Centered (Gold Hockey Book 9)

by Elise Faber

  Then he sucked in a breath.

  This didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

  It did matter, regardless of how much he wanted to shove the nerves and fear down, to pretend he was cool either way. He wanted to keep playing, and he really wanted to do it with the Gold.

  He tapped his screen, dialed his agent.

  Ring-ring.

  Ring-ring.

  Ring—

  “Liam.”

  “Hey, Ron,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Look,” Ron said in his typical no-nonsense-don’t-have-time-for-small-talk way. It had always been that way, but it had gotten more prevalent over the years. Liam was supposed to have been big time, and he hadn’t brought the same capital and clout as his father and brothers.

  Hello, Dread. Thanks for joining him again.

  “The Gold want to have a sit-down with you. I’m in New York, negotiating some sticky terms, so I can’t fly out there. Do you want to meet with them, see what they have to say? Then you and I can discuss?” The statements were clipped out, incongruous with his smooth Texan drawl. “Liam?”

  He blinked, forced himself to focus. “That’s fine. When do they want to sit down?”

  “This afternoon or tomorrow.”

  Get it over with? Or sit on it, ruminating until the next day? It wasn’t even a decision. He wanted to know his fate, and the sooner, the better. He’d deal. He’d make the best of it.

  “This afternoon,” he told Ron.

  “Great. I’ll text you a time.” The sound of papers rustling interspersed with his agent’s words, but the noise wasn’t loud enough to drown out the reality of them. Or maybe, it was just that Liam had known this was coming. “You need to prepare for the reality that they will likely not be offering you a good deal or any contract at all,” Ron said. “Your stats have improved since you joined the team, but—”

  “They’re not there yet.”

  “Right.”

  “Also, do not sign anything if they happen to bring you an offer. Do not verbally accept or agree to anything. If for some reason we’re surprised and there is an offer, just take the paperwork, confirm they’ll email it to me, and then you and I will go over it.”

  If for some reason—

  We’re surprised—

  Those two phrases might have sent him into a tailspin before, but today even though he hoped that they were surprised, that an offer might be made, he also knew it wouldn’t break him, that his game wouldn’t slip.

  Because he was playing his game.

  He wasn’t his brothers or his dad or his grandfather.

  He was Liam Williamson.

  And that was enough.

  “Got it,” he told Ron. “Text me the details, but for now, I need to go.”

  “I—”

  “Talk soon,” he said and hung up to a surprised silence. Probably because that might have been the first time ever he’d gotten the last word, but also certainly because Ron wasn’t used to his talking back in no-nonsense.

  But Liam had absorbed a little Mia.

  He could do cool confidence. He could do clipped and to the point.

  He maybe couldn’t do it all the time, but after hanging up the call with his agent and not feeling like a total fucking failure for the first time in ages, Liam knew he could find its place.

  Fluff and charm most of the time. Firm and sharp at other moments.

  It didn’t have to be one or the other. He didn’t have to be either, and that more than anything relaxed the final knots in his stomach.

  The door opened, Mia’s concerned face popping in through the gap.

  He smiled at her. “Come here.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They want to meet with me today,” he said.

  “Is that good or bad?” she asked, stepping close enough that he was able to snag her hand and tug her down into his lap.

  “No clue.” He wrapped his arm around her, burying his nose into her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of woman. “My agent doesn’t know either. But at least I don’t have long to wait.”

  She tilted her head up. “You don’t seem worried.”

  “I’m not, J.B.,” he said, pressing his lips to hers for a brief kiss. “For the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about the future.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No,” he murmured. “Because my now is pretty great.”

  She snuggled in, hugged him tight. “Even though I just ordered you a T-shirt emblazoned with the word Sugar?”

  Liam laughed. “Yes, J.B. Even though.”

  Her lips found his, holding him firmly, kissing him deeply, her tongue slipping into his mouth to tangle with his. It was hot. It was dirty. It was still laced with fluff. It also still made him go rock-hard, made him consider how difficult it would be to finagle himself a tour of her apartment overhead.

  Not too difficult, he thought, based on the hard nipples pushing through the top of her gi, the dilated eyes, the chest rising and falling in rapid intervals.

  “How about—”

  The bell at the front of the studio tinkled, Blane’s voice trickling through the open door. “Hello, Mia?” he called. “I’m sorry, I just realized I forgot to pay.”

  Liam’s eyes were on her breasts, on those hard nipples that made his mouth water. She pushed off his lap, smacked him lightly when he slipped a hand through the opening. Such easy access. He just needed to untie one string—

  “Stop it, you,” she muttered, pushing his hands away. “I have to be presentable for my clients.”

  “Yoo-hoo!” Blane called. “I don’t want to interrupt, but Mandy will kill me if—”

  “I’ll be right there,” Mia called back.

  “No, you won’t,” Liam said, standing, crowding into her. “Go away,” he yelled. “Mia’s on break until tonight.”

  “Liam,” she hissed then her volume raised. “I—”

  He kissed her, stifling the rest of her sentence, yanking her close, and what the hell, he allowed his hands to slip into the opening of that sexy uniform. Funny that, it really only did take one sharp tug to undo the tie, to have full access to the skin and woman beneath.

