Wyatt.
Really, it made sense.
Wyatt was a Marshall. And Marshalls had a tendency to jump on their proverbial white horse and save the day.
At least for members of the family.
So, yeah, it completely made sense that he could be her contact.
Especially since he was oh-so-conveniently here in Khabarovsk, in Far East Russia, playing a Polish team in an international tournament.
Coco’s heart had practically turned to hot wax when she saw his picture on one of the flyers for the event posted in the hotel. And at a nearby restaurant. And in a grocery store. And outside the Platinum Arena on a larger-than-life banner.
The man still looked good, too, if this was a recent shot. Probably because he looked older. Tougher than his twenty-six years. Square jawline, whiskey-brown eyes that looked straight into the camera with a sort of dare, and a slightly crooked, flattened nose, evidence of one too many ice brawls.
She had loved to trace her finger down it.
The broken nose made him larger than life, added a toughness to his charming smile, even with the cute dimple on the right cheek, and suggested he was the kind of man who wouldn’t be afraid to dive into a fight. He was a big man—nearly six-three, with wide shoulders and a body honed by hours upon hours on the ice and in the gym. The man was practically religious about his health and body—he called it the triad of success—health, body, mind.
She called it pure heartbreak because Wyatt Marshall couldn’t walk into a room without stealing her heart.
And inevitably, destroying it.
As she watched him press his hands to his face—probably for privacy as he put himself back together—she lost her heart all over again.
Oh, Wyatt. Breathe. It’s just a game.
Clearly, it had been a terrible idea to come to the game. Roman would kill her when he found out. A month of keeping her safe as she healed from her gunshot wound, and she could be blowing it all by sneaking out into this crowd.
Except, it was a crowd. No one was going to find her. First, she’d dyed her hair black. Pitch raven black instead of her natural red. Okay, not completely natural, but she liked to experiment. And she wore a jacket, the hood up.
She might have blown it when she’d shouted the Blue Ox cheer—Thin the herd! That emerged in English, pretty loudly, during a lull in the game, right after the fight, but that Polish player, Number 32, had taken a cheap shot at Wyatt.
Her goalie had come up bleeding, wearing a lethal expression. But after the scuffle, he’d tucked it back inside and fielded what seemed like a thousand shots on goal.
Including that last one. Coco still couldn’t believe it had dropped out of his glove.
He’d deserved the save.
The stands were thinning as she watched Wyatt pick up his stick, his face mask, his glove and head toward the bench in long, slow, dejected strides.
Her chest ached.
She’d just follow him back to the hotel, make sure he wasn’t being tailed. Then…
Then what?
Just knock on his hotel door? Um, she’d tried that once and didn’t want to think about the rest.
She loved him more than her very breath.
He most likely thought of her as a one, no-, two-time fling.
And really, she couldn’t blame him.
Wyatt Marshall was a big deal. The Hottie of Hockey, according to the Twittersphere. Was dating Miss Minnesota, by the looks of it.
He’d long ago moved on from the angry young man who needed comfort.
She’d fallen not for the strong, steely-eyed athlete who stood alone between the posts, not the cover-model hockey player, the one who made a few pin-up and most-eligible lists on social media, but the rare, quiet man inside who tried to sing country music, donned a cowboy hat, and took her riding. The man who listened when she was hurting and asked for nothing.
But gave her everything when she asked.
Wyatt left the bench, walking back down the tunnel to the locker rooms, and she moved out with the crowd. It was better not to be jostled, anyway. She still held her arm close to her body over the wound in her abdomen.
She’d lost part of her small intestine, but after two weeks in the hospital, York guarding the door, she’d discharged herself and headed east.
To Siberia.
Outside, the evening bore the early scents of autumn, the oak and linden trees along the boulevard that led away from the arena already turning. The sun had splashed down beyond the Amur River, leaving a deep, simmering hint of red along the horizon. The red-bricked Russian Baptist church cast a shadow over the square, on a hill overlooking the arena parking lot. Flags fluttered overhead.
