by Elise Faber
Somehow, that didn’t make any of it better. In fact it almost made everything worse.
Her teammates were so cavalier about the violation. They’d done it to others. They would do it to more.
If she didn’t do something stop them.
So Brit had reported the incident to her head coach . . . and found herself cut from the team a matter of days later.
It was all history now, part of a past that was painful and usually buried deep in her mind.
But the hazing was also another reason she’d done her little stripper stunt on day one of joining the Gold. Let the guys see whatever they wanted to see. Remove the notion of forbidden fruit for some, and, at the same time, diffuse the awkwardness of having a member of the opposite sex in the room.
Because there was strength in numbers. Usually.
For the rest of it, she would be aware of her surroundings, and she’d had a shit ton of self-defense training since then.
She just needed to remember to use it.
With that thought, Brit opened the door to the hotel room, jogged down the stairs, and was out the front door in less than a minute.
She would be fine. She was always fine.
Except, when she arrived at the arena twenty minutes later, nothing was fine.
Insanity had been unleashed on the front gate.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reporters were lined up along both sides of the road like some sort of loud and very obnoxious receiving line at a wedding.
When they spotted her, it instantly felt much more like a gauntlet. The questions were loud, vicious blows to her senses.
“Is it true?”
“Did the Gold pick you up because you’re sleeping with Barie?”
“What does Bernard think of your relationship?”
Her feet slowed, the single earbud she had in place falling from her ear, the music blaring in short staccato bursts of vibration against her chest.
That single moment of surprise—of hesitation—cost her. The reporters closed in, encroaching on her personal space. Pushing. Yelling.
It was too much. Her heart pounded and cold sweat took the place of the exercise-related version.
“Back up! Make a path, people!”
A few seconds later, Richie was by her side, his cheerful, smiling façade she’d come to know over the last week closed down and dark. He slung an arm around her shoulder, tucked her against his side, and started to pull her through the crowd.
“Stay close,” he said directly into her ear.
She nodded and lifted her chin. Despite the nerves and assault on her senses, she wasn’t going to let anyone see her as weak.
He pushed them forward, and when they neared the gate, another security guard she’d never seen before let them pass.
Richie dropped his arm but stayed close.
“What the hell was that?” she asked.
“That is the media on a scandal.” He rolled his eyes.
“What kind of scandal warrants that?” She waved a hand over her shoulder, encompassing the myriad of news trucks, of shouting men and women with microphones and black handheld news cameras.
“A good old-fashion Gold scandal. Not that I believe anything that reporter says, Ms.—”
“Brit,” she interrupted. “Is this because of the whole first female thing?”
Richie laughed then sobered rapidly when he glanced down and found her frowning. “No. Not that.”
“Then what—”
The side door he was leading her to opened abruptly.
“Bye, Ms. Plantain.” Richie stepped back and gestured her inside.
“Brit,” she reminded him again, stepping through.
He just waved as the door swung shut.
Bernard stood on the other side of the plank of metal, and he wasn’t happy.
The man wasn’t appealing even on a good day, but the frown pulling his bushy grey brows together at the moment—hello, unibrow—was ferocious.
He didn’t say a word, just pointed down the hall.
Which was when Brit’s stomach sank pretty much to her toes.
She followed Bernard past his office, past the locker room, and into a conference room she hadn’t known existed.
Inside were a bunch of suits—five men, one woman—and all looking very serious. They sat around a large mahogany conference table, which was empty, save a pitcher of water and a handful of glasses.
“Sit,” Bernard told her, pointing toward an empty chair.
Brit sat even as Bernard remained standing, taking up a position behind her left shoulder. She would rather be facing a breakaway in sudden-death overtime than the six people in front of her.
The addition of Bernard at her back made her feel as though she had two enemies, one coming at her from the front and one from the rear.
“Would you care to explain this?” Devon Carter, the general manager, asked. He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit, and his face was handsome, though, like most former hockey players, he hadn’t escaped his career completely unscathed. A scar bisected one brow, and his nose sported a few bumps from the times it had been broken over the years.
Devon slid an honest-to-God manila folder across the table, and Brit had a flash of one of those interrogation scenes from a cable police show.
Good cop. Bad cop.
She almost snorted to herself. Then she saw the picture inside the folder.
Her gasp was loud in the silent room.
“What is that?”
“Why don’t you tell us?”
The photo was clear, despite the limited light, and it showed . . . oh God. Her eyes slid closed in embarrassment. In the shot, she was sprawled on top of Stefan, their faces very close, their bodies pressed together.
It was from the arena. From the week before, when Stefan had accidentally scared her and—
And what? She felt violated? Exposed? Vulnerable?
Yes to all of those things.
She swallowed against the rise of tears in her throat, struggled to put her face back into an expression of calm.
Because she also looked to be very close to losing her job.
“I don’t know what that is—” she started.
The woman, mid-sixties, with a severe bun of grey hair and more diamonds around her neck than the crown jewels, snorted.
