"Dude, I can't believe you're stuck in San Francisco," my roommate, Nyberg, said over the phone as I stepped into the small airport hotel room I'd been given for the night and dropped my carry-on bag. "You're going to miss an epic midnight barbecue at Coach's house."

"I know," I said with a dejected sigh. "But it's not really my choice, man. I didn't ask to have my flight canceled." After tossing my baseball cap onto a side table, I took a couple steps forward to open the curtains. While there'd definitely been better views over the years of away games and tournaments, the fifth floor of the Hyatt was far from the worst. The night a darkened backdrop to the lights and bustling city below. "But Coach was the first one I called back in the airport. I told him I managed to get a seat on the second flight out tomorrow morning, so hopefully I'll be able to make it for pre-game warmups."

Luckily, our game against Washington wasn't until eight 'o'clock tomorrow night, so barring any major delays, I'd be there with time to spare.

"Let's hope that's the case," he said, pausing as I heard him fumble around for something. "Are you at least back at your parents' place for the night?"

I shook my head despite knowing he couldn't see it. "Nope," I replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "It wouldn't have made sense to trek all the way back to Santa Clara only to come back super early tomorrow. Plus, I don't want to put a damper on everyone else's New Year's Eve."

"So you're ringing in the new year by yourself?" Nyberg asked, clearly astonished at the turn my night had taken.

"Yeah."

A low whistle traveled down the phone line. "That sucks, man, but hopefully you can find some way to entertain yourself."

Looking around the small box of a room I was currently in—consisting of nothing more than a queen-size bed, a desk, and a fairly ancient looking television set—I knew the way to do that was certainly not here.

"I'll probably head down to the bar in a bit," I said. "Grab a beer or something, maybe see if they've got any games playing."

"Or you can see if there are any women around who catch your eye," he drawled with amusement. "You've got the night off now. Have some fun."

As I held back an eye roll at his suggestion, flashes of red braids, a captivating smile, and beautiful moss green eyes invaded my mind. I'd lost track of my incredibly attractive and hopefully single seat mate back in the craziness of the airport, but as the memory of her came racing back, I couldn't help but wonder if she'd also been put up in this hotel. And if she had, maybe trying to find her and seeing how things would've played out had our conversation on the plane not been cut short wasn't such a bad idea.

"We'll see about that," I said. "And anyways, don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Yeah, yeah, Wellsley, I'm heading out now. I'll be sure to recount your sob story to the guys and tell them you say hi."

I chuckled. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Later, bud."

Tossing my phone down on the bed, all I could hope for was my luck to do a one-eighty. Otherwise, this night—like most of the day—would end up being a total write off.

***

Twenty minutes later, the elevator door dinged, sliding open to reveal a nearly empty lobby. There were two workers stationed behind the check-in desk who acknowledged me with a smile as I crossed the room, headed for the small bar I knew to be slightly down the hall and to the left. And as I turned the corner, I knew my choice to shower and switch out my sweats for a clean t-shirt and jeans was the right one, because sitting at the bar, her back toward me, was the woman I'd been hoping to find.

Her naturally red hair had been shaken out of its braids, now cascading down her back, and a pair of wire frames that hadn't been there earlier perched on her nose. She seemed more chilled and at ease as she nursed a beer, not at all bothered by the few other guests scattered around the bar.

Knowing she had yet to notice me, I took the lead, walking the few steps it took to reach the stool next to hers and said, "we've got to stop bumping into each other like this."

Turning to face me, the surprise was evident in her features—arched brows, wide eyes, and slightly parted lips—but it melted away quickly when recognition took its place. "Hey."

"Hey," I echoed, the corners of my lips ticking upward when I nodded down to the free seat. "You mind if I...?"

She shook her head and gestured to the stool. "Go ahead."

Silently thanking someone upstairs that she didn't turn me away, I slid into the spot beside her, though I was immediately pounced on by the bartender before I could get another word out. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw her smirk when I asked him what kind of beer they had, only to get a minute-long spiel about the different kinds of ales and lagers the hotel sourced from local distributors.

"Remind me to just order a Heineken next time," I muttered once the bartender finally left, though I couldn't deny the stout he'd poured looked damn good.

"Don't worry, I made the same mistake when I sat down," she admitted, bringing her glass closer to mine to cheers. The echoing clink of the glasses filled the air around us as I took a long gulp. "So, I guess I'm not the only one who decided taking the airline up on a free hotel room beat heading back home for the night?"

"Guess not," I drawled. "Though that reminds me, I never did get an answer as to why you'd planned to fly back to Boston on New Year's Eve." I lifted a brow. "No boyfriend to cozy up to and kiss at midnight?"

Her lips twitched as she brought her beer up to try and hide her smile. "Smooth."

I shrugged unapologetically. She knew the question was really a way for her to let me know whether or not to back off, and I had no problem admitting that. "I never claimed to be subtle, sweetheart."

"True, I guess professional athletes don't really have subtlety baked into their bones, eh?" My movements froze at the phrase professional athlete, my hand clutching my glass in mid-air. As I slowly met her gaze, I noticed the knowing glint in her eyes. "Thought you could hide that little fact from me?"

"I wasn't necessarily trying to hide it," I admitted, "but it's not normally something I lead with."

"Really?" she asked, a bit of disbelief twisting her words.

"Really. And besides, I'm not that big of a player that most people would recognize me anyways, unless they're from Boston." I took another swig of my beer. "I am curious when you put it together though."

"On the plane, right before the flight got canceled and everything went to shit," she said, and I snorted a laugh. She then gestured to the television behind the bar she'd been watching before I'd interrupted. "Plus, things were pretty much confirmed about twenty minutes ago when one of your goals from earlier in the season was shown on a replay segment."

