Page 6 of Xander

“Xander,” I said, forcing a brittle smile, suddenly feeling bone tired from my busy day. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Jordan.” His voice was deep, resonant, and came right from the chest I was forced to look at.

The way he lingered on my name sent off little alarm bells for some reason. I took a step back, and he was quick to close the distance. My stomach plunged as I tilted my head back.

Oh, God. I could handle my clients. I could handle a three-course dinner. I could even handle my husband.

But something told me I couldn’t handle Xander Maxwell.

Chapter

Two

XANDER

A cacophony of voices filled the arena as I stepped into the rink, the sheet of ice glistening under the glaring floodlights. The audience was a kaleidoscope of color—all hues betraying allegiance to our team. New York was an away game for us, which automatically put us at a disadvantage in terms of team morale. As one of the Canadian teams in the National Hockey League, we were used to unfriendly faces in US sports arenas.

The energy of the crowd revitalized me all the same. I lived for hockey. Where the bitter cold of the ice bothered the other guys, it was the warm hug of an old friend to me. Whether we were playing at home or an away game, I came alive in the rink.

“Behind you!” One of my teammates, Mark, skated past me, his voice muffled by his mouthguard.

Our right defenseman, Hunter, was at his heels. “Yo, Trojan Warrior! Ready to live up to your name?” His eyebrows wiggled beneath his helmet.

I grinned. “Always.” I had earned the nickname Trojan Warrior after a vicious fight on the ice. It was expected that I uphold the glory.

My team glided on their skates in pursuit of orange jerseys or fans holding Halifax Trojan signs. I finally spotted a small herd wearing the familiar color—many of whom sported my name. I lifted my stick in salute, only to be met with the shrill screams of females, most waving signs in support of my athletic abilities.

Go Trojan Warrior! read one of the signs.

There were also others with signs that pushed a slightly different agenda.

I love you, Xander.

Marry me, Trojan Warrior.

I want to have Xander’s babies!

I rolled my eyes at the last one, which was thirstier than the rest. Regardless, appearances had to be kept. After graduating college, I was drafted by the NHL and later moved to Canada to join the new Halifax team. As an American recently traded, I needed to connect with my new fans. A significant portion of my income was derived from sponsoring Canadian brands, and I’d been advised to put my all-American, panty-melting smile and emerald-green eyes to good use.

Unfortunately, my all-American eyes were distracted, searching for someone I hoped would be among the strangers cheering me on.

It was an unrealistic expectation.

She had never attended my games, nor had I invited her to one. I knew the outcome, yet I got my hopes up every time.

Distracted, I struggled to hear what our coach was yelling about. She already occupied my mind every minute of the day. If I allowed my thoughts to dwell on this obsession any further, I’d sink too deep to dig myself out.

As we lined up for the national anthem, my eyes still scanned the crowd, searching for the face I knew wouldn’t be there. It was a ritual I couldn’t shake, even though it always gutted me. I tried to push down the hollow ache in my chest and focus on the game ahead.

The large-screen television zoomed into the singer and played a couple of messages from the sponsors. Meanwhile, I could barely stand still, itching to start the game. I wanted to pummel something—preferably the puck—at the net. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I waited, ready to burst from impatience.

The buzzer sounded, and the puck finally dropped. I shot one last hopeful glance at the stands. My heart sank despite knowing what I sought wouldn’t be there.

Rather than dawdle on the gut-wrenching disappointment, I surged forward, my stick connecting with the puck with a satisfying crack. The audience had come to know me for my brutal plays. My calm and collected nature from the real world didn’t exist on the ice. Here, I was unhinged, slamming opposing players against the glass and aggressively clashing my stick with theirs.

Coach shouted a warning from the bench adjacent to the ice.

“Are you trying to go to the penalty box already?” Kai, one of the defensemen, screamed from behind me.