“I was running stairs, didn’t hear him come up behind me because I had my headphones on.” She shrugged, tried to push away the fear that had crept back into her at the memory of being chased, the sick heaviness that had sunk into her limbs. “I startled, and we both went down.”
“Then didn’t get back up?” the grey-haired woman asked with a sneer.
“A photograph only takes a second.”
Bernard’s voice surprised her. Especially since it sounded as though he were standing up for her.
“Why are you asking me this?” Bernard’s support—as trivial as it might turn out to be—gave her the strength to set aside the memory and focus on the present. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You’re here because of these pictures. Because of the news stories,” the older woman said. “And because the sheer volume of attention this picture has wrought presents us with a particularly unique opportunity.”
“Susan is right,” Devon said. “We know there is nothing going on with Barie. He told us as much just a half an hour ago. But that doesn’t mean we can’t turn the rumor to our advantage.”
The nerves Brit had managed to bank were suddenly back and battering her insides like hell. She had an inkling of where this might be going.
Devon and the others were waiting for her to speak, waiting for her to ask the obvious question. Her mind recoiled . . . and yet she plunged ahead anyway. “What kind of opportunity?”
Susan’s lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to make the older woman look more than a little possessed.
Perhaps she was. Be
cause Susan’s words turned Brit’s inkling into her worst nightmare.
“You’re going to seduce Barie, and then you’re going to take your relationship public. Dates. Hand-holding. PDA,” Susan stated, her voice calm, as though she hadn’t just asked Brit to prostitute herself for the team. “You’ll give the press what they want.”
“I—” Brit scrambled for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell she wanted to say. The fury and disgust she felt were obvious reactions, but ultimately, she ended up blurting the most persistent question that was bouncing around her skull. “Why?”
“Public opinion,” Susan said. “After the unfortunate situation with Peter Gordaine and Rhonda Campbell, we need good press. The team barely got the necessary tax breaks from the city to return this season, and unless we make a significant dent in our public image, they’ve told us we won’t receive them next year.”
Devon nodded. “And we need money. Filled seats. Merchandise sales. Think of the marketing opportunities from a relationship like this.”
Brit dropped her gaze to the table, her mind spinning as she tried to find a way to talk them out of this. It couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be her reality.
“You never wanted me on the team to play did you?” she asked softly.
Devon snorted. “Women don’t belong in the NHL. Still, when Frankie wanted you, we agreed because your presence presented us with an opportunity.” He paused and she glanced up, saw the cold calculation there. “Feminism sells. You’ll make sure of it.”
Fuck. She hadn’t expected her run with the Gold to be rainbows and puppy dogs. She’d expected reactions like Bernard’s, expected some pushback from the other players.
But this?
Playing for a team with a board that wanted to openly manipulate their players and lie to their fans?
It was tempting—so damned tempting—to turn and walk out. Except . . .
This was her shot at the NHL.
Her gaze swiveled around the room, attempted to find an ally. But Devon and Susan were the only two who would make eye contact; the rest kept their gazes on the table, their expressions vaguely uncomfortable.
“This is bullshit.” Bernard’s voice was gruff.
Her jaw wanted to fall open in surprise at the show of support, but she clenched her teeth together, unwilling to let it drop. She turned, saw her coach’s expression had gone thunderous, and was relieved the depth of anger wasn’t directed at her.
“This is fucking bullshit,” he said. “Come on, Brit. Leave these morons to their own devices. You’re not doing this.”
“Clear your office.”
The three words from Susan were quiet, but crystal clear and laced with steel.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re fired,” she said. “You’re still on probation, and we can let you go at will.”
“I know what my contract says,” Bernard snapped. “And it doesn’t matter. If this gets out—”
“It won’t.” Susan’s expression was shrewd. “Because you know what will happen if it does.”
Bernard’s face paled. “You can’t make that decision. The board—”
Devon chose that moment to speak up. “Well, I can speak for the board. We’re all in agreement, correct?” The nods were small, but they were there. The rest of the board wouldn’t interfere. “Bernard, you block this in any way, and your job is forfeit.”
There was a moment of terse silence then Bernard spoke, “Do what you will, but I won’t go along with it.” He touched Brit’s shoulder, startled her into motion. “Let’s go. You’re not doing this.”
She stood, started following her coach to the door.
Susan’s voice caused her feet to hesitate at the threshold.
“Do you really want that man’s job on your conscience? Did you know his wife is sick? Apparently she has very rare form of blood disease.” A twist of an old wrinkled mouth shrouded in pink lipstick. “Tragic, really.”
Bernard cursed. “That’s enough.”
Brit turned. She would have thought Susan to be a sweet, older woman if not for the calculation in those cold blue eyes.
“Do you really want her to lose her health insurance?” Susan pressed.
Brit’s eyes flicked to Bernard’s hoping, wanting . . . to what? See Susan was lying? That it was all just a ploy to get her to go along with the truth?
