by Elise Faber
And also, he really wanted to hear her voice.
He’d just slid his finger across the screen in what was probably the brain injury equivalent to drunk dialing, when the door to his room flew open. He glanced up, expecting Mandy, but instead—
Rebecca.
With pale, tear-streaked cheeks and shaky steps.
“Are you—” he began.
She jerked her head and ran across the room, launching herself into his bed and making him wince. But then she was in his arms and hugging him tight, and it was all fucking worth it.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Baby,” he whispered. “It’s—”
“No,” she said and pushed up. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I panicked. You and I both know that it’s not the first or last time something like that will happen, but it still wasn’t fair. I should have—” Her released breath was frustrated and staccato. “The truth is, it wasn’t just the anxiety. I was scared because . . .”
“You don’t want me to leave like your dad.”
“Yes.” She sighed again. “No. Or, fuck, yes that but also . . . you mean more to me than any other person ever has, and I just knew I was going to screw it up.”
“Honey—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “I knew that. The only difference is that now I also know you will, too.” He laughed then winced, and she immediately tried to jump off the bed. “Oh no, your head. I’m—”
“I’m fine,” he said, grabbing her by the waist and keeping her close. “Also, yes, I’m sure I’ll mess up. Many times. The difference is that I’ll do my best to make it up to you and then never do it again.” She stopped fighting his hold, staring down at him with wide green eyes. “We’re not your parents. Or anyone else, for that matter. We’re just us. And we can find our own brand of happy, one that’s perfect for us.”
“I—” She touched his uninjured cheek, hesitating long enough that his gut was twisting itself in knots before she spoke again. “I know there are no guarantees in life, but that’s the best damn offer I’ve ever heard.”
He relaxed, pulling her close. “Killing me, sweetheart.”
“I love you, Gabe. For a while now.” She gently touched his mouth with hers. “Even when I was too scared to admit it to myself.”
His lips curved. “It’s because I’m totally loveable.”
She smacked him and he stole her mouth in a kiss that stung his injured cheek, but one that was the best ever anyway.
Because she’d come to him, because when things had come to a head, she’d pushed through.
For him.
So nothing else mattered.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he murmured, when they broke apart.
“I love you.” She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Now, how soon can we get you out of here?”
“As soon as the pain in the ass who ordered me to have a CT comes back with the results.”
She frowned. “And who’s that?”
“Me.”
Her laughter carried him through the hour it took to get the results.
Just like it would carry him through the next seventy years.
Epilogue
Rebecca, One Year Later
She could do this. She could do this. She could—
Who the fuck was she kidding?
She totally could not do this.
This being book promotion. Major book promotion because her diet book was selling incredibly well after the guys on the team and her friends—yes, her friends, she was part of a group of awesome friends and those friends had her back to the nth degree. They’d recommended her book to friends, to fellow athletes, to a few B-list celebrities.
And now she was here.
In New York and about to be interviewed on a huge morning show, after which she’d be whisked off to a bookstore and be signing books.
Here, also being hiding in the bathroom stall at said morning show because her liaison with the publisher had told her that every seat was full, and standing room only was full, and that people were waiting outside on the sidewalk.
To meet her.
Her.
What the fuck was happening?
She’d come a long way in a year, was doing things she’d never thought possible. But this was just too much. Resting her head against the panel of the bathroom stall, she crouched on the floor next to the row of sinks, and took slow and steady breaths as she resisted the urge to pull out her cell and call Gabe.
He was busy with the team, overseeing a long homestand.
He had responsibilities.
He—
Lies.
She’d changed and become more confident over the last year and a half of being friends and more with Gabe. Her anxiety was manageable, almost more so because she had someone at her side who loved her without reservation and . . .
She didn’t want Gabe to think she was weak.
He’d offered to come, but it was a busy time for the Gold, the typical pile-up of injuries and treatments as the long season took its toll. She didn’t want her little book to take away from that.
But her little book wasn’t so little anymore.
And neither was her anxiety.
Sweat trickled down her spine, her gut churned, her heart was pounding . . . and still her fingers refused to call him.
Too early in California.
Too—
“Stubborn as ever.”
