“Let me just stop you right there,” the redhead says with fire in her eyes. And when she speaks up, I swear Drake ducks behind me, using me as his human shield. “Isn’t Sylvie a grownup who can decide on her own where to live?”

“But—”

“Do you ask your male friends if their apartments are safe?” she presses.

Sylvie laughs. “Charli, stand down. Bryce met me when I was a silly, impulsive teen. He probably can’t help asking these questions.”

The redhead crosses her arms. “Fine, but on day one I’ve already witnessed two of these guys saying ridiculous things to grown women. And the day isn’t even half over.”

“Hey, Bryce,” I say, squeezing my teammate’s elbow. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend? We’re sharing a workspace, right?”

He gives a stiff nod. “Sylvie, meet Anton Bayer, a defenseman, and Cornelius Drake, winger.”

“Cornelius?” the blond woman asks, incredulous.

“Neil,” he corrects.

“Ah.” She smiles, and her eyes dance with humor. “I’m Fiona, also a forward, and the captain of the Bombshells. This is Charli, who plays defense.”

“And Sylvie is the goalie,” I say, because I can’t help myself. And I can’t stop looking at her. Even in her street clothes, with her hair smoothed after a shower, her cheeks bear the high color of an athlete after practice. She has wide-set brown eyes and the cheekbones of a Swedish supermodel.

But there are lots of pretty women in the world. I couldn’t even tell you why this one makes me feel wild and loose inside. Like I’ve just had three drinks and gotten on a roller coaster.

“Yes,” Fiona says, putting a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder. “We have two incredible goalies. It’s going to be a great season, boys. I hope your stats can keep pace with ours.”

“Oh, bring it on.” I laugh. “How does five bucks a goal sound? You versus me.”

“But we only have twenty games,” says Charli, the woman who Drake is afraid of. “That’s not a fair bet.”

“I’m a D-man, though,” I point out. My job isn’t running up the score.

“How many goals did you have last season?” Fiona asks.

“Five.”

“So you like losing money?” she asks, and the women laugh, which puts the sparkle back into Sylvie’s eyes.

“New year, new opportunities,” I say lightly. “Do we have a bet?”

“Ten bucks a goal. Might as well keep it interesting.” Fiona shrugs.

“Done,” I say, knowing full well that I’ll most likely be paying Fiona some cash every week. If they picked her for captain, she should easily average a goal a game.

But that’s okay with me. I’ll just have to make frequent visits to their new apartment—wherever it is—and pay up.

* * *

Forty minutes later we’re sitting in Grimaldi’s putting away the pizza at a rapid pace. Except for Campeau, who looks shellshocked.

“What’s your deal with, uh, the new girl?” I ask as casually as I can. Campeau isn’t the kind of guy who gives you a whole lot of info about his past. I’ve spent a lot of time with the guy, and I barely know a thing about him. And not because I didn’t ask.