by Elise Faber
“Free.”
Irritation coursed through her. “Liam.”
“No, seriously,” he said. “It’s comped.”
She sighed. “That’s why you were all fine with me paying for it?”
“Maybe.”
Mia couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Text me the ticket, you incorrigible man.” Then, just to show him—and perhaps, also to show herself—she added, “I have to go get naked now.”
She hung up to the sound of his groan.
The next day, Mia scanned her cell’s screen at the entrance to the Gold Mine then made her way through the crowd, up an escalator and onto the concourse. She didn’t stop to buy anything except a bottle of water, having snagged a quick and healthy meal that didn’t cost fifty bucks and was better than the mediocre food she could buy at the arena anyway.
Not much better, but her steamed broccoli, carrots, and shredded chicken was healthy and filling . . . and way less than an—her eyes caught the food pricing as she snagged her six-dollar bottle of water—eighteen-dollar personal pizza that was approximately the size of a postage stamp.
Next time, if there was a next time, she’d have to see if there was a water fountain.
Not only was the disposable plastic bad, but six dollars for a bottle of water.
Good God. The markup.
Still, the eating at home had been part control (that was her norm, her routine), and part . . . penance.
Because she’d spent the last few days with too much fluff.
If her dad were alive, he would hate it. He’d frown in disapproval. He’d glare and be furious. But even if he had still been alive, Mia thought she would still be at this game.
There was something about Liam. They—and fuck this made her sound totally insane, she knew—but they seemed to unlock something in each other.
Her sharp made him grin.
His pushiness made her bend.
And . . . he was fun.
So, maybe this would end in heartbreak—and if she let the realistic part of her mind take over, she thought it was likely she would end up with a broken heart. But also, maybe she’d find a way to stop being stuck in this stasis and move forward.
Maybe she’d find a way to forgive herself.
Her eyes caught on a huge banner congratulating the Gold on having captured the Cup the season before, and she thought her dad would have loved to be here at this game.
One, because the ticket was free.
Two, because he’d loved hockey and had been thrilled to see San Francisco get a team.
Too bad he’d died before he’d made it to a game.
Too bad he’d died still resenting her.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, so used to working with kids that she’d made the word inaudible to all but herself. She’d done enough in her twenty-six years, she did not have to add being the person who’d taught someone’s kid the f-word to her resumé.
Thankfully, thinking about kids and the f-word was enough to snap her out of her brain, allowed her to tuck the memories back down.
There was nothing she could do to go back and fix things.
She had to move forward, to live a life her father would be proud of now.
Mia mentally nodded then went to find a bathroom and make her way to her seat. As she walked down the aisle, searching the ticket on her cell’s screen for the seat and row number—the first time she’d bothered to look at anything other than the section—she realized that Liam had gotten her a seat right on the glass.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” she muttered, breaking two of her rules in approximately one-point-two-seconds. First, there was a child in front of her, who heard the f-bomb and promptly repeated it. Second, her father had been proud of thriftiness, of the essentials, of nothing superfluous. A front-row seat was the opposite of that in every sense.
Except . . . her dad had loved hockey.
So, maybe this would be okay? Especially since it hadn’t cost anything.
She bit back another curse and clenched her free hand into a tight fist, trying to calm herself, to find the control she drilled into her kids. Grabbing on to it by the narrowest of margins, she apologized to the child’s mother, took a deep breath, and made her way down to the front row.
The ice had been empty as she made her way down, but almost the moment her ass hit the seat, both teams came out for their warm-ups.
Mia watched the steady stream of players as they skated by the glass, amazed that most of them seemed so big, even though the ice was well below the level of the floor where her seat was positioned. She supposed it was the extra few inches the skates added. Well, that along with the padding. Liam was taller than her, more muscular, but most of the guys out there were still bigger.
She couldn’t be sure if Liam’s size was an advantage or disadvantage.
Maybe he’d have more maneuverability than the bigger guys. She did remember him being fast. But he might not be able to out-body one of the giants on the boards or off the puck.
Though . . . she considered that carefully. She often sparred against men who were bigger, who were stronger.
It took strategy rather than strength to win in those cases.
And Liam had made the big leagues. Despite his indication that his contract wouldn’t be renewed, the way he’d winced when she’d said she’d seen the game, he had to be talented.
Which also brought the question as to why she was there.
Had something changed? Had he gotten an offer after all?
Or had what he’d told her the night before—him wanting a person in the stands just for him—been the whole truth?
She wasn’t sure.
Anyway, she didn’t have time to ponder further, because the steady stream of black-jersey-wearing had slowed to a trickle, or at least slowed enough that she could start picking out names and faces. Brayden’s, her student helper’s, dad was in one corner, a huge grin on his face. Max looked to be joking with another player, whose name she struggled to remember.
“Hart,” she whispered to herself. “Blane Hart.”
Brit Plantain was in the net, her long blonde ponytail bisecting her last name and the numbers on the back of her jersey.
Mia’s eyes flicked around the ice, caught sight of Coop Armstrong, Blue Anderson, and Kevin Hayes. All big names who’d hoisted the Cup the last time the team had won it.
But where was Liam?
Her eyes searched the players stretching on the opposite side of the ice, the ones circling the next and shooting pucks at Brit in net. None were Liam.
Then she heard the tap-tap.
Her eyes flew from the far boards up to the man standing just to the side of her view. When their gazes connected, Liam shifted a little bit, just enough to block his teammates out, just enough that for a few seconds it felt as though the rest of the world had disappeared and it was just the two of them.
Then Coop skated over and nudged Liam out of the way.
He glanced at Mia and waved, flashing a smile that was movie star worthy. She found herself waving back, instinctively catching the puck that he tossed over.
Without a second thought, she handed it to a little boy who’d come down to watch the players warm-up and who was waving frantically at Liam, at Coop, at any Gold player that skated by. The black-haired kiddo was all of about four and ridiculously cute, and the smile he gave her when she handed him the puck stole her heart.
Then he was running off, back up the stairs, an excited, “Mom! Look!” reaching her ears.
When Mia glanced back, Coop was gone, but Liam was still there.
She shrugged and smiled. He grinned, mouthed, “Hi, J.B.”
She scowled.
He waved, inclined his head over his shoulder, and she nodded, mouthed back, “Good luck.”
Entranced, she watched him skate, saw how effortless he looked, how smooth and graceful. He was definitely smaller than the rest of the guys, but he wasn’t the only one. Coop had a few inches on him but w
as lean as well. Blane, meanwhile, was built like a tank, along with Kevin.
They looked like they could eat Liam for breakfast.
And she’d barely spared a glance for their opponent, the Kings.
Then it was too late to scope out the competition. The buzzer rang, the teams exited the ice, and the lights dimmed as a pair of Zambonis came out to resurface the ice.
There was an entire crew working once the teams disappeared—the drivers of the machines that smoothed out the divots and laid fresh water to freeze on top of the existing ice, people on the benches stocking water bottles, smelling salts, and extra equipment. A pair of men in a box that held announcing equipment. Several people walking the ice, visually inspecting it, and shooting out small streams of water as they moved.
Lots of moving parts. So many balls being juggled. A ton of tasks happening at once.
And everyone doing their job.
She loved it.
“Excuse me?”
Mia tore her eyes from the ice and turned to face the young girl holding a black tray and wearing a Gold T-shirt. “Hi,” she said.
“These are for you.” The girl extended the tray.
“Oh,” Mia said. “I didn’t order anything—”
“There’s a note,” the girl said, thrusting the tray at her. “Sorry, I have more deliveries to make.”
“I—”
But the girl was gone.
“Okay,” she murmured, staring down at the plastic tray. It held a tub of popcorn, a beer, a pretzel, and a sundae with about a gallon of hot fudge on it. But tucked under the popcorn was indeed an envelope.
With her name written clearly on the outside of it.
Fumbling, she set the tray beneath her feet and freed the note, knowing in her heart who it was from, and feeling the tendril of hope and connection in her heart growing deeper, stronger.
With trembling fingers, she tore open the flap and read. The note was short, sweet, and made her lips curve into the biggest smile.
Just because it’s not my cheat day, doesn’t mean it can’t be yours.
-L
P.S. Come on. You know you like popcorn. Indulge in that buttery goodness.
P.P.S. You’re allowed a little fluff every once in a while.
P.P.S.S. Come to the elevator outside of Section 101 after the game. Please?
This was more than a little fluff. It was . . . well, a trayful.
And she hadn’t been lying about the popcorn thing at the movies. She didn’t eat it. Too salty. Too fatty. Too buttery and cholesterol-inducing. Both of her parents had agreed on that.
But . . . the “buttery goodness” did smell good.
Maybe it was the cold, icy air. Maybe it was that Liam had bought it for her. Either way, she found herself reaching extending a hand and picking up one of the fluffy kernels between thumb and forefinger, found herself popping it into her mouth and—
An explosion of flavors. Yes, it was salty, but she found her taste buds didn’t protest. Okay, it didn’t taste anything like the healthy treats she usually allowed herself.
But . . . that was okay.
Folding the note carefully, she thought back to when Liam had texted earlier about dinner, how she’d told him she would eat before she came. And he’d sent this plethora of junk food anyway. She bit her lip, dueling emotions coursing through her—touched and also exasperated.
But mostly touched.
“Oh, Liam,” she whispered. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”
Mia didn’t get a chance to consider the answer because the lights came on, the buzzer sounded, and the teams emerged back onto the ice. The tray remained by her feet when she rose for the anthem, but it didn’t stay there.
By the time the puck was dropped, it was in her lap.
By the time Liam had his first shift, she’d made a dent in the sundae—couldn’t have it melting.
And by the time the Gold cruised to victory, Liam having scored a goal and having gotten two assists, she’d finished the beer, eaten the pretzel, and consumed an ungodly amount of popcorn.
Her stomach full and feeling a bit sick from the sheer quantity of junk consumed, she cheered on the team.
Then she made her way up the stairs and to the elevators outside of Section 101.
