Mina regarded him over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. Her frown was disapproving, and her eyes were hard. Alex managed a slight smile, knowing none of his usual flirting tactics would work on her.
“I came to get key, please.”
“Ethan wishes to speak with you first.” She held up a finger to silence him, murmured a few words into her headset, and gestured for him to enter the door to the team owner’s inner sanctum. He’d only been in there on a few formal occasions, such as signing his last contract.
Well, shit. The big man himself wanted to talk to Alex. This couldn’t be good. So much for a grab and dash. He was screwed and due for another lecture, as if his teammates hadn’t been bad enough.
Alex entered the hallowed ground with his head down and waited for the big boss to say something.
“Have a seat.” Ethan stood from behind his desk and walked to a small table in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with the most awesome view of Seattle. As usual, Ethan was casually dressed in jeans and Sockeyes T-shirt. The young billionaire didn’t care much for putting on airs, which Alex appreciated. If Ethan had his way, he probably wouldn’t make the team wear suits to and from games, but he didn’t.
Alex took his seat, and Ethan sat across from him.
“I understand Coop and the boys spoke with you?”
Alex nodded. He folded his hands on the table and held a respectful silence.
“You’ve been on this team since its first year in Seattle, as a rookie. You’re a valuable member and an asset.”
So far, so good. Alex nodded and said nothing, as there was nothing to say.
“We’re counting on you to step up into a leadership role next season. There will be holes left by Drew and Coop. I’m expecting you to help fill those holes. Partying until you drop is not the example I want set for the younger players.” There it went again. Younger players. Since when had he become an older player? Damn.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have no beef with your on-the-ice play; it’s your off-the-ice behavior that needs adjustment. At first, we let it go, chalked it up to typical young-guy antics. You’re not a rookie anymore, but your partying hasn’t shown any signs of diminishing. If anything, it’s gotten worse.”
“We just won Cup. That requires partying.” Alex defended himself, despite the hard, disapproving line of Ethan’s jaw.
“Winning it all does lend itself to celebration, but you’ve been celebrating nonstop for over two weeks. The rumor mill is rife with your escapades. Frankly, I’m tired of hearing about it. Do you have a substance-abuse problem? Do you need help? The team is prepared to assist you in any way necessary.”
“No, I can stop anytime. I am having fun.”
Ethan’s frown was full of skepticism. “Prove it.”
“I have agreed to go to island. I come here for the key.”
“Good. Keep in mind, my family has resided on that island for over a century. We’re good neighbors. We do not have wild parties. We do not come on to every woman who walks down the street. We do not have drunken orgies. We savor the serenity of the island. We respect the natural beauty. We live among the locals as one of them.”
“I understand.” Alex bristled, slightly unsalted at Ethan’s low opinion of him, all the while knowing he’d given the man no reason to think any differently.
Ethan stood, keys in hand, and pointed at Alex’s face, as if he were scolding a recalcitrant child. “You will go to this island, and you will be a sterling example for this team. If you aren’t, I’ll hear about it.”
“I promise I will be stellar.” Alex rose to his feet.
“Good.” Ethan handed over the key. “Enjoy yourself.”
Enjoy himself? Alex wasn’t sure any kind of fun was possible given the constraints placed on him, but he’d do his best. He’d survived much worse than temporary exile to an island.
Chapter 2—Flipping Burgers
Alex’s first day on Madrona Island he slept from noon Sunday until Monday, getting up only to use the bathroom and to grab a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or two and feed his cat.
In the morning, he woke to the sound of waves rolling onto the rocky shore several feet from his open window. Raising his arms, he cradled his head in his hands, staring at the ceiling and letting the calmness wash over him. His black cat, Milo, was curled up on the pillow next to him, purring like an idling diesel engine. The guys often gave him shit for having a cat, but he didn’t care. He was more attached to Milo than most people. He couldn’t leave the spoiled animal alone in his apartment, and Milo hated kennels, so he’d brought him along. They could both use a vacation.
Two weeks of nonstop partying had taken their toll, even though he’d be the last to admit it out loud. He was exhausted, which explained why he didn’t fight this exile as much as he normally would’ve.
As a fan of classic rock, he realized his life mirrored “Take it Easy,” a song by the Eagles and something he wasn’t good at. He played hockey hard, partied hard, and had hard, energetic sex. His only speeds were fast, faster, and screaming fast, except when he was wrapped up in a book. Reading was the only thing that relaxed him.
He wanted a drink, but he’d always said he could stop with just one drink, not that he ever had. He drank to deaden the pain, to banish the ghosts, to smother the guilt. Alcohol and hockey were the only two things that made him forget, but the forgetting was only temporary. When he sobered up, the memories came flooding back as if the tragedy had happened only yesterday instead of seven years ago.
No one knew what lurked beyond his carefree surface down in the deepest recesses of his soul, not even his closest buddies. He deflected any questions about his family and his life in Russia by changing the subject, joking, and avoiding deep relationships. His teammates thought he was a party boy without a care in the world. They couldn’t see the unhealed scars because they were all on the inside, where they did the most damage.
