Shootout (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 6)

by Sophia Summers

  She sucked in her breath. “What is it?”

  “Just that I’m convinced I’m only ever going to want more of you in my life. I love what we’re doing as a team. I’d like to be a team in all things.” He dropped to one knee and held out a small black box. “Janae Terry, will you marry me?”

  She rested her hand at the side of the sweet man’s face, and his eyes beamed with love for her. His gentle manner warmed her. The hope she saw and the surety she felt that they could make something wonderful between them filled her with a new kind of peaceful joy. It pounded in her heart and brought her hands up to her face. As a couple tears dropped down to the ice, she took the ring box in her hand. “Yes. Trane. I don’t know how it happened, how we were able to meet, us two in all the world, but what we have is special. I love you more than I ever thought I could. Yes.” She wiped the moisture from her eyes. “Thank you. For this beautiful life.”

  He rose and then swept her in his arms, kissing her and skating across the ice, across the middle and around the rink again and again until they stopped.

  “Let’s see what you got there.” He opened the small black box, and she gasped.

  “It’s beautiful!”

  “Can I put it on you?”

  “Yes.” Her hands shook as he slipped the ring on her left hand. It sparkled against the top lights. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  One year later

  Trane stood in the middle of the ice, his team circling around him in practice. They were his best, his high school elite. But this practice was one of the worst he’d seen. They couldn’t even get the puck down the rink. They were not trying hard enough. The offense let their teammates steal the puck, and then defense goofed off, racing to the other unmanned goal.

  He blew the whistle again. And suddenly he heard Coach’s words come out of his mouth. “You know what I’m not seeing from you guys tonight? Commitment. You’re going to do laps. You’re going to ride the edge of this arena until I blow the whistle, and then you’re going to change directions, and then when you think it’s time to come in, I’m going to have you doing drills. And more drills, and more until I say we quit. You’re better than this. Our first game is in two weeks, and I’m still not seeing whether or not you care.”

  A familiar cough made him turn his head. Declan. And Zane. Clint. Rocco. And Jax. All standing at the edge of the ice with their skates on.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Trane didn’t try to hide his pleased smile.

  “We’re here to run drills with the guys.”

  Trane’s eyebrows rose, but then he nodded. “It would be good for all of you. Don’t think I didn’t see those sorry excuses for games you all played this week.”

  Jax snorted. “I think Coach Trane ate something he didn’t like. Boys, he giving you trouble?”

  Trane’s guys knew better than to answer, but he did see a couple smirky hidden smiles.

  “Something like that.” Clint skated up next to one of the guys on the team. “Hey there. I’m Clint MacCarthy. St Louis.”

  Trane pointed to the kid. “That’s Tiger. He’s our mini Clint.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s your mini Jax?”

  Trane nodded toward a scrawny kid in the corner, and when he gave Jax a warning look, the man kept his mouth shut.

  “He’s the fastest guy on the ice.”

  The kid stood taller.

  “Then he is the mini Jax for sure.” Jax nodded in his direction.

  Then the boy from the trailer park, who lived in the very house Trane was raised in, caught his eye. Mini Trane. But he didn’t say anything to the young player, not yet.

  Then Trane blew his whistle. “Show these pros how not to forget where they came from.”

  The kids took off like someone lit a fire under them and raced around the rink.

  The Pit joined them like they had years ago, and Trane took up the caboose, taking laps with his team.

  When Trane sent the guys into the locker room, Clint tossed him a stick. “Let’s play.”

  They took up sides, the puck dropped, Trane filled one of the goals, and everything was as it should be. Rocco circled with the puck cradled in front of his stick. They kept the game at half court. Zane blocked Rocco’s first shot and sent it out to Clint. They easily moved into their practices from years ago, only now it seemed even more seamless. The guys knew a puck was coming before it hit their stick, and Trane knew a trick was coming at him before they shot a goal. Time passed, no one knowing for sure just how much.

