Windsor/Capulato Saga Book 1: We Didn't Know
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Autumn Ferris
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55.7K
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81
Tori thinks one wild night with a handsome stranger is nothing more than a fun memory… until she joins her new hockey team and realizes her mystery man is Adam, their biggest rival and her captain’s best friend. Now the spark they shared is impossible to forget, especially when an injury leaves her stuck recovering at his place. Tension grows, secrets slip, and every look hits harder than a slapshot. As the ice between them melts, Tori must decide what matters more: protecting her secret, or facing the truth rushing straight at her heart.
Chapter 1
TORI
The roar of the crowd hits me like an energy rush, buzzing straight through my ribs. The national anthem, sticks tapping, and the sharp bite of cold air: it all blurs into the familiar pregame hum. Then the puck drops, and everything snaps into focus.
I launch off the line.
My skates carve clean lines across the ice, my bun tucked tight beneath my helmet. Being smaller has its perks: I slip between players like water, weaving past defenders before they even register I’m there. I hit their end zone, pivot hard, and face my team just in time to catch my winger’s fake. He sells it beautifully, then fires the puck straight to my tape.
Perfect setup. Early goal written all over it.
I spin, sight the net, and let the puck fly.
Bar down.
The clang rings out like music.
I throw my stick up in triumph and slam straight into someone behind me.
I stumble, catch myself, and whip around. Two opponents are sprawled on the ice, pushing themselves up. The scruffier one with the thick face, thicker attitude, and definite dad bod energy jabs a finger at me.
“That fucking asshole tripped me! Took my skate with the damn stick!”
“Excuse me?” My voice drops low and dangerous. I’m six inches shorter than one and nearly a foot shorter than the other, but I’ve never needed height to make someone rethink their life choices. “You’re saying I tripped you on purpose, fuckhead?”
The taller one steps in, glaring at his teammate. “Gibbs. Back off.”
His hazel eyes hit mine: sharp, steady, and familiar in a way that punches straight through my adrenaline.
Something flickers at the edge of my mind. Warm hotel-room air, his breath brushing my cheek as he murmured “Jess” in that low, husky voice. The feel of his lips trailing down my neck. The way he’d looked at me afterward, like he was memorizing my face.
My stomach twists.
A flicker of recognition sparks in my chest.
I know those eyes.
But the thought is gone as fast as it comes, shoved aside by the scruffy idiot still running his mouth.
Gibbs sneers, leaning in like he thinks towering over me will help. “Yeah, I’m saying it. What are you gonna do about it, punk?”
My team crowds behind me, tense. They’re hesitant to grab me (the whole she’s a girl thing), and it grates like sandpaper. I’ve dealt with it since I was a kid. Only one way to fix it.
Rip the band-aid off.
“Oh really?” I say sweetly. “Maybe you wouldn’t have fallen if your ankles weren’t benders. Go tape them up better, pussy.”
Before he can blink, I hook my stick behind his skates and yank.
He hits the ice with a satisfying thud.
“That’s what it looks like when I trip someone,” I tell him, stepping over his sprawled body. “I do it to your face, bitch.”
I turn to skate off, but the ref’s whistle shrieks.
“Fields, penalty—”
He doesn’t finish. The crowd erupts, my teammates shout, and I spin just in time to see Gibbs charging at me like a freight train.
I sidestep. He barrels straight into two of my guys, who immediately drop gloves and start swinging.
A hand grabs my shoulder, and it’s the wrong jersey color.
I don’t hesitate.
I spin and crack my fist into his face. Solid connection. Very satisfying.
He stumbles back, and for a split second I see his eyes again: those same hazel eyes that tugged at something in me earlier. A sharper memory slices through me.
His hands braced on either side of me on that hotel bed, the feel of them gripping my thighs. Him leaning against the headboard, his smile softening into something too real for a one-night stand.
“Jess, you want me to order some food?”
The way he’d said it (gentle and hopeful), like staying was an option.
My chest tightens.
No.
There’s no fucking way.
And then it hits me like a slap of cold air.
Shit.
I just punched their captain.
Chaos detonates across the rink. Helmets fly. Fists fly. Bodies crash. By the time the refs manage to peel everyone apart, I’ve got a small shiner and a split lip: nothing worth writing home about.
When I get out of the penalty box, Gibbs is already glaring at me from across the rink, vibrating with rage.
Perfect.
I skate past him slowly, deliberately, leaning just close enough for him to hear me over the crowd. “How’s it feel,” I murmur, “getting your ass beat by a bitch?”
His face goes red. He snaps. And from that moment on, he’s done.
