by Elise Faber
He skated over and got into Mike’s face, yelling at him to back off. Surprisingly, Mike nodded, muttered an apology, and got back into line.
Alternate universe. Clearly Stefan had just stumbled into one.
He turned to Blue. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” the nineteen-year-old snapped. “I can handle myself. I don’t—” He broke off, peeled himself up from the ice. “Mind your own fucking business.”
Stefan watched Blue skate away and tried to figure out where in the hell that conversation had gone wrong.
When he turned and saw Mike with a smirk on his ugly mug, Stefan knew.
The cancer was spreading.
****
Usually Stefan stayed late and did off-ice conditioning—stairs, squats, wind sprints, that sort of thing.
It was comfort and training all in one short forty-five-minute workout, doing the exercises he’d learned as a kid when he and his mom hadn’t had any extra money for a professional off-ice coach. And it probably said strange things about him that one of his happiest childhood memories was running through the routine with his mom.
But then again his mother had always been his rock. Add in hockey? No question why it had become so important.
Typically a few of the guys joined Stefan for the workout, but today he undressed, hung his gear, and showered as quickly as possible.
“Stairs?” Max asked, mid-sock removal.
Stefan shook his head. “Not today.”
“Everything okay?”
That was the proverbial question, wasn’t it? Part of the reason he was so concerned about the Gold disbanding.
His mom’s doctors were in San Francisco.
“Everything’s good,” he forced himself to answer in a neutral voice. “Just have a meeting.”
“This about the restaurant?”
Stefan’s lips twitched. “You know there’s no way I’m investing in your restaurant, right?”
“The food will be incredible.”
“Half of restaurants fail in the first year.”
“Pff. Minor detail,” Max said as he straightened and stripped out of his jock. He stood there for a long moment, dick flopping, completely naked, then his eyes flashed over Stefan’s shoulder.
To where Brit sat, unbuckling her pads.
Max’s eyes widened, and he sank to the bench, covering his groin with a black-and-gold hockey sock.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Brit said, in a voice slightly louder than stage whisper. Her gaze was focused on her pads as she fussed with one of the straps. “Don’t let your balls smell on my account.”
Max’s cheeks went a little pink, but he pushed off the bench, dropped the sock, and hit the showers. He snagged a towel along the way—probably the first time in history he’d done so. Max was one of those guys who didn’t mind being naked.
“Air drying,” he always said, “is the way to go.”
Stefan thought it more likely that Max’s mouth was moving so fast his brain didn’t have a chance to remember pesky things like public nudity.
Still, he glanced toward Brit. “Shh-wetty balls?”
Her lips twitched. “You quoting SNL on me?”
“Those were the better days.”
Stefan had meant the show, but a wave of nostalgia rolled over him, softened his words until they had taken on a completely different meaning.
One he really didn’t want to discuss with anyone.
Son of a bitch.
He bent, tied his shoe. He just wanted to get out of there as quickly as—
“Everything okay?”
Brit’s question was gentle, way more so than anything he’d heard come out of her mouth in the last couple of hours.
Dammit.
“I’m good.”
“You su—”
“I’m sure.” He shouldered his small workout bag, pushed his wallet into his pocket. The equipment guys would take care of the rest. “You’ve got enough to deal with. Why don’t you worry about yourself?”
Stefan hadn’t meant to sound like a dick.
He had anyway.
Brit’s expression locked shut, all the softness disappearing as her face went completely smooth. She held his eyes for another second, scalding russet depths that seemed to pierce right through him.
Then she turned back to her equipment without another word.
It was a dismissal, plain and simple. One he’d facilitated, but damned if he didn’t hate it.
Not the time, Barie. Not. The. Time.
“See you tomorrow,” he told her.
Brit nodded.
With a sigh, and feeling like he’d just blown a Golden—no pun intended—opportunity to bond with Brit, Stefan turned and left the room.
He couldn’t worry about hurt feelings, about dickwad defensemen, or investing in a Gold-themed restaurant that was probably going to sink and sink fast.
His mom needed him.
CHAPTER NINE
Brit
Her shoulder hurt like a motherfucker.
Every motion as she pulled off her gear was a knife-prick of pain that had Brit gritting her teeth. It wasn’t as bad as when she’d dislocated the joint there, but it wasn’t comfortable by any means, and she’d have a hell of a hard time lifting her arm in the morning.
Just what she needed when Bernard had basically told her she needed to improve a hell of a lot if she wanted a chance at playing. Dammit. But this wasn’t helping so she allowed one more moment of fury before forcing herself to get it together. It wasn’t like she hadn’t dealt with this her whole life.
With the men it was always the same, always making her jump through a hundred hoops to feel welcome.
And, she remembered with a shudder, sometimes those hoops left scars.
Every women’s team she’d ever played on had been different. Still competitive as hell, but supportive . . . at least in terms of her teammates not peppering her with slap shots when her back was turned.
If she found out who’d taken that shot—
No. It didn’t matter.
