by Elise Faber
Now it was barely eight, and the arena was empty.
But Stefan got antsy when he wasn’t here, didn’t do his normal routine. Especially since they had another game tonight.
Brit wouldn’t be starting this one. Not because of her performance. She’d played like a champ, had held the team together when they looked flat.
But because Julian was still the starting goalie. He had maybe one more year of professional hockey in him, and he wouldn’t give it up.
Stefan didn’t blame him.
Hockey was all he’d known, and to not have it was unthinkable. And yet . . . a human body could only endure so much. Julian had a history of injuries—to his shoulder, his knee, his groin. It made this season precarious, but it also meant that Brit might get more of a chance to play at the Gold than she would have gotten on another team.
She’d made a very smart career decision coming here.
As he neared the locker room, he heard voices. Bernard’s office light was on, the door cracked open.
He would have walked by . . . if he hadn’t heard his name.
“I’ll talk to Barie,” Bernard said. “Make sure he doesn’t do it again.”
“He won’t.” Brit’s voice made Stefan’s feet skitter to a stop.
“What makes you so sure?”
She chuckled. “Because he apologized to me in the locker room. And it was a genuine one.”
“Bet it sounded like he’d swallowed glass.”
Stefan smiled—it was true, after all—but he did believe in owning up to his mistakes. He started to move past the office.
“My lawyer is going to look at this.” There was a crinkle of paper, and Stefan’s feet stalled again.
“Brit, I told you,” Bernard said, “you don’t need—”
“I do need to do this . . .”
Do what?
A few seconds later, Bernard’s rumbling voice drifted into the hall. “I still don’t feel right about it.”
“It doesn’t matter if you do or not. This is what management wants, and . . . your wife—” Her voice went firm. “It’s important.”
Tense silence filled the office, slid into the hall.
“Plus, Susan sent a note last night,” Brit said. ”Said she was happy with my progress with Barie.”
Stefan’s heart gave a jerk. Her progress?
“It’s bullshit.” Bernard sounded both fierce and contrite. Stefan had never heard that particular combination from his coach before. Tough as nails? Yes. But remorseful? No. Definitely not.
“Look,” Brit said. “They’ve got your balls in a vice. My metaphorical ones as well. We just need to ride this out. Let me handle Stefan.”
Handle? Fuck that.
“I—” Bernard began.
The sound of a chair scraping against concrete echoed into the hall. “I need to get on the ice.”
“Brit.”
“Yeah?” Her voice was very close to the open door, but Stefan didn’t move. He didn’t care if she knew he’d overheard. He was going to find out what the hell was going on. How it involved him and management and handling things.
“You played good last night.”
Stefan wondered if Bernard heard Brit’s soft inhale, or if she was too far away. He’d have bet his right arm that her eyes had gone wide, her expression surprised for one long moment.
Outright compliments didn’t come often from professional coaches.
“Thanks,” she said, a little hesitant.
He imagined her dutifully wiping the expression away, nodding, and walking out.
Which was exactly what she did.
Straight into his chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Stefan grabbed Brit’s arm to steady her then quickly stepped back, remembering how she’d reacted to his being in her space on the arena stairs.
Though she hadn’t seemed to mind when he’d helped her with her bra, which he really shouldn’t be thinking about—not if he wanted to discover what was going on with her and management and Bernard.
A phone rang, Bernard’s “Hello?” as he picked up clearly audible.
“Keeping secrets?” Stefan asked, rough—too rough—but the best he could manage, considering the frustration coursing through him. “Or maybe you’re going to handle me some more?”
“I—uh—”
Her eyes flicked to the slightly ajar door, Bernard’s voice pouring out the opening.
“What?” Stefan snapped. “Afraid he’ll hear?” Anger won out, and his voice rose. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“Shh.”
“I—”
She slapped a palm over his mouth and grabbed his arm before tugging him away from Bernard’s office. “Just wait a second.”
Stefan let her pull him down the hall, both because he didn’t want Bernard interrupting and . . . also because he had the sinking sensation it would be nearly impossible for him to deny this woman anything.
He ignored his inner voice telling him to man up.
Brit opened the first door they reached—which happened to be the temporary locker room management had wanted to stash her in—and flicked on the lights.
It was still nearly empty, just the single locker space taking up a third of one wall, and a trail of black skate mats placed on the concrete floor leading from the bench to the hall.
“It’s not like you think,” she said once they were inside, and Stefan had closed the door.
His rage was a potent thing. He crowded into her, forgetting his promise to give her space, to not exacerbate the fear she’d shown in the arena.
Stefan liked to think that if she had freaked, he would have backed up, but truthfully he wasn’t sure. His draw to her, as both teammate and woman was already strong.
Add in a touch of secrets?
He fucking hated when people kept things from him, and hearing her discuss him like he was a problem child with Bernard . . .
