Good Guy

by Kate Meader

  “You’re looking mighty pleased with yourself, Hunt.”

  Levi snapped to attention and found himself the subject of Cade Burnett’s scrutiny. He liked Cade, or Alamo as he was nicknamed because he hailed from San Antonio. A great defenseman, he sported an easygoing attitude and had a way of cheering up the locker room after a bad game, a skill he’d been forced to call upon for these early efforts. They were 1 and 2 on the season, a pretty slow start for sure.

  “Burnett.” Levi nodded at Moretti who was leaning against the door frame. “I’m looking for Harper’s office.”

  “She’s at home today.” Awareness dawned on Dante’s face. “Ah, you’re here to get grilled by the press.”

  “Maybe that’s what he’s smiling about,” Cade said. “You were gone an awful long time last night while walking Jordan to her car. And you had that same self-satisfied look on your face when you returned.”

  Perfect. “Harper’s office?” he asked, ignoring Cade’s smirk.

  Dante pointed. “Down that corridor, to the right. But could I have a word first?” He turned to Cade. “See you later, polpetto.”

  “Sure, borchia,” then to Levi with a hammy wink, “Have fun, now.”

  Pet names. Adorable.

  Annoyed that his emotions were apparently playing like a movie on his face, Levi schooled his expression while Cade walked away.

  Dante still leaned against the door, waiting for Cade to leave. Once they were alone, he spoke. “I hear you’re getting extra practice in, Levi.”

  “Just some early morning drills. I’ve cleared it with Coach.”

  “You played well in Philly. I know it’s been a quick adjustment for you, and I appreciate you putting in the effort. We all do. Just be careful not to overdo it.”

  Levi took a deep breath. “I want to make more of an impact in the games. And I know my limits.”

  It was hard to tell if that was what Dante wanted to hear because all he said was, “Jordan’s waiting for you.”

  He headed down to Harper’s office, outside which a familiar, bright-eyed woman with dark, wouldn’t-look-out-of-place-in-Jersey hair sat at a desk. She looked pleased to see him.

  “Oh, hi, Levi! Go right in, you’re expected.”

  “Sorry, we’ve met, but I don’t recall your name.”

  She waved his apology away. “No problem. You can’t be expected to remember someone like me. I’m Casey, Harper’s PA.”

  “Good to see you again, Casey.” Usually he was better with names and faces. Since leaving Special Forces, he found himself losing a step in all the things that had once made him a logistical mastermind in the field. Or maybe it was Jordan’s kisses fogging his brain …

  “You know, she’s just a reporter,” Casey said, because apparently, he’d stopped outside the door to day-dream about kissing Jordan again.

  “Actually, I know her. But you’re right, I don’t really enjoy this kind of thing.”

  Casey scrunched up her nose. “Maybe think of her naked? You know, like what you do to get over public speaking.”

  “Not sure that would help here.”

  Casey smiled. “Then, just be yourself.”

  That won’t help either. He inhaled deep and opened the door.

  Seated by a window, Jordan looked up from her laptop and flashed him a huge smile, as if she was actually pleased to see him and the last time they’d connected, they hadn’t been making out like horny teenagers.

  “Hey, there.” Suddenly, his skin felt too fucking tight.

  “Levi! Come in! Have a seat. How was practice?”

  He sat on the too small velvet sofa near a window that overlooked a landscaped garden he’d never seen before. Tucking himself away in the corner, or as much as someone of his size could “tuck,” he magnetized his back to the sofa and tried to track the conversation.

  “Good practice?” she prompted.

  “Fine. Skating drills. Trying to increase my speed which was always my weak spot.” Though he’d moved on Jordan pretty fast last night.

  “Mind if I record?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  She pressed record on her phone and put it down on the coffee table, but before she could ask anything, it rang. The image on the screen looked familiar—was that Hollywood superstar Chris Evans dressed as his Avengers alter-ego?

  “Oh, sorry about that.” Before she declined the call, he could’ve sworn the screen name flashed Very, Very Single.

  “You’re screening calls from Captain America?”

  “What? Oh, no! Well, sort of. My mother’s trying to set me up with a lawyer she knows, one of her former students, and she made him sound like some all-American superhero. Believe me, if Chris Evans was really calling, this interview would be toast.”

  His pulse went haywire, though where to start? Was it the fact she was being set up by her mother, the fact that she was actively dating, or the fact that she’d bump him for Captain America?

  Okay, Levi would probably bump him for Captain America.

  “You said last night you didn’t have a boyfriend, but you’re dating?” Kershaw’s mention of that intimate image on her phone tugged at him.

  Two spots of color tagged her cheekbones. “I’m not, actually. I really don’t have time, but my parents are worried I’m not opening myself up to the possibilities. Like my job’s not satisfying enough.”

  “They must be proud of how far you’ve come in your career.” She remained silent, so he prodded again. “Aren’t they?”

  “Sure they are.” Her cheer didn’t quite convince. “You know how family is. They don’t really get what I’m doing.”

  Her parents were Georgetown University professors, but surely the air in DC wasn’t that rarified. “Not sporty types?”

