by Kate Meader
That earned her a smile. “I did tell you.”
“You told me you were dull and uninteresting, but nothing could be further from the truth.” Moving in, she curled a finger in the belt loop of his jeans and rubbed his chest. So many people these days wanted play at virtue-signaling, to brag about their good deeds, yet here was a man who walked the talk and zipped his lips. “I think you really are a superhero disguised as a mild-mannered hockey player.”
He grunted. She smiled. They kissed.
Oh, how they kissed. Slow, deep, filled with an earnest longing.
“Did you mean it?” he murmured. “About missing me? Or was that just to get me to stop yelling at you?”
She rubbed her finger and thumb together. “A little bit of deflecting, but I meant it. I came back early, hoping to see you. Hoping to …” She trailed a hand down his unyielding chest, tangled a finger in the goodie trail, and stopped at the waistband of his jeans.
“Get a little pie?”
She chuckled. God, he could be so adorable sometimes. All that gruff, I-ain’t-no-hero swagger muffled a softy at his core, one who was knocking at the door to the heart she’d walled up all those years ago.
19
Levi awoke with a start.
The TV was on, and he was fairly certain he’d not left it that way. Something warm and soft was snuggled into his side, and while he wished it was Jordan, he knew better. Cookie. Joe had been diagnosed with bronchitis and was told he needed to stay in a warming center during the cold snap. The center didn’t allow pets, so Levi was on the hook for the dog’s care.
He turned his head. Theo was sprawled on the other end of Levi’s leather sofa, a sandwich in his left hand, the remote in his right. Another orphan that Levi had taken under his wing, it seemed.
“Trying to nap,” Levi muttered.
“Imagine I’m not here, dude. Just grabbing lunch and catching up on my stories.”
Levi rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d been up since five to work out at the rink and was only now getting some Zs before tonight’s home game against Detroit. “What stories?”
“Days of Our Lives.”
Levi took another look. Dr. Marlena Evans was floating about in a white suit with Tony. Or maybe it was Andre, who was Tony’s cousin, but for some reason looked exactly like him. Stefano’s doing, of course. Levi and his unit used to watch this show back on the base at Campbell.
“Why is Hope speaking with a terrible British accent?”
“She’s channeling Princess Gina. Marlena’s about to cross to the other side after getting poisoned by penicillin and Tony’s trying to convince her to go back. Don’t go into the light kind of thing. He’s showing her bits of her past to remind her that life’s worth living.”
“Love the flashback episodes.”
Theo grinned. “Me, too! They showed Marlena’s devil possession a couple of minutes ago.”
“You should have woken me.”
“Didn’t know you were a Days fan! Oh, man, I hope they flash back to the Cruise of Deception.” Theo munched on his sandwich, which looked a lot like Levi’s bread and Levi’s turkey and Levi’s cheese, and they watched while Marlena weighed the pros and cons of leaving purgatory, which looked like a doctor’s office waiting room. When the show went to commercial, Theo took a break from chewing to ask, “Where’s your roommate?”
“Working.”
“You ever figure out what happened to her?”
“What makes you think something happened to her?”
Theo shrugged. “She seems guarded, like she’s hiding something.”
Levi’s thoughts exactly. Those were unexpected observation skills from Theo, too, but the glow of mutual consensus was ruined with his next query.
“She have a boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of. And she’s not looking for one, either.”
Munch, munch. “Did she say that?”
“I said that.”
“Who’s your buddy?”
Levi stroked the dog’s warm body. “This is Cookie. Looking after him for a friend.”
Theo stopped mid-chew. “Cookie? Like Ms. Cooke?”
“Merely a coincidence.” Levi wasn’t superstitious. He didn’t see faces in toast or signs in clouds. But meeting a dog named Cookie had thrown him.
“And how is Hockey Grrl?”
Levi’s nerves pinged. “Theo, any chance you could eat more and talk less?”
“I didn’t talk this much before my aneurysm ruptured.”
