by Kate Meader
Gunnar sighed. “I don’t want you to set me up with anyone, T. I’m not in the market for anything.”
“Not even a summer fling with Angel? What does she look like?”
No idea. The thought of meeting her made him uneasy, like he was cheating. And the weird thing? He wasn’t thinking of Kelly—or not only Kelly. He was thinking of her, Sadie Yates.
Lauren’s sister was a striking woman, with those fall-into-me gray eyes and that strawberry blond hair and the curves that would feel just right in his hands. The dress she wore this morning made her look like a naughty fifties housewife. He’d already imagined peeling it off her slowly. Or, given his lack of sexual interaction for three years, not so slowly.
Well, howdy, libido. Welcome back!
He hadn’t thought about sex with another person in such a long time that the shock of it made him drop his phone. He picked it up, turned it over again in his lap. Of all the women he’d met since Kelly, why was he interested in the one who was clearly not a fan? Maybe their friction added to the attraction.
“Listen, I need a favor.” At Theo’s grin, he added, “Not that kind of favor. I need you to talk to Jason about making an effort with Lauren. Sitting at the same table with her at lunch, maybe even invite her over for video games or whatever. She lives in the same neighborhood.”
That would make Lauren feel more included and might remove that streak of worry in Sadie’s silver-starred eyes. Completely altruistic. He certainly wasn’t doing this so he could find out what was going on under that dress.
Stop thinking about her dress or curves or great rack …
Theo shrugged, not even questioning it. “Consider it done.” He stood and stretched. “Come on, time to show the kids some of your moves.”
Gunnar turned over his phone, thinking on how he wanted to proceed. Sadie Yates might be the stuff of wet dreams, but Angel had seen him through one of the hardest times of his life. She made him laugh and he wanted to meet her. No expectations.
He typed, Name when and where. I’ll be there.
14
Sadie sat in the parking lot after the hockey camp drop off, scowling at the unrelenting perfection staring back at her. Not the Viking, though. An obnoxiously early riser, Peyton was showered, made-up, and already on her second soy milk latte.
“Hey, girl!” Peyton’s smile blinded from the screen. She really needed to lay off the teeth whitening. “When are you coming home?”
“A couple of weeks? I hope. The house is going on the block soon.” She still hadn’t told her father about the move, though he had to have some idea. Not that his new zip code gave him much say over how she should be raising his child for the next four years.
“I miss you,” Peyton said, “and I’m worried you’re sacrificing a whole lot of your life for this father that has never done a whole lot for you.”
That stung a little—not the sacrifice comment but the jibe about what her father had done for her. True, they weren’t close, but she couldn’t abandon her blood. “Lauren’s a kid and she’s hurting. Someone has to be on her team and that’s why I’m here. I just have to get her through the next few weeks and then find a school in LA that will take her.” Did high schools have hockey programs or was that a separate thing? Another thing to research.
“Listen, thanks for helping me with the purple roses.” Peyton worked at the virtual concierge service were Sadie had been employed before Allegra hired her. “And for vetting the new dog walker. I managed to keep my job. Just.”
“You’ve got to be careful there. She could find anyone to take that position.”
Maybe. None of Allegra’s previous assistants had lasted more than a couple of weeks while Sadie had put up with her boss’s mercurial personality for ten months. Theoretically Allegra could find a replacement, but then theoretically Sadie might beat Serena Williams in a US Open final.
She changed the subject to a topic she knew her friend would appreciate. “So I did it.”
“Did what?”
“I set up a meeting with LonelyHeart.”
Peyton perked up even more, though it should have been impossible. “No! You’ve been so against it. What changed your mind?”
“I had a rotten day.” She told Peyton about Cooper and how she’d ended up elbow deep in dog poop. “And this hockey camp guy was there, one of the counselors. Mr. Judgment-in-Sweats, dying to weigh in with his opinion. I offered him cash I don’t have to coach Lauren but he shut me down, then had the gall to ask me if I needed help. I asked you for help, dingus, and you told me to take a hike.”
