The gray Audi pulls up outside the Anarchy Immortal Café at twelve-o-one, horn honking to signal their arrival. I roll my eyes, grab ahold of Kaila's wrist, and push on the front door.

"Bye, Dad!" Kaila and I say in unison.

"Have fun, girls!" He responds, waving emphatically through the window as we clamber toward Bas's car. The man himself is in the driver's seat, smile wide as he reaches across and throws the door open, gesturing me inside.

"C'mon, time's runnin' down." He prompts, eyes and piercing flashing in the sunlight. I roll my eyes, Kaila giggles.

"Hush, you," I chastise as I settle into the passenger seat; Bas smirks. Then my gaze wanders, snagging on the large figure in the back.

A tall man with black hair, cannonball shoulders, and arms covered in a myriad of tattoo ink is leaning his elbow on the doorframe. When he turns, alert, bright eyes take me in.

"Hi," I squeak, "Spencer, right?" I fumble while Kaila hurls herself into the seat beside him like a torpedo finding its target.

He nods, "Reece, right? Kaila?" Spencer glances first at me and then to Kaila for confirmation.

My best friend swoons, chest fluttering as she leans close to him. The look on Spencer's face is comical; partially surprised, a bit freaked out, and a lot interested.

"You remembered," Kaila purrs.

Spencer snorts. "How can I not when it's all he can talk about."

I don't miss how Bas casts him a sharp look in the rearview mirror. Spencer responds by reaching forward and jabbing a fist at the back of Bas's neck. They grapple for a moment, Bas emitting a chagrinned cry.

"Shut the fuck up," he barks and throws a fist back wildly.

It nearly smacks Kaila's arm, but Spencer catches it and winks at me. "Don't want her to know you like her?"

My cheeks heat a vibrant red, and Bas curses at him. Meanwhile, Kaila has maneuvered herself beneath Spencer's arm, somehow managing to press her small frame against the side of his huge one. Her eyes are frosted over, a look of complete adoration on her face.

"We're just friends." Bas protests. "Not all of us are dogs like you."

"Woof woof," Spencer jeers back. "So why don't you invite your friend to a game sometime? You know players get two free tickets, right?"

"Oh my gosh!" Kaila pipes up. "That would be amazing."

I give her a stern side-eye, which she ignores.

Bas is saved from answering by finding a break in the traffic. He merges into traffic, and the shenanigans relent slightly. I fiddle in my seat, reach to turn the radio up, and disrupt the silence.

"He's just talking shit," Bas assures me on an eye roll.

I smile encouragingly. "Right, of course," I agree, slumping back into the seat and pulling the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands.

Behind us, Kaila has made herself the center of Spencer's attention, bombarding him with anything she thinks might interest him. I feel slightly bad for the guy, but then again, if anyone's heart ends up broken at the end of today, it won't be his, so maybe my sympathy is misplaced.

I may not have been able to place him when he first walked into the café, but I know Spencer Haart enough to realize his priorities. Hockey, parties, and no-strings sex. However, Kaila has a dream of finding 'the one' and a policy against getting so drunk that you can't remember what happened the next morning.

It's not long before the Cincinnati Humane Society comes into view, and Bas searches the lot for a place to park. People stream in and out of the front doors, little kids holding tight to new puppies or kitties while parents trail behind with the bare essentials of animal care. A sign advertises the event in big letters, highlighting the Cincinnati Cyclones' presence and their involvement.

Only then do I realize that both Bas and Spencer are sporting their jerseys. #49 – Killfeather and #32 – Haart adorns the backs with a large C emblazoned across the front in white, red, and black lettering.

I follow the two from the car, find myself immediately caught in Kaila's fierce grip. "You didn't tell me Spencer Haart was coming!" She whisper-hisses.

I wince at the sharpness and pull back, rolling my eyes. "If I had, you would've spent all morning trying on outfits."

