Kitty Valentine Dates an Hockey Player

by Dodd, Jillian

  “To be honest, I don’t remember exactly how we ended up on the subject. We might have easily started talking about the weather or the price of steak. Somehow, we ended up talking about marriage.” She grins, and for a second, I swear, fifty years have melted away. “Come to think of it, I’m the one who suggested we go through with it.”

  “Ooh, go through with it. The romance is killing me.”

  “I hate to tell you, but life is often a lot less romantic than it is in the books you write.”

  I point to myself, eyes wide. “You’re telling me this? Have we met?”

  “A fair point.”

  “Okay, so you suggested you two go through with it. Once the thrill of romance and excitement died down, what happened?”

  She shakes her head with a snicker. “You know him. I could tell he liked the idea of marriage a great deal, but he was hesitant.”

  “He’s worried what people will think, isn’t he?”

  “To put it mildly. He doesn’t want people to assume he’s marrying me for my money.”

  “He only feels that way because he loves you so much.”

  I’ve already had these discussions with him, away from my grandmother. He worries about how her peers look at her, about the gossip their being together stirs up among the upper-crust idiots in her world.

  Not that she hasn’t already made it very clear what she thinks about their opinions. Not that she hasn’t already cut some toxic people out of her life, thanks to him. If anything though, that’s struck him as even more reason why he is no good for her. Causing her to alienate people who’ve been part of her life for decades.

  Though seriously, it was the best thing she could’ve done, and she’s happier for it.

  “The man has spent years taking care of you, looking out for your best interests. You can’t expect him to give up on that so easily.”

  “He thinks he knows what’s best for me. That’s the real problem.”

  I tap my chin, eyes turned upward. “Hmm. Who does that sound like?”

  “Kathryn …”

  “No, it doesn’t sound like me. Let me keep thinking.”

  She blows out an exasperated sigh. “Regardless, I set him straight on that. I know what I want, and I know how long it has taken for me to find it.”

  I can’t joke around anymore, not when she’s so serious. I lean forward, a little choked up. “You’re really happy, aren’t you?”

  She can try to hide her shy smile all she wants, but it’s useless. Even though she’s looking down at her teacup, I can see the way her ever-crimson mouth works upward at the corners. “Yes, I suppose I am. It’s been so long since I’ve known happiness like this. I’m not ashamed to tell you, there are times when I ask myself if it can possibly be real.”

  “Well, the man has been with you for years, and he wants to stick around, so I think that’s a good place to start.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right about that.”

  I clap my hands together, eagerly rubbing them. “So, does this mean a big wedding? I’m seeing something lavish, maybe at The St. Regis or someplace like that.”

  “Oh, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I called you nearly as soon as we decided.”

  I can’t help it. I’m touched. “Really?” I ask, one hand over my chest.

  “Naturally. I couldn’t think of anyone I would rather call than you. Though it did seem the sort of thing that ought to be announced in person.”

  “That means so much.”

  I know better by now than to think she would agree with my show of emotion. “Now, now. How many grandchildren do you think I have? And I would hope that if such a thing were to happen to you, you would call me first as well. Though I suppose you would want to reach out to Hayley first.”

  “I will call you right away. How does that sound?”

  She likes to pretend she’s beyond sentimentality, but I know better. There’s a look of genuine happiness in her smile. “That sounds fair.”

  “Please tell me I can help you plan. I’ll never have an opportunity like this again.”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t think you’ll ever plan your own wedding?”

  “I don’t mean it that way. I’ll never have the chance to plan a wedding with so many resources at my disposal. Does that sound right? Or do I sound greedy?”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “Certain of what?”

  “Never having the opportunity again with abundant resources.”

  “Let’s not even get started on that.” If she can be stubborn, so can I, and I’ve never liked the morbid game she plays where she reminds me of all the money she’ll leave me in her will someday.

  Besides, she’ll be married now. There will be somebody else to leave her wealth to when she’s gone.

  But I don’t want to think about that now. Or ever.

  Good thing the front door opens, and Peter comes in, distracting me. The poor man looks downright horrified as I run to him, but he starts laughing when I throw my arms around his neck.

  “I’m so, so happy.”

  “I hoped you would be.”

  “How could I not be?” I’m in tears by the time I let him go, but they’re happy tears. Because he looks so overjoyed, so giddy almost. He’s loved her for so long. “So, she finally talked you into it, huh?”

  “Yes, somehow, she managed it. I have to admit, I’m a bit dazed still.”

  He takes a seat with us in the parlor, and Grandmother pours him a cup of tea. It’s so fun, seeing the little things they do for each other without being asked—not to mention, how gratifying it is to watch her take care of him. It’s usually the other way around.

  “How did your nephew receive the news?”

  “He seemed surprised, but pleased.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I’m certain, for many years, he saw me as a permanent bachelor, so this is the last thing he expected.”

  This warms my heart, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder and smiling, and I wonder if second-chance romance is where my career needs to go. But I’m not sure if I could ever quite capture the beautiful charm of these two people who both imagined themselves beyond love, beyond romance and courtship.