  “Ah, no. They’re supportive but they don’t really understand my career path.”

  “Let me guess. They think sports are for lugheads lacking in the brain cell department?”

  “Oh, they’d never be that rude. They’d just prefer I was a lawyer or an economist or running a public policy think tank that changes lives.”

  Jesus. “Sports changes lives. It changed mine. It changes the lives of kids everywhere.”

  “I know. But they were disappointed that I didn’t do anything big—or bigger—after college.”

  “You got married. Found your soulmate. What’s bigger than that?”

  She peered at him. “My mother was annoyed that I became an army wife. She thought I was too young. And perhaps I was rebelling in some small way.”

  “She sounds like a peach.”

  She laughed. “She’s great, really. She and my dad invested a lot of their time and money in me and my brothers, so I can see why they don’t feel the return is so great on their youngest.”

  “Jordan, you’re not a freaking mutual fund. You’re a flesh and blood woman with ambitions and goals and desires.” So that came out with more passion than he’d intended. Something about introducing the word “desires”—plural—into the mix sent a wave of desire—singular—through him.

  The air thickened between them, that word floating lazily on it. He searched for the right follow-up to break the tension. “Do you like what you’re doing?”

  “What I’m doing?” She licked her lips, chewed on her plump lower one, a move that had his cock twitching.

  “Your job. You like it?”

  “I do.”

  “Then to hell with them. To hell with anyone who says you can’t.”

  Why did he feel so protective over her? He had no doubt she could handle her parents or anyone who came at her. She’d been handling him since the minute they met.

  Needling, taunting, provoking …

  “Guess we should get started,” she said, and for the first time he could recall, she refused to hold his gaze. “If you don’t want to answer a question, just say so and we’ll move on.” At his nod of acknowledgment, she consulted a list. The pen in her hand shook slightly. “Tell me how you got into hocke
y.”

  Starting him off easy. “My dad was a big fan of the Devils when they were based in East Rutherford. They were just starting to come into their own after a long drought and that year they came back from a 3-1 deficit to win. That Game 5 turned it around.”

  “The game when Stevens hit Lindros. Ended his career.”

  “Guy was headed out. Had more hits and concussions than anyone in the league.”

  Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Not much sympathy?”

  “This is a physical sport. Everyone on that ice knows what he’s getting into. What did Clifford Chase say? Hockey’s not for pus—well, you know.”

  “He wasn’t known for his political correctness.”

  “The man was an asshole for a whole lot of reasons but he was right about that. No man or woman can play this game and not expect to come out of it unscathed.”

  She remained silent for a beat, then seemed to make a decision. “Does that apply to women on the sidelines—the PTs, the reporters, the locker-room cleaners? Are they fair game?”

  “Fair game for what? Getting knocked about on the ice?”

  Her smile was thin, fake, not Jordan-like at all. “These male-dominated environments create their own ecosystems. Bro culture where men think it’s okay to drop a towel before a female reporter just to earn a reaction. Or get a little handsy with their masseuse because she’s employed by the team.”

  This had taken a surprising left turn, one that had every cell in his body itching to fight. “Did something happen to you, Jordan?”

  Wait, had he happened? Was this about the move he’d put on her?

  “Oh no!” She waved it away with a smile that appeared genuine? His instincts were completely out of whack. “But you hear stories. I was curious about your stance.”

  Apparently, he was being tested, and on the record, too.

  “I’ve worked with women in the military, a male-dominated environment with its own ecosystem. Sure, there’s plenty of that, where a woman is expected to take a joke or develop a thicker skin or put up with some BS about her tampons. I’ve witnessed it and I can guarantee you I shut it down whenever I came across it. Could I have done better? Probably. But anyone who disrespects a woman in my presence, whether she’s doing her job or not, won’t get a second chance to make that mistake.”

  “Good to hear it,” she murmured. “Sorry, we got off track there. Tell me more about your love of the New Jersey Devils.”

  The topic she’d raised gnawed at him. Something felt off. “What kind of shit are you putting up with when you do your job, Jordan?” He’d already taken Kershaw to task about running off his mouth. Who else did he need to “talk to”?

  “Nothing. As I said, everyone hears stories of athletes thinking they can do whatever they want because their million-dollar contracts act as insurance against bad behavior. I can handle any of the bullshit that comes my way.”

  It was the same thing Harper had already made abundantly clear: Jordan was perfectly capable of handling herself.

  “I’ve no doubt you can. You’re tougher than I remember you.”

  “I was a different person then. Josh and I married so young and he was big into taking care of me.” She lifted a shoulder. “Well, you know what he was like. After he died, I had to figure things out. My family was there for me, but I needed to forge my own path. This business doesn’t really reward tentativeness, so I’m working on being more assertive. Taking what’s mine.”

  He’d liked the Jordan of before with her lusty laugh and cheerful personality, but this new, go-getter Jordan was something else. “Josh would be really proud of you, Jordan.”

  “You think so?” She blinked those big, storybook eyes at him, imploring for affirmation. “Because if he was here, I might have taken a different road.”