“How’s the shoulder?” Frankie asked.
Brit hadn’t heard him come up, but that wasn’t exactly a surprise, considering how deep she’d been in her thoughts.
She needed to pull free of the anger and the past and focus.
“Fine,” she said. She was. Really. And her shoulder would be too—after a gallon of ibuprofen and a bottle of wine.
Frankie snorted. “Sure you are. PT after you shower. Then we’re going to talk.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he narrowed his eyes. “Hustle up, I don’t want to be here all day.”
Well, then.
She nodded and went back to work on her gear. Less than a minute later, she pulled the remaining pad off and set it down before crossing to the showers. It was tempting to stay and fuss with the buckles, straightening, checking her clasps.
But that was her version of a security blanket, and she knew she needed to respect the equipment staff’s ability to do their job.
So Brit shoved the nervous habit to the back of her mind and snagged a towel.
She peered inside, checked the showers. They were mostly clear. Or at least most of the guys were on one side—whether that was in deference to her or just chance, she didn’t know.
Or care.
Okay, care much. Her heart pounded, and a fine sheen of sweat coated her skin as she made herself step inside.
This part had become okay: the stepping inside and getting clean. So long as there were others showering, too. So long as she wasn’t alone.
And Blane was in the other room. Brit knew he’d have her back.
Suck it up.
With a few quick movements, she stripped down and dunked her face under the water.
A long slow whistle made her roll her eyes. “Damn, girl.”
Seriously?
She’d thought her not-so-sexy stripte
ase would have done the job. She flicked a gaze over her shoulder, ready to loose a retort, and saw Max staring at her.
Or not?
Because his eyes were locked on her back, not her butt, not trying to sneak a peek at her breasts.
“What?” she asked.
Max flicked his gaze up to hers as he tucked the edges of a towel around his waist. When it was secure, he took a few steps closer, just near enough to make those old feelings inside of her well up. For the fear she normally kept locked tight to slither free.
This was why she changed with the team. Why she didn’t shower alone anymore.
Because there was strength in numbers.
Max stopped immediately, freezing a couple of feet away, and Brit felt a wave of shame wash over her. How much had shown on her face?
The honest truth was that she really should be over this by now, over the fear, over glancing around every corner for the monster to come out again.
But she wasn’t. No matter how much she tried to convince herself differently, she wasn’t.
“You okay?” Max asked, all teasing lost from his expression.
So he was sweet in addition to really good-looking.
Which really wasn’t what she should be thinking about. But it was a relief to grasp onto the inane thought, to get lost in something stupid and superficial.
Her heart slowed enough that she was able to shove the fear down.
So deep she could almost fake normal.
Max was tall, strong, and built, a steam engine on two legs. Yet that wasn’t what called to her. There was something soft about him, a kindness in his eyes, a teddy-bear-like quality that made her want to confide in him.
Brit wondered if she’d ever be able to open up to a man, especially one like Max.
He’d be protective, tough, and—
Crap. She didn’t have time for this, for imaginings that would get her nothing but trouble.
Plus, she didn’t need a man to protect her.
“That’s one hell of a bruise,” Max said when she didn’t respond, and if his voice was carefully light, Brit was ignoring it.
No need to come across as a total basket case. At least not on her first day.
“I’m fine,” she said, forcing her eyes away and stepping into the water. “It’s just swelling and blood under the surface of the skin. You know, capillaries were ruptured with the impact of the puck and the blood pools under the skin. It looks bad, purple and. . .”
She was rambling again, introducing all sorts of unnecessary details to the conversation.
“Well . . . I’m glad you’re okay,” Max said when she managed to clamp her mouth shut.
“I bruise easily,” she blurted. Or not. Word vomiting was her specialty.
Max paused. “Good to know. Hurt?”
He was throwing her a lifeline. Brit glanced back over her shoulder and grimaced as she poured shampoo into her hand. “Like hell.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips curved. “How about a beer tonight? Couple of the guys like to go to a place around the corner, Alberto’s.”
Her heart gave a little squeeze at the invitation, at the offer of inclusion. It felt good, but . . .
“Can’t. Frankie wants me to hit up PT,” she said, turning slightly so she didn’t have to crane her neck to look at him. “Thanks for the invite, though. I’d rather that than spend an hour with some kooky sports therapist.”
Max laughed. “I wouldn’t let Mandy hear you say that.”
A frown pulled down her brows. “Why?”
“You’ll see.” He started to walk out of the showers, paused, and called, “See you tomorrow.”
Social skills. She still had a long way to go.
With a stifled sigh, she quickly finished her shower and dried. Unfortunately, her thoughts weren’t so easy to stifle. Not about physical therapy, but about her inability to have a relationship. About walls and barriers and barbed wire strung tight around a person’s heart in order to keep it safe.
Maybe Brit didn’t need a man to protect her, but . . . sometimes she longed for one.
CHAPTER TEN
Ice baths weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
“Quite whining,” Mandy—or Mandy, as the boys called her—said. She was the head of PT and took absolutely zero shit. “I swear, you’re worse than the boys.”