  But when they finally took a break, clapping broke out through the stands.

  The guys turned. The lower level courtside seats on the west were completely filled. “What?” Trane scratched his head.

  Then Janae waved. “They wanted to stay and watch, I hope you don’t mind.” Her grin grew.

  “No, that’s great.” He chuckled. Most of the center’s families were all out there, smiling at him and the guys.

  And then the ice was packed with little ones and big, bulky dads, and busy mothers asking for autographs from his friends, his family, the Pit. The families knew which players had come through Northbrook, and they honored them. They cheered them whenever they came on TV. And an autograph from one of the Northbrook Hockey Elite was like a promised hope that one day, dreams could come true for any one of them, if they worked hard enough.

  Falling for Centerfield Chapter One

  Cole Hunter shouted to the scraggly group of young outfielders at the Beacon of Hope Children’s Center for foster families, “It’s going long!” He laughed to himself when a pack of ten-year-olds fell over each other trying to run backward, hands up. “Whoever catches this one gets to keep it!” He tossed a baseball up and used a bat to send it flying out to centerfield. His sweet spot.

  Jeremiah, a red-headed kid with more freckles than skin, caught it and everyone jumped up and down, cheering.

  Cole adjusted his sunglasses and ran out to meet them, scooping the winner up. He threw him up on his shoulders, and jumped with them, his tall frame towering over their pint sizes. All these kids had his heart, and their laughs and cheers warmed him. Born into tough situations, hopefully things were now looking up. Each one of these little guys deserved a break, a smile, a happy day at least.

  “Do I really get to keep it, Mr. Hunter?” Jeremiah’s shout from Cole’s shoulder pierced his ear but he didn’t wince.

  “Of course! I’ll even sign it for you if you want.”

  “Really? Awesome!”

  The other guys all groaned.

  “Hey, come on now, the rest of you will just have to be faster next time. Remember—”

  “Keep your glove soft and open!” They chorused in response.

  “That’s right!” He jumped a couple more times and then challenged them to a race back to the gym where the other kids were meeting for the rest of the camp.

  He checked his watch. About thirty more minutes. His best friends were all flying in at the same time to do some publicity for Beacon of Hope and he couldn’t wait to see the guys, the Six Pack. Six of them had all played under the celebrated coach, Rich Maxwell, at Belltown University just up the street in this small town in western Massachusetts.

  Deep satisfaction filled Cole as he thought about the day’s charity event. His buddies didn’t know, but he had planned the whole thing behind the scenes, set it up, and then got the guys involved. He loved these kids. Cole saw so much of himself, so much potential, and at the same time, so much despair in their faces—that look of fear, the feeling he remembered of not belonging, anywhere, not really. To think he’d be in their same situation, had his dad not found him.

  Jeremiah wiggled out of his arms; He respected the tenacious boy who had fought his way to the center of the pack and caught the ball. “On your marks, get set, GO!”

  They picked up their heels and took off ahead of him. He waited for ten seconds, and then he raced for the gym, outdistancing them immediately. He was showing off t
o a bunch of kids, he admitted to himself —was it pathetic that his heart warmed to hear their collective, “Whoa!” Or their other comments:

  “He’s the fastest guy I’ve ever seen!”

  “He can run around the bases in eighteen seconds.”

  “He’s the fastest player in the MLB right now.”

  Totally not true. Rabbit had him beat. Others too—maybe—but he only admitted to losing to Rabbit, another one of the Six Pack.

  Their cheers for his speed, their excited faces to see him whenever he came, he loved it, loved it all. He remembered doing the same about MLB players when he was their age. His dad and he would go through all the cards, talking about the stats, analyzing players, arguing about what group of guys would make up the most perfect baseball team. Some of his best memories were those days when everything to do with the majors seemed like nothing but the cloudy dream of a young boy.

  Each boy got a high five as he ran through the gym door.

  “I’ll see you after this next thing. The other guys from the Six Pack are coming!” When he showed up at the charity event officially, he needed to make an entrance, a real Big Dawg entrance.

