Rinkside Rivalry

Emery

Hockey players are the worst. There, I said it. And before you roll your eyes, I have the life experience to back it up. My older brother Ethan has been terrorizing me with hockey sticks and sweaty gear since we were kids. Now, as an adult, he's just swapped backyard rinks for professional arenas, and somehow he's convinced me to come to this post-game party of his.

"Come on, Em, you never come to these things," he'd said earlier, the pleading lacing in his voice obvious over the telephone. "Just hang out a bit. Guys want to meet you."

The guys: ugh. Ethan's teammates are loud and arrogant and almost universally obsessed with themselves. But because I have a soft spot for my brother-and maybe because my Friday night plans involved eating mac and cheese in pajamas-I said yes. Big mistake.

Now, here I stand, in Ethan's living room clutching a plastic cup of flat soda, surrounded by some pack of overgrown toddlers in suits. Here for all of ten minutes and my patience has already worn thin.

"Hey, Blake! Who's the babe?

I don't need to turn around. I can just tell by the inflection that it's directed at me. I let out a sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course, the testosterone brigade would zero in on the only woman in the room not attached as someone's girlfriend or wife.

"Emery," Ethan says, his voice slicing through the din as he sidles up beside me. "Meet the guys. And guys, this is my sister, Emery.

"Your sister?" An annoyingly smooth confident voice comes from the couch. "Didn't realize Blake had such good taste in siblings."

I turn, and that's when I see him. Carter Brooks. Ethan's star teammate. I've seen him on TV and in photos, but up close, he's somehow even more annoyingly perfect: broad shoulders, messy dark hair that works for him, and a grin that screams I know I'm better than you.

He sprawled on Ethan's couch like he owned the thing, beer dangling from his hand. The second our eyes meet, his smirk deepens, and I know one thing instantly: this guy is trouble.

"Wow," I say, heavy on the sarcasm. "What an original compliment. Do you reuse them or have a few hundred at any given time in case a girl comes into a room?

The guys around us are laughing, but Carter doesn't seem the least bit out of sync. He leans in, propping his elbows on his knees, and gives me a once-over that makes my skin crawl.

"Just calling it like I see it, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. I hate that word. Especially said by a guy who looks like he's auditioning for a cologne ad.

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. "Do people actually fall for that crap, or do they just pretend so you'll shut up?"

Ethan groans beside me. "Carter, don't start."

"Who's starting?" Carter says, all fake innocence. "I'm just being friendly."

"Friendly?" I snort. "Is that what they're calling it now? You're about as friendly as a shark in a kiddie pool.

Another wave of laughter breaks around the room, and Carter doesn't bat an eye. If anything, he looks slightly entertained. Pleased at getting called out.

"You've got a sharp tongue," he comments, his head tilted. "I like that."

"Yeah, well, I don't like you."

"Not yet," he smirks in reply, sending a cocky grin my way.

Ethan groans again, louder this time. "Can we not do this tonight? Emery, don't let him get to you. And Carter, leave her alone."

"oh, don't worry," I say, not taking my eyes off Carter. "I can handle him."

"I don't doubt it," Carter says, leaning back against the couch like this is all a game to him. "But don't worry, sweetheart—I can handle you, too."

My fists clench at my sides. This guy is infuriating. Before I can fire back, one of Ethan's other teammates cuts in, distracting him with a question about tomorrow's game. I take the opportunity to retreat to the kitchen, hoping to avoid any more of Carter's nonsense.

The kitchen is quiet, but only just. A couple of Ethan's teammates are milling around, but they're too busy raiding the fridge to pay any attention to me. I pour myself a glass of water and take a deep breath, trying to shake off the encounter.

"Hey," a voice says from behind me.

I turn, and of course, it's him. Carter leans against the doorway, beer still in hand, that damn smirk still plastered on his face.

"Seriously?" I ask. "Don't you have better things to do?"

He shrugs. "Not really. Thought I'd check on you. Make sure you weren't plotting my demise in here."

"Don't tempt me.