The verbal diarrhea was a medical problem? “Your brain blew up and it made you chattier?”
“It made me … think more. I’ve got a lot of stuff going on in my head and talking helps me puzzle it out. Like coming up with your nickname.”
Levi’s heart squeezed and a curious sensation warmed his chest. Maybe he should cut the kid some slack. “What happened to Kraken?”
“Not feeling it. How about Duke?”
“John Wayne, Green Berets movie?”
Theo pointed a finger. “Exactly!”
That made Levi think of Jordan. As if you’re not always thinking of her. She’d cracked that joke about his tattoo before he stripped during their first time together in New York. He’d wanted to ease her into it, let her know that he was honoring his service, his unit, and Josh with that ink. Holding her tight while she fought through that moment had felt like his reason for existing.
He was in so much fucking trouble.
“Not sure I want to be associated with Wayne. Guy was a dick.”
Theo nodded, and for once remained quiet. Days of Our Lives returned, and they watched it in companionable silence.
* * *
Mission Make a Rebel
Levi Hunt is a man of many parts: NCAA All-Star, former Green Beret, and now the latest centerman for a team that’s looked directionless for the last couple of years.
{insert some stats about the Rebels’ early games here}
What does a man like Hunt bring to the team? He’s known hardship, both personal and professional. Living on the streets with his dad as a kid except for when they were lucky enough to sneak into the gym where his father worked, and the death of that same man from pneumonia have forged Levi into a man who takes nothing for granted. He’s here to earn his place. He doesn’t want anything handed to him.
That work ethic, so refreshing in this age of entitlement, makes Levi stand out in a sea of spotlight-hogging, butt-grabbing pro-athletes. Levi Hunt works hard and still finds time to volunteer at Uptown Mission where he’s a regular on the breakfast crew and wows with a much-lauded recipe for huevos rancheros.
He’s the hero the Rebels have been waiting for.
Jordan reread the sixteenth draft on her screen and let out a long sigh. How could she talk about Levi without revealing all this fantastic character-building fodder? She wanted to think his stint in Special Forces, his improvements on the ice, and his aura of solid, masculine good guy was enough to fuel the story. But the devil of an excellent story was in the details, and these juicy ones he wouldn’t let her use would make all the difference. Stubborn man!
Her buzzer sounded and she closed the laptop. Maybe after tonight, she’d have a better idea of how to reframe the profile. Jumping up, she pressed the intercom talk button.
“It’s Harper.”
“Come on up!” Jordan threw a quick glance over her shoulder at her apartment, not that she could do anything to make it more presentable now. It still looked like she’d moved in last week instead of a couple of months ago.
She opened the door to find Violet Vasquez, youngest daughter of Clifford Chase and the silent partner in the Rebels ownership, raising her hand to knock. “Hey, there! I’m Violet, the one who doesn’t give a shit about hockey but is here for the wine.” She cocked her dark head, streaked with pink. “There is wine, right? That wasn’t just a typical Harper bait and switch?”
“Oh, there’s wine. Vats of wine.”
“You’ve got clas
s tomorrow, Vi.” At six feet tall, Isobel Chase towered over all of them. “And don’t you have to do some practice teaching with a bunch of kidlets?”
“Believe me, better when I’m hungover.” She winked at Jordan. “I’m in an early education graduate program at Loyola. Don’t fret. Your future spawn is safe with me.”
Harper brought up the rear. “Sorry we’re late. My little ones needed baths and usually I miss it with the games and all, so I couldn’t resist. Oh, cute place!”
“Thanks, I’m still figuring out its personality before I try to impose mine on it.”
Violet frowned, bringing her brows together. “That fireplace says do-me-lumberjack but the kitchen island is giving off Barefoot Contessa.”
“Barefoot Lumberjack. I’ll get right on it.”
Isobel laughed. “So how does this podcast thing work?”
“Well, audio set up is in the office back there and I have mics for you all. We can have a drink and chat first out here and then get started in ten—sound good?”