  He grabbed his bag, heading for the locker room and a quiet place to call his dad. All these kids and the memories had him missing the old man’s voice. He swung his bag up over his shoulder and kicked up his feet, almost running down a woman with white blonde hair who had shown up behind him.

  He caught her with both hands, dipped forward to steady her. “Whoa, I’m sorry, Ma’am.” His Texan always came out in moments like this. And, getting a good look at the stunning woman he cradled in his arms, he liked this moment. Her hair fell back in a sheet of light, her face close, lovely eyes wide in surprise. He fought the urge to pull her closer. The air between them crackled with a new energy. But he tilted her back upright and let go.

  She adjusted her shirt. “It’s okay, really. Wow, you must be in a hurry.” She looked up into his face and paused, her eyes lighting. Then she straightened. “Oh.” Her cheeks flushed.

  Something about her looked familiar. He couldn’t place her and she was no help, her mouth still slightly open while she checked him out. Women did this silent gawking thing all the time. Early on in his career it unnerved him but now he knew it would pass and then they would get all flirty and fun. She looked like she might say something but then closed her mouth and swallowed instead.

  He grinned. “It’s ok, pretty lady, I’m used to it.”

  Her eyes crinkled in adorable confusion. Mmm. He searched her face, enjoying her pert nose, full lips, bright blue eyes … What was familiar? How did he know her?

  She blinked. “Um, wait, used to what? Running into women?”

  “What? No, that’s not…” Now what would he say? He was not good with the comebacks or the clever conversation. Ugh. Adults were so difficult unless he was being Big Dawg, the larger than life crowd pleaser—Communicating was so much easier when he hid behind his sunglasses. “I’ve got to run.” He pointed both fingers in her direction and then indicated the back door. “The boys aren’t done for another three hours or so. If you need to pick up your son, I’m sure they can help you over there.”

  “Pick up…no, I’m not…”

  He took off toward the back of the room. What was wrong with him? Why could he not hold a normal conversation with the woman? She was beautiful. He saw beautiful women every day. But she seemed smart. And familiar. Well hopefully if he ever saw her again, he’d feel more in control of his game.

  Harlow Ember watched the enormous man try to run away from her as fast as he could, and she shook her head. “Of course.” Cole Hunter. Belltown Six Pack Centerfielder. And he had no memory of ever meeting her. Figured.

  She scared away more men than she thought anyone could. And this one was hot. That was the only way to describe his ripped arms, flat stomach, thick thighs; the man was chiseled everywhere he should be. He’d grown up since their Belltown days. His jawline sharper, his muscles more defined. And his eyes sparkled with humor and confidence.

  What had he meant, used to it? And why did he run? For a second, she’d seen the spark, the intrigue in his eyes. But something whipped his head so fast in the other direction, she’d looked to see if there was another woman over by the back door. Heh. He’d run through an empty gym, and out the door without a second glance. She exhaled slowly. The rest of the Six Pack were arriving in a few hours and talking to each of them would be more of the same. She should be grateful. The farther she stayed away from big time athletes the better.

  She’d done her turn hoping for some attention from the jocks and had the emotional scars to prove it. But oh, her weakness, that tight stretch of a t-shirt across their chest. The massive size of some of these professional athletes felt comforting at her side. Not that she needed them. She scoffed. Her friends from the Seneca Falls Women’s Conference would never let her live it down, pining like a sports groupie wannabe. Old college habits died hard, she guessed. Old, mortifying, emotionally damaging habits certainly clung to her memories in places she wished would disappear. But just like those love handles she’d worked off running, she’d get over Devin and that whole time of her life chasing the Belltown football team.

  She shook off her melancholy. She didn’t really want a boyfriend right now. She’d worked hard to avoid most dates. She had plans and goals, and her job as the press liaison for the university kept her busy most weekends. Ironically, she ended up being called upon to arrange most aspects of athletic events as well as any other event for Belltown University. Sports did calendar much of her time even though she tried desperately to focus on something more meaningful to the world.