  There’s something else weighing on my heart, too, something I’ll keep to myself because the situation isn’t about me.

  But it’s there, dragging me down, making it a struggle for me to keep smiling.

  I want this. Plain and simple.

  I’m tired of writing about people who find their true love while I bounce from one date to another, one boyfriend to another. I’ve been reaching out, hoping desperately that this will be the one. Paxton was about as close as I’ve ever come. I just feel this ever-present sense of yearning for something more. Something bigger. Something extraordinary.

  I can’t help it. I got into this business because I wanted to write about the sort of man I couldn’t find in real life. Somebody wonderful, dependable, strong but loving. I’ll always believe in romance—I mean, the evidence is right here in front of me, too obvious and too sweet to ignore.

  I just need to start believing it’s possible for me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You’re sure you’re feeling okay? You’re up to this?”

  Matt only laughs as we walk into the ice rink. “I had a cold, Kitty, and it’s passed. I think I can handle watching a hockey practice.”

  “I’m just wondering, is all. You don’t have to act like I’m an idiot for caring.”

  “You’re not an idiot for caring.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m just an idiot in general.”

  “No, I never said that. Jeez, woman, tone down the snark. I’m trying to help you.”

  We walk through the lobby, where the walls are covered in framed pictures of hockey players and skaters of all ages, and into the rink itself. Right away, I can see why he recommended I bring a sweater along.

  Duh. There’s ice in here. They have to keep it cold.

  I untie t
he cardigan from around my waist and slide my arms into it as I ask myself if I should have brought a coat.

  Too late now.

  There are players on the ice, wearing pads and helmets, but they aren’t skating with the kind of speed and urgency I saw in the videos Matt and I watched a few nights ago.

  “What are they doing?”

  “What does it look like to you?” For once, he doesn’t sound snarky or like he’s laughing at me.

  “Like they’re skating in circles around each other.” I glance away from the skaters. “I mean, right? That’s what it looks like. I expected them to work on … plays or something.”

  “Plays.” He softens his snicker at least. I guess I should be grateful for that much. “Look closer. What are they doing with their sticks?”

  I didn’t know this was going to turn into a test. I have to squint from where we’re standing at the top of a long, steep flight of stairs.

  “Do I need glasses? Because I don’t see—” I stop speaking as soon as I see it. The puck sliding back and forth between their sticks. “Whoa! They’re passing it so fast! I can barely see their sticks moving.”

  “That’s the point. They don’t want to broadcast their pass. The less motion they can use while moving the puck back and forth, the better.” He points to one of the players. “That’s Luke Costello. I was always grateful he was on my team rather than playing against me. He’s like the wind out there.”

  “Like the wind?” I have to smile. “I thought I was the writer.”

  “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

  I do, and he’s right. It’s not hyperbole. The player he’s talking about, the one with the number 15 on his jersey, is insanely fast and smooth out there. He catches the puck—catches? Is that even the right word?—like it’s nothing, like he’d expected it to be just where he was at the exact moment he glided past another player.

  “Jeez.” I can only shake my head in amazement. “There’s not a chance that I could balance and pass a puck with a stick while moving. I took Bryce down when he thought I was being all cute about not being able to skate. He didn’t believe me, but I showed him that I could not in fact skate. Who knows? He might still have the bruise to prove it.” I chuckle.

  “Oh, I would have believed you. I’m not always confident that you’ll be able to sit up on the roof without somehow falling over the edge.”

  “You’re lucky I’ve never pushed you over the ledge.”

  He only laughs as he starts down the stairs. People are sitting down in the first rows, sort of scattered around for the most part, except for a couple cluster of girls—one sitting at the end, the other behind a net.

  A girl turns around to talk to somebody behind her, and that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  “Matty!” It’s an ear-splitting squeal that gets the attention of the rest of the girls nearby.

  “Matty?” I give him a look, brows raised, while a half-dozen girls—at least—spring up and come running like a rock star just entered the rink.

  He ignores me, though I know him well enough to know he’s pretending. There’s a stiffness to him as he responds to the … enthusiastic greeting he’s receiving.

  A little too enthusiastic for my taste, but what do I know? Just because I find the act of falling all over a guy to be annoying doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with this particular group hanging off Matt like he’s the Second Coming.

  “Where’ve you been?” The one who squealed his name at roughly the pitch of a dog whistle manages to stop squeezing him long enough to stare adoringly up at him. She’s cute in a sporty kind of way, wearing an oversize jersey that reaches her knees with her long, dark hair flowing out from under a matching ball cap. It makes her look like a kid dressing up in adult clothes.

  “You know, living life. Working.” He waves at a few of the other girls. “There’s more to life than hockey, Gin.”

  “Tell that to Mark. He’ll drag you out with us after practice whether you want to come or not.” She finally looks around him, finding me. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. It’s just that it’s been such a long time since we’ve seen Matty.”

