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I just snuck out of pro hockey’s most notorious playboy’s bed last night. I have zero interest in legendary hockey player Alex Waters or his pretty, beat-up face and rock-hard six-pack abs. Having a famous pro athlete for a stepbrother means I’m aware that a lot of these guys are notorious f-boys, therefore all hockey games I attend are under duress. That is until Alex starts talking books to me. Then he becomes more than just a hot body with the face to match. And I discover just how good Alex is with the hockey stick in his pants. I consider our night of orgasmic magic as just that: one night. But Alex starts to call. And text. And email and send extravagant—and quirky—gifts. Suddenly, he's too difficult to ignore, and nearly impossible not to like. The problem? Alex is a total player. And me? I don’t want to be part of the game.