Jonah: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  Kai purses his lips. “I mean…I can try?”

  “What, you don’t think I can do it?”

  He scoffs playfully and arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Honey, the smoky eye journey is one you’re not ready for yet. We need to work our way up.”

  “Okay, where do we start?”

  He bats his inch-long lashes at me. “Right here. Applying and blending foundation and contouring are the first things you need to master.”

  “Okay,” I concede. “I guess since this is my job for now, I can devote lots of time to it.”

  My phone dings with an incoming text and I pick it up to read the message.

  Jonah: FYI…

  There’s a link to an article on a sports blog with the headline, “Is Blaze goalie Jonah West off the market?”

  I scan the brief paragraphs written about Jonah reportedly dating a new woman and “keeping it hush hush.”

  “We’ve only been out on two dates,” I mutter. “This is crazy.”

  Kai reads over my shoulder and hums his disdain. “Welcome to the world of the stalkerazzi spotlight. Zero stars—do not recommend.”

  “First of all, help yourself to the contents of my phone screen,” I say sarcastically.

  “Thanks, I already did,” he claps back.

  Rolling my eyes, I smile at how easy my friendship with Kai has become in such a short amount of time. “And what do you mean by that? Do you get chased for photos?”

  “Everything. Photos, places I buy groceries, being asked what I bought, people I go out with being grilled about my personal life, random people sticking their camera phones in my face while I’m out for a walk. I have no privacy unless I’m inside my home.”

  “Are you serious? All because you’re a beauty blogger?”

  He shrugs. “As the following grew, so did the attention. Now people want photos of me looking like a pissed off hag or secretly buying makeup from brands that don’t sponsor me.”

  “Ugh. That’s happened to you?”

  “Girl. So many times. They’re after anything that conflicts with the image of me that’s out there. Which is weird, because my image is literally I don’t give a fuck, I do what I want.”

  “And since Jonah is a professional athlete…he’s under scrutiny, too.” I sigh softly. “I just didn’t expect it to be so soon. We kissed in public one time.”

  “Really?” Kai says suspiciously. “And why am I just now hearing about it? Are you seriously going to make me troll the gossip columns to find out what’s going on with you?”

  “It was no big deal,” I assure him, even though it was the first time in a long time I’ve been kissed. “He kissed me for like two seconds without much enthusiasm after our date the other night.”

  “I’m kinda disappointed by that. I figured hockey players were all testosterone and that he’d stick his tongue so far down your throat he could taste whatever you ate for dinner.”

  I scrunch my face and meet his gaze in the mirror. “Gross.”

  He shrugs. “A guy did that to me once. I actually gagged from his tongue down my throat.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Anyway, back to this kiss.” Kai twists open a different shade of pink powder to swipe onto my cheeks. “Was he hard during it?”

  I laugh at the boldness of his question. “I don’t know, but I seriously doubt it. Our two dates haven’t gone that great.”

  Kai gasps. “Don’t break my heart like that. If two incredibly beautiful people go out, one of them a lonely widower with muscles and the other my doll-face roommate with her makeup on point, I expect it to go well. How could it not go well?”

  I meet his eyes in the mirror, silently reminding him that Jonah and I never wanted to date each other. This is all part of my cover. He winks an eye covered in sparkly pink shadow at me.

  “I’ve seen pictures of him,” Kai says. “All I have to say is that is one sexy side of beef.”

  “You think?”

  He gapes at me, amused. “You don’t?”

  “Oh no, I do, I just—”

  “Apparently he was really in love with his wife, and she just died all of a sudden one day. She was very young. If you don’t want to help mend his broken heart, I volunteer, just sayin’ is all.”

  “So, if you don’t mind me bringing it up, you’re attracted to men?”

  Kai shrugs. “Sometimes. I’m pan. It’s not a person’s gender that interests me, it’s always something else. Gender just doesn’t factor in for me.”

  “Wow. That sounds really liberating.”

