Centered (Gold Hockey Book 9)

by Elise Faber

  “And now?”

  “I couldn’t understand why the Gold picked me up. Couldn’t fathom that a team who’d won the Cup for two out of the last three years would want me.”

  “But they did.”

  “Yeah,” he said, leading them out of the alley and up a hill to the right. More rule-bending, as she knew this trail was not open at almost midnight, but she didn’t falter this time, didn’t drag her heels.

  Instead, she continued trying to unravel the pain inside this man. “It seemed like you found something tonight.”

  “Brit,” he said.

  Mia tilted her head up in question. Liam bent, brushed his mouth over hers.

  “She cornered me at practice the other day, roped me into a killer workout,” he said. “But more than the running, she reminded me what a team could be like. Along with Blane, and Max, and Coop.”

  “Friends.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “And you saw what Mandy is like. It’s almost impossible to not feel included. Add in coaching that is quality without yelling and tearing down, and . . . I guess I’m starting to feel like myself again.”

  “And you’re in love.”

  He froze, stared down out her with his jaw fallen open.

  She processed her words, felt a cold sweat break out on her neck. “I meant with the game again,” she quickly added.

  Silence then, “Yeah, of course.”

  Her cheeks were hot, but thankfully the darkness hid the flush. “So, hockey is getting a little better.”

  He nodded. “It is. I feel like I’m finding the enjoyment, like I can make a place here.”

  “Your game seems to speak to that.”

  “I’m just going to keep my head down and keep working. Push through the insecurities and grab on to the opportunity in front of me.” Another nod, decisive this time. “Even if this does turn out to be my last season, I’m going to make the most of it.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  His breath caught.

  “I know we’re just getting to know each other,” she murmured. “I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I think it’s admirable that you’re pushing through. It’s not easy.”

  He stopped again, gaze unfathomable, but his hand when it brushed her cheek, was warm. Gentle.

  “It means a lot, J.B.,” he whispered. “A lot.”

  Then he was kissing her. Or maybe she was kissing him.

  Mia didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She reveled in the feel of his strong shoulders beneath her hands, the hard breadth of his chest pressing against hers, the way his tongue brushed alongside hers with gentle strokes, his fingers clenching on her waist, his body so hot and heady and intoxicating.

  She was drunk on this man and his kisses.

  “You know you’re once again getting me to break rules I would never allow my students to,” she said when they finally broke apart to breathe in some much-needed oxygen. She rested her palm over his heart, concentrated on slowing her inhalations and exhalations.

  In. Out. In. Out. Slow. Steady.

  Do not think about the moisture pooling between her thighs, nor the need that was twisting her insides. She might forget about breaking rules and start breaking laws—indecent exposure ones.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said innocently, his pulse thundering against her palm.

  Way too innocently.

  “Kite Hill isn’t open this late,” she said, walking forward, tugging him this time.

  “Actually—” He twisted in front of her, and she skidded to a stop, her chest flush to his. Not that she was complaining, especially when he punctuated the action by slanting his mouth across hers and kissing her until her lungs screamed for oxygen.

  “Actually,” he repeated when they broke apart, threading their fingers together and walking forward with her again. “Kite Hill is open until midnight.”

  Mia glanced down at her watch. “It’s 11:52.”

  “Technically not breaking the rules.”

  Shaking her head, she walked beside him up the short incline, breath catching not from the exertion, but from the view at the top—and maybe also from this man. This man, who had a sensitive heart. This man, who wanted so badly to do his best. To make his family proud. To find his place.

  This troublesome, rule-breaking man who’d managed to weasel his way into her heart.

  “Come here,” he said, voice deeper, huskier, and she turned from the view to see that he’d pulled a blanket from his bag and spread it on the ground.

  Mia went to him.

  This was a fairy tale that was probably going to implode, but she found she couldn’t resist it, couldn’t resist him.

  She crossed the grass on quiet feet, let him tug her down onto his lap.

  “You know what else helped me clear the fog enough to start moving forward again?” He stroked a hand down her ponytail, brushing her nape, making her shiver. “Or rather who?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You.”

  Twisting, she glanced up at him. “Me?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Don’t think I forgot that you saved my life, J.B.,” he said, tugging lightly at her hair. “I was in that street thinking morose, pathetic thoughts. Considering that everything might be over, and I should put my math degree to good use—”

  “You have a math degree?”

  The ghost of a smile before his lips pressed to hers for a short but blazing kiss. “Not the point in this conversation,” he teased. “But yes, I actually have two degrees in math, a bachelor’s and a master’s.”

  “Smart.”

  A flash of white teeth. “Occasionally.”

  “Li—”

  “Shh,” he said, tugging her back against his chest. “I’m trying to tell you something important.”

  “Fine,” she muttered, wanting to know more about how he’d gotten those degrees, but also not wanting to stop him from telling her what he felt like he needed to say.

