When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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After the first home game of the season, I'm exhausted. I didn't realize how much jogging I'd be doing to try and keep up with the players on the ice. Back and forth I went, snapping away, which didn't agree with my calves. They're on fire as I fight my way to the employee entrance of the stadium.
What I need to do is learn the rules and regulations of hockey. That's going to help me immensely. If I can point my camera for a shot ahead of time, knowing where a player will be, those few extra seconds will be crucial for a game-winning shot. I bet the local library has some books on it, or I could stay up and spend the next couple of hours surfing the internet when I get home.
"About time."
Lifting my eyes from the floor, I clutch the strap of my camera bag as Connor leans against the door in that sexy way of his. He's showered since the game ended, having changed into grey sweatpants and a t-shirt that's a tad bit tight, outlining the muscles in his abdomen. Why did he wait for me? This is the employee exit.
"What are you doing here?" I ask. No matter how much I try to fight it, I can't look away from the mop of curls still dripping with water, a few pieces stuck to his forehead. The urge to push them out of his face is a horrifying one, so I quickly push that urge deep, deep down to a place where it will be forgotten.
"Some of the guys want to go out for a celebratory drink at a nearby bar. I was going to invite you out."
"You could have texted." But even that sounds too informal. We aren't friends. He shouldn't even have my number to begin with.
He arches a brow. "Figured you couldn't say no to me in person."
I scoff. "You're about to be highly disappointed, then."
Those green eyes of his trail me when I reach the door. He doesn't try and stop me, moving to the side so I can push it open, but I'm not surprised when he follows me into the parking lot. The exhaustion of tonight's game is weighing on me. I don't have the energy to deal with him and tell him to leave me alone, which would just be a waste of my breath, so I allow him to walk in step beside me.
"Are you really going to say no?" He asks.
A flicker of amusement courses through me. "I don't think you're used to hearing that, are you?"
"Honestly? I'm not."
His honesty is surprising, and despite how much I've tried to forget about his fucking text a few nights ago, the message has been on my mind every waking minute. He said he's only trying to impress me, but Connor is the fucking center for the California Cyclones. He could have every woman in LA at his beck and call. Why does he seem to be infatuated with me, of all people?
"We could have a lot of fun," Connor adds, earning an eye roll in response. "The guys wanted you to come, too."
"I'm not the last photographer," I reply, digging around in my pockets for my car keys. "I have no interest in being a groupie."