  “It is. But you do you, girl. I can tell you like tall, brooding assholes.”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “It’s not a dig or anything,” he says matter-of-factly. “I think most cis women find assholes attractive. For some hardcore screwing, anyway. But in a relationship…not so much.”

  I laugh outwardly, but inside, I’m thinking about how right he is.

  “Well,” I say, “I don’t look for relationships, but I get what you’re saying.”

  “Never?”

  I shrug. “I’ve got issues. It’s a long story.”

  “Same, sis,” Kai says.

  My phone dings with another message.

  Jonah: I miss you. When can I see you again?

  “Aw,” Kai says. “He misses you.”

  I scoff at him as I write back, staying on script.

  Me: Miss you, too. Can’t stop thinking about the other night. I’m free tonight…

  Jonah: I have a game. Tomorrow night?

  Me: Yes.

  Jonah: Pick you up at 7?

  Me: Okay. See you then. Good luck with the game.

  Jonah: Thanks.

  Our relationship is completely transactional. I keep reminding myself that this is my job, but Jonah volunteered to do this. If I’m a complete pain in his ass, he might bail. I can’t have that.

  I’m here for one and only one reason—to bring Darren Shields down. He’s the lowest kind of human. He preys on children and uses them, stealing their innocence. That’s what matters. It’s not about whether Jonah and I are attracted to each other.

  I square my shoulders and meet Kai’s gaze in the mirror. “If you have time, can we figure out what we’re doing on that article I need to write?”

  “Yep, no problem. After this I need to take some photos for my pages and then we can do it.”

  “It’s about moisturizers, right?”

  “Right. I’ve been using this new Charlotte Tilbury one and it’s fucking phenomenal. But I’m usually a La Mer fan. So this will make a perfect one for you to write about. I think we’ll focus on great, universal moisturizers at different price points.”

  “Okay, perfect. I’m going to order in dinner later, so think about what you want.”

  “Oh, let’s order from that noodle place. I’ve been craving noods all day.”

  “I’m down for that.”

  “And then let’s watch A Star is Born.”

  I laugh. “Again?”

  “Listen, girl. You can literally never have too much of three things in your life—great lashes, chai tea and Lady Gaga. Those three things will get you through anything.”

  “Noted. And I kind of feel like Bradley Cooper won’t get old for a really long time, either.”

  “No shit. Those eyes of his are dreamy. Almost as nice as your boyfriend’s.”

  “Jonah does have nice eyes,” I say, cringing as I remember our back and forth the night of our first date.

  “Nice? He’s hot as hell, Rey. Reminds me of Chris Hemsworth. Jonah West makes me wish I had a vagina so I could sit on his face.”

  I cackle with laughter as Kai finishes blending my makeup. Once again, he’s making me look like a sophisticated model instead of a frumpy cop.

  “Hey,” I say, looking at him in the mirror. “I had an idea. And it may be awful, but I thought I’d at least run it by you.”

  “What?”

  “Well, when you
were showing me that scrub the other day and it smelled citrusy, I looked online to see if you can make homemade scrubs and I found some…I don’t know, recipes? Not like we’re going to eat them, but you know what I’m saying. What if we did a thing for your page where I film you making scrubs?”

  Kai grins. “I love it! We can have tons of fun with that.”

  “You’re helping me out so much,” I say, turning serious. “I want to help you, too, however I can.”

  “You are helping me,” he says softly. “Just having you here…I like it.”

  “Me too.”

  Kai puts the brush he’s using in a canister and says, “Okay. Now we’re going to try to have you do your eyeshadow and liner and not end up looking like a sad ’80s hooker.”

  “It looked good last time!” I argue.

  “It was tragic.”

  I sigh heavily and pick up an eyeshadow palette. For my work, I’ve learned how to speak Portuguese, how to use every firearm ever made and how to survive a tear gas attack. And frustrating as it’s been so far, I’m going to learn how to apply makeup like a pro.

