid-thigh and covering tight black leggings tucked into knee-high riding boots. Her pale cheeks are flushed red, and big doe eyes are locked on Izzy. She doesn’t even see me here, but there’s no way I’ve missed her. It feels like someone just smacked me with a two-by-four.

Izzy shrugs. “It’s okay. Leo waited with me.”

As if only now realizing I’m here, the goddess in front of me looks up, and all the softness from a minute ago is gone, replaced by ice as cold as the rink we just skated on. “Thank you. I’m sorry I was late. It won’t happen again.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” I tell her. “I’m Leo.”

She ignores me and reaches down, taking Izzy’s green skating bag in one hand, and Izzy slides her palm into her mother’s other hand.

“You ready to go, Izz?” She tugs Izzy behind her as they head for the door, never giving me a second glance.

The tiny brunette looks over her shoulder and waves. “See you next week, Leo.”

“See you next week, short stack.”

Well . . . damn.

Maybe Hockey Tots won’t be as bad as I thought.