Kaila huffs. "It's a necessary evil to not look like I do right now," she grumbles, gesturing at her body.

I take in the white, long-sleeved halter top, washed-out skinny jeans, knee-high furry black boots, and open jacket. When I meet her electric green eyes, observe the neat bobby pins holding back her hair, I scowl.

"You look fucking amazing," I gripe and stalk off in the direction of the warm building, teeth chattering under the cool breeze and bitter air. Bas and Spencer are immersed in conversation a dozen feet away. It falls away as I approach, tugging at Bas's arm to make him move.

"In a rush?" Bas teases as I jerk him along.

"Frozen," I remark, tossing him a bitter look.

He smirks and glances down. Somehow, between my tugging and his resisting, my hand found his and our fingers locked together.

I jerk, disengage myself from him, and cross my arms over my chest, feeling inexplicably exposed by the tingling sensation that lingers in my palm and fingertips. This isn't supposed to be like this.

Bas speeds his pace and falls into step at my side, hands fisted in his pockets. "You want to get your face painted?"

We pass under the open doorway, immediately slammed by the heat and noise of numerous bodies milling in the same place. The quizzical expression I give him makes him smile and point toward the far end of the lobby entrance. A line of kids waits by a handful of people wearing Volunteer shirts. They have paints spread out on a table before them, brushes in hand.

I half-leer, half-smile up at him. "Only if you do."

Bas's eyes glimmer at the challenge. Putting his hand on the small of my back, he meanders us through the crowd, draws the eye of kids and adults alike with his jersey on full display. I blush, realizing how this looks, us walking in together, his hand on my back.

People rush forward, shove markers and little books at Bas. Kids pull at his jersey; girls glare so powerfully at me; I feel holes burning into my skin.

You have what they want, can't you understand how special that makes you? Give me what I want, or I'll go get it from someone else.

His voice, like poison, spreads through my mind. I go entirely rigid, feel myself shrinking in like a turtle into its shell. Bas takes notice, and his face shifts from tranquil tenderness to fierce determination. He steps closer, braces his arm around my waist, and pushes us forward.

"Reece, what's wrong?" Bas whispers, tone even yet alert.

I grip his bicep, dig my nails into the jersey so hard my knuckles go white. I feel hot and cold all at once. The throbbing is starting between my ears.

He doesn't flinch, but a grim tension fills his eyes. "Come on," he urges.

I give a barely discernible nod, try to keep my breathing under control.

Then Bas pushes me through a doorway into a small, white room. He flicks on the light and locks the door. I recognize the family restroom, see the sink and toilet on opposite walls. I gasp, turn the water faucet on, and splash ice-cold liquid all over my face, feeling it seep into the front of my hoodie. Bas loiters by the door, his body taut, face neutral.

I glance away from him, focus on my dripping reflection. Brown eyes meet brown, the words echo in my mind like the lyrics to a bad song, my body aches with invisible bruises. I rasp out a breath, then in, then out again.

My hands slide down to my hips, the freshest of my cuts, the ones from last night's nightmare. I clamp my hands around the sliced skin, rub through my jeans. Pain prickles up and down my legs, through my torso and into my heart, a dagger, sharp and angled.

Slowly, my breathing returns to normal, the darkness starts to recede, and his awful voice becomes a distant memory eating away at my soul. I shiver, open my eyes and catch Bas's gaze in the mirror. He tries to smile, but there's a storm in his hazel eyes that the light can't touch.

"What happened?" The question is soft, hesitant, probing.

I pinch my lips together, judge how to respond. This isn't fair. I can't hold out when my trauma is affecting more than just me.

"The people crowding us made me think of some mean things someone once said to me. The things he—" I cut off when I see Bas's hands ball into fists, "—they told me are hard to shake sometimes. I'm okay now."

My confession is met with silence, and my cheeks start to blaze.

He's going to ask more questions now.