  “I’ll just leave a check here,” Blane called.

  Mia stiffened, started to pull away.

  Liam let her go, or at least let her go enough so that he could tear his mouth from hers, so he could raise his voice, make sure it carried to Blane. “The keys are by the door, lock it on your way out!”

  A gasp. An annoyed woman in his arms.

  But Blane, who was certainly spying for the gossip train, who would definitely be reporting this incident to Mandy and company, just chuckled and said loud enough they could both hear, “I’ll get them back to you later.”

  Parted lips, reddened cheeks, furious eyes.

  Mia pulled out of his arms in a quick movement, spinning toward the door. But at the opening, she stopped, clutched the sides of her uniform together. “How did you—?” A sharp shake of her head before she peeked out. Then she sighed, turned back, plunking her hands on her hips. “Seriously?” she asked.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She glared, crossed her arms. “Don’t even try it.”

  And seriously, it wasn’t his fault that the action plumped up her breasts, had his gaze dipping down, staying down.

  She clapped her hands. “Eyes up here, buster.”

  Except the clapping made things jiggle and—

  Another sigh as she brought a hand up, ran it slowly over the tops of her breasts, making his fingers tingle, his palms ache with the need to touch. Her tone softened, mouth curving up into a half-smile. “You’re never going to stop pushing, never going to stop breaking my rules, are you?” she asked, stepping toward him, those curves so close and yet so far.

  “No,” he said, knowing it might have been better for his cock if he had lied, but unable to do so.

  “Oh, Liam.” She shook her head again, drifted closer. “What
am I going to do with you?”

  But then, before he could come up with a response that made her half-smile go full, made her laugh instead of glare, made her come to him and allow his hands to trace every inch of her . . . before he could do any of that, Mia took one step and launched herself into his arms.

  It spoke more of her athletic ability than his that they both remained standing, but then her mouth dropped to his, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, and she kissed him until he stopped thinking about breaking rules and teasing.

  She kissed him until he stopped thinking altogether.

  She kissed him until she was the one coaxing him upstairs with an offer of a tour.

  For the record, after her kiss had singed his nerve endings, had erased every bit of control, Liam considered it a fucking miracle that they made it up the stairs and through her front door.

  Her entryway was really nice.

  Also for the record, that was as much of her apartment as he saw.

  Twenty

  Mia

  She flicked off the lights to the studio, locked the door from the inside since Blane still had her keys, and glanced down at her cell for the hundredth time over the last few hours.

  After the explosive sex in her front hallway—and she didn’t think the table where she usually dropped her keys would ever recover—Liam’s phone had buzzed with the time for his meeting with the Gold’s owner, GM, and other staff, and it had been soon enough that he’d barely had time to run home, shower, and change into nice clothes. She’d gotten presentable in a hurry then walked him down to his car, kissing him goodbye and holding tight to his promise to call with news as soon as he was finished.

  And he had called.

  But it had been right in the middle of class, and she’d missed the call.

  She’d called back as soon as she’d gotten a break, but then he hadn’t picked up, and he also hadn’t called again, and that had been hours ago.

  And . . . now she was worried.

  Really worried.

  Mia considered her options as she went upstairs to change out of her karate uniform. She could stay here, remain in her safe little space and wait to hear from Liam. Or . . . her gaze fell onto the shell on her nightstand. The only physical item she had of her mother’s, recovered from her body, given to her by the police officer who’d broken the news.

  She remembered him showing up a few days afterward, a kind gray-haired man with gentle blue eyes. Mia had already been constricting then, locking down the pain of losing her mom and the guilt for her role in it. He’d asked if he could talk to her, had sat on the stairs leading down to the studio that was quiet, would remain quiet only for another day before her dad wrenched himself back into a brutal routine, dragging her alongside him.

  But for that moment, he’d been quiet and lost in himself, and so Mia had gone with the officer, had sat down next to him on the stairs when he’d patted the worn wooden plank. He’d told her about losing his mom—in a car accident—handed her his card in case she needed to talk, and then he’d given her two things that had nearly shattered her.

  One, a birthday card from the department with a gift certificate to a local clothing shop inside, saying, “It took me a long time to learn that I was allowed to celebrate.” He’d set it in her lap, a gentle smile on his lips. “Don’t be as dumb as I was.”

  The other was a plastic bag, the package inside wrapped carefully in tissue paper.

  She’d cried when she had opened it.

  A huge abalone shell. Cleaned of meat, and perhaps the most beautiful she’d ever seen, a pearly white iridescence with streaks of red and pale blue.

  Because she’d known someone had found it on her mom and they’d realized how important it was, even though they couldn’t have known that the shell would soon be the single thing she had left to remind Mia of her mother.

  Or half of it anyway.

  The officer had given her a squeeze, dried her tears, and told her to call.

  Then he’d gone.

  Mia hadn’t called.

