by Elise Faber
She wanted to fix all those things that had been unfixable in her father.
A pipe dream.
That was all it had been.
Her phone pinged, and she glanced down at the screen, saw it was her assistant. “Fuck,” she said and took a breath. “Enough.” After swiping a finger to answer the call, she put it up to her ear. “Hey, Callie. You guys okay?”
She listened to the rundown and was proud at how much the rest of her team had stepped up. Callie listed a few new injuries, including Blue’s hand, and the treatments they’d issued. They’d done great, perfectly executing the post-game routines, and she told her assistant that before passing on the information about Blane.
“He’s being discharged, actually. CT and MRI are negative, but he’ll be out a game or two, depending on how he feels over the next few days.”
“That’s great news,” Callie said. “We were all worried after a hit like that.” A beat. “They’ve said Player Safety will review the head contact.”
“Good.” She’d now watched the collision on replay several dozen times—initially attempting to distract herself from the potential for a spinal by coming up with a treatment plan for exactly how to alleviate the inevitable whiplash and muscle pain, and then afterward because some sick part of her just couldn’t let it go.
As if watching again might somehow change the outcome.
Foolish.
But that aside, Blane was still waiting for some freaking pants and she had the feeling that if she didn’t come back with some soon, he would start trolling the hospital halls for a pair.
At which point, Rebecca Stravokraus, the publicist for the Gold, would not be happy with Mandy, and then she wouldn’t be getting her delicious recipe for brownies.
And Rebecca’s brownies were the shit.
If there was one thing the women of the Gold didn’t fuck around with, it was chocolate.
So no naked scandals on Mandy’s watch, thank her very much.
“Look, can you send a car over for us and make sure to include some clothes for Blane—comfortable stuff, sweats and a T-shirt. Everything was cut off him, and I can’t have him walking out of here bare-assed.”
Callie giggled. “I mean, you could.”
“You, madam, are evil,” Mandy said, “And a bad influence. Car. Clothes. STAT.”
“Yes, Dr. Shallows.”
Mandy huffed. “I’m not a doctor.”
“You graduated,” Callie said. “That’s close enough.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
Callie giggled again. “I’ll send a car.”
“And clothes.”
“Bye!”
“Callie,” Mandy warned as the phone clicked off.
She sighed and slipped the cell into her pocket. The car had better have a pair of pants in it or so help her, she would put Callie on towel washing duty for the foreseeable future.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out and saw a text from her assistant.
And clothes, I promise. I don’t do laundry.
Car’s ETA is twenty minutes.
Mandy sighed and headed for the elevator. She might be evil, but the woman was efficient.
Six
Blane
* * *
Blane had managed to bow out of the wheelchair.
Mainly because he’d walked right by it and had taken Mandy’s hand, tugging her toward the elevators.
She’d brought him pants and news of the car’s arrival just as he’d been dozing off.
Good thing, too.
Who knew what his dreams would be like?
A replay of the collision? Or maybe, and probably more likely, a replay of the kiss Mandy had laid on him?
Option one would have been disturbing, but option two would have been more problematic, considering his unclothed state and the thin cotton blankets. Not that the pants she’d brought were much better. He was threatening to pitch a tent from her mere proximity.
Think of unsexy things. Global warming. The exchange rate of the British pound. How the rubber of hockey pucks was vulcanized to form a precise disk that weighed exactly six ounces.
What the fuck did vulcanized mean, anyway?
He played with pucks, knew when they felt right, knew when they didn’t, but he couldn’t explain what vulcanized rubber was.
But he was, apparently, good at getting rid of his burgeoning boners. Look at him go, just one year past thirty and he could finally control himself.
He snorted.
Mandy glanced up. “What is it?”
“You don’t want to know,” he said and then pressed on before she could question him further. “How mad at me are you?”
Pale brown eyes rolled heavenward. “What would be the point?” A shrug as the doors dinged and opened and they stepped from the elevator. “I’m sure Rebecca would say it didn’t look good if someone caught sight of you in the wheelchair anyway. You need to appear strong and uninjured, despite being stretchered off the ice a few hours ago.”
The tone of her words—equal parts begrudging and annoyed—had him biting back a smile. “Oh yeah?”
She huffed. “Yeah.”
“Rebecca’s holding her brownie recipe hostage again, isn’t she?”
Mandy’s mouth dropped open, and she missed a step before recovering. “What the heck do you know about Rebecca’s brownies?”
They stepped through the back door of the hospital. A car idled near the curb. Blane waved away the driver when he started to get out to help them.
“I know that those brownies are delicious. And that you’ve been trying to get the recipe for months.” He grabbed at the door handle before she could, tugging it open and gesturing her inside. If his mother had taught him one thing, it was how to be a gentleman.
Even when—like now—he really didn’t feel like being one.
