Playing for Keeps - Book 1

Chapter 2

The following day, Lyndsey and I take her bratty little Pekingese for a walk in the off-leash dog park a few blocks west of her condo. Moving along the gravel path, under the tall leafy birch trees, I carry our hot coffees while Lyndsey's eyes are glued to her iPhone, researching Cash Brooks via a Google search.

I act indifferently, by rolling my eyes and groaning every time she highlights one of his many athletic accomplishments. But the truth is I can't stop hanging on to every word rolling off her tongue about this bad boy hockey star.

Amazing.

This is the only word running through my mind while Lyndsey continues to ramble off his entire hockey career history. His stats are beyond impressive. He must have bookcases full of trophies and awards he's won. And he's only 23? Great. He's gorgeous and talented. How does someone of that calibre even get sent to the American Hockey League?

"And get this..." Lyndsey smirks, wiggling her brows. "He was ranked #1 Sexiest Male Athlete by Cosmopolitan last year. And he was listed by Business Insider as the #3 Most Eligible Bachelors in Sports."

"Why are you telling me this? I already told you I don't care," I lie.

"Because it is obvious after last night's spectacle that he wants your ass. He came out during the second period and body-checked some rookie to get thrown back into the penalty box. Then, when he saw you weren't in your seat, he went a little crazy, shouting at the girls who took our spot, asking them where you moved to. I've been to many games, Quinn, and I have never seen him do anything like that."

"It's all an act," I say, even though part of me wants to believe my nosy little sister is right and what he did wasn't some macho act to get cheers from his fans.

"Don't get me wrong, Cash is known for his womanizing, but last night was something else. He was like a man possessed, all cave-man-like, picking you out in the crowd." Lyndsey chuckles, not even looking up from her phone. "Any other vagina would be thanking her lucky stars. That includes me."

"Alright. Enough. Put the phone away." I grab her phone.

"Omigod!" Lyndsey shrieks, blocking me with her shoulder. "A video of Cash leaning over the penalty box last night was posted on the Bexley Bruisers Facebook page."

"What?"

"There are over a thousand comments on the post." Her eyes are glued to the screen.

"Let me see that," I demand.

"Hold on!" she says, swatting me away with her hand. "I'm not done reading. The video is called Who is Cash's Cinderella? Almost every single comment is from a woman asking who's the mystery girl in mittens! You better watch out, Quinny; his crazy-assed female fans want your blood."

"You can see me?" I ask in a panic.

"Hardly. The video's pixilated, so your face is blurred out. But with your white wool mittens and blue sweater, it isn't hard to pick you out. Everyone else has bare hands and is wearing red jerseys." She chuckles, flashing me the video on her phone.

The second my eyes lock on the screen to see his wavy hair and athletic, solid build hanging over the penalty box, my heart starts pumping faster than I'd like. I do not want to be attracted to him or any other guy. Right now, I've got more important things to worry about—like securing another decent internship to enhance my chances of acceptance into Harvard.

When Lyndsey's phone starts ringing, it cuts off the video. She glares down at her screen and groans. "Why's Dad calling me so early on a Saturday morning?"

"Do you think he saw the video?" The horrible thought makes me nearly drop my coffee. Our dad has made his position on hockey players clear to us over the years: