by Maria Luis
“Walter, I’m glad that Gwen convinced me to come on board with Golden Lights Media,” Andre says, breaking the uncomfortable moment in a rare show of . . . well, hell, I don’t think it’s compassion. Andre doesn’t do compassion—for anyone. “After the work I’ve seen your firm do for Duke Harrison, I’m positive that you’ll have the media thinking that I’ve turned a new leaf in no time.”
Call me cynical, but I doubt Andre has turned over anything, leaves or otherwise. I’ve followed mentions of him in the media closely this last year, closely enough to know that he’s panicking.
Not on the ice. The big, bad Andre Beaumont is as fast and dangerous in the ice rink as he was on the day that the Detroit Red Wings drafted him from Northwestern University. But outside the rink? That’s another story. The tabloids love to dish the dirt on his love life, which generally involves leggy supermodels followed by mentions of little ol’ me.
Will Andre Beaumont Finally Move on from Moaning Zoe? Only Time Will Tell!
Or, another recent favorite of mine: A Trusted Source Has Told Us that Moaning Zoe Has Moved to Boston to be with Hockey Superstar Andre Beaumont. Will the Couple Finally Shed Their Dirty Laundry and Come Clean?
You’d think that after nearly a year, the media frenzy over a security camera catching us doing the naughty in the Red Wings’ laundry room would have died down. Alas, each new girl that lands in Andre’s muscular embrace only adds more fuel to the gossip rags.
I like to think of it as Divine Justice.
Only, I’d prefer not to have my name dragged through the mud in the same dirty swipe.
Retreating to his desk again, Mr. Collins takes a seat. “We’re pleased to have you, Mr. Beaumont.” He shifts stacks of papers to the side, and then pulls out a thick binder. “Yours is the exact type of case that we enjoy taking on.”
Andre’s thumbs go to the belt loops of his jeans, and his rugged features tighten. “An easy case, I hope?” he asks. Damn him, but his voice still hasn’t lost its sexy appeal—gritty, raspy. I once asked him if he smoked cigarettes, but he denied it vehemently.
“My body is a temple,” and all that jazz, he said.
He’s right—his body is a temple. A temple he chooses to share with any Jane, Kathy, and Sally who comes his way.
Not, of course, that I pay that close attention to the tabloids.
Walter’s hand visibly pauses in the midst of flipping open the binder—a binder that I can only conclude holds all of Andre’s deepest and darkest secrets. Walter looks to his assistant, the redhead, who visibly blanches and then launches into a flurry of motion.
“Mr. Beaumont—”
“You can call me Andre. The formality is a bit much.”
“Right, right.” Gwen slides a glance my way, and I arch my brows in a helpless gesture. If she’s looking for help, she’s come to the wrong place. Andre wouldn’t listen to me, even if I hogtied him to Mr. Collins’s office chair and threatened bodily harm.
Realizing that I’m no help, Gwen fluffs her red hair like it’s her body armor and then takes a deep breath. “Mr. Beaumont—”
His buttery leather jacket creases along the shoulder as he lifts a hand to stop her. “Andre.”
“Right, Andre.” Another deep breath. “See, the thing is, Andre, you’ve provided us with a very . . . different sort of case than your teammate. For the most part, Mr. Harrison kept to a relatively low profile over the last number of years. As you might imagine, this made my job easier. With you, however . . . ”
“Just tell him, Gwen,” Mr. Collins jumps in with a flick of his wrist. A shiny gold Rolex sparkles under the office lights. “You’re pussy-footing around the issue.”
Gwen mutters something unintelligible beneath her breath. Then, shoulders straightening, she announces, “You scare people, Andre.”
Walter Collins harrumphs his approval.
Gwen looks on the verge of vomiting.
And then the man, who is known for being as impenetrable as finely cut marble, reacts.
His jaw drops open. And I—well, I feel the most ridiculous urge to clap my hands. His powerful shoulders twitch as he sharply glances back at me, and I realize that I’ve released an ill-timed squeak of delight.
Oops.
Pardon me.
Andre whips back around to face off against Gwen. “It’s my job to scare people,” he growls.