He chuckles, stepping closer. "You know, for someone who doesn't like me, you spend an awful lot of time talking to me."

"Trust me, this is not by choice."

"Right," he says, like he doesn't believe me. "So, what's your deal, sweetheart? Why do you hate me so much? I don't even know you.

"I don't hate you," I say. "I just don't like arrogant, self-absorbed athletes who think the world revolves around them."

His eyebrows lift. "Wow. That's specific. You sure you're not projecting a little?"

I scoff. "Oh, please. Don't act like you're not exactly what I just described."

"Maybe," he admits, his grin widening. "But at least I'm honest about it."

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"Doesn't matter," he says. "I'm not trying to impress you."

"Good," I say. "Because you're failing."

We stare at each other a moment, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, Carter shakes his head, laughing softly.

"You're something else," he says.

"Thanks," I reply dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Wait," he interrupts. "One more thing."

I pause, narrowing my eyes at him. "What?"

Do you always crash your brother's parties or is tonight a special occasion?"

I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck. "You're impossible."

"And you're fun to mess with," he shoots back.

Before I can come up with a retort, Ethan appears in the doorway, looking between us suspiciously. "Am I interrupting something?

"Not at all," I say, snatching up my water and brushing past Carter. "Your friend was just leaving."

"Was I?" Carter calls after me, but I don't bother responding.

As I head back into the living room, I make a silent vow: I'm not letting Carter Brooks get under my skin again.

Too bad he already has.

I make my way back to the living room, clutching my glass of water like it's a lifeline. The party is still in full swing, with Ethan's teammates laughing and jostling each other as if they're back in a locker room. I slip onto the arm of a chair in the corner, trying to make myself as invisible as possible.

No sooner have I gotten settled than Ethan and Carter are sauntering back in, their presence filling the room like they're the stars of some sort of made-for-TV drama. Ethan is smiling, relaxed-the easygoing older brother everyone loves. Carter, on the other hand, strides in with a step that screams arrogance, like the world-or at least this room-belongs to him.

I groan inwardly. Of course, he's back.

"Hey, Em," Ethan says, catching sight of me and ambling over with that big-brother smile that always softens my resolve. "You good? Sorry about Carter earlier—he's always like that."

"Not your fault," I say, offering him a tight smile. "Though I wouldn't complain if you muzzled him."

Of course, Carter would have to overhear. Why wouldn't he? His laughter slices through the babble of conversations; he strolls on over, his beer still clutched in his fist, his eyes sparkling with deviance.

"Muzzled?" he repeats. "Aw, come on, sweetheart." Dropping down into the opposite chair from me, he lets out this really dramatic, exaggerated sigh, like he'd been punched.

"You didn't," I reply smooth as silk, not sparing him a glance. "But I figured you'd need something to accessorize with that leash your ego's got you on."

The room fills with laughter and for one weighted second, I feel triumphant. But Carter merely smirks on, the curve of his lips inching upward if anything.

“Cute,” he says, leaning back and propping his feet on the coffee table like he owns the place. “You’ve got a lot of opinions for someone who doesn’t even play the game.”

I bristle. “Excuse me?”

“You know, hockey,” he says, gesturing lazily with his beer. “You’re always so quick to judge. Makes me wonder if you’ve ever even set foot on the ice.”

Ethan shifts uncomfortably beside me, but I raise a hand to forestall him. "First of all, my opinions are valid whether I play or not. Second, I don't need to play hockey to know when someone's being a self-absorbed jerk."

"Self-absorbed?" Carter echoes, mock-offended. "That's a little harsh, don't you think?"

"Not really," I say, folding my arms. "But hey, if the skate fits…

The room chuckles again, but Carter's eyes narrow slightly, like I've just issued a challenge he's eager to accept.

"All right, then," he says, sitting up. "How about we put that theory to the test?"

"What theory?" I ask warily.

"You versus me," he says, his grin downright devilish. "In a game of…hmm, let's say cards. Or darts. Something simple. Unless, of course, you're scared."

"Scared?" I scoff. "Of you? Not likely.