Never let them see you bleed was his motto.
Until he’d met Avery, Ice had handled his pain by being surly and brooding. Alex used the opposite tactic. It’d worked for him over the years, and no one suspected he was any deeper than a mud puddle.
And here he was, stuck on an island for at least a month with nothing to divert his attention from those dark places he avoided like Milo avoided being outside on rainy days.
With a heavy sigh, Alex stumbled out of bed and staggered downstairs to the kitchen. He needed coffee, and right now. The staircase was something out of a movie set of a Southern plantation mansion. This place wasn’t just a house, it was a huge, old monstrosity. His footsteps echoed on the creaking hardwood floors, and he briefly wondered if the place was haunted.
Ethan had a Keurig, so Alex didn’t have to grind coffee or figure out how many scoops were required for an entire pot of java strong enough to singe his chest hairs. He waited for his cup to fill and took it outside to the wraparound porch, sinking down onto one of the cushy deck chairs. He propped his feet on the equally cushy ottoman.
Beyond the madrona trees clinging precariously to the rocky bank was a panoramic view of a small cove. Beyond that the swift waters of a channel and a nearby island. He wondered if the cove had a name. He’d find a book on local history next time he ventured into town. When he’d arrived, he’d barely noticed his surroundings. Once he recovered from lack of sleep and too much booze, he’d take a walk down the road, which was called Old Mansion Lane, and check out the rest of the neighborhood.
Through the trees, he could make out the massive roof of Tyler Harris’s family estate. He’d wander over there later and see if anyone was home. Shooting the shit with Tyler might be fun. The guy was known for his blunt honesty and wicked humor. He’d also been a legend in his wild younger days.
Alex ran his hand through his hair and took another swig of coffee. He stared at the steaming mug. The coffee was missing something, like a shot of whiskey or brandy. After pushing himself to his feet, he wandered through the mansi
on and discovered a wood-paneled den with overstuffed leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and a large set of French doors on the far wall. In one corner of the room was a bar.
Alex grinned with relief. He yanked open a cabinet and found various bottles of top-shelf liquor. He reached for a bottle of good whiskey and froze when he heard a voice behind him.
What the fuck? He hadn’t been warned anyone else would be here.
He jerked his hand away and turned, pasting an innocent smile on his face. The man watching him bordered on ancient. He was somewhat stooped over, with thinning gray hair and wrinkled skin. His eyes were a bright blue and as sharp as an eagle’s.
“I am Alex.” He approached the man with an outstretched hand.
“I’m Homer. Ethan pays me to keep an eye on this place.” Homer shook Alex’s hand.
“I have permission to be here.”
“I know. You’re the troublemaker Ethan is trying to reform.”
“I would not go quite so far.”
“I would.” Homer turned his attention to the open liquor cabinet. “Should you be in the booze?”
“I, uh, I am a guest.”
“I inventory every bottle of alcohol and wine in this building. Jus’ saying.” Homer held up a clipboard to show Alex.
“I was looking. That is all.”
“Sure you were.” Homer whipped out a business card and handed it to him. “In case you’d like to buy your own island retreat. But no funny business. We don’t like that on this island. We like to keep outsiders to a minimum.”
“I am good resident.” Alex looked down at the business card. The man was a Realtor?
Homer studied him skeptically. “Make sure it stays that way. You play cards?”
“Poker.”
“The boys and I play poker at the veterans club every Wednesday at noon. Feel free to join us.”
Alex doubted they were actually boys or anywhere close to being boys. “Okay. Thank you.”
Without another word, the man turned and tottered from the room. Alex glanced out the window and saw Homer get into a car as old as he was. He started it, and the piece of garbage backfired. A few seconds later, he pulled around the circular driveway in stops and starts as if he wasn’t used to driving a clutch. The thing belched smoke as it disappeared around a bend in the driveway.
Alex couldn’t believe it. He was being chaperoned by an old man who’d just threatened him then invited him to play cards. The guy probably figured he could win some money off Alex.
He walked over to the bar and shut the cabinet door. He didn’t need to drink. He’d show them. He stalked to the kitchen for another cup of coffee and strolled out the front door into the morning sun. Birds were chirping, and the flowers along the front were bright splashes of color against the white of the mansion. He breathed deeply, taking in the fresh air, tinged with the fragrance of the blossoms and saltwater.
His cell rang. He fished it out of his pocket and sat in a chair on the wide porch.
“Hey, how’s it going?” It was Brick. He could hear the laughter in his buddy’s tone. He was getting a kick out of Alex’s banishment.
“It is great. Love it here. The women are exceptional. I am fighting them off.”
“Right.” Brick wasn’t buying it.
“I met some locals. They invite me to play poker.”
“Can you afford that?” The bastard was laughing because Alex always lost at poker. He decided not to respond to his friend’s question.
“Did you call to harass me?”
“A little. Just checking on you.”
“I am fine.”
“All right then. If you need me, you know how to find me.”
“Sure.” Alex disconnected the call. Milo leapt onto his lap and settled in while Alex absently stroked the soft fur. No one believed in him. Not even his closest friends. He could stop partying. He could do more productive things with his time. Once he figured out what those things were, he’d prove how wrong they all were.