Rebecca gasped, her cell slipping from her fingers, but luckily Gabe was faster. He darted through the gap in the door and grabbed it before it hit the floor. A second later, he’d shoved it into his pocket and pulled her into his arms.
Warm. Pine and sandalwood drifting up to her nose. Immediately, she relaxed. Pavlov had nothing on Gabe, especially when he was holding her tightly, his lips at her ear, his hand rubbing gently up and down her back.
“You weren’t going to call me, were you?”
She didn’t want to fight, not with him holding her like this, so she didn’t answer.
He understood her non-answer anyway and huffed. “I love you, you knucklehead.” Lightly, he tugged on a strand of her hair. “But you don’t have to push through alone anymore, remember?”
Her teeth found the corner of her mouth, nibbled. “Yes, but—”
“Partners.” He leaned back, touched her chest with two fingers then his. “We’re in this together and when the woman I love has something huge happening in her life, I’m going to be there.” He touched his lips to her cheek, probably in deference to the lipstick the makeup artist had painstakingly applied. “No matter what. Or how stubborn she’s being about pushing me away.”
“But the team—”
“Will be fine for one night,” he murmured. “You’re more important. They know that. I know that. The only one not clued in is—”
“Me.” She sighed, guilt pulsing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you away.”
“I know, baby,” he murmured. “But it’s also why I’m here, not letting you push me away.” She winced, but he just cupped her cheek and waited until she met his eyes. “I love you. I know you don’t mean to do it. But it also doesn’t mean I’m not going to be a stubborn bastard by staying close.”
Her mouth quirked. “You seemed to be really good at staying close before I left.”
His hand slid down to her waist, fingers tickling over the top of her butt. “That’s because—”
“I’m a pain in the ass?”
He pinched her rump lightly. “Yup. Quite literally.”
“Hey!” She smacked his hands away, and they laughed, Gabe winding his arms back around her and pulling her back into his arms.
“You’re going to do great,” he murmured. “It’s plant proteins and cashew cheese and—”
A knock came on the bathroom door. “Rebecca? We’re ready for you,” a voice called.
“Oh fuck,” she whispered.
“You got this,” Gabe said with utter confidence, his eyes filled
with warmth and love as he stared down at her.
“I’ve got this,” she said. “I’ve. Got. This.”
“You do have this,” he agreed.
They walked to the door, hand and hand. She pulled it open, smiled at the production assistant, and announced, “I’m ready.”
At the stage door, she paused.
And lipstick be damned, she turned back to the man she loved with all her heart, the one who loved every single piece of her, flawed or not, and . . . she kissed him.
“I love you,” she murmured, cupping his cheek for one brief moment.
Then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode onto the set.
It was time to profess her love of cashew cheese to the world.
Epilogue
Part Two
Coop
“So, in conclusion, you need to get your fucking head out of your fucking ass,” Calle snapped into her cell phone. “Otherwise, I swear to fucking God I will never, ever talk to you again.”
Coop had just exited the arena door, the entire team having gathered to watch their nutritionist and newfound best-selling author, Rebecca, on a national morning show promoting her book. The shy, quiet redhead was unassuming, but also a major reason the Gold were currently the number one team in the league. She’d come up with the diet plan the entire team was following and a major source of their increased energy and shortened injury recovery time.
He knew he, for one, had never felt better thanks to Rebecca and the rest of the training staff.
But another one of the reasons the team was doing so incredibly well was standing right in front of him, forehead pressed to her clenched fists, one of which still clutched her cell phone.
Calle Stevens, newest assistant coach for the Gold and former national team member. Tall for a woman and built, with strong thighs, shoulders, and arms that bespoke of the grace and fierce player she’d been on the ice. She might have blown out her knee, but that inner athlete never completely faded. Add in a head for the game that out thought most coaches twice her age and she had been a huge boon to the team when they’d picked her up.
She was also even.
That was the best description Coop could think for her. Never raised her voice, always ready with a smile or joke. Stern sometimes, yes. Tough, for sure. But she wasn’t a yeller.
And after playing hockey from the time he was five, he’d been on plenty of teams with yellers.
Calle sighed and pocketed her phone, staring off into the distance for several long moments before sweeping her long brown hair back into a ponytail and turning to reenter the building.
Which was the moment that he realized he should have moved.