She slipped around the side of the building, past the three stories of steps, and toward the back entrance, hiding herself in a shadow.
Prevyet, Wyatt.
No. English might be better.
Hey, Wy…I heard you were looking for me.
She shoved her hands into her pockets. Maybe she’d simply get on the elevator with him, see if he recognized her—
What if he didn’t recognize her?
She hadn’t considered that, but hello, that was the point of her disguise, right? And what if he hadn’t been looking for her, but…
Except she’d read his postings on the board. ISO Kittycat1. Pls contact me. Scooby87.
She couldn’t exactly reply. She had no doubt that Damien had access to her computer, knew her alias, had probably even drained her bank account.
Of course, she had her own security backups, but if she wanted to make sure that proof of RJ’s innocence got into safe hands, she needed to do this the old-fashioned way.
The players began to exit the building. She knew most of the Blue Ox by their pictures on their website—followed their games. Knew Deke Stoner, a forward, and his rookie brother Brendon, who played defenseman. Knew Kalen Boomer, who looked in decent health after his hip replacement two years ago. It was his injury that opened up the door for Wyatt’s promotion to the pros.
The guys came out with their duffel bags over their shoulders, a couple equipment handlers pushing out the gear into a big bus.
She waited, the entire team climbing aboard, about to give up when she saw him.
Wyatt had showered, his brown hair wet and shorter, clearly cut after the Stanley Cup loss. He hadn’t shaved, a thin layer of dark whiskers along his strong jaw. He dressed like an elite warrior in a pair of suit pants, an oxford shirt, a tie. A suit jacket that made his shoulders look about a mile wide.
Oh, the press conference. He’d probably stopped in for a five-minute interview after the game.
She’d bet that was fun—reliving the moment when his mistake turned them from leaders to losers.
No wonder his mouth was pinched tight, his hand gripping his bag in a whitened clench.
He got on the bus.
She headed to the parking lot.
Roman had loaned her his Lada, a cute hatchback called a Kalina, and she slid into the front seat and took off her parka, leaving on her hoodie. The sounds of the past stirred inside her as she backed out of the lot.
You need to learn how to drive, Coco. All Americans know how to drive.
She’d been fourteen. Trying to embrace her American heritage. The year her mother got so sick.
Two months before she died.
Wyatt sat at the wheel of the pickup, two years older than her. He wore a black T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and a cowboy hat, just home from hockey camp.
“C’mere. It’s easy.”
It was the first time she noticed how big he really was, even at sixteen. He’d slid the seat of the pickup back and she’d crawled between his legs, sitting in front of him. He put his arms down, on his strong thighs. “You steer, I’ll work the gas. Just get a feel for it.”
They were in a field off the long road that led to the Marshalls’ massive log house, and he gunned it, probably knowing perfectly well that she couldn’t run into anyt
hing except a few cow pies.
And, of course, the Marshall family’s Cessna, parked on the runway. She’d gotten too close and he’d grabbed the wheel. “Whoops! Let’s not total my dad’s favorite toy.”
She’d laughed, happily cocooned in his arms as they veered down the runway.
“When do you leave for Helena?” she asked as he put her hands on the wheel again. She’d hated it when she’d heard the news—that he’d be spending the school year in Helena, playing on a traveling team. If he hadn’t switched positions, turned into a hotshot goaltender…
Well, she couldn’t expect that he might feel the same way about her.
But she’d given her heart away to Wyatt Marshall the day when she walked into his barn, shortly after moving in with their family and he’d said, “Shoot at me.”
He’d pointed to a basket of tennis balls. And by the end of the afternoon, had her laughing with his antics to save the goal. He’d ended up dirty, scraped, bruised, and grinning.
He’d made her laugh.
For the first time, she didn’t feel like the girl in the shadows, the Russki, the foreigner.
With Wyatt, she felt like she could belong.