  “Not that one!” Kai shrieks as I hold a brush over a dark color. “Do you want to look like fucking Michael Jackson in the “Thriller” video?”

  If only makeup was as cut and dry as all the rest.

  Chapter Eight

  Jonah

  The thunk of a rubber ball Knox is throwing up against a wall is the only sound in the locker room when I walk in before our home game. I left after our pregame skate because the energy level was flat and I needed to pump myself up with a short run.

  “Hey,” Easy says to me as I walk in.

  “Hey.”

  We lost our most vocal teammate to the Las Vegas expansion draft a few months ago. Alexei Petrov wasn’t on our protected list and Vegas swiped him. He was always cracking jokes and having fun before games. Victor’s like that, too, but he’s worried about his roster spot these days so he’s not so lighthearted.

  “How’s your shoulder?” Anton asks me.

  I shrug. “It’s fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  He nods, satisfied. I know our team captain misses having his twin brother, Alexei, as a teammate. Alexei had finally found his footing, getting sober and settling down with his girlfriend Graysen. They spent a lot of time together with their families, and Alexei was a good uncle to his nieces.

  And from private conversations with Anton, I know Anton liked having his eyes on his brother. Making sure he stayed on the straight and narrow. Nothing tempts a man to go wild with booze and women like being a pro athlete on the road. Temptation is everywhere.

  But from what I’ve heard, Alexei’s doing well in Vegas. Graysen is there to ground him, and he’s the captain of the team. I told Anton I thought Alexei was ready to rise to the challenge and prove himself, and so far, he has.

  “You fuckers holding a funeral no one told me about?” Luca asks as he walks into the locker room.

  No one responds, and he looks around the room. “Seriously, did someone die or something?”

  “We’re just tired,” Anton says, glaring.

  “Perk up, pussies, we’ve got a game tonight,” Luca says as he shakes his head. “The only one here who has a right to be tired is Jonah.”

  Most of the room turns to look at me. I stop inspecting my skates and look up. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You’ve been holding out on us, man. What’s going on with you and this mystery woman?”

  Everyone who wasn’t looking at me already certainly is now. I just shrug.

  “Don’t worry about it, you fucking gossip queen.”

  Luca laughs and stands across from me, leaning against a locker and crossing his arms. “Don’t be so sour, prick. I’m just happy for you.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “What’s her name?” Luca asks me.

  I wait a few seconds before saying, “Renee.”

  “How long have you been seeing her?”

  I shrug again. “It’s still really new.”

  “Is she coming to the game tonight?” Easy asks.

  “No.”

  “You’re really into her, though?” Luca asks.

  “Back off him,” Anton says. “He’ll tell us about her when he’s ready.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” Luca says sheepishly.

  The puck drop is still a few hours away, but it’s time for me to start my pregame routine, and I have to get away from these jokers to get in the right zone. I grab my foam rollers and head for the training room.

  Once I’m alone in the big room lined with exercise machines, I push earplugs into my ears and lie down on a yoga mat, eyes closed and arms at my sides. I start the visualization techniques I’ve been doing since college, where I picture the net I guard as a zone no one but me can touch.

  That net is mine. It’s the area of the ice I control. I picture myself protecting the inside of the net from anything and anyone that threatens to get inside.

  I learned a long time ago that visualizing success makes it more likely it’ll happen. I never go into a game planning to try my hardest and hope for a win. I go in knowing I’m a champion and I’m in control. I rarely lose my cool on the ice, because negativity always affects my play in a bad way.

  At thirty-four, I’m the oldest starting goalie in pro hockey. Reporters mention it regularly in their stories. For me, though, it’s not a negative. I’m the most experienced. I’m still at my peak. And I loathe the thought of slipping so much that I work hard to stay there.

  Hockey is physical, for sure, but a lot of it is mental. Before I lost Lily, hockey was what I did. I loved it, but it didn’t define me. In the past three years, though, hockey has become who I am. It’s my whole life.