  “Yeah, Matty’s been buried under his laptop for a while.” I flash a wide smile his way and hope he doesn’t think I’m going to let this go anytime soon. Because I’m not.

  His smile is more of a grimace. I can practically hear his teeth grinding. “Ginger, this is Kitty Valentine. She’s my neighbor, and she’s an author, looking to write about hockey players for her next book.”

  “Ginger Grant.” She shakes my hand. Firm grip.

  I can already tell she’s the queen bee of the group, the one who runs their circle. Who decides where they’re going after every practice, after every game. She’s the coordinator.

  “It’s good to meet you.” I glance from her to Matt and back again. “So, are you here to support one of the players?”

  She turns, pointing to the number on the back of her jersey. “Number 12. Mark Vance.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  She holds up her left hand, where a diamond sparkles. “Fiancé.”

  “No shit? I didn’t know you two got engaged.” Matt sounds unusually happy when he says this, and I’m not sure why. But I do know that I like this Ginger more now that I know this information.

  The two of them chat over the specifics of how and when the proposal happened while I look over the girls now settling back into their seats after practically dancing with joy at the sight of the great Matt Ryder. A few of them are wearing jerseys, too, with the number of their guy on the back.

  And they’re just as interested in me as I am in them. I notice their glances toward me and then each other, which tells me they’re wondering who I am and why I’m with good old Matty.

  Ginger walks down the stairs, closer to the ice, and waves her arms to get someone’s attention. Her fiancé, I guess.

  Now that we’re somewhat alone, I mutter, “My, aren’t you a celebrity today, Matty?”

  “Stop. It’s just my old teammates and some girls. I’m hardly a celebrity.”

  I shoot him a skeptical look.

  “I’m not. When I used to play, we were a tight group. After I decided not to go pro, I came to a few practices, but you know how it goes. Life happens.” When that’s not good enough and I keep staring at him, he shrugs. “What do you want me to say? This was a bigger part of my life at one point, but that’s over now. I’ve moved on.”

  This is a sore spot for him. It’s obvious, no matter how he tries to hide it.

  “You never even told me before now that you played.”

  “Because it’s not my life anymore.”

  He waves to one of the players who skated up to the glass, and I can see the 12 on his jersey. So, this is Ginger’s fiancé. A few of the others break away from their practice and come on over to say hi.

  Not the guy Matt pointed out to me though. Number 15. He’s still out there, gliding around, passing the puck back and forth to himself. He’s too focused to care much about what’s going on away from the ice.

  One of the girlfriends—I assume they’re all girlfriends—catches me looking out in his direction. “A bomb could go off in this place, and Luke would keep skating. He’s the most focused person I’ve ever met.”

  “He’s very good. I mean, from what little I’ve seen of him, he seems good.”

  “He’s a star.” She joins me in watching him float over the ice. “He’ll be the first to get called up from this team. I’d bet anything.”

  It would be rude of me to ask if he’s single, wouldn’t it? Yeah, probably, and for once, I’m going to think twice before letting curiosity get the better of me.

  Instead, I observe the girls. Nobody’s wearing his jersey, which seems like a good sign. Did Matt point him out as a good candidate for my next book or just because he’s a great player?

  “You’re a writer?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes.” I have to pry my eyes away from Luke to
even pay attention to her question. It’s like he’s floating. I can’t stop watching him purely because of his talent.

  “What do you write about? Anything I’ve read?”

  “Is the name Kitty Valentine familiar?” When she looks more confused than anything else, I have to grin. “Then, no, I don’t think you’ve read anything I’ve written. I write romance.”

  Her eyes light up. “That must be so much fun!”

  “Yes, it can be, but it’s a lot of work. And depending on my character’s background, a lot of research.”

  Before she can respond, Matt walks up behind me. “Hey, practice is about to wrap up, and I get the feeling I’d be handcuffed and dragged to the bar even if I said I didn’t want to go out with the team.” He lifts his brow. “You interested?”

  I take a quick glance at Luke, who is still skating.

  Yes, I’m interested.

  If only to find out how a person manages to skate on thin blades while remembering how to play a game at the same time. I’d be a goner in seconds.

  “Sure.” I lift a shoulder like it’s not that important either way, but he knows better. I can tell from the gleam in his eyes before he turns away.

  And I sure as heck hope he didn’t just set me up for an uncomfortable night. But I’ve seen that look in his eyes too many times to hope for anything else.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It’s obvious from the second we walk into the bar that this is where the team always gets together. They practically own the place, striding in casually, calling out to the bartenders and servers by their first names. The people tending bar start pouring beers right away without asking who wants what. I guess they know by now.

  I can’t help but feel like a fly on the wall, observing how the team members and their girls interact with each other. The guys acknowledge their girls in passing—a kiss, a pat on the butt, something—but for the most part, the players stick to themselves, and the girls maintain their cluster.

  “Is it always like this?” I turn to the girl I talked to at the rink, whose name is Darcy. “Boys on one side, girls on the other?”