Charging (Gold Hockey Book 10)

by Elise Faber

  “I don’t know how smart it was,” he told her, picking up his fork again since it seemed as though she’d taken up the task of feeding herself, “but I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes flew to his, and he couldn’t resist brushing his fingers over the shell of her ear, along her jaw, down her throat. Her skin like silk. “You’ve done so much, Starlight,” he said. “Accomplished all you hoped. So yeah, proud doesn’t even begin to describe it, not when it’s been a privilege to watch you thrive.”

  “Logan.”

  He shoved a bite into his mouth before he admitted to the privilege of loving her.

  “Can’t you see that you’ve done great things, too?”

  He snorted. “I won the Cup with L.A., and yeah, that was incredible. I shot some commercials, secured some endorsements.” A shrug. “But none of that is extraordinary. You, baby. You broke barriers. You dreamed big dreams and managed to hold on tight to them.”

  She nibbled the corner of her mouth. “I don’t feel like I did much. I mean, I’m proud of myself, of course, but I only did what lots of other people have done. Keep my head down and work hard, and I had several lucky breaks.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But Luc saw your value, and you chose to leap. And you didn’t squander your chance.” Brown eyes met his and though they were still warm, Logan detected a trace of discomfort in their depths. “I’m guessing this is where you tell me that you’ve had enough talking about you and your greatness?”

  She snorted. “I’m confident that you’ve fawned over me long enough.”

  He waggled his brows. “So, is this where you fawn over me?”

  Another snort. “I think you’ve had far too many people fawn over you.” She nudged the plate toward him. “Finish it off, behemoth. I’ve had my fill.”

  Since she’d eaten more than half of the omelet and he’d barely had a few bites, Logan took Char at her word, though not before admitting, “My family is good at making sure I don’t take all the fawning seriously.”

  Her expression gentled. “How is your family?”

  “Great. Cecily is married now.”

  “No!”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “And much to my parents’ disappointment, she has no plans of settling down further. She and her new husband sacrificed a wedding and an expensive honeymoon in favor of an elopement in Vegas and six months of backpacking around the world.”

  “That sounds like Cecily.”

  His sister was an adventurer, a woman who always kept the world on its toes, so it certainly wasn’t a surprise that she’d forgone the white dress and big shindig, even though his mother had been desperate for a chance to throw a big party.

  “We all flew out and watched her take her vows in front of Elvis.”

  Char grinned. “When in Vegas.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And then my new brother-in-law plied my mom with many a strawberry daiquiri and an all-expense-paid trip to Neiman Marcus to soothe her disappointment.”

  “Smart,” Char said. “What did she get?”

  Logan scooped up some omelet. “I think the better question might be, what didn’t she get?”

  Charlotte laughed.

  The sound was the warm breeze on a summer day, the gentle swoosh of a lake’s waves in the evening twilight, a thick coat when the cold was seeping through his clothing. It was beautiful and comforting and meant so much.

  But what meant more was Char squeezing his hand, sharing in his happiness over his sister and mother.

  What meant more was her letting him in—even just as friends, even just the smallest bit.

  What meant everything was the absence of hatred in her eyes.

  Ten

  Char

  Logan had taken her booting him from her house with good humor.

  And he didn’t even reappear at her back door or teleport himself into her kitchen.

  But though he’d gone, she couldn’t deny that his presence was still heavy in the air. His spicy scent, the two forks in the sink—dishes that were only there because she’d had to argue with him about doing them in the first place.

  Sighing, she finished drying the pan, stuck it back in the drawer, and then set about loading the dishwasher with everything else.

  What the fuck was she doing?

  Her eyes went to the plate she was stowing in the bottom rack of the dishwasher. She wasn’t a moron, didn’t take shit from anyone, least of all herself.

  The what the fuck didn’t have a thing to do with dishes.

  It was directed to herself, to her interactions with the man who’d broken her, the man she’d just invited into her house for breakfast.

  “Idiot,” she hissed.

  And yet, she couldn’t deny that she felt more settled right then, after sharing a meal and some conversation with Logan than she had in years. In . . . eight years.

  “Why Logan?” she asked, closing the dishwasher and avoiding the temptation of her laptop. She was going to take the day off, dammit. She could deal with whatever crises were hurtling toward her tomorrow.

  The trouble was that Char didn’t have a ton of hobbies.

  She lived and breathed work.

  She took baths and drank rum to unwind.

  And returned emails and looked at stat sheets and negotiated contracts. That was her happy place, and one she’d gladly spent the majority of her time in. But the season was over. The team had lost—fucking hell—but there wouldn’t be much left for her to do until draft day came around.

  There might even be weeks and weeks without much for her to do.

  The thought made her shudder.

  It also made her reach for her bottle of rum.

  So, she’d just had breakfast. It was nearly two in the afternoon, and she was taking the day off. Pouring a fingerful, she stowed the bottle away then carried her glass out into her small back yard.

