by Elise Faber
“How do you know?” his mom asked.
“I know,” he said.
He hoped. No. It didn’t matter.
“I guess you’d know . . .” His mom hesitated. “So is she good enough to play with you guys? Or is this a publicity stunt?”
Stefan’s head shot up in surprise, and that surprise deepened when his irritation tightened into a thread of anger.
It was a fair question. Maybe. But it still pissed him off that anyone was questioning Brit’s skills.
He’d seen her on the ice. He’d watched tapes of her games. She’d earned her spot the old-fashioned way.
The problem was that the focus of his anger was his mother. His cancer-stricken mother.
Fuck.
Guess he’d bonded with Brit more today than he’d realized. Or . . . he was feeling a little caveman for another reason.
Like possessiveness. Like desire.
Nope. No way. He was defensive of his teammate. Just like any other captain would be.
“She’s good enough.”
But as he told his mom about practice, about the cheap shot Stewart had taken and the way Brit had handled it like a boss, his mind wasn’t quite convinced.
Especially as it conjured up a replay of Brit stepping from the showers, her skin glistening, her towel wrapped snugly above those fabulous breasts.
The season had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brit
The blaring of the alarm on her phone was both unwelcome and unsurprising.
With a groan, Brit turned it off then shoved the covers back and pushed to her feet. Her body was still on East Coast time, but five a.m. came early, no matter where she was.
Plus, blackout shades weren’t exactly conducive for waking up, especially when she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.
Her shoulder had bothered her a fair amount, but that ache—bruised skin, irritated nerves and muscles—was familiar. The anxiety plaguing her had been much worse.
Usually, after her first practice with a new team, all of her nerves disappeared.
The Gold were different.
Bernard was against her being there. Stewart was going to try to stir the pot.
And for the first time in her life, it was hard for Brit to shake off the notion that she was nothing more than a stunt, a cute little story about a girl who liked to dabble in a man’s sport.
That she would never be good enough in Bernard’s eyes to earn a start—
Wow. That was way too much self-pity for five a.m.
Grabbing her workout clothes from where she’d laid them out the night before, Brit surveyed the room that would be her home for the next little while.
The team had put her up in a decent hotel just three miles from the rink. She’d be able to run to the arena most days. Though on game nights, she expected that she’d need to drive so as to not encounter post-game rowdy fans.
If she was even around that long—
Stop it.
Shoving the annoying little pity party to the back of her brain, Brit pulled on her clothes, tied her shoes, and slung her backpack over her shoulders.
The city was surprisingly quiet as she pushed through the lobby doors and turned in the direction of the arena. She’d memorized the route the night before and immediately took off at a slow jog, just fast enough to warm her tight muscles. When everything began to loosen, she picked up the pace.
San Francisco was different than any place she’d ever lived. Though summer was barely over, a thick blanket of fog shrouded the lightening sky. It made everything feel quiet and otherworldly, almost as if that layer of gas and water in the sky was actually a buffer between reality and fantasy.
Brit’s footsteps echoed on the pavement as she ran, a quickening pace that chased her rising pulse.
By the time she arrived at the arena and had pulled out her identification badge, she was breathing hard, sweaty, but feeling about a million-and-a-half times better.
“Morning,” she told the guard at the gate and held up her badge.
He blinked at her, glanced at the ID then back at her. “Ms. Plantain?”
“Call me Brit,” she said. “And you are?”
“Richie.”
She smiled at the man, skinny as a pole with bright red hair. “Nice to meet you.” They stared at each other until she finally took a step forward. “Not too many of the guys run in, huh?”
“Um, nope.”
Brit shrugged. “Different is good, sometimes.”
Richie’s lips twitched, and he nodded, his eyes sweeping down and up appreciatively. “That it is.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed.
Richie flushed. “That came out really bad, didn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“Well, damn.” He shook his head. “Way too early for this. I’ll write you on the list so you don’t have to check in every day, Ms. Plantain. Will this be your typical time?”
She nodded. “It’s Brit. And thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He gestured to the gate. “Go on with you.”
Brit nodded and ran forward.
The locker room was quiet but not empty. A few of the players, including Blane and Max were already there. They looked up as she walked through the door and murmured quiet hellos.
“Morning,” she said and walked to her stall, which she was pleased to see actually held a nameplate with her name.
Her equipment was laid out, exactly as she preferred, pads to the left, chest protector hung up.
But it wasn’t time to get her gear on.
She walked down the hall that led to the ice, waving at Mandy through the window of the PT suite as she went. Mandy gestured at her to come in, but Brit mouthed “later” and kept moving.
Past the therapy room, past the gym. All the way into the arena.
It was impossible to hold back the awe that washed over her.
This was her dream.
Brit could picture the stadium full to the brim, filled with 17,000-plus fans, screaming and shouting. The crash of players into the boards, the crack of sticks against the ice, the sting of the puck hitting her glove.