Prove it," he says, his tone teasing, taunting.

"Ethan, what do you think? A little friendly competition?"

Ethan groans. "Can you two stop antagonizing each other for five minutes?"

"No," we say in unison, which makes everyone laugh again.

"Fine," Ethan says, throwing up his hands. "But keep it civil, okay? No bloodshed."

Carter grins and gestures toward the coffee table, where a deck of cards sits abandoned. "How about poker?

"Poker's too easy," I say, my confidence flaring despite myself. "How about darts?"

"Ooh, darts," Carter says, rising to his feet. "Dangerous. I like it."

We move to the dartboard mounted on the far wall, and someone hands me a set of darts. I test their weight, trying to ignore the way Carter looms beside me, radiating smugness.

"Ladies first," he says, stepping back with an exaggerated bow.

I roll my eyes and line up my shot. The first dart lands just shy of the bullseye, and a ripple of approval moves through the room. I glance at Carter, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

"Not bad," he says as I throw my second dart, landing even closer. "For an amateur."

"Your turn, hotshot," I say, stepping aside.

Carter takes his position, his movements annoyingly graceful. His first dart lands dead center, and he flashes me a grin over his shoulder.

"Beginner's luck," I mutter, ignoring the way my stomach twists.

We go back and forth for a few more rounds, each of us scoring just enough to keep it close. The tension builds, the room buzzing with anticipation as everyone gathers to watch.

Last shot," Carter says, holding up his final dart. "Think you can handle the pressure?"

"I'm not the one who cracks under pressure," I reply, meeting his gaze head-on.

His grin widens, but there's something different in his eyes now-something sharper, more focused. He throws his dart, and it lands just shy of the bullseye.

"Not perfect," he says, turning to me. "But let's see you do better.

I take a deep breath as my pulse starts racing, stepping to the line. The room goes silent; all eyes on me as I hurl the dart.

It hits the bullseye.

The room erupts in cheers, and I turn to Carter with a triumphant smirk. "Guess you're not as good as you think you are."

He stares at me a moment, then shakes his head, laughing low. "You're something else, sweetheart."

"And you're predictable," I reply, brushing past him with a victorious smirk.

In an instant, before I could take another step, Carter's hand shoots out, grasping my arm, not hard, just firm enough to stop me.

He leans in close, low and husky, dripping with that insufferable confidence. "You know what's predictable? How you can't decide if you hate me… or if you just hate how much I get under your skin.

My breath catches, and I whip my head around to glare at him, but he's already let go, stepping back with a self-satisfied smirk.

Unbelievable.

"Wow. Must be exhausting carrying around an ego that size," I shoot back, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow.

Carter's smirk deepens, his eyes sparkling with humor like he's enjoying this far too much. "Not as exhausting as pretending you're not impressed."

My jaw drops, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to speak. He actually believes this crap. Then he has the audacity—the sheer nerve—to wink at me, like we’re in on some private joke.

This guy is insufferable.

“Carter, for the love of—” Ethan groans, dragging a hand down his face like he’s regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

"It's okay," I cut in, holding up a hand to forestall Ethan from laying into me. "I'm leaving. I don't have the tolerance for this."

Carter barely attempts to stifle the smirk spreading across his annoyingly handsome face. "Already?" he yells after me as I spin on my heel, his voice heavy with fake disappointment. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll miss you!"

Sweetheart, the word grates on my skin. I spin, long enough to shoot him a withering glance and flip him off. The room erupts into hilarity; the boom of Carter's deep laugh continues to echo all the way to the door.

But I hesitate as I reach for the handle, some part of his laugh-it's not just arrogant, it's warm, it's real, as if he is genuinely enjoying himself rather than just mocking me-getting on my nerves. Maybe, just a little, riling something better left unprobed.

No. I shake my head, shoving the thought away. This isn't that. Carter Brooks is just another overconfident athlete who thinks the world revolves around him. I've met plenty of guys like him before, and I'm not about to waste another second on his nonsense.