  “Our university is known for so much more than just its athletic programs,” she had tried to explain to the president of the university, Dr. Grant.

  He had countered, “But ever since the Six Pack, we are on the map for so many more students. They are applying, our attendance is up. It’s helping us fund all these other programs.”

  She nodded. What could she say to that? And then she spent most of her time coordinating interviews for the after game moments of all the different sporting events.

  Sad but true, the grown-up Harlow Ember was a paid groupie.

  Her gaze travelled over the gym full of Beacon of Hope campers. The kids were all lined up, getting ready for what looked like a last-man-standing-duel-to-the-death game of dodgeball. She wanted none of that. But the director waved her over. “You wanna join?”

  She was about to shake her head no, when a man’s voice behind her called, “Of course she does.” Cole came back, only this time, with his typical costume—jersey, a flashy pair of mirror shades and bright neon shoes.

  “Cole Hunter.”

  His grin widened, and she recognized his confident swagger. “In the flesh.” He held out his hand. “And these kids need your participation.”

  “Oh, do they? And I suppose you—”

  He ran across the gym. “Who’s team am I on?”

  Every hand went up and he chose a side which left half of the room about as dejected as a kid who doesn’t get what he wants for Christmas. “It’s ok, you guys get her!” He pointed a thumb in Harlow’s direction.

  She hid her smile at the look from most of the ten-year olds on her team. “Oh, come on now, I was the elementary school champion of dodgeball.”

  “Really?” The spiked-haired freckled child looked skeptical.

  “Sure she was, Jeremiah. Just wait.” Cole held up the ball. “You coming?”

  She put her bags down against the wall. “Someone’s gotta show you how to win a game.”

  “Ooooh!” All the kids laughed.

  But Cole just shook his head and aimed, ready for the first throw.

  The kids scattered.

  As soon as she walked across the line, he chucked the ball at her knees. By some crazy streak of luck, she jumped into the air, and he missed. The kids on both sides cheered and he lifted his chin in appreciation.
“Nice move.”

  Harlow narrowed her eyes. “I see what you’re about. Ok, kids. We. Are. Gonna win.” She pulled them all close. They had the ball. “Start picking ‘em off. Aim for the legs, and do whatever you can to catch the balls they throw back.”

  She reached her hand in the middle of their circle for a cheer, but they all walked away before she could lead them in any shouts.

  They chucked the ball back and forth. People started to arrive for the press meeting. Harlow barely noticed them, so determined to beat Cole Hunter at something. He’d had everything handed to him. A football and a baseball scholarship, first round MLB draft pick, and more wealth than any person had a right to. She had been the same year as him at Belltown, and he’d been like deity walking across the square. Conversation literally stopped when he showed up, everyone dying to hear what he might say next. She never saw him with less than two girls.

  But not today. Because right now, her dodgeball team, Harlow’s kids, were winning. They had eight players left on her side to Cole’s two.

  She grabbed the ball and barreled it across the line. If she could just pick off this one last child… But she threw it harder than she meant to, or didn’t really think it through. It smacked into the kid’s face. He doubled over, and her breath hitched in shock. “Oh no.”

  Cole dove for the ball and caught it before it hit the ground, but then dropped it again as he tried to tuck it under his arm.

  Harlow’s team tried to cheer but then she waved them to quiet. They’d won, but…

  Cole bent over the child who was gasping for air. “I… can’t breathe.” Bright red dripped between his fingers.

  “Oh no. Oh no!” Harlow was horrified and felt a panic rise. She ran to his side, but the child turned away.

  Cole shook his head. “It’s ok, Trevor, count to five in between breaths. You can do it. Just relax. She didn’t mean it.” He eyed her over his shoulder. She couldn’t even guess what his eyes were trying to tell her behind his glasses, but she guessed it wasn’t good.