by Elise Faber
Which sucked. But she had to put on her big girl skates and deal.
She’d agreed. That was that. She would wait for the contract to be approved by her lawyer, and then she would jump headfirst into a relationship with Stefan. Get the shots and coverage and get the hell out.
There wouldn’t be anything real. There was no potential for a future.
Hell, they were teammates, a future wasn’t realistic anyway.
The trick was keeping Stefan interested for more than a date or two. Although, she only had to frame it to the public as though they were dating, so perhaps that would help.
Despite all of the plans bouncing around her skull, Brit still had the notion that she was in way over her head.
She thought of how Stefan had behaved in the locker room. He’d been sweet, understanding . . . at least until she’d pissed him off.
Then he’d been fierce and hot as hell.
If management hadn’t ordered her to pursue him, if he wasn’t her teammate, Brit thought that Stefan might be the man to help her put all of her anxieties aside. He might be a man she could just be herself with.
Which didn’t exactly help the in over her head feeling.
Warm, calloused fingers on her back, her breasts . . . the spice of masculine aftershave teasing her nose . . . a muscled chest right against her spine—
The door came out of nowhere.
Well, not nowhere, since Brit had noticed the SUV parked on the sidewalk. She just hadn’t expected the door to slam open six inches from her nose.
She jumped out of the way.
Nice to see her reflexes were intact, in spite of the crap swirling around in her head.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” The voice was feminine and apologetic but didn’t quite ring true. “I didn’t see you there. Wait! You’re Brit Plantain!” The woman—dressed in a skin-tight red suit—turned her head. “OMG, honey! It’s Brit Plantain!”
Forcing a smile while trying not to step back, Brit nodded. “Hi,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Jessica,” she said and stepped even closer, encroaching uncomfortably into Brit’s space. “I almost hit you with my door! What if I’d injured you?” Heavily lined eyes narrowed. “Do you really think it’s safe to be running by yourself after all the money the Gold spent on your contract?”
If Brit’s smile had been forced two seconds before, now it was tortured. And all the money? Since when was the league minimum a lot? By the time her agent took her cut, it wasn’t much more than the dot-commers populating this part of the city made.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “But it’s been a long day. I’m going to—”
Brit started to move off, and the woman stopped her, long talons—okay, long red varnished nails—gripping her arm.
“Wait! Could you sign something for my niece?” She fumbled in her jacket pocket and produced a notepad. “She’s only nine and just started playing.”
Brit relaxed. Now that she could get behind. Supporting girls in sports, fostering their confidence, improving their discipline, their teamwork?
Hell yeah.
“Sure. What’s her name?”
“Umm . . . Sophie.”
Again that weird intonation in the woman’s voice. But at this point, all Brit wanted to do was get the hell back to her hotel room and soak in the tub. She scrawled a quick note of encouragement then signed her name and handed over the paper.
“Here you go. Nice to meet you, Jessica.”
“Likewise!” A toothy grin. “Hope to see you again, Brit!”
The words made the hairs on her nape stand up, especially when she glanced over at the car and noticed the driver’s seat was empty.
Who had the woman been talking to?
Shaking herself—she’d probably just been on Bluetooth—Brit forced herself to give another smile before waving and jogging away.
Tomorrow she was driving.
****
The next day dawned cloudy and cold, but Brit didn’t care.
Because it was game day.
She sat in the back of a car—after having to call security for a ride because her hotel was absolutely inundated with press. It had been scary enough running through the gauntlet the previous day, let alone trying to navigate through a mess of news vans and cameras in her little beater.
Nope. This was better. The car had swept up to a side door, and they were zipping right over to the arena.
Her life had gotten really freaking weird.
She wished she could run to the arena because nerves were making her antsy as a mother. Her foot tapped against the grey carpet lining the floor of the black sedan, a rapid tap-tap that annoyed the crap out of her. And if it was bothering her, the poor driver had to be—
“Nervous?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. There was amusement in their depths.
“Nope,” she lied with a rueful smile.
Josh had also driven her the previous night—at least before she’d jumped ship—and couldn’t be older than twenty-two. He seemed nice enough, despite the terrible indie grunge music trickling through the speakers.
“Just ready to be on the ice.” That part was true at least.
“There’s nothing like it,” he agreed.
“You play?” she asked, surprised. He was maybe a buck-forty soaking wet. She outweighed him and had a good six inches on his five-feet-nothing frame.
“Yup.”
“Grow up on the East Coast?”
Another look in the mirror. More amusement. “Nope. Grew up here, but I like the sport. Started as an adult.” He focused on the road. “I suck, and there’s still nothing better than those first couple of strides on the ice.” He paused. “Well, when you manage to stay on your feet, that is.”
Brit always forgot that Northern California had such a large contingent of hockey players. In fact, they had some of the largest recreational leagues in the states. It was great for the sport . . . but still weird to think of beach babes and surfer dudes strapping on skates and picking up sticks.