A couple of minutes later, they were all seated around Jordan’s coffee table, extra-large wine pours in tow. Harper had also brought cupcakes from Sweet Mandy B’s.
“I’d rather not talk about hockey so we can keep the good stuff for the podcast, so … been to any good restaurants lately?”
Violet scoffed. “Let’s talk about boys. Harper says you and Hunt have history.”
Jordan glared at Harper, only to get a small, oh-so-innocent smile in return. “He was a friend of my husband.”
“Right.” Violet looked like she was expecting more.
“Vi, leave her be,” Isobel said. “Sorry, she has no filter.”
Harper cleared her throat. “So how are the interviews going?”
“He’s started to open up a bit. How he found hockey. Why he headed into the army.” And so much more that she couldn’t reveal because she’d started to care. “I mean, it’s a slog but—”
“Someone’s gotta do it, right?” Isobel grinned. “He is pretty hot. Got that grouchy, needs-a-hug thing going on. Total GILF.”
“GILF?”
“Grump I’d like to—well, you know,” Violet said. “Though maybe we should pronounce it ‘jilf.’ Like a gif versus jif situation.”
“He’s started playing better,” Harper said with a disapproving glance at her sisters. “Thank God.”
Violet snorted. “I should hope so given the early morning sexfests he’s depriving me of.”
“What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“He’s practicing with Bren and Remy a couple of times a week at the ass crack of dawn. I tell you, I thought Bren’s retirement would mean more orgasms but no. Between school, my wicked stepkids, and that broody Scot unable to pull himself away from the ice, the old hoo-hah is getting lonely.”
Early morning practices with a couple of Rebels legends? Jordan would have to work that in, and because Levi hadn’t told her himself, she might be able to get away with it. She picked up her phone and mimicked pressing a button. “So, say that again. Slowly.”
Forty-five minutes later, the recording was completed. Jordan had almost extracted some hints about upcoming trades from Harper but the woman was too good at keeping her cards close. While Violet was in the restroom (we’re BFFs now, Jordan, so I’ll be checking the medicine cabinet for secrets!) and Isobel took a call from her husband, Vadim, Harper helped Jordan bring the glasses into the kitchen.
“So, I wanted to run something by you,” Jordan said to Harper. With the wine and convivial conversation, this might be her best shot at getting Harper to let her guard down. “I’ve been doing a little research about women in the male pro-sports space and I was hoping to interview you on the record about it. Different from the podcast. This would be less about the team and more … hard-hitting.”
“Well, it’s no secret that I’ve been treated differently as a franchise CEO because I’m a woman. But I’m in a position of power, so my voice might not be what you’re looking for.”
Jordan chose her next words carefully. “But you weren’t always in that position. Back when your dad was alive, you weren’t quite so influential. I’m guessing you probably had your own run-ins with asshole players.”
Harper turned on the faucet and rinsed out her wine glass. “Oh, plenty of those. For every gentleman like Remy, there are three brutes without manners waiting in the wings.”
“Like Billy Stroger?”
The color draining from her face indicated that Harper was affected by the mention of his name, and Jordan felt a twinge of guilt. “Sure. He was on the Rebels several years back. Traded out after eighteen months, I think.”
“A source tells me there was more to his departure. He hurt you, and not just emotionally.”
What Harper lacked in height, she made up for in the ability to add inches with a spine-straightening move. “What do you think you know, Jordan?”
Jordan had the goods on tape but the manner of retrieval wasn’t exactly above board. She needed something on the record. “There was the headline-grabbing fight between him and Remy during that first season you were in charge. A three-game suspension for Remy that was reduced to two when Stroger admitted to provoking him, which was odd given Billy’s reputation for never backing down. Rumor has it that it was over you, and not just because Remy was jealous.”
Harper was still rinsing her glass, now the cleanest thing in Jordan’s apartment. “Just a little muscle-flexing between boys. It’s in the past.”
