Claudia Burgoa has an all-new MMF, why-choose hockey romance out this week, about two pro-hockey rivals, the woman they can’t stop loving, and a love that risks careers, reputations, and the one thing they never meant to want—each other. I have a sneak peek for you!
Excerpt
Vesper
Portland smells like rain that never fully commits—everything damp, everything waiting, like the city is holding its breath just to see who breaks first.
The airport is doing what airports do: bright lights, polished floors, people moving with purpose like their lives aren’t one unexpected phone call away from imploding.
Mine is.
I shuffle off the plane and into the jet bridge, my backpack slung over one shoulder and my camera bag knocking against my hip. I’m dragging my carry-on that’s probably two flights shy from falling apart. My body is running on fumes and spite. Yesterday I packed boxes so I could ship my life back to Dad’s house, then scrubbed my apartment like cleanliness might trick the universe into thinking I’m fine.
Harvey wanted me on a ‘normal’ flight—since I wouldn’t agree to a charter that would’ve had me comfortable for once. I took the redeye anyway—they count as normal.
Cheaper. Faster. Less time sitting alone in New York staring at my phone like it might start smoking.
I slept in fragments on the plane—dozing, waking, counting ceiling panels, pretending my thoughts weren’t sprinting. I’m here because Dad needs tests in Baker’s Creek, and the camp needs paperwork and permits and someone who can speak “county inspection” without wanting to set themselves on fire.
Mom used to handle all of it. Clipboards. Schedules. Phone calls—the county requirements. The whole machine. Dad just hired the coaches—his teammates—and trained kids and taught them how to fall without fear.
Now, apparently it’s on me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket before I even reach baggage claim.
I pull it out expecting Dad.
Cally: I’m here. I have coffee and a pastry.
I stop walking so abruptly a man with a roller bag almost clips my ankle. I stare at the message like it’s a prank someone paid extra to deliver. He was home in Colorado. He has a game today—doesn’t he? Unless my brain is so fried I forgot how time works.
My thumb hovers over the screen, ready to type Where is here?, like that isn’t the dumbest question on the planet right now.
Another buzz hits before I can send anything.
Monty: I’m waiting for you. Breakfast in hand.
A laugh scrapes up from somewhere in me and dies halfway out, turning into a sound of disbelief. Like my body tried to joke and my heart vetoed it.
Two texts.
Two men.
Same timing.
And me? I’m hoping only one of them is actually at this airport because I am not in the mood to referee testosterone and old wounds in public.
I don’t reply to either of them. I can’t. If I choose a bubble on a screen, it becomes a choice in real life, and I’m too exhausted for consequences.
So I keep walking, weaving through travelers, scanning signs, exits, and faces that look calm enough to be offensive. My head is foggy in that specific way that happens when you’ve been strong for too long—thoughts floating, limbs running on borrowed energy from future me. Emotions arriving late and then showing up like a truck.
I pass baggage claim, and that’s when I see him.
Cally is impossible to miss.
He’s leaning near the edge of the crowd like he owns the square footage, like the airport was built as a backdrop for his ego. Dirty-blond, wavy hair pulled back in a loose tie at the nape of his neck, a few strands escaping to curl around his ears like they’re flirting. Stubble along his jaw that makes him look less like a poster boy and more like a problem someone keeps touching even after it hurts.
Leather jacket. Worn-in jeans. Hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to act casual, except nothing about him is casual when he’s looking for you.
His ice-green eyes catch mine—bright, intense, too awake—and everything around me dulls for a beat. The announcements, the wheels on tile, the constant rush of strangers. It all drops away until there’s only the exact second my life gets complicated.
He lifts one hand, and I see it then: the coffee cup, the pastry bag, the stupid tenderness packaged like a peace offering. As if he came here to feed me and ruin me in the same breath.
My feet keep moving, but it doesn’t feel like my decision.
Cally’s mouth curves—not a full smile. Something smaller. Familiar. Something that says there you are like he’s been waiting his whole life and not ten minutes.
“There she is,” he calls, voice loud enough to cut through the noise. “My favorite disaster.”
I flip him off without even thinking.
His grin turns delighted.
“Missed you too.”
That’s the moment I feel it—feel him.
Monty.
It’s the way the air tightens, and my body knows before my brain catches up. Like every part of me is attuned to his presence, even when I don’t want it to be. My breath stutters, and I turn.
And there he is.
He’s a collision of all the versions of him I’ve loved, and sometimes I try to forget: dark hair pushed back like he’s been running a hand through it all night, frustration etched into every careless strand. Scruff along his jaw that makes him look undone in a way that feels intentional even when it’s not—like he doesn’t bother softening himself for the world anymore.
His shoulders sit tense beneath his jacket, wide and strong, like he’s built to brace for impact and has learned not to give an inch when it comes.