He misses passes, whiffs shots, and takes stupid penalties. He’s so busy trying to murder me with his eyes that he forgets he’s supposed to be playing hockey.
Their whole line suffers for it.
We are down to the final minutes, and the score is tied. The arena vibrates with tension.
I jump the boards on a line change, legs burning, lungs tight. The puck ricochets off the boards and lands near center ice. I chase it down, cutting off a defender with a sharp pivot that sends him sliding past me.
Ten seconds left.
My stick meets the puck. I drive forward, slicing between two players. The goalie squares up, reading me, waiting for the obvious shot.
So I don’t give him the obvious one.
I fake left, drag the puck right, and snap it to the top shelf.
The buzzer sounds as the puck hits the net.
The arena erupts. My team swarms me, helmets tapping mine, gloves slapping my back. The adrenaline is so loud I barely hear the announcer call the win.
As the crowd roars, I skate toward center ice for the handshake line. My hand tightens around my stick (too tight), and a tremor flickers through my fingers.
Not now. Not here.
I shift my grip, hoping no one notices.
Keith does.
Our captain glides up beside me, helmet off, sweat dripping down his temples. He bumps his shoulder lightly into mine.
“Hell of a game, Fields.”
His eyes drop to my hand for just a second, then lift back to mine. He doesn’t say a word about it. Just gives me a small nod, the kind that says, I saw it, but I’m not calling you out.
I nod back, grateful and annoyed all at once.
Before I can respond, Windsor (the hazel-eyed captain I punched) skates over. He ignores me completely and offers his hand to Keith.
A different memory tugs at me: not the heat of the hotel room, not the way he touched me, but the moment right after.
When I’d grabbed my purse and headed for the door, he’d stood up fast, jeans half-buttoned, hair a mess, watching me like he wasn’t sure if he should stop me or let me go.
“Do you need a ride home?” he’d asked, voice rough, still breathless.
Not annoyed.
Not clingy.
Just…worried.
Like even though I was running out on him, he still wanted me safe.
I hadn’t let myself think about that part until now.
“Capulato,” he says, his voice steady despite the bruise forming on his cheek. “Good game.”
Keith shakes his hand firmly. “You too.”
I don’t wait around for Windsor to look at me. I don’t want to know if he’s glaring or smirking or trying to figure out why I look familiar.
I turn and skate off the ice with a few of my teammates flanking me, the tremor in my hand finally fading as the tunnel swallows us.
***
The bar is loud, warm, and buzzing with postgame adrenaline. I’m smiling, actually smiling, as I clink glasses with the guys. One after another, they slap my back, ruffle my hair, or shout something about my goal or the fight. They’re loud, chaotic, and riding the high of a win.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not on the outside looking in.
I don’t need them to like me.
But I need them to accept me.
There’s a difference.
I can’t afford another transfer. Not after what happened with my last team. Not after the mess my ex made, the kind of mess that should’ve ended my season, maybe my career. Half my old teammates were furious that I got cut, but after the spectacle he caused, I’m lucky the whole thing got buried.
Luckily, I got a second chance here.
I sip my Jack and Coke, the burn settling warm in my chest, and let the noise wash over me. After a couple of shots of straight Jack, the edge of the night softens just enough. I slip off my stool and head toward the dance floor.
My hair is down now, waves brushing my shoulders. A little eyeliner, a little mascara: enough to make my eyes pop under the dim lights. Faded skinny jeans, dark brown cowboy boots, a black floral lace tank, and my leather jacket. Simple. Comfortable. Me.
I’m halfway across the floor when a hand touches my shoulder.
“Jess?”
The name hits me like a slap. I turn.
Hazel eyes. Tall frame. That voice.
I freeze.
The bar lights blur in my mind. Warm gold, shadows moving across the floor, music pulsing through my ribs. I remember turning and seeing him leaning against the wall, tall and unfairly gorgeous, that easy smile aimed right at me. I remember choosing him—deliberately, recklessly—because I needed noise loud enough to drown out the wreckage of my life.
I remember the hotel room, clothes scattered, his hands warm on my skin, his mouth soft and careful in a way I didn’t expect. The way he looked at me afterward, hazel eyes tracking every breath I took like he wasn’t ready for it to be over.
And I remember leaving fast, before the quiet could settle, before I could start wanting something I wasn’t allowed to want.
“It was fun,” I’d said, grabbing my purse.
His face had fallen just a little, and his brow furrowed.
“Wait, what? Seriously?”
I’d walked out before I could change my mind.
Fuck me.
Two things hit me at once, sharp and undeniable: My one-night stand and the best sex of my life was with the captain of the Penalty Killers.
My breath catches, and he’s about to realize exactly who I am.