His phone rang again. Without checking the caller ID, he answered.
“Hello.”
“Rush, darling, where are you? I’m in Seattle, and your doorman said you were on an extended vacation. I need a piece of you now.” Magdalena’s voice purred across the miles. Alex and Mags had a deal. No strings. No cares. But lots of sex. The deal worked for them. Neither wanted to be burdened with a relationship but often needed a date for a gala or event. They looked fantastic together, not to mention Mags didn’t have many scruples when it came to sex, and she was a happy drunk—two qualities Alex greatly appreciated.
“The team wants me to clean my act. I am playing along. They have sent me to island by Canada to keep out of trouble.”
“An island by Canada? Not in the tropics? That sucks. I’m glad I don’t answer to anyone.”
“You are lucky.”
“When are you coming home? Even better to LA? I miss your body.”
“I do not know. I miss yours more.” If only she knew.
“I’ll bet. You’ve probably already hooked up with five island girls at the same time.”
“I wish. This is not that type of island. Nothing happening here, and everyone is old.”
“Sounds perfectly boring.”
“You have no idea.”
“So how long are you stuck on that rock?”
“At least a month.” Ethan hadn’t given him an exact deadline, but he expected he’d hear something from one of the guys once the team was satisfied with his behavior. In the meantime, he really did need to figure out what to do with all these hours in the day. He wasn’t good with just sitting around. Maybe he could volunteer. He was good with kids, but usually he helped them learn to skate or hone their hockey skills. He hadn’t seen one ice rink on this island, and he doubted he would.
“Alex, are you listening?”
He gave a guilty start, realizing he’d drifted off and completely forgotten about Mags on the other end of the phone. “Uh, sorry. I was distracted.”
“Call me when you’re back to civilization. Maybe we can hook up if you’re lucky.” She was mad at him, but he didn’t care much. She’d forget about him as soon as she hung up, and he’d do the same. What did that say about his relationships with women?
“Goodbye,” he said, but she’d already disconnected.
He placed Milo on the floor, ignoring the dirty look the cat cast his way. He’d take a shower, then go for a drive and see what the island had to offer—if anything.
He’d work flipping burgers if necessary, just to alleviate the boredom.
Chapter 3—Messy Man
As she’d done every Monday through Saturday morning for the past few years, Rosalind Newcomb walked the winding path through the woods and along the water’s edge from her little bungalow to Turning Pages, the bookstore she’d taken over from her mother two years ago. She unlocked the door and turned on the lights, flipping the sign on the door to Open.
She picked up a heavy cardboard box left on the doorstep by UPS and carried it to her desk, where she’d inventory the new books, tag them, and place them on a cart to be shelved.
Everything in the bookstore was orderly and in place, just as she liked it. She strolled down each aisle, making sure every book was straight, the spines were even, and they were in the proper order.
She paused to gaze around the bookshelf-lined space and breathed in the scent of books. She loved books. Any kind of books. Even digital books, though they didn’t have the feel of a real book in her hands.
She’d worked tirelessly to build the small bookstore’s business. She’d started a Wednesday night book club and a Saturday afternoon children’s reading. She worked six days a week in the bookstore. Prior to her mother’s retirement, she’d worked three days a week at Turning Pages, and four more mornings cleaning rooms at a nearby bed-and-breakfast, along with her writing. When you lived on an island with limited opportunities for employment, you often had to be creative and flexible.
She loved living on the island and couldn’t picture herself living anywhere else. Her family had homesteaded this island a century ago, and her parents still owned the original homestead, raising organic veggies, which they sold locally.
The only time Rosalind had lived off island was the two years she attended community college on the mainland. After getting her associate’s degree in library services, she’d returned to the island, which had no library but did have her mother’s bookstore.
Sure, she was lonely, but she had her cat and her dog, and she loved her little garden with all its bright flowers.
She realized her simple, easygoing life wasn’t for everyone, but she loved it. The only thing missing was a special someone to share her day with, but the choices on this island were slim to none. Regardless, she had faith, and someday the right guy would walk into her life. She must be patient and stick with the plan.
Rosalind walked to the back of the store into a small storage area. She poured some cat food into a plastic bowl, opened the back door, and set the bowl near the dumpster. There were a couple of wild cats who lived in the alley, and she fed them every morning. She waited a few moments. One of the cats poked its head out from under the dumpster and eyed her warily. With a smile, Rosalind went back into the store.
Returning to the box of new books, she followed her normal routine, placing the books on the cart, ready to be shelved or displayed based on how popular certain books would be with the majority of her customers.
The little bell over the entrance rang as the door opened and closed. She looked up from the cart she’d wheeled to the shelves, a little startled, and did a double take. The man who’d entered the store wasn’t anything like the men who lived on this island. He was drop-dead gorgeous and stunningly virile.
And she was at a loss for words.
Realizing she was gaping at him, she snapped her mouth shut.
Deflected: Game On in Seattle (Seattle Sockeyes Book 9) Page 2