More than a little fluff, but Mia was starting to think that perhaps some fluff might be okay.
Nine
Liam
“Why are you in a hurry, big guy?” Brit asked, eyes assessing as she started hauling ass to the locker room. “Where are you rushing off to?”
“I’m not rushing off anywhere,” he said. “Just tired.”
A lie, because he was in a hurry.
Mia was waiting, and he’d been detained by the media. He was never interviewed after games. At this point in his career, that always happened to the other guys. Today, however, when he didn’t want to be interviewed, when a very sexy woman was waiting for him, but he’d been pulled in anyway, he was stifling his impatience.
Thankfully, he’d managed to get through the interview quickly, even making the reporters chuckle as he gave a couple of sound bites.
Now, he needed to get his stinky ass clean and meet up with Mia.
“Does this not rushing have to do with the pretty Mia, who’s currently keeping Mandy company in the PT Suite?”
Liam skidded to a stop and whirled around so quickly he nearly stepped off the black mat and onto the concrete floor. The rubber protected his blades from being dulled on the cement—important during a game, less so now when the final buzzer had gone off. Still, his near-trip had done two things. One, he nearly ate it, and Brit busted a gut. Two, he’d not played it cool in any way, shape, or form, and so Brit now knew that his hurry was indeed because he was eager to meet Mia.
“Don’t worry,” Brit said, side-stepping him and setting her stick down in the rack outside the locker room. “I’d heard you’d asked for an escort for a guest after the game, so when I saw you’d been pulled for an interview, I made sure she was stashed away from the wolves.” A wink. “Mandy will watch out for her.”
“Wolves?”
“The gossip-mongers.”
Liam fixed her with a look. “And that isn’t you?” he asked archly.
“Rude.” But Brit was grinning. “Hey, at least I fully admit to my nosy behavior,” she said lightly before her face went serious. “I know it’s hard to be the new one. Mandy will show her around but not scare her off. She’ll be less nosy than the wives and girlfriends in the suite upstairs.”
The WAGs. Shit, he hadn’t thought of that.
“Technically, Mandy is a wife.” A beat. “And you are, too.”
“Not anymore. I’m the player. Stefan is just the ball and chain,” Brit said then tapped her chin. “Hmm. I guess we need to rename the WAGs. The WHAGs? Or does that sound like some scary creature from one of those fantasy books Max is always reading?” She shook herself. “Not the point. Anyway, Mandy’s the nicest one of us. Mia will be fine there.”
Mandy was nice. And it was just as nice that Brit had been looking out for him and for Mia. “Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have—”
She clapped him on the shoulder. “I got your back, Li.” A grin. “We all do.”
“You just want to know every detail along the way.”
A flick of her blonde ponytail, that grin growing wider. “Damn straight. Now, get your ass in the shower”—she stepped aside, allowing him to pass by and into the locker room—“you stink.”
“It’s the smell of victory,” he quipped.
Her amused snort trailed him into the space.
But Liam was less focused on Brit than on the woman waiting for him.
He got his gear off, showered, and fresh clothes on in record time.
There was a man standing very close to his woman.
Correction: Coop was standing very close to his woman, smiling down at her as he pointed to something in front of him.
Then Mia smiled
up at him.
She smiled. At him.
He’d gotten all sharp edges and knocked on his ass, and Coop got smiles and was allowed to stand close.
Liam saw red.
He knew he was being unreasonable, but he was still irritated as he quickly closed the distance between them, sliding a hand around Mia’s waist and tugging her against his side.
Her eyes shot to his, wide and with a trace of annoyance, and he knew he was lucky that she didn’t knock him on his ass right then and there.
But then her face gentled, one half of her mouth curved up into a soft smile.
“Hi,” she murmured.
“Hey, man.” Coop clapped him on the arm. “Great game tonight.”
“Hey.”
Yes, Liam was a bastard because it was clipped out. Yes, he knew he hadn’t yet earned the right to be possessive. Yes, he knew he was being unreasonable.
But dammit, Coop was such a pretty boy. Even though he was married to Calle, even though they had a kid together, most women still melted under his charm. And Mia was smiling at him.
She glanced back down at her hands, and Liam felt a bolt of guilt.
She was holding Coop’s phone, watching a video of his daughter, Emma, holding a tiny hockey stick.
“Already a natural,” Mia said, handing the phone back. “She’s really adorable.”
“Yes, she is.” Coop laughed and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “I’m biased, I know.”
“We parents are allowed to be biased,” Mandy said.
“It’s true,” Mia agreed. “I always know the good parents because they wear their pride like a badge on their sleeve.”
“How many parents do you know?” Mandy asked. “By the way you say that, it sounds like a lot.”
Mia shrugged. “Oh, I run a karate studio, so I meet a lot of parents.”
“Wow.” Pink across the trainer’s cheek. “Why do I feel the urge to pull out my phone and wax poetic over my daughter just so that I know I pass muster?”
Mia laughed. “You pass.” She nodded at Blane, who was holding his daughter, Madeline, and blowing raspberries on her tummy just a few tables away. “How old is she now?”