The top deck of the team’s double-decker bus rocked gently as it pushed down the interstate, humming like a giant metal lullaby. It was nearly midnight, twelve hours into the twenty-four-hour drive to their out-of-conference tournament, and any hope of sleep had been obliterated the moment someone found the portable karaoke mic wedged behind a duffel bag.
That someone was Owen Barlow, third-line winger, part-time menace, and self-proclaimed “future Grammy winner.”
“Okay, okay—NEXT UP!” Owen belted, standing on a seat like a preacher on Sunday morning. “Our beloved media wizard, megastar, video editor extraordinaire—Avery Hale!”
Groans and cheers exploded at the same time.
Avery, curled against the window with her notebook and camera bag pressed to her knees, buried her face in her hands. “No. Absolutely not. I’m working. I have interviews to cut. Owen, sit down before you fall and crack your skull.”
“Then we’ll have TWO of us on injured reserve,” someone snorted.
Avery didn’t have to look to know who they meant—she felt his eyes before she saw him.
Westley Carter, team captain. Six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, handsome in that annoyingly effortless way, his leg propped on a spare seat, giant brace swallowing half his thigh. The torn ACL benched him for the season, but it didn’t bench those warm, stupidly gentle brown eyes he always used on her.
He wasn’t participating in the karaoke chaos—no, he watched from the side with that quiet, amused tilt of his mouth that somehow made Avery’s stomach do flips.
“Don’t drag me into this,” Westley said calmly, flipping a page in the book he definitely wasn’t reading anymore. “Owen’s medical bills would come out of the team budget.”
“Captain!” Owen gasped. “I thought we had something special.”
“You and ER nurses,” defenseman Connor Lewin said. “Those are your special connections.”
The bus exploded in laughter.
Downstairs, Avery could hear the faint murmur of the coaches in their front cubby—Coach Ryman barking optimism about their chances this season, Coach Torres reminding him they weren’t even halfway there, and sweet Grandma Mae, their team chef, shushing both men and asking if anyone wanted warm muffins.
Someone always wanted warm muffins.
But up top? Chaos.
Avery pressed her headphones over her ears. “I’m not singing.”
“You don’t have to sing,” Owen insisted. “You just have to sit there and be our muse while we sing to you.”
“Oh, that’s SO much worse,” Avery groaned.
Defenseman Jase Harlow, whose size alone made the bus seats look like toddler furniture, grabbed the mic from Owen. “Everyone shut up. I’m going first. This one’s for Avery.”
“No. Jase. Please don’t—”
Too late. He tapped the mic, cleared his throat like he was opening at a Vegas nightclub, and selected a song with one massive thumb.
Suddenly, heavy guitar chords filled the bus.
“Oh no,” Avery whispered.
“Oh YES,” Owen corrected.
Jase grabbed the back of her seat, leaned in entirely too close, and screamed—absolutely screamed—Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.”
Half the team howled in support, banging on the seats like drunken cavemen.
Avery dissolved into laughter so intense it hurt, practically sliding off her chair. “Jase—stop—my ears—”
“YOU GIVE LOVE—A BAD NAME!” he roared again, voice cracking like a revving chainsaw.
“Mercy!” Connor bellowed. “FOR ALL OF US!”
Avery glanced sideways—Westley was smiling, head bowed, shoulders shaking silently. When he finally looked up, their eyes met. And there it was again—that little spark. The shared amusement. The warmth. The blush that hit her cheeks instantly.
He caught it.
He definitely caught it.
And he blushed too.
“Oh, look at that,” Owen announced like a town crier. “The Prince and Princess of Hockey Media are staring at each other again.”
Both Avery and Westley snapped their attention forward.
“We are NOT—” Avery sputtered.