  Because when she’d gone back inside to her bedroom, her father had walked by, had seen what she was holding, and he’d come out of his fog. His expression had been terrifying. He’d been furious, every muscle in his body locking as he burst toward her.

  She’d forgotten her karate training.

  Had cowered, hadn’t stopped him when he’d ripped the items away from her. He’d torn the birthday card into shreds, thrown the certificate into the trash, along with the officer’s number, but the shell . . . he’d launched that across the room with a fury that had her cowering on the bed.

  One half had hit the wall, cracking, that beautiful iridescence flaking off and littering the carpet. The other half somehow managed to roll off a pile of laundry, to wedge itself beneath her desk and escape mostly unscathed. Mia hadn’t found it until much later, until the apartment had been cleared out of her mother’s things.

  She’d hidden it deep in her closet.

  But a few months ago, she’d stumbled on it, had set it on her nightstand.

  So, maybe she hadn’t been as stagnant as she’d first thought. Perhaps the change had been coming for a while, the trap winding tighter and tighter until it was finally sprung.

  Until a man with a vein of sad had found a slice of happy because of her.

  Until she’d let herself believe that it was possible to live not in a small box, but open and free . . . and more like how her mother had.

  She ran her fingers along the smooth inside of the shell, the colors vibrant, the texture polished and as smooth as glass. Then she let them drift to the outside, to the rough, bumpy exterior that gave hardly a hint to what was inside. The metaphor for how she’d lived her life, for the juxtaposition of how her parents had been, wasn’t lost on her.

  The only difference was that she wanted some of that beauty for herself.

  And Liam had shown her the way.

  With teasing and slides, with scorching kisses and game-winning goals.

  He’d given her the directions. She’d had to take those first steps.

  She had. And she would keep taking them. So ultimately, it wasn’t even a question of staying or going. She tugged on a sweatshirt, picked up her apartment keys and phone. She would go to his place, be there when he got back and be there for him, regardless of the news.

  He’d been her path.

  Now she was going to return the favor.

  Only . . . if she’d known what was awaiting her at Liam’s place, she might not have been so determined.

  In fact, strong, tough Mia might have chickened out.

  Twenty-One

  Liam

  He stared at Pierre Barie, the very hands-off owner of the Gold—ostensibly because he’d bought the team after his son, Stefan, was made captain, and not being involved in the day-to-day operations was important for propriety’s sake.

  In reality, though, Pierre was a successful businessman, and he’d hired good people to run the organization.

  He didn’t need to be involved day to day.

  Except, apparently, when it came to a Williamson.

  Pierre had come into the boardroom a few minutes after the meeting had started, asking the GM Charlotte Harris and her assistant to give them a moment.

  Now, he sat across the table from Liam and stared at him.

  Silently.

  Fun.

  Eventually, Pierre sighed and slid a folder across the wooden surface. “You don’t know, do you?”

  Liam tried to figure out what the fuck that meant. Unable to do so, he settled on a simple, “No.”

  A nod toward the folder. “Take it.”

  Okay, this was suddenly feeling like an illegal arms deal, or perhaps entrapment, take the folder with dangerous information, triggering a swarm of federal agents that were going to burst out of nowhere, guns drawn, and demanding he get his ass on the floor. Or, since he had no knowledge of either of those things . . . Liam was merely delaying.


  He reached for the folder.

  Opened it.

  And stopped breathing.

  On the left side was an offer. A five-year contract with a reasonable amount of money based on his not ideal stats. He read quickly, knowing he would have time to look closer later, but he saw that even though the money was on the low end, there were bonuses if the team made it into the playoffs. Fair. At first glance, it seemed fair.

  Then his eyes drifted to the right . . . and he saw it.

  An email from his father.

  An email sent to Pierre Barie, owner, businessman, the fucking boss of all Liam’s bosses.

  And his dad had emailed.

  Worse, it wasn’t a “Hi, how are you?” sort of message. It was terse. It was demanding . . . an offer for his son.

  Liam shot to his feet, nausea burning the back of his throat.

  He paced a few feet away, stopped and stared at the wall, trying to control the urge to punch his fist through it. What in the fuck had his dad been thinking? He wasn’t Liam’s agent or representative. This wasn’t a place that mommies and daddies demanded things for their children. This was his work. His life. His—

  He spun back, forced himself to sit back down at the table and take a deep breath. “No,” he said, meeting Pierre’s eyes. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t contact you again.” Liam closed the folder. “And I’ll play hard for the rest of the season, do my best with the chance you guys gave me. I won’t let you or them down.” He slid the folder back and stood. “I’d hated hockey for a good while, but this team helped me find my love for it again. I won’t let them down.” He turned, readying himself to GTFO.

  “Sit.”

  One sharp word and Liam obeyed without thinking.

  Pierre didn’t move to retrieve the folder, the paper having halted slightly beyond the halfway mark in its sliding trek. He remained silent, still staring.

  Then he reached for the folder, stood, and went to the door.

  A wave of disappointment washed over him. He wanted to run, to get away, to call his father and find out what in the fuck all he’d been thinking. But before he could do anything, Liam heard Pierre say, “Thank you for that. Please, come in.”