Mandy hesitated. “You should go—”
“Sweetheart,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t be using the endearment, knowing it might be misconstrued as sexist or condescending, but unable to stop himself. She meant too much—
So not the time, Hart.
Not when she was scared and anxious, and he had her partway off balance.
Not when her shell had finally cracked the slightest bit.
Not when he might somehow worm his way in.
So he continued talking, knowing it was stupid and risky, but pushing on anyway. “Sweetheart,” he said again, “I’m exhausted and I know you are, too. I want to be at home in my bed, passed out with late-night TV blaring in the background, and I want you to get into that car because I’m two seconds away from lifting you in myself, and I think we both know where things might end up if I get you in my arms again.”
She froze for a long moment, eyes wide and staring, before she released a breath on a long, slow exhale. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he muttered, giving her a little nudge. “Now, into the car before you start regretting selling my safety for Rebecca’s brownie recipe.”
Mandy slid into the car and he followed. “That’s not exactly fair,” she protested as he closed the door.
“The truth isn’t always fair.”
“Where to?” the driver asked. “Back to the rink or your house?”
“We’ll take Blane home first,” Mandy said as he opened his mouth to tell the driver to take her home first. She was tired and needed to rest.
“You should go fir—”
She leveled him with a glare. “Buckle up and don’t argue with me, Blane. You’ve been through the wringer tonight. You’re going home first.”
His eyes met the driver’s in the rearview as he buckled his seat belt. They seemed to say, “Don’t look at me. I’m following her orders.”
And Blane knew there wasn’t any point in arguing. When Mandy got like this, she just dug in her heels and budged about as much as a mountain resisting the elements. That’s to say, not much and any fractional movement had earth-shattering consequences.
The ca
r’s destination was not earth-shattering.
“Those brownies had better be good,” he grumbled.
“What brownies?”
“The ones you’re going to make me.”
“Wait here,” Mandy told the driver and hopped out after Blane.
They’d pulled into his driveway, a small cottage not far from where Brit and Stefan lived.
“I’m fine,” he told her, pressing a few buttons on the keypad so the gate swung open. Luckily, he had another pad on his front door, since his keys were still at the rink.
“You’re not—”
“I’m fine,” he grumbled. “And I’m getting really fucking tired of you telling me I’m not.”
“You’re grumpy,” she said, trailing him to the front door. “That means you’re decidedly not fine. You only get grumpy when you’re hurt.”
He input the code on the keypad, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
“Or horny.”
Her eyes went wide. “Wh-what?”
“Nothing.”
So maybe she was right, maybe he was tired and hurting, but dammit, he was also horny as fuck. Which meant she needed to leave before he did something stupid.
Like haul her against his chest and kiss her senseless.
Blane plunked himself on the couch, feeling grumpier by the moment. “I’m safely ensconced like the damsel in distress you think I am, ’kay? Night, night.” He closed his eyes, felt her not move from her position behind the couch.
“What?” he asked after a few moments of silence.
“Are you okay?” Her voice was hesitant, wobbling just slightly at the end.
And Blane’s heart went to Jell-O.
He sighed and patted the couch cushion at his side. “I’m really okay,” he said when she sat next to him. “But I don’t think you are.”
Seven
Mandy
* * *
Mandy sank down onto the couch next to Blane. She was exhausted and vulnerable and knew it was a shit idea.
She sat down anyway.
“You scared me.”
He rested his head back against the couch. “I scared me.”
“But you were so calm.”
His hand came up and tugged her ponytail lightly. “It’s easy to pretend sometimes.”
She dropped her head back to match his position on the couch, thinking of all the times she had pretended in her own life. “Yeah, it is.”
“So you want to tell me why I scared you?”
“I care about all the guys on the team.”
He moved so that his jaw rested against the fabric of the couch, his brown eyes looking almost black in the dim light. “I mean why did I, in particular, scare you?”
Men.
She huffed. “Blane. It was one kiss. Don’t start thinking that I’m hard up for you. It was adrenaline, fearing for your life, whatever.”
“I didn’t mean the kiss. Though it was pretty fucking incredible, if you ask me. And”—he shrugged—“I’m definitely hard up for you. I’ve wanted you for months, Mandy. You’re hot and capable and don’t take any shit.”
“I—”
His mouth curved. “Just so we’re clear. But we’re not talking about the kiss, remember?” He sat up enough to tap her temple. “I was referring—clumsily, I realize—to what happened with your dad.”
What was the expression? All of the air had been sucked out of the room?
Yeah. That.
She turned away, swallowing hard against the memories. But it was already all so fresh in her mind, had been from the moment she’d seen Blane on the ice. “Your house is nice, really nice actually.”
“Brit decorated it for me.”
When she stood up, he followed. “Mandy—”
“I’d forgotten she’d told me about that.” Her heart pounded as she pointed to the walls and inched toward the front door, the need to escape growing with every beat. “I really like the gray and yellow together. I’ll have to tell her. Well”—she smacked her lips together—“I should go. You need to rest.”