Peyton tilted her head. “So … is he cute?”
“I haven’t met him yet.”
“Not LonelyHeart. The hockey guy.”
“Oh, God no. He’s the opposite of cute. He’s like a cross between an Orc and Ent. He has the big, brutish body of an Orc but he got some Ent genes, probably from his mother’s side. Basically a tree-trunk with good hair.”
Peyton’s nose twitched. Lord of the Ring references were not her jam. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“He flinched when I touched him.”
“You touched him?”
Not the point, Peyton. Even now, she cringed at the memory. “He said he’d ask around for coaching help for Lauren and I was so stupidly grateful at someone saying a kind, freaking word that I grabbed his arm. And my touch disgusted him! He has these very expressive eyebrows, kind of a brown-bag blond, and this scary scar, half-covered by a beard. Because of course, bearded. My Kryptonite. So it lulled me into a false sense of security, which had me accidentally touching him only to get the eyebrows and scar and lips all twitching in revulsion. I was mortified.”
Peyton looked appropriately sympathetic.
“Anyway, I haven’t had a moment to myself, but I’ve been thinking about taking chances, putting myself out there, YOLO, and all that jazz. If it turns out to be a disaster, I can chalk it up to one of those things that was never supposed to be, and not worry about seeing him again.”
“Like any other date.”
“Not a date.” A brief flash of Gunnar Bond’s stony stare froze her brain for a couple of seconds. No, no, little gray cells, I will not think date and you will not return “Gunnar Bond” with a straight face.
“Sounds like a date to me.”
Sadie sighed. “Maybe we should swap names before we meet. That way we can do our due diligence and go in with full disclosure.”
Peyton shook her head. “No! This needs to be as blind a date, uh, meeting”— she added a theatrical wink — “as you can make it. See if it’s possible to build off that chatty text attraction. If you guys work out, what a cool way to say you met.”
Cool? She doubted he’d appreciate his private tragedy being known. Neither was she thinking “date,” but the mere mention of it made her uneasy. What if she ruined the good thing they had going? There was a reason it hadn’t happened already.
“So you had a bad day and to wipe the sour taste from your mouth you decided to reach out to LonelyHeart. That’s pretty brave of you.”
“Is it? I don’t know. I might be reacting to the wrong stimulus here.” She wanted to think her big life changes were driving her motives, yet her mind was full of a pair of blazing blue eyes that disapproved of her every move.
Peyton guessed right. “So Hockey Camp Hottie is stimulating?”
“No, my pearly-white-toothed friend. He’s an asshole, and I’d like someone to be nice to me for a change, which is why I’ve reached out to my text buddy. He’s sensitive and kind and wounded, so he’s already 99% perfect. As a friend.”
“You have friends. You need a man.”
“Nope. My lonely texter-slash-platonic-soulmate will suffice. Kindness. I need kindness.”
“Yet …”
“What?” Sadie bristled, prepared to dislike her friend’s conclusion.
“You’ve spent most of this conversation talking about the Hockey Camp Hottie and very little of it talking
about how excited you are to meet your text buddy. Hormones will out, m’dear.”
“Oh shut up. I’ll keep you posted.”
As soon as she hung up, the age-old doubts about being good enough tried to wheedle their way in. LonelyHeart was the only decent thing in her life right now and she wanted to ruin it by … meeting it in real life? But she also knew that she was tired of standing still. Tired of waiting for life to happen to her instead of the other way around.
She was going to do this.
For the second day in a row, Sadie screamed so loud she might have shattered the ice on that practice rink. Damn, it felt good to let go and act against her safety-seeking instincts for once.
A small sound caught her attention and she turned her head. Jenny, Provider of the Wipes, stood outside the SUV. Oh boy.
Sadie lowered the window. “Hi, there.”
“Hello! Everything okay?”
“I just stepped outside my comfort zone and it felt really good. And scary.”
Jenny’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, wow, congrats!”
As it was a day for moving forward, Sadie prepared to humiliate herself. “Listen, I wanted to apologize about my abruptness yesterday. You were so kind with the wipes and watching Cooper and I was a complete troll.”