  “I was in the street. In my head. So fucking twisted up, and I just thought . . . enough.” Her throat went tight. “And then this tough, strong angel flew in out of nowhere and yanked me out of harm’s way.” He ran his hand up and down her arm. “You saved me, knocked some fucking sense into this hard-ass head. And . . . after seeing you, teasing you, touching and kissing and talking with you, I started feeling more like myself than I had in years.” He cupped her cheek. “You make me feel like it’s okay to just be me. No reservations. No holding back. No . . . fear.”

  Pulse pounding, she spun in his hold, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held him tight.

  That was what he did for her.

  Cleared the armor away. Made her think of all the possibilities. Made her hope and believe that things might actually be okay. That she might deserve some happy, some fluff.

  She wanted to tell him that.

  To confess what she’d done. To get it off her chest, relieve the burden she carried around.

  God, she wanted that so fucking intensely, to the point that it was nearly impossible to quell the words.

  But . . . this was Liam’s moment.

  He’d done so much for her already, helped her see the possibilities, to have fun, to feel hope again. Tonight could be just about him. Another time could be about her.

  She just prayed that they would have another time.

  Because as much as she hoped, reality wasn’t so easy to shed.

  Liam might be traded. Or not have his contract renewed and move away to use those math degrees.

  Liam might stop looking at her like he was tonight.

  The fog had cleared, and he might realize exactly how much he deserved, this good man, this sweet man, this sensitive man.

  So yeah, another time could be about Mia.

  Tonight, she wanted to soak in this feeling, to hold it close, tuck it someplace safe.

  And she wanted him to laugh. To feel light and buoyant. To give him some of the joy and fluff he’d give
n her.

  Leaning back, she dropped her lips so they were very close to his.

  “Liam?”

  “Hmm?” he asked, eyes dilating, hands tracing the curves of her waist, her hips, her ass.

  “I think you just like me because I can do this.”

  And then she moved—flipping them in a Jujitsu move that had her on top one moment, him on top the next. Her legs parted and his pelvis slipped between her thighs, moving forward to brush the hardening length of his cock against her pussy.

  Layers and layers of clothes between them.

  Yet, it still was the single most erotic moment of her life, seeing Liam braced over her, watching his face go hungry, feeling his erection against her.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered.

  Then he kissed her.

  Under the moonlight, the stars overhead, the lights of the buildings around them filling the night sky, his body pressed to hers so that she could feel his heart beating as rapidly as her own.

  He kissed her.

  He sliced through all the toughness she used to protect herself, wove himself right into the very marrow of her bones.

  And Mia knew she would never be the same.

  Especially, when she could hardly summon a worry after they finally managed to pull apart, after Liam stowed the blanket away, after they made their way down the hill . . . even though making their way down was completed well after midnight.

  A broken rule meant nothing.

  Because she had this man.

  Eleven

  Liam

  The woman was brilliant, even cradling a sleeping baby on her shoulder.

  Calle drew a line on the whiteboard he was holding because as brilliant and capable as the Gold’s assistant coach—her focus on offense—was, she still only had two hands.

  “So,” she said, pairing the drawing with words, “if you slide this way on the face-off against the Ducks, you’ll draw the D enough to let Blue win the puck forward and have a lane to the net.”

  Liam nodded. “Yeah. I can do that for sure.”

  But his mind was spinning, because he wasn’t on a line with Blue and Coop. He wasn’t on the top line.

  He hadn’t been on the first line since his inaugural season . . . and that had quickly changed.

  “If you come to the optional skate in the morning,” she said, capping the pen in a move that was surprisingly natural given that she’d only used one hand. But then again, she was a mom, and moms had superpowers. “Coop and Blue will be there for us to run it through.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said, having been planning on it anyway. “Am I—” He stopped himself. A player didn’t ask where he was going to play. He shut up and played where he was told. “Thanks for the suggestion,” he said. “I’ll get it down.”

  “I know you will.”

  He turned and started heading for the showers. Practice was done, and he’d been planning on some off-ice training, a massage, a shower, and then . . . counting down the minutes until he could see Mia that night for the movie. What he hadn’t been planning on was being stopped by a coach in the hall, and thus, hadn’t been able to prevent his stomach from twisting itself into knots with nervous energy.

  “Liam.” Calle’s voice halted him a couple of steps away.

  He turned back. “Yeah, Coach?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and seemed to debate something for a long moment. Then she stepped closer and said, “You’ll be on that top line because that’s where you belong. You, Coop, and Blue have chemistry. We saw that in the power play last night, at practice this morning.” Her baby, Emma, fussed quietly, and Calle shifted her, rocking back and forth slightly as she spoke. “You’re not there because of a name or because of any history. You’re there because you’re the right fit at this time. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  Liam swallowed hard, nodded. “Okay, Coach.”