She shook herself, dislodged the image.
That wouldn’t happen unless she worked as hard as she could.
Starting now. Continuing for the indefinite future.
After sliding in her headphones, she cranked the volume and turned for the stairs.
Not that she’d tell anyone, but her kryptonite was boy bands. In any form, shape, or number. If they sang catchy pop music, she was sold.
Backstreet Boys, N’Sync, One Direction, 5 Seconds of Summer. Heck, even BTS. It didn’t matter. Brit loved them all.
She grinned as one of her favorite songs blared to life in her headphones, snorting as the guys sang about being one of a kind. Yup. That she was. But maybe according to Bernard, not in a good way.
“Move it,” she muttered, blinking away the previous day and focusing on the present.
And so she ran.
Up one section, over, and down the next. She kept it strictly to the lower bowl for today, not wanting to overwork her legs before practice.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
The rhythm was so ingrained within her that she could have almost run blindfolded.
Except she wasn’t.
A fact which Brit was abruptly glad for when the pat pat of footsteps very close behind her permeated the music blaring through her ears.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was dark, only a few of the lights on inside the arena.
Brit was on the far side of the ice, as physically distanced from the locker room as she could possibly be.
Glancing behind her, she saw a tall, shadowed masculine form. He seemed to fill the space, to loom over her as he worked his way up and down the stairs.
Following her.
Her.
Some logical part of her mind recognized that the man must be a Gold player, that he was probably doing the same thing she was.
The rest of her—the piece that had been damaged three years before—was stronger.
It took over her mind.
She picked up the pace, cutting across rows as quickly as she could.
If she could just get back to the locker room, she would be safe.
The footsteps behind her sped up.
Brit’s heart pounded, breath whistled in and out of her mouth. Her feet were a blur as she watched them carry her body through the sections.
Only two more to go.
But the man was gaining. Closing the distance as effectively as a great white to a seal.
She put every last bit of energy into her feet. So close. Her eyes flicked behind her, desperate now to get away.
What she saw didn’t help. The man wore a grey sweatshirt, its hood pulled up and over his head. It was just like—
She stumbled. Saw a row of steps coming straight for her face. One arm came up, an attempt to shield the inevitable fall.
Which didn’t come.
Instead warm hands caught her and pulled her back. She collided with a strong, hard chest, and they went down in a heap.
The man grunted as she landed hard on his stomach, but her mind had shut down. She struggled, her only thought to get as far away as humanly possible.
Next they’d grab her ankles, shackle her wrists. Fear was an icy blade down her spine. It spurred her to fight, even as part of her registered the chest beneath her rumbling as the man spoke.
The words didn’t penetrate.
“No,” she said, thrusting her elbow back, fighting to get free with everything she had.
The man held tight.
Then her earbuds were plucked out—not that she’d really heard the song over the whoosh of blood in her ears, the rapid pounding of her heart. But with the music not blaring, she was finally able to comprehend the voice.
“Hey. Hey! It’s okay.”
Stefan.
One beat of her heart to understand. Another for her panic to fade. One last one for embarrassment course through her.
Except it wasn’t the typical hot, scalding version. This was frigid, a blanket of frost settling over her skin, burning, but only because it was so cold.
It was heavy. Stifling.
And full of shame.
“Are you all right?” Stefan asked.
A single jerky nod was as much answer as she could muster.
Silence stretched. It was awkward and filled with the expectation. He was anticipating, waiting for an explanation she couldn’t provide.
It wasn’t like she’d been raped or assaulted.
She’d just been intimidated, cornered . . . scared.
Really scared.
And that fear—that something could have happened, that she could have been so easily overpowered—had fractured something inside of her.
It was a lot harder to regain confidence than to possess it in the first place.
“Let—let me go,” she managed.
“Okay.” Stefan slid to the side, depositing her on the step next to him.
For a moment, she actually missed the warmth of his chest, the security of his arms—which was absolutely insane because Brit hadn’t found comfort in a man’s embrace in so long that she’d actually begun to believe she no longer possessed the capability to do so.
Which wasn’t the point, but the stray thought helped the last dredges of panic fade from her system.
Stefan hadn’t said anything further, just sat next to her in silence as she focused on getting her breaths to slow to a more reasonable rhythm.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, not willing to talk about it and totally unable to put into words the abrupt terror that had gripped her when he’d approached her from behind.
“I—” He thrust a hand through his hair, and unconsciously Brit flinched back. Stefan froze, looked at her, a wealth of emotions in his expression. “What . . . what happened to you? Did—”
Brit swallowed hard, was ready to laugh off the whole scenario as staying up too late the previous night, watching scary movies or some other such nonsense.
Except . . . there was a flash of something in those baby blues—not quite pity, not quite remorse—and it pissed her off.
