Page 4 of Aspen's Defense

"It's what you did, fucker," I peer through the windshield at the coffee shop, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. She's fucking gorgeous. It's really no wonder he keeps her hidden when she looks like she does. Her auburn hair and green eyes are killer, especially paired with those dimples and her wicked curves. "You failed to tell me that she's pissed."

"I may have forgotten to mention that part," he mutters wearily. "I'm guessing she gave you nine kinds of hell?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." I give up trying to see her through the tinted windows of the shop and put the truck in gear, pulling out onto the street. If I don't get my ass in gear, I'll be late to practice. "She seems to think you sent me to spy on her."

He doesn't say anything.

Well, shit.

"Fucking A, Nash," I groan. "Are you trying to piss her off and get me shivved?"

"She won't shiv you." He doesn't sound too certain about that.

"You asked me to look out for her, which I'm happy to do. But I draw the line at playing spy, man." There's no fucking way I'm reporting back to him. She's grown. If he wants to be in her business, that's his deal, not mine.

I need her to like me, not want to kill me on sight. Especially since she's going to have my babies and shit. We can't do that if she doesn't even like me, now can we? No, no, we can't.

Note to self: stop doing favors for people. It's how you wake up in Mexico withGet Puckedtattooed on your ass cheek.

That's exactly what happened last time I did our goalie, Atlas Jacks, a favor.

"I'm not asking you to spy on her," he finally says. "I just want to make sure she's all right." He blows out a breath. "She's up to something. She's been secretive as fuck lately."

"I've been in town five minutes." More like six weeks, but whatever. The point is, I haven't been here long enough to make enemies of the barista at the best coffee shop on the way to the arena. Especially the barista I'd like to fuck into next week. "Have you asked her what she's up to?"

"No. She won't tell me."

"How do you know if you haven't asked?"

"Do you have sisters?"

"Uh, fuck no." Thank God for small mercies. His sister is already giving me stress. I doubt sisters of my own would be any more cooperative.

"Trust me, she isn't telling me. She says I meddle too much. So she hides shit and doesn't tell me anything and tries to do everything on her own," he complains. "I need someone to tell me what the fuck she's doing."

"It ain't gonna be me."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because your sister is gorgeous."

He growls a warning.

"She's also funny and feisty as hell," I continue, ignoring said warning. "I like her."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"You're the one who asked me to keep an eye on her."

"I already regret it."

"No, you don't."

"Do so," he mutters like a two-year-old.

"You would have warned me to keep my goddamn hands to myself from the beginning if you wanted me to keep my goddamn hands to myself," I tell him. "You didn't warn me." Nash has this weird idea that he owes me because he took my spot on the Capitals. As if it's his fault I fucked up my knee, and they called him up to take my place. But the fact that he didn't warn me off his sister means he doesn't hate the idea of the two of us hitting it off. I know him well enough to know that much.

"I thought it went without saying," he growls. "She's my sister."