Centered (Gold Hockey Book 9)

by Elise Faber

  He grabbed the sneakers by instinct, decided to take a different route with the questioning. Or maybe it was less conscious and more urge to bounce around subjects, wanting to know everything about her. “I thought I was coming for private lessons.”

  A roll of her eyes. “That’s not happening.”

  “How’d you know I play for the Gold?”

  “Brayden—”

  He shook his head. He’d already run back through that conversation, knew Bray hadn’t said anything about him being a hockey player. “No, that’s not it,” he murmured, taking a step toward her.

  Her eyes narrowed and she huffed out a sigh. “I saw you play,” she said. “Against St. Louis.”

  He didn’t hide his wince, knowing that game had been one of his worst in recent years.

  “What?” she asked. “I thought you played well. You’re still getting your legs with being new to the team, learning the different system of play, of course, but you definitely have the potential to fit in and be a good asset.”

  Exactly what he’d heard . . . four times over.

  Just give it time.

  You’ll slide into place.

  It’ll be fine. Just relax. Play your game.

  And that was the moment everything became too much. He needed to get out of here. Because no matter how fascinating this woman was, he couldn’t do this. Not again. Couldn’t make ties, have hopes, desires, longing to find the spot where he belonged . . . because right around the corner, he might lose that again.

  Liam knew he couldn’t do it again.

  He spun, strode for the end of the mat, dropping his shoes to the floor and sitting down in a chair to quickly put them on.

  “What are you doing?”

  Another sharp question and heaven help him, but he liked it too much. “Thanks again,” he said, tying the laces on one tennis shoe then the other. He stood. “I—”

  “My name is Mia.”

  Mia.

  Her voice had come from right in front of him again, silent feet closing the distance between them.

  His heart skipped a beat, and he looked from those midnight blue toes up into those dark chocolate eyes and knew that it was the perfect name. Mia.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  “Mia,” he whispered.

  She was quiet for a few seconds then nodded. “Yes.” A beat. “Why do you care that I saw you play?”

  He let his gaze slide from hers, knew he was too weak to tell her the truth.

  That he wasn’t good, that he’d lost something along the way and his game hadn’t recovered, and he was unsure if it ever would. Instead, he slid toward the door.

  She made a sound, a disappointed sound, and he knew he’d failed some kind of test.

  Hell, that was a familiar feeling.

  But fuck, he hated the notion of failing this woman.

  “I didn’t take you for a coward,” she said on a sigh, and this time, if he listened very carefully, he heard her feet shift, felt her start to move away.

  Leaving him.

  Fuck, he hated that, too.

  Which was the moment he stopped thinking.

  He reached out a hand, snagged her arm. “About those private less—ah!”

  One second, he was on his feet, fingers wrapped around Mia’s arm, reveling in how small it felt beneath his giant bear paws. The next, her elbow connected with his jaw and . . .

  He was on his ass again. Well, sprawled out on his back, his lungs frozen for several heartbeats as the air was squeezed from them, the organs stunned into submission until finally, finally, he was able to suck in some oxygen.

  She yanked his fingers from her arm, straightened, hands lifting to tidy her gi then said, “Consider that your first and only private lesson. Don’t lay hands on women who don’t give you permission.”

  Noted.

  Fuck, but that was noted.

  His already sore back and ass, from the impact earlier, were practically screaming in pain, and he knew his jaw would be sporting a giant bruise. But it wasn’t so much the physical pain as . . . Liam was ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Seems you’re good at saying that,” she muttered, reaching into a tiny office next to the cubbies where she kept her clipboard and files and retrieving a small bag. “But what you’re not good at, clearly, is pairing actions with words.”

  A truer statement about his life had never been spoken.

  So much promise.

  So little to show for it.

  “My contract isn’t going to be renewed,” he blurted, not knowing why he was telling her this, why he was admitting this to a woman he’d only just met. “My career is likely over at the end of this season.”

  Her eyes widened, mouth dropping open for a couple of seconds. Then she shrugged. “Look, I’m sorry. That sucks, but also . . . I’m not really sure what that has to do with me. With you putting your hands on me. I’m—” She sighed, shook her head. “Just go, Liam.”

  Then she turned and disappeared into the bathroom, closing—and locking, the click of the mechanism loud in the quiet studio—the door behind her.

  When she didn’t come out for long moments, he left.

  He’d overstepped. He’d put his hands on her.

  He’d been a weird guy hijacking her place of business.

  And . . . she’d laid him flat.

  In more ways than one.

  Sighing, he made his way across the crosswalk without almost getting mowed over this time, started to get into his car, but paused when he saw the parking ticket on the windshield.

  “Cool, universe, thanks for that,” he grumbled, grabbing it and dropping himself into the driver’s seat.

  But instead of driving off, he waited.

  Waited until the lights flicked off inside the karate studio. Waited until Mia came out. Waited until she locked the door behind her. Waited—

  Until she unerringly met his gaze across the street, through the window of his car. She held his stare for a long moment then nodded, striding confidently down the sidewalk in a loose sweatshirt and leggings.

  It was dark. She shouldn’t be able to see him.