  She lived in one of those typical California suburbs, large houses on small lots, all cloistered together, all with tiny slivers of a back yard.

  Char wasn’t much for nature, didn’t like to go hiking or stick her toes in the sand—though there was plenty of both of those things within driving distance. She much preferred her bubble baths, her books, and bingeing on shows and movies.

  Or cuddling in the back of a pickup truck with plenty of blankets and a sexy hockey player to keep her warm.

  So, the small yard didn’t bother her.

  Especially when she didn’t have too many plants in it to worry about killing.

  She’d hired a gardener soon after moving in, along with a landscaper to redesign the yard to be drought tolerant, but cozy. The effect was a green and colorful space filled with native trees and bushes, with very few flowers. An umbrella shaded the deck. A lounger with a bright floral cushion was positioned beneath it to get just the right amount of afternoon sun, and she crossed over to that chair and set her drink on the table.

  It only took a few more steps to retrieve a blanket from the storage box, and while she considered returning inside for her E-reader, Char ultimately decided she was too lazy.

  She wanted to sit and drink and enjoy the sunshine.

  Soon it would be summer, and the fog would cling to the hillside, the sun only peeking out on days that were uncomfortably hot.

  She much preferred the cool late spring days.

  Yet, none of this thinking about weather or loving her back yard got her any closer to the reason why she’d invited Logan into her house.

  For all intents and purposes, she should hate him.

  But . . . she couldn’t.

  Then she’d stopped at the top of the stairs, had seen him hurry for the back door, smelled that he’d cooked something delicious for her, and part of the ice around her heart had simply melted. And that ice had melted more when she descended a few more steps and had seen him looking through the back windows, longing on his face.

  Longing that resonated deeply.

  Loneliness she could never get rid of.

  A well of emp
tiness that had been inside her from the moment Logan had left her.

  Fucking hell.

  She lifted the glass to her lips, took a long swallow. “You’re getting soft, Harris,” she muttered. “You live for the business, for the team. Nothing more.”

  And . . . she still couldn’t lie to herself.

  The bottom line was that Char wasn’t as content as she liked to pretend. Something was missing, and she had the sneaking suspicion that the something missing was a someone missing.

  “Damn,” she muttered, shaking her head at herself. “You’re a mess, girlfriend.”

  Yeah, she was.

  But she also wasn’t going to let it ruin her afternoon.

  So, instead of moping, she shoved the heavy feelings away, stopped the arguing and recriminations, and just sat in the sunshine, watching the clouds float by. A moment of still and quiet when her life had been the opposite of late.

  She wasn’t about to upend her life for a man.

  Not even one as tempting as Logan.

  Eleven

  Logan

  He’d left Char’s house determined and with a glimmer of hope that he could salvage things between them.

  And he’d driven over the brown hills, through the twisting road, all the way to the ocean. Not the warm water of the Caribbean or Florida, nor the white sand beaches. This one was filled with substrate of an ordinary brown and had a severe drop-off halfway down.

  But beyond that drop-off was a gorgeous stretch of flat beach.

  He could drop to the sun-warmed ground, sink his toes and fingers into the shifting sand, and just be.

  The crash of the waves.

  The blue sky punctuated with curls of fog.

  The . . . ringing of his cell phone.

  He silenced it, collapsed back onto the sand and stared up at the sky. For all of two seconds. Because then his phone began to ring again.

  With a sigh, he extracted it from his pocket.

  One glance at the screen had him sighing again.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, after swiping a finger to answer the call and putting his cell up to his ear.

  “Hi, honey,” she said. “I’m sorry about the game.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” he told her. “There will be more games.”

  “Still sucks.”

  She chuckled and he grinned.

  “You trying to revamp my high school years?” Logan had complained to her about losing too many times to remember, and her response had always been there will be more games. His response had always been still sucks.

  “I’ve decided to reverse the rules,” she said.

  “Oh how the tables have turned.”

  “Exactly.” A beat. “I’m sorry we didn’t make it out for the game.”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” he said. “Things happen.”

  “No,” she said. “Your father happened. He didn’t like that you paid for the tickets and wouldn’t use them, and then there were no flights and—” She broke off. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t complain about him. He’s your father. I just . . . God, sometimes he drives me . . .”

  Logan closed his eyes and waited until she got it out of her system.

  This was a fine skill he’d honed over many years—the whole waiting-until-one-of-his-parents-had-finished-complaining-about-the-other ability. He’d perfected the proper moment to hmm and ha, the right time to chime in with a sympathetic noise.

  Finally, she wound down, and he said, “I’ll be home in a few weeks. We’ll spend a lot of time together, get our fill.”

  “I love you, baby,” she said. “I’m looking forward to that. Did you have your flight scheduled yet?”