“It’s really cold.”
“That’s kind of the point.” The other woman, petite and brunette, vivacious with curves for days—basically everything Brit wasn’t—glanced at the clock. “Two more minutes.”
Brit wasn’t sitting in a tub of ice, a la Major League, but with the combination of the cold stuff and some botanical version of IcyHot on her shoulder, she might as well have been.
Despite her discomfort, she had to admit the physical therapy suite was . . . well, sweet.
Pale grey walls were emblazoned with the Gold logo. White built-in cabinets held a variety of Mandy’s torture instruments. There was a stim—or TENS machine—in one corner, an ultrasound unit in another, and all varieties of tape, bandages, and braces.
She sat on one of the three exam tables and thought her dad would have loved it.
But then again, he had loved anything that involved putting bodies back together. If it wasn’t broken or bruised or sprained, he hadn’t been interested.
Wow. Really?
Maybe all the pucks to her head over the years were finally catching up with her.
She’d been in the suite an hour, first filling out her medical background forms, even though Mandy appeared to know everything about her, from her distaste of mushrooms—they’d ordered in for dinner—to the three fractured fingers her senior year of high school. Then she’d undergone Mandy’s prescribed treatment.
Which wasn’t bad or anything Brit hadn’t had experienced a hundred times over, but with all the memories cropping up and making her feel vulnerable, she was ready to get the heck out of there.
A couple-mile run would push the crap from her mind, and tomorrow she’d be able to function.
“I’d say you should probably take a day off—”
That cleared Brit’s mind right up. She shot her gaze toward Mandy, who appeared amused.
“I didn’t say you had to take the day off. Just that you could.”
Brit snorted.
“Yeah. Didn’t think that was likely.” Mandy snagged a roll of KT tape—a special type of kinesiology bandage that reduced swelling and bruising. “I won’t tell Bernard that you need a day off so long as you promise to tell me if the pain gets worse.”
“Of course.”
Mandy shot her a glare. “Seriously. Promise.”
Irritation and humor coursed through Brit, and she put her hands up in surrender, not for the first time since she’d walked in.
In the sixty-plus minutes she had come to know Mandy, she’d learned it was easier to accept defeat than argue with the therapist.
Clearly Max hadn’t been exaggerating in the shower.
“I promise,” Brit said.
“Promise,” Mandy pressed. “For real.”
“What are we, in second grade?” Brit rolled her eyes. “I promise. Or maybe I should say I solemnly swear to not overdo it?” She reached up with her good arm to hold her hair out of the way when Mandy bent to tape her shoulder.
“Yeah. Sure. You and every other professional athlete I know who pushes through injuries they shouldn’t.” The other woman huffed, finished the tape job, then leaned back and met Brit’s eyes. “You know what this means, right?”
“Um. No?”
Had Mandy not realized she was joking? Was she really going to tell Bernard—
“You’ve just locked yourself into a Harry Potter marathon with me.”
Relief coursed through Brit. She let out a breath, her heart settling. “That I can do. Harry Potter is everything.”
Mandy laughed, a delicate tinkling s
ound that counteracted her tough-as-nails demeanor in the PT suite. “Agreed.”
“Good. I’ll bring the popcorn.” Brit stood. “We done here?”
“Yup. Do those stretches, and we’ll reevaluate after tomorrow’s practice.”
Argh. But it was better than being benched over a stupid bruise. “Okay.”
She hightailed it for the door.
“Brit?” Mandy called.
Hand still on the knob, she turned. “Yeah?”
“Watch out for Mike Stewart,” Mandy said. “He always goes for the cheap shot.”
****
It didn’t surprise Brit that Stewart had taken the shot. Or at least that was what she assumed Mandy had meant with her cryptic statement.
The professional hockey community was fairly small considering the amount of teams in its various leagues. But over time, rosters tended to overlap as players moved up the ranks.
Brit had played on her fair share of teams. Owing to that, she knew a lot of people.
And hardly anyone liked Mike Stewart. He was crass. He was arrogant. He’d gotten popped for two DUIs in the last few years and had even spent the night in jail for a bar fight the previous season.
If there was one person she needed to watch out for, it was Stewart.
Except there was nothing she could do but keep her guard up. With a sigh, she walked to her stall in the locker room to finish packing up her backpack.
Keys, dirty clothes, wallet, phone. Her gear would stay, now in the hands of the equipment guys.
The room was quiet, and half of the lights were off, bathing the room in shadow.
Something moved on the far side.
It was so similar to that night that Brit had to bite back a gasp. But it was early, she told herself. There were still plenty of people around.
This wasn’t that night, and she was a lot more experienced now than three years before.
Multiple courses in self-defense, a can of pepper spray, and way too much money at a therapist would do that.
The shadow moved again, and speaking of spray, Brit reached into her backpack to grab the smooth metal can.
Frankie’s voice both soothed and startled her. “How’d PT go?”