Chapter 1: Isla

SEVEN YEARS LATER

I have three rules when it comes to dating:

1. No hockey players

2. No assholes

3. No sex on the first date

Easy enough, right?

You'd think so, but unfortunately the asshole hockey player leaning his corded forearms against my bar is tempting me to break them all.

It's not just because he's drop-my-pants gorgeous. Nor because I haven't had sex in over six months. No. It's because I know it'll piss off my also-an-asshole-also-a-hockey-player brother if I sleep with the goalie who's just blanked us.

"Isla." June, my favourite guest, raps her arthritic knuckles against the glossy walnut countertop.

I spin to her with a smile. "Refill?"

"I have a sixth sense for these types." She jerks her head towards the handsome goalie I've been flirting with, her greying hair bobbing around dark brown skin. "Your brother isn't worth it."

"Are you sure about that?" I ask dryly. "Most people think he's worth an awful lot. Himself included."

June's eyes narrow. "That's not what I mean, and you know it."

She's right, of course. My brother absolutely isn't worth it, and if I were a bigger, less petty person, I would rise above his latest snub and move on with my life, rules intact.

Alas, I am not a bigger, less petty person. My own brother forgot my birthday, then chose to go out with his teammates instead of coming to my celebratory dinner—even though, let's face it, he owed me for forgetting in the first place. To top it off, my parents spent most of the meal talking about him and what a shame it was he couldn't join us.

So no, he's not worth a second of my time when I'm not worth any of his. But I still want to get back at him. Just as a reminder that the world does not revolve around Rob Watson.

"Don't worry about me, June." I squeeze her wrinkled hand. "I'll be fine. Hey, I think I'm almost there with the Seattle. Wanna try?"

Her concern softens. "You bet."

As I'm mixing up the turquoise cocktail, my future mistake catches my elbow. Liam Dempsey's thumb smooths over the delicate patch of flesh at the crease of my inner arm.

"Can I get one of those?" He flashes me a knee-weakening grin, perfect white teeth against an ivory complexion dotted with freckles.

Such a shame that such a pretty face is normally hidden behind a goalie mask. Or maybe it's a blessing, because then girls like me are less likely to fall for the charm.

"Afraid not." I feign an apologetic grimace. "This is a special order."

"I'm special."

I tug my arm free to shake the cocktail. Ice rattles within the tin, the sound a soothing comfort among the loud chatter of the bar.

"I might take some convincing," I tell him.

"Fine." He tips his head to the side with a half-smile. "How about you make me one later when I come home with you?"

*

I scrape the razor along my bikini line. It'll itch like a bitch in a few days, given I'm not following my usual shaving routine, but there is no chance in hell of me leaving this bathroom until I'm thoroughly de-fuzzed.

That's the risk with assholes, you see. They might do something asshole-ish like tell their teammates that Rob Watson's little sister doesn't mow her lawn.

I want to be known, but not for the wrong reasons.

I toss the razor into the shower tray and tear the tag off my lingerie bodysuit. When I told Liam I was nipping to the bathroom to change into something more 'comfortable'—wink, wink—it was really an excuse for an emergency shave. But I need a confidence boost, and something to show for the minutes I've spent in here, so the lingerie finally gets its first run-out.

Standing in front of the mirror, I adjust the various straps and strips of mesh until they sit comfortably around my body. Then I suck in a deep breath.

Close my eyes. Count to five.

I'm not a one-night stand kind of girl. Casual sex usually terrifies me. But the one emotion greater than fear is hurt. And the hurt is consuming me. Consuming me to the extent that I can no longer differentiate between the sting of rejection and the burn of anger. I literally moved across an ocean for my brother, and he can't even remember my birthday. For the second year in a row.

I'm hardly going to brag about sleeping with Liam Dempsey, the NHL's biggest shit bag, but it'll be my own private secret. One that will go a little way to helping me deal with the hurt without having to drive an even bigger wedge between Rob and me.

Since I don't have the guts to strut into the bedroom wearing just this, I slip on my silk robe—a present from my flatmate which is highly impractical for daily use—and pull open the door.

Silence greets me. The kind of silence that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. That makes your stomach squirm with apprehension. It's too quiet.

Planting a palm against my bedroom door, I push.

Empty.

I whirl towards the living room to stare at the sofa where just ten minutes ago I was straddling his lap. The hell?

On the kitchen table lies an open notebook and pen. Even from here I can see the scribbled writing.

I march forwards until the words are legible.

Sorry, something urgent came up. Call me x

He's written his number, like he expects me to actually contact him. After that bullshit excuse to dash? I was a few feet away in the bathroom. He could have called out to me if he really was sorry.