  She would have led a different life for sure if he’d lived. Kids, probably, and with Josh in the service that would have made it tough for her gain traction in her career. Something lurched in his chest at the idea of her potential being wasted.

  “Maybe. But you’ve done amazing things under your own steam. Come a long way. As for your parents, they’re probably just worried that you’re pushing yourself too hard. All work and no play, etcetera.”

  “Yeah, they mean well. I love what I do and I’m good at it, but it’s tough for relationships, dating, my sex life.” She closed her eyes briefly, clearly admonishing herself. “Not that I’m trying to steer the conversation around to …”

  “Last night’s hot make-out session on the hood of your Honda Civic?” He’d wondered when they’d get to it.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I”—she grabbed the phone, pressed pause, and whispered loudly—“did that!”

  “You seemed to have no regrets last night.” Please don’t say you do now.

  “Oh, I still don’t,” she said with a cheeky grin. God, her mouth. So lush, so mobile. Levi wanted to do very wicked things to that mouth. “However, I need to be professional because it wouldn’t look good if I was seen kissing the man I’m supposed to be reporting on. That gets out, and it’ll just make the profile sound like a puff piece.”

  “Instead of hard-hitting journalism about some guy’s favorite color and which Pokemon he self-identifies with?”

  She tilted her head, a sly smile quirking her lips. “Uh, respect the process, Levi.”

  “Sure. The process. Got it. No more kissing.” Which took him back to last night’s lip lock and how damn good it had felt. How good it would feel to do it again.

  “No more kissing,” she murmured, and he imagined he heard a touch of regret in there.

  11

  Using his army stealth skills, Levi crept from his bedroom, destination: the kitchen. He was determined not to wake Elle, who, for the last three days, was usually asleep when he left or came home. He was worried she might be depressed.

  She refused to talk about why she was here, which he put down to the army culture embedded in her bones. Military guys didn’t share their troubles, and Elle had always been one of the guys.

  Satisfied he’d analyzed the shit out of the situation, he entered the kitchen and found Elle at his kitchen table, drinking what looked like scotch and scrolling through texts on her phone. “Hey, Hunt.”

  “Hey.” He turned on the under-cabinet lighting and grabbed his coffee cup.

  “It’s oh-five-hundred,” she said. “Are you seriously heading out?”

  “I have an early practice.” He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “We haven’t talked much since you landed here.”

  “Just trying to keep out of your hair. Stay under the radar.”

  Something about the way she phrased that sent a shiver through him. Stay under the radar. Like she was running from something.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  So there was something.

  Before he could think of a response that wouldn’t make him sound like a pushy ass, she added, “But you’ll be the first person I tell when I’m ready.”

  He nodded, both hurt that she wouldn’t share and touched that she’d made the promise. “You can stay as long as you like. Mi casa and all that.”

  “I appreciate it. What I really need is a job. Anything going at the hockey … uh, place?”

  “You really don’t know a thing about it, do you?”

  “Bunch of toothless goons chasing a piece of plastic while trying not to fall over. Sounds awesome.” She chuckled at her joke. “But seriously, if you hear of anything, let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  “Maybe your lady reporter friend could help me out. At the reporting place.”

  Levi kept his expression blank.

  “She was married to Josh Cooke, wasn’t she?”

  “Correct.”

  “Never met him, but people used to talk about him. Good guy.”

  “Yeah, he was.”r />
  “And now you have a thing for the widow.”

  He gripped the countertop so hard dust creation was imminent. “Don’t have a thing.”

  She shrugged, went back to her phone. “She likes you. I can tell.”

  His heart skittered with the pleasure of that. Pathetic.

  “She’s just doing a job. Trying to provoke a reaction.” It was working. The last time they’d spoken a few days ago, he wasn’t nearly as annoyed as he could have been. He’d enjoyed her candor about her marriage and her family, coming funnily enough at the same time he started opening up to her. Possibly some psychological mirroring skills they taught her in journo school, like the interrogation techniques he learned in Special Forces training. If she was playing him, he’d go down with a smile. (On the inside. Always on the inside.)

  “I’ll be heading to New York this afternoon ahead of tomorrow’s game. Keep the place tidy while I’m gone and no parties.”

  She saluted and grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Control the narrative.

  Levi imagined that was probably the mantra for a lot of professions: politics, journalism, public relations. But it was also what he was taught in the military. Constantly check your six. Know every exit. If a situation wasn’t to your liking, make it so or get out.

  Hockey was no different. Every player on the ice had a part to play in the story of the game. An in-sync line could write a chapter for how a play went or how a puck ended up between the pipes. An in-sync team could write a goddamn novel that ended with “Win.”

  So here Levi was in the lobby of the Marriott in midtown Manhattan waiting for a woman who’d taken up far more real estate in his brain than was good for him. Because waiting for the narrative to be crafted was the opposite of what he’d been trained to do. Nine years ago, he’d enlisted because he knew he had more to offer than a pair of strong legs and a killer instinct in the blue zone. All his life he was used to making his own decisions, calling his own shots. This was no different.