She shouldn’t be mad, not when he’d stopped her from breaking her ass on the row of stairs, not when he was trying to be kind now.
But he was looking at her like she might be broken.
“I’m not weak,” she spat. “I just—”
Just what?
Freaked the heck out.
Because she was a little broken.
But she didn’t show that side to the world, and definitely not to Stefan Barie, who never went out with a girl more than once, who’d dated half the city’s available—and not so available—females between the ages of eighteen and eighty, according to the tabloids.
For him, she needed walls of steel, coated in barbed wire. Hell, she could use a couple of those pots of boiling oil at the top, ready to pour down and burn the tendrils of whatever she was feeling—attraction? gratitude?—to ashes.
For the love of pucks, she was a freaking wreck.
With a shove at his chest, Brit struggled to her feet, her legs like Jell-O.
Stefan didn’t say anything, just studied her with an intensity that made her heart beat faster—and not from nerves this time . . . or at least not entirely. He stared as though he could see inside of her, view the very depths of her soul.
The arena was quiet, the crisp coolness of the ice creeping up to coat her sweat-laden skin. She shivered. Stefan stood, took off his hoodie, and slung it around her shoulders.
And just like that, her anger dissipated, was wrapped in a layer of cotton, traded for the scent of sandalwood and spice that crept into her nostrils and loosened the iron grip on her emotions.
Her eyes burned.
Hell no. Just no. She didn’t cry. Not ever.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”
Stefan’s voice was gentle, not demanding in any way. But that almost made it worse.
She could deal with someone barking at her, cursing at her to move faster, to stop the fucking puck.
What she couldn’t deal with was sympathy.
“It’s nothing.”
“Okay,” he said after a moment and when he reached for her hand it took everything inside of her to not flinch back.
If the expression on Stefan’s face said anything, it was that he knew exactly how much of a struggle it had been for her not to move.
Still, his touch was light, a careful brush of calloused fingers against calloused fingers. He tilted his head in the direction of the aisle. “How about we finish these stairs then?”
Disbelief he wasn’t going to press or demand an explanation coursed through her. The relief that chased it was a powerful thing, one that loosened the stranglehold of the past and allowed her to extract herself from its oppressive force.
“Yup,” she said. “Last one done buys the beer tonight.”
As Brit stood, she thought she saw a flicker of something—of blond—out of the corner of her eye. But when she turned to look fully, nothing was there.
Stefan started to get up, and, not wanting to lose, she took off, smiling at the shock on his face, at the surprise she felt for having made the invitation at all.
It was better than the past.
And that was all she could ask.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Stefan
Stefan handed a twenty to the bartender, thinking he was a sucker, through and through. They hadn’t been able to go out for drinks that night a week ago. Brit had gotten sucked into an extended physical therapy session with Mandy, but he’d challenged her to a rematch on the stairs just before practice that morning.
The result being that he’d somehow ended up buying beer for four.
“Only two pitchers?” Max asked when he returned to the table.
Brit laughed.
“Do I need to remind you that we have practice tomorrow?” Stefan set the pitchers down then went back to the bar to retrieve glasses for him, Max, Blane, and Brit. When he returned, he sat in the only open spot, which was in the booth next to Max, and tried to push aside the bizarre sensation that he was on an episode of The Bachelor.
Max huffed. “The day I couldn’t handle two pitchers—”
“Would be like every other time we come here,” Stefan said dryly.
Brit snorted, and his eyes flashed up, studying hers. There was no trace of fear, not like the terror that had dominated her expression the other morning on the stairs.
Max continued to act like his usual annoying self. “That’s not true—”
“Shut up, and drink your two and-a-half beers,” Stefan said as he poured the first round.
They all picked up their cups and took a drink. Their gazes met over the rims of the frosted glasses, and awkward silence fell.
Surprisingly, Brit was the one to break it.
“So . . . you guys come here often?” she asked.
Though—since their responding laughter made her eyes widen in shock—Stefan didn’t think the attempt was intentional.
“You’re just the same as you were five years ago, Brit. Promise me you won’t change.” Blane punched her in the arm.
Stefan wondered if he was the only one who saw her wince.
Was it because of the punch or Blane’s words?
Blane wouldn’t hurt Brit intentionally. He was a good guy and Stefan hadn’t missed the longing glances coming from the first-line forward when Brit wasn’t looking.
Blane watched Brit like she was a woman.
Not a teammate.
Which was a familiar feeling, Stefan knew. There was something about her—fragility mixed with strength, drive, and confidence. It was impossible to not want some of that essence.
His thoughts drifted to her shoulder, to the monster bruise she’d been sporting in the locker room. He hadn’t wanted to notice it . . . or the creamy white skin dotted with a pattern of freckles he wanted to trace with his tongue. Or the ass he could bounce a dime off—