I don't know if he saw the marks on my wrist Friday night; he didn't comment if he did. But now he's watching me touch the scabs and scars. He's right—he's not just a dumb jock.

Only he just nods, eyes never leaving mine in the mirror. "Good." He gestures at the door. "Viens donc, there's a lot I want to show you. I promise we won't end up in a mob again."

I nod, flashing him a heartening smile, and follow out the door.

Bas keeps to his word as we approach for face painting once more. This time he manages to place himself between me and his adoring fans in such a way that they only pull and tug at his clothing, yell into his ear, and shove things at his face. For the most part, they ignore me, and Bas disperses the flash mobs just as quickly as they materialize.

I stare around as the volunteer illustrates something colorful and sparkly on my cheek. The enormity of the event is startling. Players and volunteers man stations of homemade baked goods and Cyclones merchandise. All the proceeds go to the Humane Society to care for the animals. There's a handful of games spread throughout the building, ranging from apple bobbing to "Guess Your Age."

Then there's the dunk tank.

Each Cyclones player takes their turn, several going again and again for the sake of entertainment. Each guy strips down to his skivvies and takes a turn up on the bench, welcoming the jeers of the crowd. Children line up, are given a hockey stick, and three attempts at scoring a goal. A volunteer is stationed by the button, ready to press it when the kids score. If they miss all three, the kids run full force at the button themselves and dunk the player. Either way, no one comes out of the tank dry.

It's not long before the team, dripping wet and full of smiles, have cornered the last two dry members: Spencer and Bastien. The boys are herded to the tank, and Spencer goes first.

He fists his jersey off over his head, showing even more widespread tattoos and bands of dense muscle over his chest, back, and stomach. Then he loses the jeans. Kids giggle and whisper about seeing his underwear to their parents. I swear it's everything Kaila can do not to shriek in delight.

Then one of the other players, Johnson, ushers her to the front and puts a stick in her hands. Now Kaila really does squeal with delight, dancing on her tiptoes as three pucks are lined up in front of her. Three players frame her in, teasing and goading Spencer as she lines up the shot.

"How's it feel, Cap?" A blonde guy with 'Bower' on the back of his jersey jeers.

Johnson cackles beside Kaila. "Get some."

"Dunk him, Blue!" Bas bellows so loudly from beside the button that more than a few people in the audience gasp in alarm.

She misses the first but lands the second, and Bas smacks his hand down on the button with a shout. The observers erupt in cheers as the Cyclones Captain is submerged in cold water, sputtering and dragging his fingers through wet hair.

When he climbs out, the first thing he does is bear hug Kaila against his naked chest. She yelps and attempts to wiggle herself free, though the effort seems half-hearted. From the expression on her face, I know she's smitten, long past saving.

He puts her down, and a teammate hands him his clothing and a towel. Spencer shakes his head like a dog, earning another shrill cry from Kaila. Guffawing, he dries off and quickly pulls his jeans back on.

Then it's Bas's turn.

And oh. My. God.

With so many Cyclones players in attendance, there has been no shortage of rigid bodies. Bas's, however, is something else entirely. Where Spencer is big and brawny, Bas is long and lean. Flawless, dark tan skin, ripples of muscle, and a deep V leading down beneath his jeans. Then those disappear too, revealing black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide the kind of heat he's packing.

My blush could boil the water in that tank.

Girls around me shriek and catcall as he ascends the ladder with a swagger. The way he sits on the drop-deck looks like he's relaxing for a night in at the movies, not an ice bath. He catches my eye in the crowd and winks.

"Reece! Where's Reecie?" Kaila yells, managing to rip away from ogling Spencer's bare chest. She spins in a circle, eyes calculating as they take in the crowd.

Oh no.

I feel my chest constrict, attempt to dive behind a cluster of loitering teenagers.

But she sees me flee and points, "There!"

