The thing about having a crush on your brother’s best friend is that it’s a very specific form of torture.

You’ve watched Kane Davenport grow from a kid who lived at your house during summer break into the devastatingly handsome college hockey captain who currently has half the female population of your university wrapped around his finger.

And the worst part? He still sees you as Preston’s annoying little sibling.

The arena erupts as Preston scores the final goal. You cheer on instinct, though your eyes are locked on Kane, watching the way he pumps his fist, the grin splitting his face. The Vipers win. They always win.

By the time you’ve pushed through the crowd to wait by the locker rooms, you’ve already plastered your focus onto your phone, pretending not to be the lonely hanger-on waiting for a ride.

“Well, well. Look who decided to show up.”

You freeze. That voice. That smug, grating voice you’d recognize anywhere.

Marcus.

Your ex-boyfriend.

“Marcus.” You don’t even bother looking up. “What do you want?”

“Can’t a guy say hi to his partner?” He steps closer. Cheap cologne hits your nose, sour and sharp, undercut by the unmistakable tang of beer.

“Ex-partner,” you correct flatly. Finally, you glance up. “Emphasis on ex.”

His jaw tightens. “Come on, babe. You know you miss me. That whole breakup thing? Just you being dramatic.”

“I’m not your babe,” you bite out, stepping back. “And I’m seeing someone else now.”

The words fall out before your brain can stop them. Which is unfortunate, considering your dating life consists solely of pining for Kane Davenport and making googly eyes at fictional book boyfriends.

Marcus’ eyes narrow, suspicion darkening them. “Yeah? Who?”

Panic grips you by the throat. Your gaze flicks around desperately—empty hallway, vending machine, janitor’s cart—until it lands on him.

Kane.

Kane Davenport, emerging from the locker room. Damp hair curling against his forehead. Game jersey replaced by a fitted Henley that makes it impossible not to notice the shoulders, the chest, the everything. He’s still toweling at his neck, but his smile—sharp and effortless—lands directly on you.

And like an absolute idiot, you blurt, “Kane. I’m dating Kane Davenport.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up, skepticism written all over his face. Kane halts mid-step, ten feet away, eyes flicking between you and Marcus.

Perfect. Just perfect. Time to fake your own death.

But then—something changes in Kane’s expression. Not confusion. Not annoyance. Something warmer. Amused. Almost dangerous.

And before you can process it, he’s moving—closing the distance with the same predatory confidence he has on the ice.

His arm slides around your waist like it belongs there, pulling you snug against his side. His body radiates heat, the press of him grounding and terrifying all at once.

“Hey, wildflower,” Kane murmurs, voice pitched low enough to make your pulse trip over itself. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

Your breath catches. Wildflower? Since when does Kane have a nickname for you?

Marcus gapes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”