  But she had.

  And maybe that was the truest statement he’d ever thought about his life.

  Four

  Mia

  Guilt wasn’t a nice feeling.

  But Mia didn’t do nice.

  Ever.

  So maybe guilt fit right in. She certainly had shouldered her fair share of it over the years.

  She lay awake, eyes on the ceiling, already having gone through her tried and true techniques for sleep—quieting her mind by going over the next day’s lesson plan, reviewing the forms she taught her students, the precise combinations of kicks, blocks, and punches came in varying degrees of difficulty based on their level, even counting backward from one hundred—but nothing helped.

  Her gaze stayed on the ceiling, her brain was still alert.

  Sighing, she pushed out of bed, fingers running over the smoothed edge of the large abalone shell that sat on her nightstand as she went. It was the single bit of clutter in her apartment, but it remained next to her bed, nonetheless. A bed she should be sleeping in, but since she wasn’t, Mia knew it was a pointless endeavor to stay under the covers, counting the minutes until the sun rose. Instead, she padded on bare feet through the apartment that was above the studio, the one she’d purposefully circled the block and entered through the back door instead of the interior one when she realized that Liam was going to sit all night in his car watching the place until he saw her leave.

  That probably should have made her instincts prickle uncomfortably, or even to piss her off that the man, the stranger who’d dared put hands on her thought he could out-wait her.

  But . . . he seemed lost.

  That was her first and most overwhelming thought.

  Liam seemed like he had a good core, had been helpful, and was apparently also protective, making sure she got out of the studio okay.

 
; He didn’t know that there was a staircase hidden behind a door in her office, that she lived above, and while he was giving her instincts definite good-person vibes, she also hadn’t wanted him to know where she lived.

  She’d spent too long guarding that secret, guarding all her secrets.

  Sighing, she turned on the shower, letting the water begin to warm up and thankful that she’d invested in a tankless system for the building a couple of months ago after another in a long line of too many cold showers. Still, it took a few minutes to get hot, so she used her time wisely, brewing a pot of coffee, pulling out what would become her breakfast—a whole wheat bagel, peanut butter, and a banana.

  By the time she had laid everything on the counter, the water was warm, so she made her way back into the bathroom, stripped down, and showered.

  Wash hair. Wash body. Wash face.

  Efficient, graceful movements that didn’t waste water or time.

  Nothing extra. No fluff. No girlie fragranced soap or perfumed shampoo. No soft towels or floral-scented wall plug-ins that filled her apartment with the scent of something fanciful and sweet.

  There wasn’t room in her life for anything superfluous.

  Scents. Men.

  They were one in the same to her.

  Extra. Meaningless. Of no use.

  Or at least, that was what her father had tried to engrain in her.

  It had worked for the most part, too, she knew. Aside from a warm shower every morning, she didn’t long for much, was content with her small apartment, her students, her hot water.

  She finished washing her face then immediately turned off the water, another expectation entrenched in her by her father, and reached for the plain white towel. They were the same towels she and her father had since after her mother had passed. Thin now, needing replacing, but she still knew that when she bought another set, they wouldn’t be something fluffy and soft and pink.

  They would be utilitarian. Steadfast. Efficient.

  Just like her.

  She slipped on clean underwear, a bra, sweats, and a T-shirt. Moved back to the kitchen to toast her bagel, to get her mix of grains, protein, and fruit. A well-rounded meal to start the day, even though it was—her eyes flicked to the clock—just after three in the morning.

  The building housing her apartment and the studio was old. There was always something that needed repair or replacing, though she tended to rely less on duct tape, super glue, and white paint than her old man, and more on YouTube tutorials and proper supplies from the hardware store.

  Plenty of elbow grease was required in both instances, however.

  And speaking of elbow grease, Mia washed her dishes, set them on the drying rack, and slipped out the front door of her apartment, down the stairs, and into the studio.

  She had lived her whole life above the space, knew exactly where to step, how to avoid any obstacles and not trip over anything as she made her way over to the light switch and flicked it on. Then she spent the next few hours doing her least favorite thing in the world . . . disinfecting the foam squares that snapped together to make up the floor.

  Clean one side, pull it up, flip it over, sweep beneath, then clean the other. It didn’t take long in the grand scheme of things, less than five minutes per square, but . . . there were a lot of squares.

  And so the sun was firmly up by the time she finished.

  She glanced over the nearly-sparkling floor for a long moment, thinking about all the times she’d done this before.

  Too many to count.

  Too many to remember.

  Too many times in front of her.

  Not liking the sudden tightness that rushed into her at the last thought, Mia tucked the bottle of cleaner away and washed her hands. Then she found her way back out onto the floor, to the X marked with a small strip of tape in the center of the mats, to the spot she’d stood at so often over the years.

  Front and center and with plenty of room to move.

  This was her favorite place to stand, the spot she always took when they weren’t lined up by rank or when she had to present herself to the judges during a testing ceremony or . . . when she had to present herself to her father.

  For his tests. His approval. His—

  How was it that he had been gone for five years?

  It seemed like yesterday he was standing in front of her, the center judge in a group of others who were testing her on her knowledge and abilities in order to decide if she was worthy of that fifth degree.