Then his eyes lock on me.
Blue-gray. Focused. Stripped bare of pretense. They don’t skim or search—they land and stay, like he’s cataloging every exhausted line of my face, every breath I haven’t taken yet.
My pulse reacts before my brain does, a low, traitorous thrum that sinks straight into my core. He’s close enough now that I can smell him—clean soap, coffee, something unmistakably him—and my body leans without permission, like it remembers how easily it used to fit against his.
He doesn’t smile wide. He never does. It’s just a slow curve of his mouth, restrained and private, like he’s letting me see something no one else gets. And the chemistry between us hums—quiet, dangerous, undeniable—stretching tight across the space like a held breath neither of us is willing to release first.
Monty lifts his chin toward Cally, then points at him like he’s calling a penalty.
“What the fuck is he doing here?”
“I came here to take her home.” Cally puffs his chest, like trying to claim me.
Monty’s eyes narrow. “Really? Home?” He turns to me. “We don’t have time for games. Your dad’s on his way to Baker’s Creek. The hospital’s waiting. I have the car ready.”
Cally bristles beside me. Of course Monty already handled it. He probably called three specialists and memorized the hospital layout while Cally was still deciding which flannel to wear. Then Monty steps forward and gently presses the cup into my hands, his thumb brushing beneath my eye like he’s wiping away exhaustion itself.
“You look tired,” he murmurs.
Cally’s body shifts beside me. A small movement, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. His smile stays, but the muscles around it tighten like he’s resisting an impulse.
I’m standing between, and it feels like every year that’s passed since Juniper Ridge just got shoved into a suitcase and thrown at my feet. They stare at each other. Neither of them looks away. Neither of them moves first.
This is what I get for thinking I could keep them separate forever—two parallel lines that never intersect, two worlds I texted at midnight and then closed the app on, pretending it didn’t count.
Two men I once believed I could walk away from.
Spoiler: I couldn’t.
Do they even know they’re teammates now? Probably not, because neither one of them have a black eye or a broken something. My brain scrambles for control.
“Hi,” I blurt, like that’s going to fix any of this. “What are you doing here?”
Cally’s grin flashes again, too bright, too quick. “Picking you up.”
Monty’s voice comes right after, calm as a blade. “Picking you up, like we discussed yesterday.”
I blink. “Okay. Great. Love that we coordinated.”
Cally laughs like I’m hilarious. Monty doesn’t. He watches me, like he’s waiting for me to pick a side without asking me to.
Then Monty takes my carry-on and my backpack like it’s non-negotiable. “We agreed. And I’m guessing Pretty Boy over here just decided to crash whatever plans you had.”
“Please don’t do this,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “I’m running on zero hours of sleep and emotional caffeine. I cannot referee your testosterone showdown right now.”
Cally smirks. “Emotional collapse looks good on you.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, then glance between them. “Seriously. Why are both of you—”
“Vesper,” Cally says, softer now, with that devastating seriousness that always cracked me open. “We’re here because your dad is sick.”
Monty’s gaze flicks over my face, like he’s reading everything I’m trying to hide.
“We’re not doing this at an airport,” Monty says. “We have to go. Now. I bet you haven’t slept since . . . probably Finland.”
I wince. “Please stop profiling my sleep schedule.”
Cally’s expression softens. “He’s right. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“Excuse me?” I blink. “Are we all just casually chirping me to my face now?”
“You’re standing out here with your bags like you’re auditioning for a breakdown,” Monty adds, not unkindly.
My mouth drops. “Okay, rude.”
Cally steps closer, closing the gap with practiced ease. “We have a car. Heat. Food. You’ll sit down, breathe, and then we’ll talk.”
“We?” I repeat, because I’m too tired to process the idea of “we” being a thing that includes both of them.
Monty’s jaw locks.
Cally’s smile stays, but it’s tighter. “Unless you have a driver and a big-ass SUV, we’re using my vehicle.”
“I swear to God,” I mutter. “If either of you throws a punch in front of the arrivals pickup zone, I will call a ride-along and ghost both your numbers until I recover emotionally.”
Monty scoffs. “So . . . forever?”
“Exactly,” I snap. “Now, agree to a truce or I walk.”
“He’ll go back to his life soon, then it’ll just be you and me,” Cally states.
Monty frowns. I frown, then grin.
“Oh, neither one of you knows . . . do you?”
“Know what?” they ask in unison.
I gesture between them. “You got traded.” I point at Cal. “You.” Then Monty. “Meet your new teammate . . . Go, Orcas.”
Their reactions hit like dueling car crashes. I, of course, don’t wait for their full reaction. I start walking toward the exit, muttering under my breath, “Maybe they should just kiss and get it over with.”
God help me if they ever find peace. Or worse—team chemistry.
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