Players descend on me like a sandstorm, the red and black and white of their shirts swirling together. I shriek, feeling the attention once again settle heavily on my shoulders. Only there's no judgment, no sneers, or ugly remarks—just jovial amusement and companionship. The players exude it, keep his voice at bay, make me feel excited as they usher me forward.

Kaila latches onto my arm the moment I'm within range. The front of her is soaked through with water, and the outline of a black bra is visible underneath the limp white top. "Your turn, dunk him!" She cheers, shoving her stick into my hands.

I giggle, infected with her enthusiasm.

Spencer comes up beside me, smacks a large wet palm on my shoulder. "Don't hold back, Reecie!" He rallies, acting as one of the players that box me in like they did with Kaila.

"I'll try not to, but my aim sucks!" I warn, lining up a shot.

The players around me jeer and poke fun at Bas, who sits calmly inside the tank, eyes locked on me.

I meet them, see the burning hazel and a smolder of something else shining within them. His jaw is set, a smirk pulling at his lips. The outline of a unicorn poop with googly eyes adorns his left cheek, acting as the counterpart for the unicorn head on my right cheek. His hands twitch in his lap, and he raises a questioning eyebrow in a silent challenge.

Can you do it? That look mocks.

"Payback for switching my shampoo with shoe polish!" Spencer cackles.

Bas cocks a brow, the one with the piercing. "You have no proof that was me."

"We don't need proof." Johnson guffaws. "Your reputation precedes you."

"That was pretty damn—darn—funny," Bower says, peeking at the kids around him.

I scowl, hit the first puck. It misses by a long shot, and the players' boo, pointing accusing fingers at Bas, who shrugs under the scrutiny. Then they're cheering me on as I line up for the second puck.

"Get it, blondie!" Bower claps.

"Get him back for us," Spencer adds.

"C'mon, Reecie." Bas taunts, licking his lips, eyes sparkling. "Don't you want me to get all wet for you?"

I miss. Again.

But just barely, and I give a yelp of dismay, watching as Bas starts howling like a coyote in the tank. A spark of adrenaline tingles in my veins and hums through my fingertips as I drive the stick forward into the third puck. It slides across the floor so fast that Bas doesn't have time to get a gulp of air before it passes through the net and someone presses the button. He falls with a splash into the tank and comes up coughing on water, smiling, and shaking his head.

Spencer and Kaila both crush me in a hug, my best friend's voice a shrill sound in my ear. "You got 'im, Reecie!"

"Way to go, girl!" Spencer praises.

"My turn!" Announces an all too familiar voice.

Spencer and Kaila—the traitors—release me only for a wet figure to take their place. My feet leave the floor, and I throw my arms around Bas's bare neck and shoulders, alarmed with the lack of ground under me.

"Put me down! You're soaked! I'm soaked!" I say in between bouts of laughter.

Bas vibrates with the same enthusiasm. "You deserve it."

"Do not!"

"You dunked me!"

"Put me down!" I choke out between giggles.

He sets me on my feet and takes a half-step back. Those big hands rest on my hips, that broad chest entirely too close where he stands in tanned, shirtless glory. Then he laughs, and I see the glimmer of a tongue ring.

Bas's gaze travels up and down my soggy form. "You look like a drowned rat."

"Hey!" I punch his arm, "You look like an ugly, wet monkey!"

Bas's face scrunches up moments before he bends over, laughing so hard tears form in the corners of his eyes. I cringe at the phrase, curse my inability to come up with good insults, and laugh with him.

"An ugly monkey? That's the best you could come up with?" Bas chides, smirk in full effect. A teammate hands him a towel, and he makes quick work of drying enough to slip back into his jeans and jersey. Thank goodness.

I expel a huff and bump my shoulder against him as we head away from the crowd. Bastard doesn't even have the decency to budge. "Shut up, you called me a rat!"

Bas chuckles, eyeing me with something close to admiration. I shift under his stare, clear my throat. Then Kaila and Spencer meet up with us, and we continue our afternoon.