Even when she nearly drove them into a ditch. He’d slammed on the brakes, shaken his head, and told her that by the end of the week, when he left for Helena, she’d be driving like Danica Patrick.
Whoever that was.
But now, as Coco pulled into the Intourist Hotel, not far behind the bus, the memory slid a warmth through her that she had nearly forgotten.
Wyatt would remember her.
Because the last time she’d knocked on his door, he’d chased her down the hallway, shooed everyone in his private party out of his room—men and women, so apparently she’d let her worst fears dream up trouble—and invited her inside.
She couldn’t let herself think about the rest if she hoped to hand over the USB drive and walk away.
And walk away she would. Because Wyatt had to stay alive.
If not for her, then for Mikka.
Because someday, her son had to meet his superstar father.
2
“So, that was fun. Any more sunshine from you and we might need shades.”
Wyatt looked over at Coach Jace as he caught up to him in the lobby.
Jace “J-Hammer” Jacobsen had been their leading enforcer before he’d taken one too many hits to the head. A big guy, dark hair, a few scars on his square chin, Jace was a straight shooter, with a pretty wife and a family. He became a coach right about the time Wyatt was moved up to the show.
Wyatt’s hair was still wet, dripping into the collar of his shirt, and frankly, he just wanted to get upstairs, stow his duffle bag and get back down to the bar where he was supposed to meet York.
But he had a job to keep and a coach to respect so, “Sorry, Coach. I just didn’t have much to say.”
No, correct that. He hadn’t had anything to say—his focus on getting on the bus and back to the hotel.
His focus on finding Coco. Tonight. Please.
“We’re always representing,” Jace said. “And, if I remember, you pushed us to get into this tournament. I expected a little more than a few mumbles about playing better in the zone and congratulating the Polish team. We count on you to woo the press. You’re not just our starting goalie but a team leader.”
Jace sort of reminded Wyatt of his father. Serious. Hard-hitting. The kind of guy who didn’t rattle easily. But he knew how to mix it up on the ice—rumor was he’d ended someone’s career in his early days with his fists. At least Wyatt’s mistakes only cost games.
It must have changed him because Jace occasionally spouted Bible verses and quotes by C.S. Lewis.
Very much like Orrin Marshall.
Maybe that’s why Wyatt tried to steer clear of him.
Wyatt’s mouth tightened around the edges. “I wasn’t in the mood for an interview.” He didn’t slow at the desk but headed right for the elevator bank.
“Wyatt, I need to talk to you,” Jace said, following him to the elevators.
It was his tone that stopped Wyatt. Sent a cold fist around his chest.
Jace lowered his voice. “How are your hips?”
The question was like a shot on goal Wyatt hadn’t seen coming. He could nearly hear the sirens blaring in the back of his head. “Fine.”
“You’re moving pretty slowly—”
“I’m in top shape, Coach. I promise.”
Jace gave him a thin-lipped shake of his head.
“What?”
“You know Kalen is ready to come back. And your contract is up next year, and…well, after the Stanley Cup—”
“It was a shootout. Three overtimes—”
“You’re slipping, Wyatt. And I’m not just talking about today. Yes, the Stanley Cup overtime loss was hard. But before that—and again during this tournament—your game is off.”
“I’m focused.”
“Yeah? We need you all in, Guns. On the ice and off. You were always the guy who wooed the press. You’re a personality. A star. The face of the Blue Ox. So what’s with today’s surly press conference?”
“Sorry.” Wyatt glanced at Jace, taking his gaze off where he was scoping out the lobby for anyone who looked like York, or at least his sister’s description of him. Dark hair, lean, capable.
“Wyatt, I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but you’ve always played with a crazy amount of passion. You’re driven like no one I’ve ever seen before. Up early for extra practice. Staying late. And I know you aren’t a partier. But I can’t get past the idea that all this isn’t enough for you. As if you’re still looking for something, moving around the crease, trying to grab something that just keeps flying by you.”