Well, something inside him had snapped.
Rationality was toast and so he crowded her.
Brit didn’t back down. In fact, something hot and dark flashed across her eyes that made his nerves alight.
“I think you’re playing with me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
Another step toward her. Inches separated their chests, the clean scent of her inundated his senses.
“Then what?”
Brit must have recognized something in his tone—probably how the far fuck-gone he was—because now she stepped away from him.
He didn’t care. He closed the distance, reveled in her sharp inhalation.
“What is it?” he demanded.
One more step backward. Stefan let her retreat, knew she had nowhere to go. The wall was just inches behind her.
“Tell me.”
The order did something to Brit, shored up her spine, made sparks fill her eyes. Her chin lifted. “Don’t pull that captain bullshit with me. This doesn’t involve the team.”
“Like hell it doesn’t,” he snapped. “It involves me and Bernard. The Gold is firmly entrenched in this.”
“Fuck off.”
“Fuck this.” He stepped close, backed her against the wall until his chest was against hers, until the softness of her breasts pressed against him. He lowered his head, felt her breath against his lips. “Tell me.”
Stefan searched her eyes. No fear there. Only heat . . . and regret.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Tell me.” His hands dropped to her shoulders.
“No.”
The anger boiled over. He released her, turned away, and slammed his fist against the wall.
Sheetrock gave way with a small puff of white powder, but he barely felt the sting of the impact.
“Why is every single goddamned woman out to fuck with my head?” he asked, slamming his fist into the wall a second time.
Twin fist-sized holes star
ed back at him, accusing.
Stefan hadn’t punched an inanimate object—Ducks’ forwards aside—since his teenager days, and no other action could have made him feel more like an idiot.
Rationality intruded like a bucket of ice-cold water. He was out of control.
Again.
Shame swept through him as he pushed away from the wall and brushed off his hands.
“Whatever.” His voice shook, but instead of anger, it was with disgust. “Keep your goddamn secrets.”
Stefan pushed out the door, and went straight down the hall to his locker. It took thirty seconds to change and hit the stationary bike. Stairs would have been better, but he didn’t want to risk running into Brit.
It was an unfounded worry because she kept her distance. But it was only after the game that evening—a game he’d fucking dominated—that he realized everyone else had kept their distance too.
For once, that didn’t feel like a bad thing.
Numbness had inundated him.
And honestly? It was a relief to finally not feel anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brit
Brit had seriously screwed up.
She should have just invented an excuse. But when Stefan had gone all caveman, demanding answers and getting in her space, she couldn’t help it. She’d dug her feet in and pushed back.
Still, that wasn’t what had stopped her from telling him the truth, threats from management aside.
No. There was another reason. A deeper one.
Shame.
The elevator opened with a ding, and Brit sighed as she stepped into the subdued quiet of the hall. The blue paisley print of the carpet was familiar now, a little slice of home until she established her own.
Which she really needed to get on. Especially if she was going to do this relationship-thing with Stefan. They would need some place more private than a hotel surrounded by paparazzi.
The sharp, all-encompassing shame reared its ugly head again, threatened to burn a hole her throat.
It would have been so easy to confide in him, to come up with a plan. Except, Stefan wasn’t the type of man to take something like that lying down . . . not like she had.
How could Brit look him in the eye and acknowledge that she hadn’t possessed the strength to act differently?
Ostensibly, she’d made a stand for Bernard.
But Bernard’s sick wife hadn’t been the only reason she’d capitulated.
Brit wanted to play in the NHL. It was what she’d dreamed of even as a five-year-old strapping on the pads for the first time.
Apparently, she would sell her morals to do so.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “Stop bitching and suck it up, Plantain.”
“Talking to yourself again?”
The voice made her jump, and her fear was a palpable force, freezing her veins, raising goosebumps on her arms.
It wasn’t in Brit’s nature to shriek, and she didn’t this time. But it was a close thing. At least until her ears and brain took a moment and actually processed the voice.
“Dan!”
She closed the distance between them in a leap, launched herself into her brother’s arms.
“Missed you,” he murmured, holding her tight.
“Me too.”
So, so much.
Dan released her, and she bent to retrieve her bag from where it had fallen to the floor.
“Nice digs.” He nodded to the wood-paneled walls and lush carpeting that filled the hotel. “A little nicer than where I’ve been staying.”
“Well, it isn’t a motel, that’s for sure.”
He grinned, trailed her to her door. “That would be a step up.”
“Afghanistan again?”
Dan shook his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
And that was what worry for someone other than herself felt like. She was dealing with a fake relationship because she wanted to play hockey, and her brother was protecting the country.
Nothing like putting things in perspective.
“You okay?” he asked as she tapped the plastic key card against the reader.
His hand on her shoulder made her stiffen for a moment before she made herself relax. “Just peachy.”
It was just her brother, for God’s sake.
