Must Love Dogs…and Hockey is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Jamieson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Loveswept is a registered trademark and the Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9780593160251
Cover design: Derek Walls
Cover image: © Getty Images/filadendron (couple), © Getty Images/tkatsai (dog)
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Easton
Chapter 2: Lilly
Chapter 3: Easton
Chapter 4: Easton
Chapter 5: Lilly
Chapter 6: Easton
Chapter 7: Lilly
Chapter 8: Lilly
Chapter 9: Easton
Chapter 10: Lilly
Chapter 11: Lilly
Chapter 12: Easton
Chapter 13: Lilly
Chapter 14: Easton
Chapter 15: Lilly
Chapter 16: Lilly
Chapter 17: Easton
Chapter 18: Lilly
Chapter 19: Easton
Chapter 20: Easton
Chapter 21: Lilly
Chapter 22: Lilly
Chapter 23: Lilly
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
By Kelly Jamieson
About the Author
Chapter 1
Easton
Forget the mistake. Remember the lesson.
Too bad Coach Simmons doesn’t live by those words.
I’m sitting in my stall in the dressing room taking off my skates.
“For fuck’s sake, you can’t do shit like that!” Coach yells.
Jammer’s face tightens as he yanks on his skate laces. “I take responsibility for it,” he says in a terse tone. “I know it was a mistake. I didn’t even know that rule existed, and I didn’t think I was going to hit his stick.”
Jammer’s stick snapped when he blocked a shot on our net, but when he tossed it down, he hit a Vancouver player’s stick and got a penalty. Vancouver scored on the power play with only a minute and a half left in the game, and that was that.
My body tenses and my insides cramp up seeing how upset Jammer is, but I keep my face impassive (I hope) as Coach reams him out for what happened in the game we just lost. I have to fight back the urge to tell Coach to lay off. Yeah, that wouldn’t go well.
We just played the second night of a back-to-back, and the third game in four nights. We were all tired, but Jammer was finishing a long shift and was probably even more fatigued.
Coach isn’t having it. “You all fucking hung Gunner out to dry!” he roars, naming our goalie. “Being tired isn’t a goddamn excuse for boneheaded mistakes. You guys are supposed to be professionals.”
The atmosphere in the room is thick and uncomfortable. I feel that familiar heat filling my veins, pressure rising inside me. I don’t look at anyone else as I finish undressing, my jaw rigid.
“Jesus Christ,” Coach says. “I’m done. We’ll fix this shit tomorrow.” He kicks a helmet across the floor—actually kicks it!—and storms out.
Then we all lift our heads and let our eyes meet. I exhale slowly, trying to relax my knotted muscles. I rub the nape of my neck and tilt my head back.
We’re not a bad team. That’s not why Coach is yelling at us. It’s because he’s an asshole.
He takes a lot of his anger out on Jammer. And me.
Okay, he takes his anger out on a lot of us, but there are a few of us who are frequent targets. The only one he never browbeats is Bergie, our captain. And Bergie often defends him.
I mean, there’s no question Coach knows his stuff. He’s been around a long time, since his days as Tim the Tank playing for the Flyers.
I head to the shower and let the hot water pound down on me for a few minutes. Losing sucks. All athletes hate losing. Yeah, we made some mistakes tonight, and maybe there are lessons to learn. Gotta think positive.
The atmosphere in the room after a win is so different—music blasting, lots of laughter and chirping. Not tonight. Quiet. Muttered comments.
I dress in the suit I wore to the Apex Center in Midtown Manhattan, home of the New York Bears hockey club. I give my tie a hard yank to tighten the knot, nearly strangling myself. I meet my buddy Cookie’s eyes and nod.
Earlier, we made plans to go out after the game. I don’t feel much like partying, but I can sure as hell use a beer. Or ten.
Jammer, Wendy, and JBo are also joining us. We leave the arena onto Sixth Avenue. It’s a chilly mid-October night, and I pull on my knit beanie and wrap a scarf around my neck.
There are a few autograph hunters hanging around, so we pause to give our fans some attention, forcing smiles and platitudes about the game. These must be die-hard fans, since we lost, which usually earns us a lot of scorn and bitching.
Don’t get me wrong. I love our fans. They’re the reason we’re here. But I’ve been the target of enough hate that I’ve gotten a little cynical.
Then we zigzag a few streets over to the Amber Horse Brewhouse. None of us feel like hitting a loud club or chill gastropub tonight. This place is a hole-in-the-wall, kind of industrial, with a concrete floor, high, dark ceiling, and big frosted windows. The bar is really long. And packed. It’s Thursday night, a popular bar night, so not surprising. We make our way through the crowd—not hard with six-foot-five-inch, 225-pound Cookie leading the way.