“Correction,” Gwen says, lifting her finger like she’s checking the wind direction, “the Blades hired you to intimidate other hockey players. On the ice. Not the media, off the ice.”
She does have a point. Most players ham up to the cameras after a game, or, at least, they’re reasonably polite.
Andre Beaumont is not “most” hockey players. Only the bravest of souls dare approach him in the locker room, and those numbers grow fewer by the game, based on what I’ve heard trickling down the grapevine. Back when I handled his PR, he’d had a similar, snarly disposition, but he cleaned up the attitude whenever I laid down the law.
“So the fact that I don’t smile is a problem.” Andre’s voice is hard, surly.
Gwen’s bright smile cracks, just enough to see that she’s trying desperately not to wince. “That’s one problem . . .”
“And the other?”
“Women.”
Silence descends over the room, tense and oppressive. Gwen resolutely holds Andre’s gaze, though I swear her right eye twitches.
Slowly, as though tasting the word “women,” and finding it repulsive, Andre mutters, “So, what? I date. Is that a crime?”
“Frequently,” Gwen interjects, still standing strong, bless her heart. “You date frequently.”
This time, there’s no mistaking the way Andre looks at me over his shoulder. His dark eyes glitter with frustration, and his full mouth flattens into a thin line. Without taking his gaze off me, he tells Gwen, “I hadn’t heard that it’s a crime to test the waters.” His gaze dips to my mouth and I fight off a shiver of unwanted desire. “Sometimes it’s not what you expected.”
This time, it’s my jaw that slackens.
The . . . the . . . jerk!
Blood centers in my forehead, making it pulse like it’s under siege from a bloody stampede of wild elephants. Letting my fury carry me, I meet his gaze and sweetly reply, “That’s what happens when you take too many dips in the ocean, Mr. Beaumont. You choke on saltwater.”
Walter slaps a closed fist to his chest.
Gwen lets out a scandalized, tinkling laugh.
Andre and I exchange a look that can only be categorized as pure snark. If “snark” had a look, I mean.
I stare him down, refusing to look away until he breaks eye contact first. Back when I was at—ahem—my prime, my clients fondly called me the “barracuda.” Like the sharp-toothed beasts roaming the Amazon, I rarely stepped down from a fight. I learned from the very best—my mother, who, despite raising me on her own, worked three jobs and never failed to put food on the table for the two of us.
I count out the seconds that it takes for Andre to glance away. Nine. But glance away he does, and that slight measure of victory sends a thrill dancing down my spine. He may have worn me down a year ago, toppling over my defenses and warming up my girl parts, as well as my heart, but no longer. Nope.
I wouldn’t sleep with Andre Beaumont again if he were the last man on earth.
Let me amend that: I would sleep with Andre Beaumont if he were the last man on earth, but only because I feel a very ingrained sense of duty to the world to continue procreation and to not let our species die.
You’re welcome.
The sound of Mr. Collins faking a hacking fit jars me back to the present. He points at Gwen, as if telling her to take the reins and handle the misbehaving child.
Her eyes drift up to the ceiling. I wonder if she’s praying for strength.
After long seconds, Gwen says, “We’re aware of your slipping sponsorships. Last week alone you lost both Nike and Gatorade. That’s a very big dea
l, especially for someone already coming off a big scandal.” Thankfully, I’m not wearing a scarlet A on my shirt, and no one looks at me. “Whether you choose to admit it or not, your attitude might not be an issue on the ice, but it is absolutely affecting your game play off of it. Unless you’re interested in losing every sponsor you have currently, you’re going to have to do what we suggest, Mr. Beaumont.”
This time, he doesn’t even bother to correct her.
Although he’s still presenting me with his back, I swear that I can see the wheels turning in his handsome head. Does he realize where I fit into this equation? That, more likely than not, he’s stuck with me . . . maybe indefinitely?
The irony would kill me if it weren’t for the fact that I’m too busy staving off the panic.