  Blue eyes on his for a long moment before a small smile curved her lips, but before she could say anything further, Emma let out a squawk that was loud enough to make Liam jump. “This one is hungry, apparently,” she told him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He waved as she disappeared down the hall, Calle’s transition from hockey coach to mom somehow instant but not jarring. It was seamless. It was her. It was effortless, and Liam found himself soaking in some of that smooth shifting, that calm confidence. It seeped through his skin, sank into his bones, and instead of being terrified about being in that top spot, he found he was looking forward to it.

  Calle was right.

  They did have chemistry, and it had been fun as hell to be on the power play with those two last night, being able to move and shift and pass and shoot, while knowing instinctively where they would be. He’d had to look, of course. There weren’t too many spaces in the NHL where someone could make a blind pass without having it get picked off. But Liam had found he’d been able to look out of the corner of his eye, or with simply a quick glance. He hadn’t had to spend too much time searching, and that had freed up even more time and space.

  They’d controlled the puck. The ice.

  They’d been patient—despite the fans screaming, “Shoot it!” in the stands.

  Though they’d eventually shot . . . and scored.

  Liam had received the second assist, having passed it to Coop, who’d passed it to Blue, who’d then actually put the puck into the net. But it might as well have been him who’d scored the goal.

  Because it had been really fucking fun.

  Blinking, thinking that Blane had been speaking more than a little bit of truth the other day in the locker room when telling him they all played better when it was a more relaxed environment, Liam got his ass in gear.

  He was the last player near the ice, but not on it, everyone else having already scattered to address individual needs. Some, like Brit, were still out there, getting a bit more practice in. Others would head to the weight room or PT for therapy. He was heading to the off-ice space—more resistance bands and jump boxes than dumbbells and weight benches. Liam was strong. He’d been hitting the weights a lot over the last few years, thinking that he needed to bulk up, but after having seen lithe Mia moving the other day, he was thinking that agile, flexible muscle was the way to go.

  Strength, of course.

  But flexibility for explosive bursts of speed and quick changes in direction.

  That had always been in his wheelhouse, so why had he spent so much time trying to turn his body into something it wasn’t?

  Because Williamsons were big. They were brawn. They finished checks and bodied players off the puck.

  Except, that wasn’t him.

  He waited for the disappointment to hit him as he walked down the hall, waited for that old bleakness to take hold. Only this time, it didn’t. Instead, he was more at peace than he’d been in a long time.

  This was him.

  That was fine.

  He dropped his gloves in the bin the equipment manager had left out, turned and stepped into the locker room. Then—

  “Oof!”

  The balled-up sock hit him right in the face.

  Max was grinning, the bastard.

  “I hope that was clean, fucker,” Liam grumbled, picking up the sock and launching it back.

  “Now, come on, man,” Max said, dodging it. “You know me better than that.”

  Unfortunately, Liam did . . . or well, at least, he’d felt the amount of sweat in the sock when he’d picked it up to throw it at his teammate.

  Fucking gross.

  But then again . . . hockey.

  Shaking his head, he laughed when Coop came in behind him, saying, “Give Liam a break. He hasn’t had to deal with your stinky ass feet as long as the rest of us.”

  Max yanked off his other skate. “Well, at least I don’t have a stinky a—”

  “Gentlemen,” Brit scolded, striding into the room, her helmet propped up on her head. “Bad mannered, all of you. Why can’t you—h
ey!”

  Blane had thrown his sock at her.

  She threw it back, clocking Blue across the cheek.

  And thus began the Gold Sock War. Spoken about for generations to come.

  Or not.

  Rather, Liam joined in with the rest of the guys fucking around, dodging and ducking dirty socks and the odd glove and elbow pad, laughing like an idiot when he nailed Max right on the chin.

  It was just stupid fun.

  But it was more fun than Liam had had with his teammates in years.

  And he felt another piece of himself slide back into place.

  This was . . . right.

  “I’ll talk to him, sweetheart,” his mother, Fran, said later that afternoon. “I think it’s time to pull out the brass balls and steel wool.”

  Liam snorted, knowing that was his only hope at de-escalating his father’s campaign at this point. He’d tried texting his dad back, saying thanks for the advice, but he needed some space. He’d said he was going to take this time to listen to his coaches, to learn the Gold’s system.

  That had gone over . . .

  About as well as too-soft ice.

  Sluggish and pissing the players—or former players, in his dad’s case—off.

  He’d gotten several voicemails in addition to the text, all in the vein of helping, though with tightly contained fury, as though his dad couldn’t believe Liam didn’t want his help.

  So, he’d called. He’d spoken to his father, tried to explain it wasn’t that at all. He always appreciated the thought, the help, but that he needed to get out of his own head.

  To which his dad had taken to mean Liam had just needed tips on the Gold’s offensive system, tips his dad had gathered from watching tapes.

  Tapes.

  His dad was studying hockey like he was playing it.