Yeah, nobody makes fun of him for that nickname.
There aren’t any empty tables at the back, so we hang around the bar, people shifting to make room for us.
“Well, that sucked,” Wendy says once we all have beers in hand.
“Sucked like a vacuum cleaner,” JBo agrees. He guzzles back half his beer at once.
I do the same.
“Sucks like an elephant,” Cookie says.
I lift an eyebrow. “Elephant?”
“Yeah. An elephant can suck nearly four gallons of water and blow it straight into its mouth.”
“Four gallons.” I make a face and nod. “Okay. Right now I think I could suck about four gallons of this beer.” I lift it.
“Hell yeah.” We all take a moment to drink.
“Can’t wait for practice tomorrow,” I say, leaning an elbow on the bar. Not.
Cookie sighs. “I know. I guess Coach thinks if he makes us miserable enough after a loss, we’ll win every game.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“I know that.”
Wendy and Jammer, two of Coach’s other frequent targets, grimace.
“Fuck,” Jammer says. “I can’t believe that happened with my stick.”
“I know.” I clap a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “Shit happens.”
“And then I get shit on,” he adds bitterly.
I’ve struggled about whether to speak up or not. I’ve tried it, and it
only gets me in more trouble. And I get in enough trouble myself.
I know I have issues. I know I get angry way too often. I’m working on it.
“I’ve got ten bucks on another bag skate,” Wendy says bitterly.
“Not taking that bet.” I chug more beer. “We better not drink too much tonight, just in case.”
“I don’t even care if I puke my guts all over the ice,” Wendy says.
“I do.” I grimace. “I’ll blow chunks too if you do that.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Probably half the team will,” Cookie jokes.
“That would be a sight.” I tilt my head. “Actually…”
“No.” Cookie shakes his head. “Don’t go there. I’m frustrated, but not enough to deliberately puke.”
I shrug.
A woman moves up beside Cookie and touches his arm. “Excuse me. Are you Owen Cooke?”
He turns. “Yeah.”
“I thought so!” She holds up her phone with an excited smile. “Could I get a picture with you?”
“Sure.” Cookie smiles too and moves beside her so she can snap the selfie. “How about my friends here?”
Thanks, bro.
“Oh, wow, that would be great.” Her gaze lands on me. “Oh hey, you’re Easton Millar! The new guy.”
I grin. “Yep.” Even though I joined the team last season, I’m still “the new guy.”
“My girlfriends are all crazy about you!” she says breathlessly, then gives a self-conscious laugh.
I catch Cookie’s gagging mime behind the girl’s back.
“I’ll take the picture,” the bartender offers.
She hands her phone over and we all arrange ourselves behind her, since she’s about a foot shorter than us. After a few clicks, the bartender returns her phone.
She peers down at it. “Oh, thank you! These are great! My friends will be so jealous!”
We’re all used to this. Again, the fans are the reason we play. I used to get annoyed and impatient, especially when people asked me stupid questions about my past, which I do not want to talk about. But I’m doing better now, and most people have forgotten or don’t even know about what happened to me.
“Okay, I’ve got a question,” JBo announces once we’re done with the photo shoot.
“What?”
“Have you guys ever used a condom for oral?”
I blink. “Not what I was expecting. I, uh, have not.”
The others are all in agreement.
“Why?” Wendy asks. “You got an infection? Cold sore?”
“No!” JBo frowns. “I was just curious. Okay, this chick I was with last weekend asked me to. I’d never done it before.”
“Well, apparently you can get STIs from oral sex,” I say. “So it’s probably a good idea.”
“Then why don’t we do it?” Jammer asks wryly.
“Because we’re idiots?” I shrug.
“Yeah. Could be.”
“It’s kind of a mood killer, no?” Wendy says.
“I had to cut up a condom and use it like a dental dam,” JBo informs us. “I mean, it was good that I had the right kind. Ones with lube might be kind of nasty tasting.”
“Lots of flavors out there,” I point out.
“Okay, do you use one when women go down on you?” Jammer asks.
Again, we all answer in the negative.
“Risky,” he says, shaking his head.
“True. Something to think about.”
“Women are way more concerned about it,” JBo says. “They always want you to use a condom.”
“Obviously,” I say. “The consequences of getting pregnant are way worse for them.”
“I know, I know. And I do use one.”
“Same. Don’t be a fool, wrap your tool.”
They all laugh.
“They’re only a buck, get one before you fuck,” Wendy adds, to more laughter.
Tension eases out of me now we’ve turned the conversation away from shop talk. Hockey’s our passion, but everyone needs a break from their job sometimes.