Total misconception, of course. Especially in the Bay Area.
For her, growing up in Maine meant winters outdoors, skating on frozen lakes, white puffs of condensed breaths, and trying to not bust her ass on divots the size of the Grand Canyon.
Winter in California was more like occasional rain and a light jacket.
But there were some things that were true for all players. “I agree.”
“Is it true you’re getting the start?” he asked. “I heard it on the radio.” His eyes flicked to hers then back to the road. “That’s big.”
It was big. Hence the anxious foot tapping. “As far as I know, I’m starting. Julian’s knee is bothering him a bit.” Which meant this was her shot to show her stuff.
The nerves were eating at her. They always did. Right up until she strapped her pads on.
Then the nerves disappeared, were replaced with calm, laser focus.
“That sucks.” The car stopped at a red light, and Josh tossed a grin over his shoulder. “But I just know you’re going to stone the Ducks.”
She grinned back, felt the first twinges of excitement rather than nausea. “Damn right.”
The light turned green, and Josh navigated the sedan through the crowd of journalists at the front gate of the arena. Security waved them on, and a moment later, they were safely ensconced in the lot.
Josh parked as close to the side door of the arena as possible. “Let me get that door.”
“I got it,” she said, popping the handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
He nodded. “I’ll meet you right here after the game. And Brit?”
She paused, halfway out of the car.
“Kick some avian ass.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Two minutes left in the game and the Gold were up three to one.
A two-goal advantage was considered to be the most dangerous le
ad in hockey. And the Gold were demonstrating perfectly why that was true.
Her team was getting complacent.
Sure it was preseason, but that didn’t mean they should be letting up on the boards or giving the Ducks’ players so much space as they carried the puck into the zone.
It also meant she was taking more shots than she should have this late in the game when she was already tired, and her team was slow to clear any rebounds.
She sighed, bolstered her strength, and crouched into ready position just as the ref dropped the puck for a face-off in their own zone.
Winning this game was going to have to come from her.
Her center lost the draw, and a Ducks’ defenseman shot from up high. Hard.
Brit watched it come, saw the slight deflection off her own player, and had to move quickly. But instinct guided her, and she had made the necessary adjustment before her next heartbeat.
The crowd gasped before cheering loud enough to make her ears ring when she caught the puck in her glove. She held tight until the ref blew his whistle.
Her eyes flashed to the scoreboard.
A minute fifteen left.
The next faceoff was to her right, her strong side. Stefan lined up at the hash marks in front of her—the short red lines at 3 and 9 o’clock on each of the circles—and Max took the space directly on her blocker side.
At the whistle, she raised her glove, and the ref dropped the puck. Brit heard nothing but the beat of her own pulse as the Ducks’ center won the draw back to his player for the second time. She was ready for the shot when it came screaming through Stefan’s legs.
Except it didn’t go straight through.
The puck hit his shin pad, and this time she wasn’t prepared for the deflection. The shot went from being six inches off the ice to rising rapidly and screaming toward the far side.
She lunged.
There wouldn’t be anything graceful about this save. It was desperation, brute strength. And she might not make it.
Stretching. Reaching out. Then her glove was . . . there!
Clenching the puck so hard her hand was cramping, Brit collapsed to the ice in a heap. The stick that made contact with her head then stomach wasn’t a surprise—the opposing team had free reign until the whistle was blown.
That was the reason she was closing her glove so tightly.
But that also didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt.
What did surprise her was Stefan’s reaction.
“Don’t fucking touch her!” he yelled.
A runaway train had nothing on him. He launched himself at the Ducks’ player, taking them both to the ice. His gloves and stick went flying, and then his fists were colliding with the opposing player’s face.
The refs pulled him off, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him in the direction of the box.
“Four minutes for roughing, Barie,” the head referee said before skating toward the scorekeeper and reporting the necessary information. The normal penalty length had been doubled because Stefan had drawn blood on the Duck with the punches he’d landed.
Brit’s frustration was a boiling, writhing mass under her skin. Why had he done that?
The contact had been normal, easily discouraged by Stefan giving the other guy a shove or warning tap with his stick.
What he’d done instead had crossed the line from being protective of his goalie to bat-shit crazy.
And now she had a minute to kill, one player down, with a team that was lethargic at best.
Mike Stewart blew her a kiss as he skated by to take up position in Stefan’s former spot. “Don’t screw up now,” he said with a smirk.
So that was how it was going to be.
Down not one, but two players.
The ref blew his whistle. Brit took note of the angle of the players, got herself set in her net.
She raised her glove, shored up her spine.
The puck dropped.
****
Brit came out of the showers to find a package on her bench. There was a Post-it on the outside.
As requested. Impressive results so far. Keep it up.