Blane touched her arm. “Look, obviously you don’t want to talk about it and that’s fine, but I get why you were so upset. I know what it must have seemed like. I just . . . I get it, okay?”
The tone was more insulting than the words. Hell, if she’d been feeling reasonable, both probably would have been sweet and kind.
But that was a big if.
Because she wasn’t feeling the least bit reasonable.
She was flayed open and a fucking emotional wreck.
And Blane being all calm and all-knowing and sensible made every single one of those long-buried feelings about her father just burst right to the surface.
She shoved his arm away. “How could you possibly understand? Hmm?” She snapped when he stared at her in shock. “How? I’ve met your parents, they’re fucking incredible.” A laugh, broken and jagged. “My par—” She sighed and the flare of anger that had burst into flames died out rapidly, leaving only embarrassment and shame in its wake. This wasn’t her. She’d vowed to never be like them. “Mine,” she said, forcefully shoving the unreasonable outburst of emotion down. She wouldn’t be like this, wouldn’t explode for no reason. Not like they always had. “Mine are not.”
“Sweetheart—”
“No.” She took another step away from him. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. I vowed that when I took this job, I wouldn’t let them keep tearing me up like this.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I fucking promised.”
Blane took a step toward her and she raised her hands. “Don’t.”
He glared, closing the distance. “I’m going to hug you because you’re my friend and you need a fucking hug. Just shut up and let me.”
She shut up.
And he hugged her.
It was everything.
His chest was the perfect amount of firm and he was warmer than the electric blanket she cuddled under every night. But it wasn’t just his body. Blane was a good hugger, holding her tightly without suffocating her, somehow knowing that she needed that much pressure in order to not fall apart.
Just like he’d known she’d needed the contact.
Somehow he knew.
How? Why?
“You’re thinking again,” he murmured. “Don’t.”
She laughed. “Are you a mind reader or something?”
“No.” He loosened his grip and leaned back slightly. “I just know you, sweetheart.”
Her breath caught.
“I know that what happened to me tonight must have reminded you of your dad, and I’m sorry for that.”
Shit.
Her heart rolled over in her chest, exposed its vulnerable underside.
“Oh look, Brit picked out the perfect painting.” She pointed to the pencil drawing of the Gold Mine shining brightly, the lights of San Francisco dancing around in the background. “That’s one of Sara’s, isn’t it?”
Sara Jetty was a former professional figure skater and also a supremely talented artist, who happened to be married to Mike Stewart, one of the Gold’s defensemen. The thought of Sara actually made Mandy feel a little guilty. Sara’s upbringing had been tough—she’d been betrayed by both her coaches and her family—and the media shit storm that had followed was almost unthinkable.
Sara had had it way tougher than Mandy.
Which meant she needed to buck up.
Blane huffed at her obvious avoidance. “We don’t have to talk about it. But I do just want to say I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry you were hurt.” He nudged her toward the front door. “Now and then.”
She dropped her chin to her chest, equal parts won over and annoyed. “Tell me again, why do you have to be so perfect?”
He opened the front door. “It’s a skill I’ve honed over many years.”
The sound that came out of her throat was half appreciation, half disgust.
“Now, go home and get some sleep.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“And maybe dream about that kiss.” His lips brushed her skin, made her shiver. “I know I will.”
Her jaw dropped open, but he simply nudged her in the direction of the car and closed the door.
She was in a fog the entire way to her apartment.
And Blane was right. She did dream about the kiss.
But she also had nightmares about all the ways that sort of kiss could go wrong.
Eight
Blane
* * *
Blane watched the game from a box and tried really hard to keep his expression neutral as he watched his teammates struggle on the ice below.
He knew this was the right call, not playing, but that didn’t make it any easier.
He should be down there.
Fuck.
Wincing when a bolt of pain shot down his neck, he forced himself to relax and really study the boys. Maybe he couldn’t play, but he could at least be useful by finding a hole in their system or something that could be used against the other team.
He’d been evaluated that morning and while his spine was fine and he wasn’t showing any further signs of a concussion, his neck was seriously fucked up.
The muscles were in a permanent state of spasm, and the pain was radiating down to his shoulder. He could barely turn to the right, let alone shoot a puck or take a hit.
And he was wearing a fucking suit.
They were a necessary evil in his profession, but he still hated them. Give him shoulder pads any day of the week over a button-down and a tie moonlighting as a noose.
Okay, fine. They weren’t that bad. But they also weren’t a Gold jersey.
Especially when his team was down on the ice trying to grind out a victory against the number one squad in the league.
Not thinking, he brought a hand up to the collar of his shirt, tugging slightly to loosen his tie and then cursing under his breath when the movement made pain flare down the entire right side of his body.