Cookie and I take the subway home. We live in the same building, as do a couple of other guys who play for the team. Cookie was the one who recommended the building to me when I moved here. It’s nice, not super expensive, which is hard to find in New York, and it’s a great location—easy subway ride to and from the arena, and quick access to 9A to get to our practice facility.
We walk into the lobby of our building and head to the elevator. There’s a woman already there, waiting, with a pup on a leash. He’s bounding around, clearly a puppy, one of those so-ugly-he’s-cute kinds. Some kind of bulldog mix, maybe? Sad-looking eyes and mouth, black with a white patch on his chest, and big ears sticking up.
The elevator arrives and the woman steps inside, tugging the leash. But the pup doesn’t follow her; he’s more interested in us. We try to move forward so he’ll follow his owner, but he goes up on his back legs, pulling on his leash, tongue hanging out of his mouth. He’s hilarious.
Then the elevator doors slide shut.
The woman is inside. The dog is outside.
For a moment, everyone is stunned into silence. I wait for the doors to open again, and when they don’t, I leap forward and punch the button, hoping to stop the elevator. It doesn’t work. I punch it six more times. Then the woman in the elevator starts screaming. She’s still holding the leash and the dog is still attached to it, and the elevator is going up.
Jesus Christ.
“Fuck!” I dash forward and grab the leash. It’s pulling tight. I need to get it off the dog. “Fuck!”
I’m not even thinking, just reacting. All I know is I have to save this dog.
“Shhh. Calm down,” I order him. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
It’s getting tighter.
Cookie leaps forward to grab the leash too, trying to hold it as it strains.
My fingers close around the clip. I can’t see what I’m doing, only feel, and I use my thumb to flick it open then wrangle it off. The dog is in my arms now, crying, and as he’s freed, I stumble back.
“Holy shit,” Cookie says, looking on in horror, eyes wide. “That was close.”
My legs suddenly feel like rubber bands and I sink down onto the floor on my ass, the dog on my lap. He’s now frantically licking my face and wriggling around. I stroke his back and try to dodge his tongue. “It’s okay, dude. You’re okay. I got you.”
The elevator returns to the ground floor and opens. The woman bursts out and stops short when she sees me.
“He’s okay,” I say. “See?”
She’s crying, her face wet and red. She appears to be in her thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing jeans and a jacket. “Oh my God!” She presses her hands to her face. “I was so scared. Oh my God.”
Her eyes go glassy and she doesn’t look so good. Cookie moves over to her to take her arm. “Maybe you should sit down.”
He leads her over to the grouping of chairs in the lobby of the building and helps her sit. Now I notice that Javier, the doorman who was sitting at the big sleek counter in the lobby, has joined us, a concerned look on his face.
The woman is shaking and sobbing. “I can’t b-believe that happened.” She bends over. “Oh my God. I can’t do this.”
What?
“It was close,” Cookie agrees, looking over at me. “Lucky my buddy here is good and strong.”
I’m shaking a bit too, the adrenaline still coursing in my veins, so I can’t blame the woman for being upset. Except, Jesus, she should have carried the dog into the elevator in case this happened.
I pull in a long, slow breath, which makes the pup try to lick me even more. You’d think he’d run to his owner, but he doesn’t seem to want to leave my lap. I pu
sh up off the marble floor with the dog in my arms.
I meet Javier’s eyes. “We’re all okay.”
“Good, good.”
I carry the dog over to the woman. “Here’s your dog.”
“He’s n-not my dog,” she says, leaning away as if she’s afraid of him.
I pause. “Oh.” I set him down on the floor, holding his collar.
Shaking her head and wringing her hands, she sobs, “I can’t do this. Oh my God, I nearly killed him! I can’t do this.”
I bite my lip and meet Cookie’s eyes.
She’s practically having a breakdown. The poor dog doesn’t know what to do. He keeps looking at me with that funny old-man expression.
I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to leave them when she’s melting down. “Can we help you get up to your apartment?”
She stares at me blankly. Then she shakes her head. “I don’t live here.”
What the fuck? What is she doing here, then? “Whose dog is he? Does his owner live here?”
“Yes.” She’s bouncing around as if she wants to bolt. “I have to go. I’ll give you his number.” She digs frantically in her purse.
I frown. What? I don’t want the owner’s number. What are we supposed to do with that?
“I got this,” Cookie says. “What’s his number?”
She rattles it off and Cookie enters it into his phone
“What’s his name?” Cookie asks.
“Percy.”
As Cookie’s entering that into his phone, she takes off running and bolts out of the building.
Cookie and I stare after her.
What just happened?
I look down at the dog. “I don’t even know your name, little dude.”
“He likes you,” Cookie says. “I guess he knows you saved his life.”
I turn to Javier, who is still watching us. “Hey, Javier, do you know who that was?”
He shakes his head. “Never seen her before.”
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