Except when she looked at Bernard, the truth was there.
His wife was ill, and if the tortured expression on her coach’s face was any indication, the illness was a serious one.
Fuck. Her gut clenched. Her heart squeezed hard. She couldn’t do this . . . but dammit, how could she not?
Bernard blinked, and his face went blank, a calm, clear slate that was an epic sort of mask. One she didn’t buy for a moment. His words, when they came, were laced with such tension that he might as well have just agreed with Susan.
“Don’t listen to her,” he said. “My wife is fine.”
She wanted to believe him. Desperately. But—
“His wife is sick. And he’s up to his eyeballs in debt.” She clucked. “Gambling is such a hard habit to kick.”
“You’re a conniving bitch,” Bernard gritted out.
“At. Will,” Susan countered.
The room fell silent for one long, slow breath before the scheming resumed.
“We also received a very interesting delivery the other day.” Susan’s gaze locked with Brit’s. “Some pictures from three years ago that were quite . . . revealing.”
Panic swelled.
Hands grabbing. Laughter. Cold water. Biting back tears until her heart bled.
Bernard slammed his hand against the doorframe, a sharp crack the made everyone in the room jump, except for Susan and Devon. “Shut your goddamned mouth—”
“I’ll do it,” Brit interrupted, forcing her gaze from Bernard and meeting Susan’s frosty indigo depths. “But once the press is on the Gold’s side, I’m done. We’ll break up, and everything will go back to normal.” She was quiet for a beat. “And I won’t fuck him.”
She could do this, could manipulate and save in equal terms. But only if she didn’t feel, only if she could convince herself that Stefan wouldn’t get hurt. She’d keep things innocent and light, protect them both.
Otherwise . . . it would be too difficult to bear the person she’d become by agreeing to such an act in the first place.
“The relationship will be in name only,” she told the plethora of blank faces surrounding the large conference table. “And you’ll take the ‘at will’ clause out of Bernard’s contract, plus provide health insurance for him and his wife for the remainder of their lives.”
Susan hesitated only the barest of a second. “Fine.”
“I want my lawyer to look at and approve Bernard’s contract before I do anything.”
“Fine,” Susan repeated. “But you breathe a word of this to Barie, and the deal’s off the table. Your contract as well as Bernard’s will both be void. Stefan is too moral for his own good and—”
Brit interrupted with a wave of her hand, having had enough of the other woman. “I agree. Send me the contract, and let’s get this over with.”
“Stop.” Fingers gripped her arm tight, halting Brit when she would have swept from the room.
Her stomach sank. What more could the woman possibly want? Wasn’t it already bad enough?
Susan’s words were a hiss. “Don’t think you’re dictating anything else. I’ve abided by your terms because they’re easy to allow and you’re going to give me what I want. But if you sabotage this opportunity in any way, understand that those pictures will be splashed over every market within the hour.” A squeeze of those bony fingers. “I know what they’re worth. Right now, you and Barie are a bigger cash cow. Don’t make me changed my mind. Understood?”
“You—”
Another squeeze. “I asked if you understood. Is that too much f
or your puck-addled brain to comprehend?”
She saw red but . . . Bernard, his sick wife, and her throat tightened, the pictures. Brit needed to keep a calm head and remember why she’d agreed to this.
“I understand,” she said from between clenched teeth.
“Good,” Susan said. “Now run along and give the press a good show.”
Anger raged inside her as she left the room. This wasn’t Hollywood. There wasn’t a freaking casting couch to sleep her way across.
Which apparently didn’t matter because, regardless of how violently her body and mind protested, she was still going along with it.
What kind of person did that make her?
Her eyes slid shut on one slow, controlled exhale.
A person who didn’t want to examine herself too closely, that was what.
She slid past Bernard—whose expression was one of utter shock—then went into the locker room to gear up.
It was time to play some goddamned hockey.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stefan
Stefan knew something was wrong the moment Brit stepped onto the ice.
Her fury was a tangible thing, a heavy fog that spread across the rink, inundated the team with tension.
Practice was typically a noisy affair with pucks colliding against the boards, ringing off the glass, curse words and ribbing mixed liberally amongst the sounds of good ole hockey.
Today, twenty-four skaters went quiet. Even Julian Beausoleil, the starting goalie who was usually completely oblivious to any and all social cues, stopped fussing with his crease and stared at Brit.
Crunch. Scrape. Crunch. Scrape.
Brit rasped her skates across the front of the net she’d claimed, scuffing the ice so that when she dropped into butterfly—the best position for a goalie to make a save when the puck was on the ice—and scrambled from post to post, she wouldn’t slide too far out of the crease.
Max skated up to Stefan and murmured quietly in his ear. “Is this about the news story?”
“No.” Stefan sighed. “Well, partly, I guess. I’m assuming management pulled her in too. They tore into me, and I imagine they weren’t any nicer to her.” He shrugged. “I told them nothing happened, but you know how they get when it comes to the media.”