Andre and I . . . we aren’t strangers. Far from it, actually—I handled his PR for nearly a year. While we certainly butted heads on more than one occasion, I haven’t forgotten the way that our business relationship slowly converged with a personal one. Snack runs after a particularly long session with reporters. Jogging on early Sunday mornings, whenever he wasn’t out of town for games. Double dates when I caught a man’s notice. Whenever this happened—and, not to totally throw myself under the bus, but the dating thing wasn’t frequent—Andre always agreed to come along with whatever girl he was sexing up that day.
Andre’s intimidating demeanor kept the creepers at bay.
Hard as it might be to believe, Andre had my back.
Just as I had his.
Until we let one explosive kiss ruin everything. And it really did ruin everything, because that one spontaneous kiss led to the laundry room fiasco, and obviously we all know how that turned out.
Aka that time my birth-marked butt hit every small screen in America.
It’s as horrifying as it sounds.
Andre rakes his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “So, what you’re saying is that either I take your advice, or I’m screwed. Do I have the gist of it?”
Gwen doesn’t wince, but there’s no hiding the way her gaze shifts to the floor. “If you want to keep your current lifestyle, then, yes, that about covers everything.”
For a long moment, no one says a word. Then, he grumbles, “Fine. Whatever you have to do about this, then we’ll do it.”
Except that he doesn’t say “about” but rather aboot, because, naturally, he’s Canadian.
A Canadian who isn’t all unicorns and rainbows and nice—in other words, Andre is practically unrecognizable amongst his own kind.
“Great!” The tense lines in Gwen’s face ease. “Then I’d love to officially introduce you to your new publicist.”
Andre’s back stiffens. “You won’t be in charge of my case?”
“Oh no,” Gwen says with a flippant wave of her hand. “Golden Lights is expanding to other cities, and I’ve got about ten different clients right now, one of whom can’t complete a sentence without dropping the f-bomb. No, Andre, you’ll be paired up with our newest addition to the Golden Lights Media family.”
Slowly, as though his body is battling a rough current in the ocean, Andre twists at the waist to look at me. Seeing the realization spark in his expression might be my new favorite memory, right after the time my only pair of Manolo Blahniks arrived in the mail, and I slipped those beautiful babies onto my feet while I ate cereal and watched reruns of Friends.
But this moment . . . Oh, boy, it’s a good one. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t waited a year to see Andre Beaumont look off-kilter and just a little bit scared.
His eyes glitter, but the inscrutable emotion banks as his mouth turns down. The quiet before the storm.
“No.”
It’s all he says, and yet the two-letter word is everything.
I grin, making it extra toothy just to show him that I am unfazed. With a little finger wave, I say, “Hello, Andre.”
A pulse ticks to life in his jaw. “No.”
“Didn’t you say it’s been too long? I could have sworn that I heard you—”
“No.”
“I think you did,” I murmur sweetly, just short of batting my eyelashes at the man who I’ve dreamed of beating with his own hockey stick—between the legs, where it hurts.
“Walter—” Andre twists around to face the CEO of Golden Lights. He clears his throat, then does so again. “Mr. Collins, with all due respect, I demand someone else handle my case. Considering my . . . past with Miss Mackenzie, it only makes sense.”
Walter tucks his hands under his armpits. “I’m sorry, Mr. Beaumont. We’ve hired Miss Mackenzie on a thirty-day trial, so unless something momentous happens during the interim, you have her and her only.”
“A trial,” Andre drawls. I don’t like the way he rolls the word over on his tongue, like he’s considering the ramifications of his next few words. “And if she doesn’t last the thirty days?”
“Then you’ll be assigned to someone else, and we’ll have to meet with Miss Mackenzie one-on-one to discuss her position with Golden Lights.”
I don’t like the way that Andre glances at me over his shoulder, a considering look darkening his rugged features.
And I especially don’t like the way he turns to look at me fully, crosses his arms over his chest, and huskily says, “Let’s hope that she makes it to thirty days, then.”
Chapter Three
ANDRE
She looks exactly the same.
As I listen to Coach Hall mouth off about shitty stick-play at the front of the locker room, that’s the only thought running on repeat in my head. She looks exactly the same. I’m not thinking about riding the Chicago Blackhawks hard enough that they’ll cry themselves to sleep tonight. I’m not thinking about the fact that I’ve already dropped gloves twice in the last two periods—and subsequently served my penance in the sin bin.
