I throw a mental middle finger at my neighbor’s door, irritated that despite his horrendous personality, he’s getting action, and from someone who looks like a model. I assuage myself by imagining that he has a really small penis, even though she looked way too happy for that to be even remotely true.

Over the week that follows, several different women rotate through Jerkwad’s penthouse. I also run into him twice more in the mornings. Well, run into probably isn’t the right phrase. It just so happens that when I’m leaving for work, he conveniently appears in his weird underwear. It seems a lot like he’s flaunting the fact that he has several different women who enjoy riding his joystick. At least that’s what I assume he’s doing. We don’t exchange more than leering glares, so I’m going purely on speculation.

By the time I’ve been living in the penthouse for two weeks, I think I’ve gotten a handle on his schedule. The same blonde woman has been at his place on consecutive Wednesdays, so she must be his midweek screw. One afternoon I’m standing by the door, flipping through the mail, when I hear a woman’s voice in the foyer. So I have a look through the peephole.

The jerk is nowhere in sight, but another woman, this one petite with a short brown bob, struts over to the elevator, phone in hand as she waits for the doors to open. It irks the shit out of me that this asshole screws whoever the hell he wants, whenever he wants, and none of these women seem to mind. Maybe he pays them. That would make sense. He seems like too much of a dickhead to have booty calls without compensating them somehow.

We fall into a routine of sorts over the week that follows. He collects his morning paper on Tuesday and Thursday at exactly the same time—as I’m leaving for work—always in his damn underwear. On Wednesday and Friday, it’s already gone by the time I leave—those are my late-start days.

So the next Tuesday I wait with my eye pressed to the peephole for him to pick up the paper, to see if it’s coincidental or not. The minutes tick by, and his door stays firmly shut, at least until I open mine. I don’t step out, though. Instead I let it fall closed as his opens, revealing his ridiculously toned body wrapped in a pair of psychedelic boxer briefs.

What the hell is with this guy and his underwear?

He glances in the direction of my apartment, frowning as he picks up his paper. He’s slow to disappear behind his door.

Today I decide to up my game, because it’s obvious we’re playing one. I’m not exactly sure what the point is, other than this guy seems to be an exhibitionist and a complete playboy. Normally I’m dressed for work by this time, but today I go as far as throwing on a pair of athletic running shorts—the kind that barely cover my butt cheeks—and my sports bra. Then I put a hold on completing my outfit.

As a physiotherapist I stay in good shape. I’m curvy but fit. Waif types look great in magazine spreads, but I’ll own the hell out of every single one of my curves.

He opens the door at 7:03 on the nose as always—apart from the one time when he opened it at 7:05 because I’d held off until then—so I open mine. His underwear is Hawaiian print.

His gaze shifts my way, and his self-satisfied smirk slides off his face. It’s ridiculously gratifying to watch his eyes nearly pop out of his head. I twist slightly so I’m giving him a rear view and bend at the waist to retrieve my paper. It’s absolutely a blatant attempt to taunt him the way he’s been taunting me, and based on the way he’s gawking, it works well.

I toss a condescending grin his way. “Nice panties.” And then I return to the safety of my apartment and press my eye to the peephole so I can see his reaction.

He’s still standing there, mouth agape. He runs a hand down his chest and rearranges himself before he slowly bends to grab his own paper, eyes still on my closed door. He says something I can’t hear as he looks over his shoulder once more before disappearing.

“So much for being a boner-killer.” For the first time since I started my new job, I get ready for work with a smile.

CHAPTER 5

NEIGHBORLY

Bishop

Preseason training is something I usually look forward to, but right now it’s the opposite. For the majority of my career I’ve played forward. I might be a big guy—bigger than most of the forwards on the team—but I’m fast and I can shoot the puck. Which is why I’m irritated over the way Bowman and our coach, Alex Waters, keep having these obvious side conversations where I end up being shifted around from forward to defense and back again.

I already had some less-than-warm feelings toward Bowman with his asshole moves on the ice and his fake I’m-so-nice bullshit, but now he’s screwing with my game too. Plus, there’s this woman living in what’s supposed to be his penthouse, and I can’t figure out what the hell is going on there. It’s pissing me off. Although, to be honest, everything is pissing me off lately.

I’m in the lobby, on my way to my car, when I realize my favorite pair of preseason boxer briefs is still sitting on my kitchen counter where I left them. I debate whether I can deal with wearing the ones I have on and decide I can’t. My underwear is a thing.

Thankfully, the elevator is still at lobby level, so I hop right back on. Less than two minutes later I jam my favorite underwear into my duffel bag and leave my apartment once again. The elevator door is open, and there, in all her pink-cotton-candy-haired glory, is my teammate’s sidepiece.