Coop should have gone when he’d stumbled onto the conversation that was obviously private because she’d stepped outside to take it.
But he hadn’t because . . . well, Calle wasn’t the type of person who screamed into cell phones, who took long, centering breaths before dashing her thumb under each eye, as though she was wiping away tears.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t yell. She—
Was staring right at him.
“Hey,” she said, after a long moment, blinking the distance from her gaze, though he noticed she still focused on a point over his left shoulder and not on him. “You have a chance to review those tapes from Dani?” she asked.
Dani was their video coach and the woman was able to cut, prep, and send clips of games to the team’s tables faster than most people could unlock their phones. Calle had asked her to send over a package the previous day and he’d watched them this morning. He nodded. “Yeah, thanks for that. I think it’ll be helpful for me on the breakout. Especially against Tampa Bay.”
Calle brushed a hand through her hair. “Good, good,” she said distractedly.
He frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Hmm?” She finally met eyes. “Yeah. I’m great.”
Except her tone was completely off.
“Calle,” he said.
Anger edged into her expression, mouth opening, and Coop braced for some of the same pissed-off woman that he’d overheard on her call. But almost just as quickly, that fury faded and her pretty brown eyes filled with tears.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine.”
“Who was on the phone?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Calle.”
“It doesn’t.” She shook her head brusquely, sucked in a breath.
Maybe he would have let it go, let her go as she walked by, kept things between them strictly professional.
But then he saw the tear.
Glistening in the morning light as it escaped the corner of her eye.
Without thinking, he caught her arm.
“You’re not okay.”
She shuddered to a stop when he touched her, not fighting the grip, chin dropping to her chest. “No,” she said, “you’re right. I’m not okay.”
“Who was on the phone?” he asked gently.
Her jaw went tight. “My ex.”
Fury blazed through him. Tears. Sadness. Depression. He’d seen it before, had promised himself he would never let another woman in his world go through that. “Did he hurt you?” he growled.
A shake of her head. “Not like you’re thinking.” She sucked in a breath. “He broke my heart.”
Coop’s own heart twinged. “I’m sorry, Calle. That’s—”
“Fucking stupid.” Another tear joined the first, dripping down the pale skin of her cheek.
“It’s not stupid to have loved someone,” he said gently.
Her eyes went fierce. “It’s incredibly stupid when the person who supposedly loves you right back doesn’t give a damn that you’re pregnant.”
His jaw fell open, he knew it did.
But Calle? Even, gentle, Calle had gotten knocked up and—
“Yup,” she said, brushing by him. “See? Really fucking stupid.”
And without another word, she disappeared into the rink.
Coasting
Gold Hockey #8 Coming June 15th, 2020
Preorder your copy at www.books2read.com/Coasting
Gold Hockey Series
Blocked
Backhand
Boarding
Benched
Breakaway
Breakout
Checked
Coasting
Gold Hockey
Did you miss any of the Gold Hockey books?
Find information about the full series here.
Or keep reading for a sneak peek into each of the books below!
Blocked
Gold Hockey Book #1
Get your copy at books2read.com/Blocked
Brit
The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?”
The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?”
The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink.
Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind.
And she meant way down.
Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed.
But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted.
Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive?
Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people.
Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and ha
ve an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy.
She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations.
So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.”
–Get your copy at books2read.com/Blocked
Backhand
Gold Hockey Book #2
Get your copy at books2read.com/Backhand
Sara
“Sorry I messed up your sketch,” he rumbled.
She nibbled on the side of her mouth, biting back a smile. “Sorry I stole your hand for so long.”
He shrugged. “My mom’s an artist. I get it.”
Well, there went her battle with the smile. Her lips twitched and her teeth came out of hiding. If there was one thing that Sara had, it was her smile. It had been her trademark in her competition days.
Which were long over.
Her mouth flattened out, the grin slipping away. Time to go, time to forget, to move on, to rebuild. “Thanks,” she said and extended a hand.
Then winced and dropped it when her ribs cried out in protest.
“You okay?” he asked, head tilting, eyes studying her.
“Fine.” And out popped her new smile. The fake one. Careful of her aching side, she shrugged into her backpack. “I’ve got to go.” She turned, ponytail flapping through the hair to land on her opposite shoulder.