  Five years of training solely for her current rank, having had to wait that long after gaining her fourth degree, protocol demanding she take the time to train, to focus, to put in the years of effort in order to prove herself worthy of the fifth yellow stripe embroidered into her black belt.

  Her father had lived to see her pass that test.

  But he had only lived six months beyond it.

  She sank onto the mat, her body automatically dropping into the warm-up routine she did in her classes, push-ups and sit-ups, planks, and mountain climbers, feeling her heart begin to beat faster, her body temperature to rise.

  When her muscles were loose enough, she stood, stretched for a few moments.

  And then she began to move.

  There were a number of forms she had to know, both to teach to her students and for her own work toward her sixth degree. She still had at least a year before she’d be ready to test for it, but the sheer volume of knowledge she needed to be able to present at a moment’s notice meant that regular practice was required.

  But not only that, the open form she’d been required to prepare—basically she got to make up her own combination of moves as one part of the test—was one of her favorite forms she’d ever done.

  Mia had been able to do all her favorite things, play to her strengths, focus on her flexibility, her grace, her ability to transition smoothly from one move to the next.

  Inhaling deeply, then releasing her breath slowly, she took one moment to focus.

  Then she began to run through that beloved form.

  Slow. Slow. Quick. A jumping, spinning kick moving rapidly toward the mirrors, but a quiet landing. Then transiting to the other direction, blocking, pretending she was battling multiple attackers.

  Turn. A flurry of kicks, of blocks that were interspersed with control. Long, slow movements designed to show off her balance.

  Sweat began to bead on her forehead, slide down her back.

  Her breath came quickly, the sound of it mixing with the soft pad of her feet on the mat as she landed, shifted, punched, and kicked fiercely in the quiet space.

  A few moves from the end though, her arms began to burn, her legs struggled to launch her into the air for one more jumping-spin-hook kick. But that was part of the beauty of it, part of the beauty of this sport. Pushing through, persevering. Strength, courage, grace.

  She landed on the balls of her feet, completed the final flurry of punches, and then turned, stepping into the final stance, holding it for a long moment.

  During the test, the judges could ask her to hold that final move for as long as they wanted.

  But today she stayed in place until her pulse calmed, her breathing evened out.

  That was when she felt the prickling on her nape.

  Her eyes flashed up to the mirror in front of her, and her heart picked up its pace again when she saw who was staring at her through the plate glass window.

  She’d raised the shades an hour before, letting the sunshine in.

  But she’d also let Liam in. Or rather, to glimpse in. Tall, dark, and handsome stood on the sidewalk outside the studio, his face a blank shell, a white bag clutched in one hand, a tray with coffee cups in the other.

  Her breath caught, suddenly as out of breath as she had been at the end of her form, and she spun. His face transformed from blank to amazing, and Mia watched as his lips formed the word, “Wow.” Not gonna lie, that made a curl of pleasure coil in her stomach. She was used to people watching her, spe
nt most of her time on display, but not exactly like this.

  A man with heat in his expression, his eyes slowly sweeping down her body and then back up.

  That long, inching perusal set fire to the veins of a woman who didn’t deal in extras and fluff, but rather who dealt in reality, in black and white, right and wrong, A led to B.

  Her body liked the fluff of that long, slow look.

  It wondered why A couldn’t lead to . . . fucking.

  The last thought pulled her back into herself, her mind to sharp focus. A virtual stranger was outside her door. That was creepy and pushing the boundaries, no matter that her body liked the look of his. Further, it had been a good three months since she’d been on a date, and maybe three—no, four months before that since she’d been on the receiving end of an orgasm that wasn’t courtesy of her and her vibrator.

  She was pent up.

  That was why she was so attracted to the first halfway decent, single man who’d showed her the least bit of attention.

  Or . . . she thought he was single.

  That hadn’t really been made clear.

  The knock on the door made her eyes—which had been staring at the glass but not really taking in Liam because her mind was too lost in thought—focus on the man outside. He held up the coffee and bag, mouthed, “Hungry?”

  She wasn’t.

  She was.

  But this was fluff. The attraction. The man waiting for her to make it safely out of the studio the night before. The fact that he’d brought breakfast now.

  And it went against everything inside her to move toward that fluff.

  “Fuck,” she muttered, annoyed with herself, her thoughts, her indecisions. This wasn’t her. Mia was a straight arrow, the straightest fucking arrow on the planet. She didn’t waver, and she sure as hell didn’t worry about fluff. “Enough goddamned fluff,” she growled, striding toward the door and glaring out at Liam. “What are you doing here?” she snapped through the glass.

  He put a hand to his ear. “What?”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked louder.

  His hand stayed up, cupping his ear. “What?”

  Later, she would realize that both of his whats were crystal clear to her ears, which also meant that her questions had to be perfectly audible to his. But she’d been up for several hours already, was sweaty and a little shaky from her form—and only her form, because she didn’t give one damn about the fact that this man was just on the other side of the glass (. . . and no she wasn’t going to examine that thought too closely because she was living in glorious delusion at the moment).