  I start stretching, still visualizing what success looks like. What it smells like. What it feels like.

  Success is being covered in sticky, sweet champagne as my teammates and I celebrate winning the cup. It’s kids asking me to autograph sticks because they look up to me. Success is Anton on his hands and knees in the locker room, crying openly because we came back from behind to make it to the championship.

  That success is made up of a million moments. Every stretch I do is a tiny step closer to victory. It means I can go just a little farther during a game, drop to the ice just a millisecond faster.

  Hockey games are often won by seconds. Inches. And now that hockey is my whole world, I spend more time mentally and physically preparing for those small make or break moments that separate first and second place.

  I use my foam roller to loosen my muscles, letting my mind wander to Rey. She’s not coming to tonight’s game, but eventually, she will. And even though she and I aren’t really a thing, I kind of like the idea of having someone here watching me again. I always felt like I pushed a little harder when I knew Lily was in that VIP box.

  If Lily were still alive, she’d like Rey. A lot. It’s funny, because they couldn’t be more different as people, but I knew Lily well and I know she would have found Rey brave, funny and strong. And somehow, knowing that softens me toward Rey.

  I stay in the training room as long as I can, enjoying the solitude as I stretch and roll all my muscles. But eventually, I have to go back into the locker room to dress.

  I’m just getting started when Anton walks up and gives me a once over.

  “Did you piss?” he asks me.

  I grin in response. “Are you really asking me that like you’re my mom?”

  He hikes up his brows in response. “You usually piss after you stretch, before you put all your gear on. I’m just asking because you don’t get to leave the game like the rest of us, man.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just didn’t need to go today.”

  Anton shrugs and says, “Might want to try, man.”

  I bust out a laugh. “Christ, dude. I can’t believe you just told me to try to go potty like I’m a little kid.”

  “I’m just looking out
for you.”

  “I know.”

  He’s right, though. I stop putting on my gear and go take a piss. There’s nothing worse than a game that goes long when you’ve got to go. I have to be careful what I eat for a full twenty-four hours before every game so I don’t feel a sudden urge to shit during a game. Goaltenders wear a lot more gear than anyone else on the ice and we can’t just go drop our pants and piss real quick. Everything’s tied together. Not to mention, like Anton said, I rarely get to leave a game.

  We’re playing the Austin Comets tonight, and I can’t fucking wait to get onto the ice. They beat us 3–2 in our last matchup, and all of us are charged up as we huddle in the locker room.

  “Light ‘em up, boys!” Anton yells as we break and head out.

  Our home crowd is like no other. Chicago fans are die-hard, and they bring a fierceness to our arena that fuels us. I never want to play anywhere but here.

  I stretch in front of the goal as I wait for the puck to drop, keeping myself loose. And like I do before every game, I wave to the group of female season ticket holders who call themselves my fan club. One of them is holding up a sign that says, “Jonah gives me a bonah.” I’m definitely gonna hear about that one in the locker room later.

  Once the game starts, my mind goes into the zone. A lot of what I do is automatic, but I also have to make decisions based on who has the puck and how they play.

  The Austin star forward, Casey Rogue, is deliberately unpredictable. I have to stay on my toes every second with him. But Lennox McCall, he’s a one-trick pony. He always shoots too soon, wanting the glory of a long shot that somehow makes it in.

  Rogue gets one in on me, tapping it into a corner of the net. But our offense is on fire, and we win the game 4–1. Austin’s starting goaltender is out with a hip injury, and their backup never stood a chance against our first line.

  Back in the locker room, I close my eyes as I stand under the hot spray from the showerhead, all my physical and mental energy depleted for the day. These days all I like to do after a game is go home and eat the half-pound burger I have delivered from a local restaurant after every home game. I catch a little SportsCenter and go to bed. Partying after games has never been my thing, especially since I got married young.