Have I seriously been ditched by the guy I was using to help me get over the last man who ditched me?

Riled up, and in need of vindication, I pluck out my phone from between the sofa cushions and open up the doorbell app. Let's see him urgently hurrying out of the flat, shall we?

And yet even though I had my suspicions, my heart still sinks as I watch him carefully slipping through the door, easing it shut so as not to make a noise, then strolling towards the opposite side of the hallway. The timestamp is five minutes ago. He must have left the second I went into the bathroom.

Did he have any intention of staying? Or did I say something wrong? Do something wrong?

Just to torture myself, I keep watching the playback. He taps his foot against the carpeted floor as he dials a contact.

"Yo. Where you guys at?" He checks his watch while waiting for the response. "Nah, I'm done here. Let her blow me then dipped... Eh, it was a bit of a disappointment. Thought she'd be better. Made some weird faces too. My dick was probably too big for her mouth."

When the screen starts to blur, I tip back my head to stop the tears from falling, clamping my teeth to fight against my trembling jaw. Am I really that bad? Do I make weird faces? Patrick never said anything. Neither did Nick. Maybe they were bound by boyfriend loyalty. Maybe they didn't want to put me off blow jobs in case I stopped offering them.

I have no right to be upset. I invited Dempsey back here knowing his reputation and motivated by anger at my brother. Those magical three rules? They exist for a reason. For this reason. So I swallow the self-pitying lump in my throat and ignore the wetness that trickles over my cheeks when I lower my gaze back to the phone.

For a few moments longer, he coordinates meeting up with his friends until, eventually, he strolls down the hallway and out of range. No urgency in his steps whatsoever.

Like I said: asshole.

*

I always imagined my future would be in architecture, not bar work, but the detour has allowed me to discover a new passion: cocktails. In a way, they complement one another. Each is about building something from scratch, taking raw components to make something special. Something new. Something that can make people happy. Or provide a talking point. Maybe even a significance. A celebration. A milestone. A memory.

After walking away from architecture, cocktails and social media influencing helps me to nurture my creative side while I save enough to put my future into my own hands. I want to go back to school. I want to become an expert in something.

"Oh, shit." Riya pushes open the flat door and surveys the living room.

Behind her, our other flatmate, Josie, peers over her shoulder. "Oh, Isla..." Sympathy deepens her tone. "What happened, babe?"

"Nothing happened," I grit out, while adding a splash of lemon juice into my newest project.

"You've rearranged the furniture again," Riya points out. "You only do that when you're upset, pissed, or stressed."

Crap. The drink is now too bitter. I shove it to the side and start from scratch.

"How'd it go with the goalie?" Josie asks.

As the door clicks shut, I spin to face my two friends and open my robe. Josie's jaw drops, while Riya raises an eyebrow.

"This is how it went," I say. "The fact I'm still wearing this rather than it being torn to shreds on my bedroom floor tells you all you need to know."

Silence. They warned me. They said it was a bad idea to go home with Liam Dempsey. Hell, these two don't even like hockey and yet they still tried to talk me out of it—based on what I'd told them.

"For what it's worth, you look hot," Riya tells me.

I grunt. "I wasn't going to let him shame me into changing. Although I am starting to think this outfit is cursed. I bought it the day before Nick dumped me, and now another guy has walked out on me while I was putting it on?"

"If either of them had seen you in it before they left, they wouldn't have gone." Josie lifts my latest cocktail attempt to her nose and sniffs. "This smells amazing!"

"It's the Seattle," I reply. "It's missing something but I can't figure out what."

"Hey, Isla?" Riya is standing by the kitchen table, Liam's note between her neon orange-painted fingertips. "You seen this?"

"Yep. Just haven't been able to go near it again without wanting to throw up."

Her brow furrows. "Why? Sounds like he had a reason for leaving. He wouldn't have shared his number if he—"

"Watch the doorbell footage. In fact, don't. It's humiliating. I think he left that note to mess with me. And even if he didn't, there is no chance in hell of me calling him after hearing the way he spoke about me."

Riya's mouth scrunches as she fingers the note. A calculating look is exchanged with Josie. Sometimes I swear these two can communicate telepathically. They seem to speak a silent language that I can't understand.

"I think you should text him," she eventually says. "Tell him thanks for his number and you're going to post it on your socials for the world to see."

"Uh, I can't do that, Riya. The Storm would probably ban me from the arena for doxxing another team's player."

Although it's tempting. Exactly the level of pettiness I aspire towards.

"I'm not suggesting you actually do it. Just make him panic a little. Then leave him on read."

"And it'll show you're not hung up on him," Josie adds with wide eyes. "Nobody screws with Isla Watson and gets away with it."

***

Thank you for reading :) xx