I take a deep breath, swinging the door open and stepping outside to let the cold night air hit me like a slap across the face. Refreshing-a much-needed reset after the chaos inside.

But as I head towards my car, I feel an overwhelming urge to have walked away from a fight that I could have won. And the worst part? Some small, annoying part of me is wondering what Carter would've said if I'd stayed.

I slam my car door shut, just sitting there, clenching the steering wheel with white knuckles as Carter's smirk, his voice, and his arrogance replay in an endless, maddening loop through my mind-the worst kind of highlight reel ever. I pull out my phone, fingers poised over the keyboard, about to send off a furious text to Ethan telling him he was officially on my blacklist for daring to invite that guy.

But before I can finish typing "I'm never forgiving you for tonight", my phone vibrates in my hand, Melissa's name flashing across the screen. My editor. Great.

I stare at the screen a moment, weighing the pros and cons of answering. When Melissa calls, it's never to chitchat. It's usually because she's about to ruin my plans-or my life-with some last-minute assignment.

With a sigh, I swipe to answer. "Hi, Melissa."

"Emery! Thank God you picked up," she exclaims in one breath, leaving out the usual pleasantries. "I need a favour."

I shut my eyes for a moment, steeling myself. "What kind of favour?"

"I need you to cover the Scorchers' season," she says in another rush, apparently racing to just get the words out and over with in case I can oppose them. "Interviews, game coverage, behind-the-scenes features-you name it. You'll begin tomorrow."

I go motionless. "The Scorchers? Ethan's team?

Yes! You've already got an in because of your brother, and you're one of the few people on staff who actually knows hockey."

"Melissa, no." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I can't do this.

Emery, come on," she wheedles, her voice falling to that jollier, whiny tone she uses when she's trying to guilt me into something. "You're perfect for this. You know the sport inside and out, you're a fantastic writer, and you already have access to players most reporters would kill for."

"That's exactly why I shouldn't do it," I argue. "It's a conflict of interest. Ethan's my brother.

"That's not a conflict of interest," Melissa argues. "It's an advantage. They trust you. And trust me, this can be huge for your career. The Scorchers are hot right now-new management, fresh lineup, lot of buzz. It isn't sports reporting; this is a story. You are the only person that I know will be up to it."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to think my way out. "Melissa, I appreciate the faith you have in me, but I really think someone else on staff would be a better fit. I'm just not… enthusiastic about this assignment."

"Enthusiasm isn't what I need," she says firmly. "I need talent, and you have it. Come on, Em. Do this for me. For the paper. Please.

I take a deep breath and weigh my options. On one hand, the last thing I want to do is have to deal with Carter Brooks and his arrogant smirk for months on end. On the other hand, Melissa's right-this is an enormous opportunity, and passing it up could hurt my career.

"There's also Carter," I say, my tone much softer now.

"What about him?"

"He's just... let's say we don't get along."

Melissa snorts. "Tension makes for great writing. Use it. Channel it into your articles. Besides, you're a professional. I know you can handle it."

"Melissa—

"Em, please," she cuts me off, her voice softening. "I'm asking you as a favor. I wouldn't put this on you if I didn't think you could do it. Just give it a shot, okay? If it's really unbearable, we can talk about reassigning you after a month. But I really think you're going to knock this out of the park."

I let out a heavy sigh as I stare out the windshield, trying to wrap my brain around what she said. It could be great for me, and as much as I don't want to, Melissa's never steered me wrong before.

"Okay," I say finally. "I'll do it."

"Yes!" she practically exclaims with palpable relief in her tone. "I knew you would come through. I'll send all of the details to you tonight. Thanks, Em. You are the best.

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter as she hangs up.

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes. This is fine. Totally fine.

Except it's not fine, because Carter Brooks is going to be there, and I'm going to have to deal with him on a regular basis.

"This is going to suck," I grumble to myself as I fire the car up. Again, I see a vision of that smirk from Carter; again, I make my hold on the wheel even tighter. If he thinks I'll go and take a bait or anything close, well -- he's very much mistaken.