Jenny’s eyes widened, lovely hazel ones with inky black eyelashes. “Not at all! You were understandably overwhelmed. How’s your doggy today? Is he with you?” She glanced toward the empty back seat.
“God, no. I will never put him in a car again.” No matter how much Febreze she sprayed, the scent still lingered. “He’s on a pill regimen to help with his tricky tummy and is probably pooping the house to death as we speak. ”
“Aw, poor baby!”
“Yes, poor stinky giant baby. I’m sorry I wasn’t receptive to the car pool offer. To be honest, I wanted to escape because I was embarrassed.”
“About the dog poop?”
“The dog poop, the dog, my banshee wailing, the gossip girls, that camp counselor being a jerk—”
“Camp counselor?”
“Right, the Judgy Viking.” Nice work. Stepped in it again, and she didn’t even need the presence of actual shit. “Sorry, I know he’s a friend of yours.”
Jenny’s mouth quirked. “Pretty casual. I know him through my husband. Well, my stepson. Listen, do you want to go for a coffee? I could do with a pick-me-up.”
Sadie had the attic to clear out, photos of her father’s preferred family to bubble-wrap, and Allegra’s groceries to order. “That would be great.”
15
Gunnar walked into a quiet Empty Net, playing the part of an off-season hockey watering hole to perfection. He raised a hand in greeting to his teammates, Levi Hunt and Vadim Petrov over in the corner before stopping to grab a beer from bar owner, Tina.
She waved away his money. “Drinks are on your captain tonight.”
Gunnar pulled out a chair and sat across from Petrov, who has holding court with his knee in a brace and up on a chair.
“Thanks for the drink, Cap. How’s the knee?”
“Not as bad as post-op. Then, it felt like a million hot pokers were piercing my patella looking for a way to destroy me.”
“It hasn’t changed your tendency toward the dramatic, I see,” a drawled voice sounded behind them. Gunnar looked up into the shining blue eyes of Remy DuPre, former Rebel and now husband to the team’s owner, Harper Chase. He took a seat beside Gunnar, nudging with his elbow as he did so. “Good to see you, Bond.”
Unspoken was the slight admonishment that Gunnar had not been much of a mixer these last few months. Though nothing sounded truly negative when said in Remy’s warm Cajun tone.
Gunnar tipped his bottle toward Remy. Within minutes, the remaining seats were filled by Erik Jorgenson, the Rebels’ goalie, recent addition to the roster Cal Foreman, D-man Cade Burnett, left-winger Tate Kaminski, and Theo, who sat next to Gunnar.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Theo said, his tone grave, “we’re gathered here today to discuss something of prime importance.”
“Cereal is not soup, Kershaw,” Cade said.
“Not that, but it is.”
Erik snorted. “This from the same person who thinks the meat should go in the taco first instead of cheese.” Jorgenson had strong opinions on all things food, as did Remy.
“Cheese first, of course,” the Cajun said, “so it’s properly melted. Kershaw, is there any taboo you won’t violate?”
Theo held up a hand. “I know in my heart what’s right, DuPre, and you can’t change what’s in a man’s heart. Now, what I want to talk about today is not food-related, though I’m guessing it might end up being because every gathering needs a good spread, in which case—”
“Move it along, T. We’re not getting any younger,” Tate said impatiently. He looked like shit, bleary-eyed and unkempt. Still on the outs with his wife, apparently.
Theo assessed him with undisguised pity. “Right. It’s about Hunt’s bachelor party. What are we doing and how fucking off the chain is it gonna be?”
Levi’s brow wrinkled. “I’m okay with something quiet. You know, like this.”
Several unquiet groans followed that. Theo gave a sad headshake. “You want to go against the wishes of the group, Gigi?”
Arcing a gaze over those seated, Petrov mouthed, “Gigi?”
Who knew? Theo’s nicknames for people were often torturously byzantine in their origins. Gunnar sometimes went by G-man, which he assumed was because of his first name and Double-O because of his last, as in James Bond, 007.
