Page 27 of Aspen's Defense

"He wanted Mexican food, which he can apparently only get in actual Mexico," Noah says. "Don't ask me why because I don't know. So he dragged my ass down the Nuevo Laredo on our first weekend off. Tequila is fucking stronger there. A lot stronger."

I burst into laughter. "Tequila is not stronger in Mexico, Noah."

"It is if you drink enough of it," he mutters. "We drank way too goddamn much of it. The next thing I know, I'm at the hotel, staring at a hockey puck tattooed on my ass."

I laugh so hard I can't breathe. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as I try to picture him trying to figure out what happened.

"It's not funny. The damn thing saysGet Pucked."

"No, it doesn't."

"It does."

"Stop," I wheeze, pretty sure I'm going to die if I don't breathe soon. "Oh my God. I'm telling everyone."

He growls, reaching over the console to drag me into his arms.

"I will spank your gorgeous ass if you tell a soul," he vows, but he's smiling so the threat isn't very effective. It's even less effective since I kind of like the thought of him spanking me. "You're taking that secret to the grave, baby."

"Maybe," I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck. I pull him down toward me, eager to feel his lips against mine again. I might be addicted to his kisses. Who am I kidding? I think I'm addicted to him. He's slipped seamlessly into my life, turning it upside down and inside out.

He's changing me in ways I didn't expect. It's profound and subtle at the same time. I feel more like me than I think I ever have before. I'm less alone than I have been in two years, but I feel more in control of my future than ever. As if some part of me instinctively knows that he's what led me here. This is what I was running toward.

"Fuck," he groans, breaking the kiss. "How am I supposed to practice when you've got my dick hard as a rock?"

I press my lips to his ear, getting as close to him as possible. "Think about the tattoo on your ass," I whisper reaching for the door handle. "That should take care of the problem."

He growls and lunges for me, but I throw myself out of the truck, laughing.

Noah's teammates are chaotic good. It's the only way to describe them. They're loud and boisterous, spending as much time giving each other grief as they do actually practicing. It's fascinating to watch, though.

I haven't been to a hockey practice in a long time. Nash stopped letting me attend when he went into the AHL. He said he didn't want me growing up around a bunch of rowdy hockey players. I think he was worried that some of the younger players would try to flirt with me or something. I'm not entirely sure. Some of the youngest guys are barely out of high school. They're still just kids.

It's crazy to me to imagine living the kind of life they do at any age, let alone at eighteen or nineteen. Nash has always seemed so much older and wiser. Even though he played on a college team first, he still would have entered the draft at twenty. I don't think I ever considered how overwhelming that had to be.

I think I've always felt so much guilt over everything he gave up that I've never let myself see it from a different perspective. But as I sit on the bench, watching Noah and his teammates zip back and forth across the ice, I can't help but consider that maybe Nash didn't give up as much as I've always thought he did. Maybe he made the choice he did as much for himself as he made it for me.

"Aspen."

I turn at the sound of my voice to find Dillon squeezing his way down the bench toward me.

"Hey," I murmur, my gaze falling to the album in his hands. "More photos?"

"Just one this time." He stops beside me, looking out at the ice.

Noah must see him because he breaks away from Colter and Reid and skates in our direction.

"Have you found the fucker?" he growls, ice flying up from his skates when he stops against the boards.

"Working on it," Dillon says. "I've got a couple of leads, but I need your girl to look at another photo."

Noah jerks his helmet off. His short hair is smashed flat on top of his head and soaked with sweat. He watches intently as Dillon flips the album open and then turns it around for me to look at.

"Do you recognize the men in this photo?" he asks.

I stare at the photo for a long moment, an instant shock of recognition rushing through me. It's the two men from the shop. I think they're behind the bookstore right down from the shop. At least, it looks like the bookstore. The redheaded one, Silar, isn't looking at the camera as he runs past, but the other one looks right at it.

"I know him," I whisper, my stomach churning as I stare at his face. He's handsome, with stunning obsidian eyes and a cleft chin. "He was in the shop on Friday."