The familiar scent of Dan’s cologne—spicy and masculine and . . . home—wafted up over her shoulder. “How’d you find out where I’m staying?”
“I’m your older brother,” he said and she felt rather than saw him roll his eyes. “It’s pretty much my job to know your business.” A pause. “Plus, I tracked your phone.”
Brit snorted. “Illegal much? What would your boss say?”
“She’d probably tell me to keep a closer eye on you.” He laughed. “You know Allison worries.”
“True.” Allison was Blane’s mom and also happened to be a bigwig at the FBI. Dan was one of her agents.
But it was true. For some reason, she worried about Brit.
It still boggled Brit’s mind that Allison and Sean—Blane’s dad—had been willing to take her in, to make such a big commitment so that a girl they barely knew could play on their son’s team.
Of course, Brit’s own parents hadn’t hesitated to agree when she had approached them about moving a state away.
But Allison and Sean hadn’t hesitated either. They’d welcomed Brit into their home, committed to getting her to practices and games, feeding and clothing her, making sure she did her schoolwork.
Not to mention that bringing a teenaged girl into a household filled with four boys between the ages of nine and seventeen couldn’t have been easy. But they’d done it. And more.
For the three years she’d lived with them, they’d made sure Brit never lost touch with Dan, allowing him to stay when he managed to come up for a game. They’d encouraged, cheered her on, even when she’d spent half a season warming the bench.
More than that, Allison had become a surrogate mother, had stitched together the gaping wound within Brit that had been the result of her parents’ indifference.
It would probably never permanently heal, but Allison had helped stop the pain from shading every happy memory with sadness.
A hand waved in front of her face before a saliva-wet finger poked at her ear. “Earth to Brit.”
“Ugh. Seriously!”
She shoved Dan’s chest hard, had the satisfaction of making him fall back a step. All the drama with management was making her maudlin.
No. She was making it that way, with her moping around and growling at everyone. With that thought, Brit shook herself and made a mental note to give Allison and Sean a call. Talking with them always made her feel better.
She had tap the key again before turning the handle and pushing the door open to her room. Dan followed her in. “You this charming with your dates?”
He grinned. “Always.”
“Yeah, sure. ‘Cuz stalking is sexy.”
“Hey”—he turned and threw the deadbolt—“it’s sexy when I do it.”
“Sure.” She snorted before going serious. “How’s work treating you? Have you been safe?”
“You know me,” Dan said. “I’m always safe.”
“Except when you’re not.”
Dan had been shot last year, and any comfort or casualness Brit might have felt for his job had disappeared.
“Hey, come on now,” he said. “I was never in any real danger.” He took a couple of steps, closed the distance between them, and wrapped her in his arms.
“Yeah, except for the fact that if the bullet had been six inches to the right, you would have been dead.”
His face pulled into a masculine grimace, but he didn’t deny her statement. “You can’t worry about me. I’m always prepared, always careful.”
“But—”
He waved her off. “We’ve had this conversation before, sis.”
Brit had a
choice. Get into another argument with Dan over something she was particularly sensitive to because of their past—one that wouldn’t change a damn thing, no matter how much she nagged—or she could enjoy the fact that her brother was in town for the next little while and shut her mouth.
Which was so. Freaking. Hard.
Dan raised a brow, probably at the screwed-up expression she could feel dragging her lips into a pout.
Dammit. All right. She gave. The breath she blew out was a long hiss. “Okay.”
His eyes sparkled. “Just okay?”
“That’s all you’re getting, so shut it.” Her glare should have eviscerated him. Instead, he laughed.
Brothers. For real.
She walked across the room and turned on the bedside lamp then pulled the curtains closed.
Dan sank back on one of the two queen beds, not bothering to take off his shoes. “You wound me.”
“Shut up.” Bending, she scooped up the room service binder and tossed it on his chest. “I’m too tired to go out. Call and order us some food.”
“Bossy.”
“You know it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
By the time room service knocked on the door, Dan had Pay-per-viewed some terrible action flick, and she’d glanced over the contract for Bernard.
It looked right, but until her lawyer gave her the okay, Brit wasn’t going any further with Stefan.
She flipped the contract closed and stuffed it into the manila envelope when Dan didn’t move from the bed. “Don’t get up or anything.”
Her brother just grabbed the remote and turned up the television, until the sound of machine gunfire and shattering glass filled the room.
“I’m so eating your burger,” she muttered.
It would totally be worth ruining her in-season diet of rice, greens, and chicken, just to see his face.
“I can take you, squirt,” he said. “Any day of the week.”
Brit rolled her eyes, but she was laughing as she pulled back the deadbolt and opened the door.
Her lips parted, about to say she could take the tray from the staff member.
Except it wasn’t a hotel worker.
Stefan was outside the door. He was in sweats and a t-shirt, more casual than she’d ever seen him.