Jordan stepped forward. “I know this is difficult for you, but if Stroger is dangerous, then maybe people need to know that.”
“What makes you think he’s dangerous?” Harper’s tone was sharp. “Has he done something recently?”
“Just cyber harassment as far as I know. But do you honestly think Stroger stopped the physical stuff with you?”
Harper’s eyes widened in shock and Jordan’s gut churned at her own dirty tactic. You’re going to hell.
“What are we talking about?” Violet appeared at the door, dividing a look between Jordan and Harper.
“Jordan’s trying to make a name for herself in the big leagues,” Harper said icily, her composure returned. “I suggest you stick to the story you were assigned.”
“Just make your rookie look good and the Rebels with it?” Oh, Jordan understood now. Harper had seen the sparks flying between Levi and Jordan in the locker room after that first game and thought she’d found the perfect person for a feel-good profile. The newbie beat reporter, desperate for her first big story, would never say a bad word about a guy she was attracted to.
Harper knew exactly what she was doing.
Anger flared. It seemed everyone was determined to tell Jordan how to do her damn job. “What happened to reporting the bad actors to management, Harper? Isn’t that what you said when you saw that dick pic on my phone?”
The second the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake. Harper might have been receptive if Jordan had framed it as a mentee looking for help from the big-shot CEO. Backing this woman against the wall was only going to piss her off.
“If a player is harassing you,” Harper said slowly, “then you should report that instead of using it as leverage to find a juicier story. I don’t have anything to say to the press about past players.”
She walked to the door where she was bookended by her taller sisters. Not unsubtly, both of them moved in to protect the queen.
“Thanks for including us in the podcast,” Harper said, her tone friendly once more. “It was fun. I can’t wait to see what you write about Levi.”
And that, ladies and gentleman, was that.
* * *
Jordan shouldered her way through the DC press box door ten minutes before the puck drop for the Rebels away game against the Congressmen.
“Evening, boys, would anyone care for a classic Chicago treat?”
DC locals wouldn’t recognize the familiar-to-any-Chicagoan red, blue, and yellow design, so sh
e opened the box to let the sticky-sweet scent of Ann Sather’s cinnamon rolls mix with the scotch fumes and musty aroma of dudes watching hockey. It had been a struggle to keep Theo’s fingers out of them on the plane ride in, but she’d managed. Just.
“Help yourselves!”
Not even the supposedly arthritic knees of Mark Carriger, the Washington Post’s hockey reporter could stop his jump into action. Formerly of the Trib in Chicago, he knew the score. “Cooke, I think I love you. But I know I’ll love you if you tell me you have extra icing.”
She removed a bag from her purse. “Is Wayne Gretzky the best to ever play the game?”
“We’re not doing that again. You know it’s Bobby Orr.” Mark took a knife and sliced off a corner to the giant cinnamon roll, slathered it with icing, and placed it on a paper plate. “Why so generous? You get your copy in on Hunt?”
“Not yet, but it’s shaping up nicely.” She grabbed a soda, took a seat, and set up her laptop.
Reporters trickled in, stopping by to pay homage to the cinnamon rolls before settling down for the game.
“Hunt’s on the first line again,” someone commented. “He looked good at that last game.”
She hummed noncommittally. Lately, he looked good at every game, which made her think of other places he looked good. Her bed, her shower, on the kitchen table—ahem. Let’s keep the mind clean while we work.
During the first intermission, the box emptied out while the old guys with enlarged prostates did what old guys with enlarged prostates needed to do. One of the more pleasant aspects of being a woman in a man’s world were the shorter lines for the women’s restrooms during breaks—though she usually kept her ear to the tile, listening in on the WAGs as they gossiped about their men. Always be eavesdropping.
On arriving back in the press box, she found the seat beside hers occupied, and she instantly recognized the back of Coby Dawson’s head.
He smiled up at her. “Jordan, how goes it?”
“Hey, Dawson. Three times in six weeks. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were following me around, looking for a story.”