I was a real bitch to Miller when he started dating Sunny. Media reports were highly unfavorable; he was traded to Chicago last season for screwing his previous coach’s niece in a bathroom stall. I was worried for her. But ever since the post-camping weekend at Alex’s cottage, I’ve seen a much different side of him—one the media hasn’t been privy to. He’s so in love with Sunny, he’d do anything for her. Like name a foundation after her. The shirts everyone’s wearing tonight? They say Project Sunshine.

According to Sunny and the media, Randy, who happens to be Miller’s best friend, helped organize this event. Randy’s involvement doesn’t change how I feel about him, though. Just because he’s good to Michael doesn’t mean he isn’t a manslut player. Yet pathetically, I still want to ride him like a rodeo bull.

Deep down, I don’t believe Randy’s a bad guy. In fact, I’m inclined to say the opposite. A player? Definitely. Manslut? One hundred and ten percent. But I’m the one who threw myself at him, not the other way around. What bothers me most is that despite knowing this, I don’t regret what happened at the cottage, apart from not having sex with him. Which I regret. The no-sexing part. And I hate that I regret my regret, because it makes me feel like a puck bunny, which I never want to be.

I should be glad my actions over the past month have ensured nothing else is going to happen between Randy and me. Not only did I write terrible things all over his clothes in permanent marker, I’ve avoided him both times he called. He didn’t leave a message, so I have no idea what he wanted to say.

Why all the conflict over a hockey player? It goes back to my conception. My dad, who I’ve met a total of zero times, played professional hockey. He knocked my mom up when she was eighteen and then went back to his nice life: traveling the country, slapping a puck around on the ice, and banging puck bunnies who stupidly spread their legs for him, leaving my mom to raise me alone.

Ironically, my mom fit into the puck bunny category for a very short time. She never dated another hockey player, and she beats me over the head with a proverbial stick about not falling into the same trap. She does, however, seem to be good at finding guys in other lines of work who don’t stick around. It’s been a revolving door of unstable jerkoffs my entire life. I’m not cynical at all, though.

I scare myself again when all I get is air out of my straw instead of mojito. I glance down at my glass, frowning at the lack of liquid. How do these disappear so quickly? I look back over to Brett. Oh, shit. Randy’s noticed me.

A smug grin pulls up the corners of his sexy mouth. He says something to Brett and pats him on the shoulder, then pushes his chair back. I pretend to be involved in my phone. I feel seasick with how often I glance from the screen to their table to the screen.

Oh God. He’s on his way over here. I’m not ready for this. I scan the room frantically for Sunny. I can’t see her anywhere, so I do the most logical thing in the world: I hightail it across the bar, away from Randy. There’s an exit door I’m not supposed to use on that side. The alarm has been disconnected for forever. It’ll get me out of here and on my way back to the bathroom where I hid out earlier. I can lock myself in there and figure out how to manage this.

I burst through the fire doors, relieved the alarm is still disconnected, and speed-walk down the hall. I make a quick right. Goddamn it. He’s following me. What could he possibly want? To smirk at me some more? Running away should be a sure sign I’m not interested in any kind of confrontation, or discussion, or even getting naked—on the off chance that’s on the table. Okay, the last part I totally want to do. Which is why I should keep running.

“Hey, Lily!” he calls. “Wait!”

My knees almost buckle at the sound of his voice. What does he want? I slide on a wet patch and barely avoid landing on my ass. He’s right behind me now. I clutch the bathroom door handle and skid to a stop, nearly falling again. Wrenching it open, I throw myself inside. It’s extra dramatic with a side of drama fries. But before I can pull the door closed, Randy manages to slide his massive, muscular body in the gap.

“What are you doing?” I screech as the door closes behind him, sealing us in darkness. “I can’t see anything!”

He chuckles. The light flicks on, and I blink against the sudden brightness. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

I plant my hands on my hips. “Didn’t you see me running away from you?”

He laughs again. It’s a beautiful sound. “Uh, yeah. I figured maybe you really had to use the bathroom.”

“I did. I do. Now get out, or I’ll pee right in front of you!” I’m shouting. It’s high-pitched and totally unnecessary, seeing as I’m standing about four inches away from him. I might be spit-talking at his chest. His extra-muscular chest.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, leaving all the tattoos on his right forearm on display. He even has one on the back of his hand. It’s almost three-dimensional in the way it’s been put on his skin: a stunning flower beaded with dew, with a tiny, intricate skull inside the falling droplet. It’s so badass. I remember how amazing it looked when the fingers attached to that hand, which is attached to the arm covered in ink, were inside of me, pumping away until I came. I make a strangled sound.

“Did you moan?”

“What? No.” My eyes shoot up to his.

That infuriating smirk makes his eyes crinkle. Even his eye crinkles are hot. “I think you did.”