Her expression turns from irritation to discomfort; she apologizes and teeters off on her outrageous heels.

Buck drops into the seat beside mine, throwing his arm across my chair. “Thanks for the save. I thought she was gonna whip my dick out right there.”

I scoff. “Whatever. Your micro-wang is barely visible to the naked eye. Besides, I didn’t want to listen to you whine about a herpes flare-up.”

Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as one of Buck’s teammates takes the seat beside me. I hope he didn’t hear me slagging Buck’s doodle.

I glance at him in time for a set of boobs to practically smack me in the face as a waitress places a drink in front of him. It looks like milk. I give him the side-eye as she moves away. The guy sitting to his right asks him a question, drawing his attention away from me.

I recognize him from the time-out box: Waters. Holy shitballs, is he ever hot. His dark hair is cut short, and he’s got some wicked scruff going on. Even with the beard growth, I can tell he’s been blessed with one of those rugged jawlines.

Nerves, embarrassment, and Waters’ hotness have a cumulative effect, making me sweaty. I pull my sweater over my head, not accounting for static, and my T-shirt sticks to the woolly outer-layer. Face covered with fabric, I scramble to pull the shirt into place. The silence at the table is telling. Once I wrestle free of the sweater, I’m met with a number of wide eyes focused on my chest. I look down. Right. My bra is visible through the pale pink cotton, and now everyone at this table, including Buck, has seen it unfiltered by the shirt.

Buck leans in and whispers, “Put the sweater back on.”

I play dumb. “Why?”

“Everyone can see—” He motions toward my chest without looking.

I wave him off. “It’s not that obvious.” It’s totally that obvious.

He shoots me one of his glares. It’s meant to be threatening, but it makes him look constipated. I leave the sweater off to irritate him. It’s effective. His face turns an interesting shade of red.

“I need another beer.” He slams his mug on the table and eyes me as he gets up and goes to the bar, despite the half-full pitcher of beer on the table.

I’m about to put the sweater on again when Waters turns to me.

“Hi, I’m Alex.” He’s all pretty smile and white teeth. They’re probably fake. Those eyes are something else, though, even if he is sporting the makings of a black eye. I try hard not to look directly at him, afraid I’ll be ensnared by his rugged, handsome face.

“I’m Violet.”

“I didn’t realize Butterson had a sister.”

Even his voice is familiar, satin smooth and deep. He takes a sip of his drink, leaving behind a milk mustache he quickly wipes away. It’s then I realize where I recognize him from: the milk advertisements. Sweet Lord, I’ve been jilling off to him. My mortification reaches new heights, causing me to say something more insane than usual.

“I’m his stepsister. He likes to keep me a secret since he wants to go all Ophelia on my ass.” My eyes widen at my terrible joke. Though, if he’s anything like Buck, he won’t get the reference.

“Butterson would make a crap nun, eh?”

I swear he’s made an accurate reference to Shakespeare. Stunned, I make direct eye contact. Or I try to. His eyes keep bouncing between my chest and my face, so that’s a challenge.

Normally, I’d be put out by his blatant ogling, but I’ve asked for it with the sheer shirt and the ostentatious bra.

I further my own embarrassment and his by cupping my breasts and squeezing. “They’re nice for real ones, huh?”

His eyes shoot to mine. Busted.

“I uh—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—”

This is one of the most entertaining interactions I’ve had with a member of the opposite sex in ages. I make a snicker-snort noise and look away.

Buck leans against the bar, talking to a girl whose skirt is so short it’s abundantly clear she’s not wearing underwear. I nudge Alex with my elbow. His arm is like a rock. “Check out Buck’s friend.”

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Cooter-flasher leans forward and gives our table an even better view.

“Is that—am I looking at her beaver?”

Mid-swig, I choke on the mouthful of beer, sputtering and coughing. After I recover, I ask jokingly, “‘Beaver’? Are you Canadian or something?”

Those vibrant eyes move to mine. God, he’s awfully pretty. And close. He’s really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brushing mine close. I can even smell his cologne or deodorant—whatever it is, he smells yummy.

He’s silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring. Or the question may have stumped him.

My experiences with Buck—and the one hockey player I dated previously—have led me to the assertion that hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent. I’m aware this isn’t a universal truth. But Buck certainly reinforces my perceived stereotype: he’s definitely not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a rocket scientist’s assistant. However, I’m almost positive Alex made a literary pun a moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I’m intrigued.

“Yeah, I’m Canadian.”

“Does everyone in Canada call pussies beavers? Like the Brits call them fannies?” I can’t believe I ask him this. I’m barely buzzed; otherwise, I’d blame it on drunkenness.