—Susan
She unfolded the brad and opened the flap on the manila envelope. Inside was the revised contract for Bernard.
“Yeah. Not until my lawyer looks at it,” she muttered under her breath as she shoved it in her messenger bag.
“You showered,” Barie said from his spot next to her.
Brit stifled a sigh, still pissed he’d lost his cool during the game and still wholly unable to understand what the hell he’d been thinking.
That frustration loosened her lips. “Strength in numbers.”
Stefan got very quiet, so much so that she heard the rustle of his pants against the wooden bench of his locker space.
He was going to ask her to explain and, damn, she had to come up with something innocuous, an excuse that had nothing to do with years-old scars about a hazing incident she should really be over.
Her eyes locked on the Gold logo in the center of the room. The miner—pick ax over one shoulder—looked almost demonic as it clutched a large gold nugget in his palm.
Someone really should do something about that. Make it look less creepy.
“Sorry about losing my cool.”
“What?” Her mouth dropped open.
That was pretty much the last thing she would have expected Stefan to say. Apologizing didn’t come naturally for men in general, and definitely not in this sport.
She glanced over, saw his face appeared genuinely contrite.
“I’m pissed at you,” she told him.
“You should be.” His gaze connected with hers. “I took it too far.”
Five words, and her anger drained. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Stefan nodded before his expression darkened. “But I won’t apologize for protecting you in the crease. It’s my job.”
She felt her brows pull together. “I can handle my—”
“It’s my job,” he repeated, and her face went hot. She opened her mouth to snap back, but he went on, “Look, I get it. This isn’t some alpha bullshit—”
She snorted.
“It isn’t,” he insisted. “Okay fine. Maybe it was. But it won’t be anymore. I went a little nuts, but I won’t take it too far again.”
Tucking her towel tighter around her, she fixed him with a look. “You do realize they’re going to poke at me more now to try and get a reaction from you.”
He grimaced. “I know. But”—his lips twitched—“what you did to Stewart with ten seconds left will have anyone second guessing that course.”
A shrug. “He was in my way.”
“Stewart was being an asshole.”
“True.”
He’d hung in front of the goal, blocking her view, not going after the puck even when it was clearly his to take. At one point he’d fumbled accidentally, and Brit had needed to scramble forward and launch herself on top of the puck.
It was in that scramble she had committed an accident of her own.
Seeing a six-foot-six, two-hundred-and-twenty pound piece of shit flying ass-over-teakettle into the net had been pretty amusing.
Plus, she’d managed to hold onto the lead, so Stewart and his shenanigans could suck it.
“So . . . are we cool?”
Brit rolled her eyes. “We’re cool.” They were going to be a lot more than cool if this contract checked out, at least according to media.
“Just keep it on the level next time, ‘kay?” she said.
“Noted.”
She finished dressing, packed up her gear, and left, the manila envelope burning a hole in her bag.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Stefan
Stefan walked into the arena the next day, feeling as though the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders.
Between his mom and her treatment and the media camped on his doorstep, t
he cheap shot on Brit had been bad timing. A coincidence that had pushed him past his breaking point. But Stefan had meant it when he’d told Brit he wouldn’t go crazy again. He was a professional, and that meant keeping it locked up.
No matter that the press was insinuating they were in a relationship—pictures of them having beers had surfaced . . . without the inclusion of Max and Blane, of course.
No matter that his mom was exhausted from the chemo, had another week to go, and still wouldn’t let him call any of her friends.
He understood his mother’s health was her secret to keep. But it was eating at him, being so helpless. He wanted to have someone with her. A nurse, her friends. Someone.
But she’d refused, and unless he wanted to go against her wishes, his hands were tied.
Hence the frustration and going off on Dimitri Petrokov the night before. The Ducks’ forward had left with a swollen lip and black eye, but no hard feelings, especially after Stefan had taken him out for a beer.
They’d played together before Stefan had been traded to the Gold.
“You’re going to have to let her handle it herself,” Petrokov had said as they shared that pitcher.
Stefan knew Dimitri had been talking about Brit—and his former teammate was right—but it also applied to the situation with his mother.
The trouble was, he didn’t want either of the women to have to handle things on her own.
Which made him a total chauvinistic asshole.
He found he didn’t care.
Crease versus cancer—remarkably different and yet similar all the same.
At least Brit’s position gave him an outlet. He could punch someone . . . so long as he didn’t take it too far and jeopardize the game.
Like he’d done the previous night.
Like a fucking rookie. Jesus.
He walked down the hallway leading to the locker room, its walls bare-white with black trim and bright fluorescent lighting shining down from the ceiling.
Stefan had come in early, just like every other morning. It didn’t matter that by the time he’d finished his post-game cool-down routine—thirty minutes on the bike, stretching, then the beer with Petrokov, it had been almost one.