“Perhaps he should get to decide,” Erik said, not unreasonably, “as it’s his final night of freedom.”
This outburst of logic was dismissed as patently ridiculous.
Theo focused on Hunt. “The problem is this Green Beret buddy of yours, the best man.”
“J-Bird?”
“He’s from out of town, so how the hell can he organize a shindig when he doesn’t know the players or the lay of the land or the best wing joints? You need someone on site.”
“Yeah, like a local concierge,” Cade said, egging Theo on. Remy shook his head.
“Exactly!” Theo pounded the table, shaking the glasses enough to have everyone grabbing theirs. “Which is why you should leave the bachelor party to me. I’ll keep it classy and will not let you down.”
“Aw, let the guy throw the princess party,” Cal said, with a pat of Theo’s head. Formerly a right-winger in Quebec where he and Petrov were a dynamic duo, Foreman had played Division One hockey with Gunnar at Vermont. He’d been on the Rebels’ injured reserve list for a couple of months. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Petrov muttered something in Russian, and locked eyes with Remy, who despite his retirement had retained elder statesman status.
Remy said diplomatically, “You shouldn’t have to do it all by yourself, Kershaw.”
The big Russian raised an aristocratic brow in query in Gunnar’s direction. That was a call to action if ever he’d seen one. Still, he kept quiet, not especially eager to play babysitter.
“Don’t worry, we have an adult on the job,” Theo chimed in. “Bond’s helping me out.”
“Oh, alright then,” Hunt said with a look of relief Gunnar’s way that almost made him laugh.
Before he could protest—and what would be the point?—his phone rang with a call from his brother.
“Sorry, got to take this.” He stepped away and headed for the corridor that led to the restrooms, then canceled the call. Guilt churned his stomach. Kurt meant well, but Gunnar knew how the conversation would go. The awkward pauses. The strained patience. The unsubtle hints to move on.
The love was there, the chains heavier than ever.
He scrolled his contacts, thinking about Angel. They would meet tomorrow and he was starting to worry. About expectations. About mistakes. But mostly about how much he was looking forward to it.
It wasn’t a date. He’d told himself that a million tim
es. But it was a step away from Kelly—and that terrified the fuck out of him.
“Damn, that smells good.”
Dante smiled and stirred the fragrant sauce on the stove in his kitchen, then put a lid on it. “Wine or beer?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
Dante grabbed a wine glass by the stem from a rack above the kitchen island while Gunnar scanned the chef’s paradise, loaded with gadgets and knick-knacks. The fridge door held signs of his life with his partner—now husband—Cade Burnett, the Rebels’ defenseman. Photos of them looking goofy together, magnets from cities they’d probably visited, a baby’s ultrasound picture.
He mentally traced the blurred outline of new life. Dante and Cade would soon be parents of a baby currently cooking up in Violet Vasquez-St. James, another Chase sister. All very cozy, even incestuous. It was the first thing he’d noticed about the team dynamic when he arrived. One for all and all in each other’s damn business.
There’s the heartbeat … ah, two heartbeats. Look, one of them is hiding behind the other. That’s often the case. One twin is more dominant, even in the womb.
“A nice Cab.” Dante passed off a glass, and Gunnar painfully hauled himself back from the memory brink.
“Don’t know much about wine.” Kelly did. Kelly knew it all.
“Well, I taught Cade and now he thinks he knows more than me. The confidence of youth.” Dante flicked a glance to the ultrasound image, his expression even. “We’re having a girl.”
“That’s great, man.” He meant it, too.
“Surprised to hear from you.”
“Because I’ve been so responsive to all your other invites.”
“Something like that.”
He and Dante went back to their days at the LA Quake, when Dante had been the scouting manager. They’d hit it off then and usually tried to get together for a drink when they were in the same city. Dante was a large part of why Gunnar had accepted the offer to play in Chicago. Since his arrival in January, he’d been keeping to himself, but tonight he’d wanted to talk to his old friend.