  “I love you, too.” He sat up. “And I haven’t booked it yet. I have a few things to wrap up here first. But I’ll let you know the dates soon.”

  “Okay, because you know I’m working at the skilled nursing home now.”

  “I know,” he said. “If my visit conflicts with your job, that’s on me. Your clients count on you, and you know I would never hold you working against you.”

  Right sentiment.

  Wrong thing to say.

  Case in point—

  “Your father feels differently,” she grumbled. “He got so mad when I wasn’t home to cook dinner. But did it ever occur to him that he could cook dinner?”

  No. Logan could confidently say that it wouldn’t have occurred to his father.

  “You know you could talk to him—”

  “Talk!” she cried. “He won’t listen—shoot, honey. I’m sorry, I’m doing it again. I won’t complain about your father anymore. I—”

  “Oh, hey, you know what? My other line is ringing,” he said. “I need to get that. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

  “Okay, honey. Love you. Bye!”

  She hung up, and Logan, his other line not ringing, but also an effective skill he’d honed in order to get his mom off the phone, collapsed back into the sand again and sighed.

  Talking.

  God, he wished his parents would do more of it with each other than with him.

  His phone buzzed, and he knew without looking who it would be.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said, after answering the call.

  “Your mother—”

  Logan sank back down onto the sand, stifling a sigh, and waiting for a moment where he could get a word in edgewise so he could get off the phone.

  But that moment was long in coming.

  Eventually, however, he managed to end the call, to sit back and try to unknot his twisted gut. He would never tell his mom this, but part of him had been relieved when she’d told him they wouldn’t be able to make it out to the final game. He hadn’t needed to wade through the bitter comments and underlying passive aggressiveness.

  His phone vibrated, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t glance at the screen through half-closed lids.

  Relief poured through him.

  It was a text. Just a simple text from his sister.

  I just got the one-two punch of voicemails from our parents complaining about each other. You okay?

  He made a face.

  Just peachy.

  A buzz.

  Sure, you are. Ignore the calls. Your life would be infinitely better.

  He was starting to understand his sister’s point of view in this aspect.

  I’m thinking you’re right.

  Her response came through a minute later.

  Of course, I am. Sorry about the game.

  It’s fine, Cec. How’s backpacking?

  Another vibration.

  Nice deflecting. But I am sorry you lost. Also, Austria is beautiful, Spain is amazing, and I wish I could travel for the rest of my life.

  Logan’s heart squeezed.

  I’m glad you’re happy.

  Me, too. But, Log, what about you being happy?

  This was a text conversation. She shouldn’t be able to be so insightful with just letters and cell phone screens.

  I love you, sis. Now go back to your regularly scheduled program of honeymooning and having the time of your life.

  He could picture her sighing, but her message didn’t push—or not much anyway.

  Love you, too, little bro. Also, you deserve to find your happy.

  Yeah, he was working on that.

  For now, that happy was listening to the waves and feeling the sun on his skin.

  Later, he hoped it would be because Char had found it in her heart to give him another chance.

  Twelve

  Char

  The sun had just begun its descent, the temperature began to drop, and she’d finished her glass, was pondering either a refill or an early bath and an evening spent in bed with her book, when she heard the ringing peels of her doorbell. “Good grief,” she muttered, not moving but keeping her eyes trained on the side of the house, half-expecting Logan to appear from around the corner.

  When he didn’t, Char wasn’t disappointed.

  She wasn’t.

>   Don’t look at her like that.

  “Don’t look at who?” she muttered, standing up. “Yourself?”

  Maybe. But also . . . look she was disappointed. Stupidly or not, there was something about Logan that drew her, even after all these years.

  Hence friends.

  Except, now she was wondering if she’d just signed her own death warrant by pushing Logan to be friends. She’d wanted to categorize him in that way in order to keep her heart safe, but the truth was that her heart had never been safe from him. He’d always been able to wriggle in and make himself at home.

  It was why the rest of her relationships hadn’t ever worked out.

  She’d loved him. She’d thought they had that special magic of her parents—caring for each other, seeing all the flaws and good things, but loving each other more because of them. Instead . . . he’d gotten in, implanted himself, and left.

  “And now he’s back,” she murmured.

  Or perhaps more accurately, he’d decided to waltz back into her personal life, not content to stay solely in her business world.

  “So, shove him back into his lane.”

  Char froze, the protest already welling up in her throat.

  “That’s your answer, dumb ass.”

  “I happen to like your ass.” A beat, as she gasped and turned to face the man who she’d apparently conjured up just by thinking of him. “Don’t talk down to it,” Logan said, lips quirking, pretty green eyes dancing. He had a flush of pink on the tops of his cheekbones, as though his olive skin had been out in the sun for just a little too long.

  She plunked her hands on her hips. “Is there a reason you keep breaking into my back yard?”

  He shrugged. “Is there a reason you don’t answer your doorbell, except at three A.M.?”