He had Wyatt’s attention now. “It’s enough, Coach. I love playing for the Blue Ox.” A fist began to squeeze his chest. “Hockey is all I have. It’s my whole world.”
Jace was staring him down with those blue-as-ice enforcer eyes. “Maybe that’s the problem, huh?” He clamped Wyatt on the shoulder. “What if it crumbled? What would you have left?”
Wyatt stood there, a little stricken.
“Take a breath, Wyatt. I’m not saying I’m starting Kalen anytime soon. I’m just wondering…well, do you even like the sport?”
“I’ve been breathing hockey since I was seven years old. It’s who I am.”
The elevator arrived and dinged.
“That’s not an answer.” Jace got into the elevator with him. “You’re pretty hard on yourself, Guns. But the more you focus on your failures, the more cluttered your brain will be. Give yourself a little grace. And stop trying so hard. You’re your own worst enemy, sometimes.”
Wyatt looked at him, not even sure where to start. Except, “Coach, I’m good, really. I’m just…tired.”
“Mmmhmm,” Jace said. His tone changed. “Listen, there are some media folks joining us for dinner. Show up and show off that Wyatt Marshall charm.”
“I’ll try and stop by,” he said, not wanting to make promises. Who knew what might happen after he met York. In fact, he was dearly hoping he’d be in a cab on his way to meet Coco.
The very idea had his throat thickening, his heart racing.
The thought of meeting her was worse than pregame warm-up. But then again, Coco had always made him feel alive, his real self. Or at least the man he wanted to be.
He’d lost that guy along the way, somehow.
“Okay. Hope to see you. But if not, get some rest. We need to be on the train to Vladivostok tomorrow morning, early.”
Jace got off the lift and Wyatt followed him down the hall. He let himself into the adjoining room, dropped his duffel bag on the bed, draped his suit jacket on a chair, and pulled off his tie.
The room had former Soviet Union written all over it, spare and cold. It even came with an old-fashioned room key that he had to use to lock and unlock his door. He’d slept on softer bleacher seats than the double bed, and the blond furn
iture was either retro or hadn’t been replaced since the early seventies.
Still, it was clean, and the balcony overlooked the Amur River. The final hues of red turned the river to fire, the sky above a steel gray.
Wyatt checked his watch. Five minutes to the meet. He changed into a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, grabbed his wallet, passport, and key, and headed back out to the elevator.
Waited.
It seemed to be stuck on an upper floor so he took the stairs down and emerged into a hallway off the bar.
He was still entrenched in the seventies. Gold chandeliers, red leather high top chairs, gold carpet, and even a disco light over a small, empty stage at the back. A karaoke machine was shoved into the corner. So that accounted for the screeching last night. Now, the overhead speakers pumped out a Russian pop song.
He recognized a few Blue Ox players sitting at some of the round tables. They sat with players from other teams, a few making friends with fans.
No one resembled York’s description.
Wyatt stood at the edge of the bar, scanning the room again.
“Why do they call you Guns?” The question came from a woman with long sable-brown hair. She wore a sleeveless velvet top and a pair of black jeans. And around her neck, a laminated sports pass card. He glanced at it, back to her.
“You probably know the answer.”
“Because you’ve got great guns?” she said, winking. She pressed her hand to his arm, squeezed.
He pried her hand off him. “No. Because my last name is Marshall. Sheriff. Gun. Get it?” He tried to move past her, but she stepped in front of him.
“Who are you looking for?”
He looked down at her. Maybe five-seven, lean, deep blue eyes. Pretty, late thirties. She raised an eyebrow, and for a second, he paused.
York? Yes, he was supposed to be male, but he’d seen enough Mission: Impossible movies to know that sometimes things go south so, “I’m looking for a friend.” He lowered his voice. “His name is York.”
He waited.
“Sorry. I don’t know anyone named York.” She glanced around the room and lowered her voice also. “But I’m pretty good at finding people.”
Wyatt Page 2