"The beauty from our game in Toronto last month?"

"That'd be the one."

"Yeah, that was a good night," I said, reminiscing back to the moment one of the Toronto defensemen had tripped me from behind when I'd been on a breakaway. Yet against all odds, I'd still gotten enough power on the shot before I'd faceplanted that the puck sailed cleanly through the goalie's five-hole, becoming the game winner for the night. "But now that you know my name, I feel like we're on a bit of an uneven playing field here since I don't know yours."

She eyed me for a moment, not immediately answering, but from the twinkle in her eyes I could tell she was only trying to make me sweat.

"It's Lia," she finally said.

"Lia," I repeated, the name rolling off my tongue. "Well, Lia, I take it you're a hockey fan?"

"I am... sometimes," she admitted, running her finger along the rim of her glass. "If I'm being honest, I'm actually more of a football fan." The cockiness I knew to be present in my grin immediately vanished, causing Lia to throw her head back with laughter. "What? Didn't expect that?"

I shook my head slowly with an ounce of disbelief and said, "Honestly, no. These days it's rare to find a woman who's interested in hockey, let alone other sports."

"Then clearly you're looking in the wrong places."

"Clearly."

She quirked a brow. "Though I find it hard to believe it's hard to find women interested in hockey. Isn't the term puck bunny still a thing?"

"You're right," I conceded with a snort of a laugh. "I stand corrected, but those women are usually interested in one thing, and it's not what I can do out on the ice."

"Noted."

With the moment of silence, I wondered if I'd taken things one step too far, but for the second time tonight, Lia surprised me. Instead of being put off or judgemental, she looked downright amused as she took a sip of her beer to hide the wry tilt of her lips.

"I'm curious though," I started, "what drew you to football over anything else?"

"My dad," she said simply, her smile softening. "I remember my mom telling me that when I was little I would sit with my dad on the couch on Sundays when San Francisco was playing and essentially be his copycat. When he'd cheer, so would I, and when he'd yell at the TV, I would too. I obviously never knew what was going on until I got older and he explained all the rules to me, but it became a tradition for the two of us to watch games on Sundays while my mom would run errands. There's actually a picture framed in my parent's living room from the last Sunday game we watched together before I moved out east—matching jerseys and all."

"Cute," I mused, causing her to lean over and nudge her shoulder with mine. "I'm guessing you're a ride or die fan then?"

"For football, yes, but don't worry, I only started watching hockey a few years back when two of my friends in Boston kept convincing me to go to games with them, so I cheer for the Knights."

Mocking a sigh of relief, I turned my chair slightly to fully face her, my knees less than an inch away from touching her thigh. "Thank fuck for that. Imagine if you were a Washington Eagles fan, or worse—" I shuttered. "—a Florida Sharks fan."

"Funnily enough, that was actually the last game I went to see live, when you played them back in October."

I grimaced as I lifted my glass to take a long gulp, the awful memory of that night coming back to me. "You mean the night when our team just couldn't get things together?"

"If that's what you call your teammates getting a boat load of penalties and then ending the game down seven, then yes, that night."

"Oof, way to rub salt on the wound, Lia."

An airy laugh escaped her lips. "Sorry, though you should know better than most that some nights just suck, whether it's due to things not syncing up or plain bad luck. But all those nights prove is that the choice comes down on you to decide how to turn things around after the fact."

Logically, I knew she was talking about hockey—about how teams had to learn from their mistakes and grow—but I couldn't help but take a second meaning from her words. Maybe I was reading too far into things, but I also got the sense that she was referencing the situation we were in right now. How the timing of the storm sweeping across the middle of the country sucked and there was nothing we could do about the hand we'd been dealt, but we could choose to focus on the sliver of positives if we wanted.

Like how the two of us had been brought together, if only for a night.

And the more we chatted, the more down to Earth and easy-going I found her. There was something about her—some underlying quality I couldn't quite put my finger on—that made talking about anything seem natural and not at all awkward despite not really knowing each other.

Then on top of that, the longer we sat there, the more the sexual tension between us grew. I could feel it in the glances we exchanged every couple of minutes, in the way our arms and legs brushed when one of us deliberately shifted in our chairs, and as we both gradually began leaning closer, as if the rest of the bar was empty and we had the entire space to ourselves.

Until we were interrupted, that is.

"Champagne?" the bartender asked, holding a bottle of bubbly up as he looked between us. "Everyone gets one glass on the house tonight."

"Yes please," Lia answered quickly, biting her bottom lip gently as if she'd been caught doing something she wasn't meant to be.

And as I opened my mouth to respond, the words never came, because my gaze caught the television behind the bar. What had once been broadcasting sports highlights was now a countdown to midnight—saying there was less than half an hour to go—making me realize just how long the two of us had been sitting here.

"And you?" the bartender asked, waiting with an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, sorry," I said, pulling my focus away from the screen. "Yeah, I'll have some, thanks."

After pouring enough to fill two champagne flutes halfway, he replaced our empty glasses with the bubbly and wished us a happy new year before making the rounds to the rest of the guests.

"I didn't realize it'd gotten so late," Lia said, her eyes meeting mine with a heat that was dimmed slightly by an accompanying shyness.

"Neither did I," I replied, not letting my gaze drop, but pausing as I figured out the best way to lead our night into a new direction. After taking a small sip of champagne, I reached my free hand out and rested it across the back of her chair. "And I don't know about you, but I think this champagne would taste better away from prying eyes." I let the underlying invitation hang between us for a few seconds, trying to gauge her reaction, and when I saw the smallest uptick of her lips, the fire of attraction in my chest grew. "So, what do you say?"

"Lead the way."