For once, hockey isn’t my focus.
She is.
Zoe Mackenzie.
The one woman who I was never supposed to see again.
Jesus H. Christ, she looked good today. Criminally good, even. Slim-fitting dress, her usual. Heels that were painted the same color red as her lips. In the span of one second, I’d experienced a range of emotions that rocked me back like a hard-hitting body check. All at once, I’d wanted to tug her into my arms and inhale what I hoped was still her favorite citrusy perfume just as badly as I’d wanted to turn on my heel and get the fuck out of there.
I hadn’t expected to see her in Walter Collins’s office. Hell, I hadn’t even known that she’d moved to Boston. Zoe was a Detroit girl through and through, and having her here in the same city was like liquid heat in my veins.
“Beaumont.”
I lift my gaze from my skates to Hall, whose face is blustery with agitation. “Yeah, Coach?”
His white mustache twitches as he clamps his teeth down on a toothpick. “I need you to get out there, Sin. Do what you do best. We’re fucking behind by three, and unless someone’s up to scoring a goddamn hat trick tonight, then I’m gonna need you to take control.”
No one asks what he’s talking about. Aside from Duke Harrison, our main man between the pipes, I’m the biggest guy on the ice. If you believe the rumors, I’m also the meanest son of a bitch to play, too.
The sin bin might as well be my second home. I’ll be honest, it’s a tough balance to find. Play hard enough that grown men flee in the opposite direction when they see you coming, but don’t play so hard that you’re ejected from the game. The league doesn’t support enforcers anymore—we’re a dying breed, thanks to changing safety regulations over the years—but when push comes to shove, we’re still expected to step forward and do our job.
It’s a balance I’ve perfected over the years, and Coach Sam Hall knows that well.
King Sin Bin.
Earned the damned nickname when I was twenty-one years old, still scrappy, and grabbing players left and right as we hustled for the puck at the boards. Back then, my aggressive style of play was a bonus.
Nowadays, it’s more of a liability . . . except for times like now, when we’re lagging behind, playing slow, and reinforcements are needed.
In other words, I’m needed.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m doing exactly what Coach ordered. Driving my elbow into my opponent’s side as I grab him by the back of his jersey. My helmet glances off the Plexiglas as I dig in.
“Get the fuck back, Sin,” Marlow grunts.
We used to play together in Detroit, way back when. My knee slips between his legs as we battle for the puck at the boards. Our shoulders jostle, pads colliding. “Hope your wife won’t mind your crying tonight,” I grunt back at him. “Maybe grab some tissues on the way home.”
“Fuck you, Beaumont.”
“You’re not my type, Marlow. Told you before.”
Over the deafening crowd, I hear him laugh. “You still pining after Moaning Zoe, man? Not that I blame you, her ass is . . . ”
I drive my elbow into his pads.
Not enough to cause injury—I play hard, ruthless, but not dirty—but the force of my weight sends him sprawling to the ice. Way back when, Ken Marlow used to fist-bump me for pulling stunts just like this one.
From the way he eyes me through the grates of his helmet, he’s had a change of heart. He clambers to his skates, lunging toward me, gloved fists raised, just as one of the linesmen skates over and blows the whistle, indicating to the referee that I messed up and deserve to serve time for elbowing. Again.
I skate toward the penalty box without a backward glance. The crowd is a cacophony of boos and applause, as the fans take their sides. It’s a sound I’ve been living for since I was just a kid growing up in the suburbs of Ottawa, Canada. Nowadays, though, those boos and cheers equal a paycheck, making me the top paid enforcer in the league.
King Sin Bin—that’s me. Meanest bastard on the ice. Man with a heart of ice.
I fucking wish that was true.
As the second line hits the ice, I think of Zoe from earlier today—her dark eyes flashing with sardonic humor when I connected the dots that she’s my new publicist. My jaw clenches. While the position might be hers, I refuse to ever cross those blurred lines with her again.