Benched

by Elise Faber

  She trailed off, realized she was about to crap on the pink elephant in the room.

  “Is that what this is about, then? The bullshit in the press?”

  All she could do was shrug. He had no freaking idea. When she carried through with what management wanted her to do, the local reporters who were following them would turn into many, many more.

  “I heard you crying.”

  Quiet words that threatened to melt her.

  Brit couldn’t let it happened. She’d committed to do this, to help Bernard, to not give up her own career.

  Her sigh was both silent and accompanied by an internal bitch slap.

  She’d really made a mess of things.

  Yet when had that ever stopped her from doing anything?

  She was the first female goalie for an NHL team. She could be friends—more —with a hunky defensemen.

  And, if nothing else, she could endure.

  Of course, the problem wasn’t exactly enduring. Stefan made her feel too much. Which—

  So what?

  He made her feel.

  Big effing deal.

  It was time to woman up, lock down her heart, and just do it.

  Stefan was a playboy anyway. He’d get tired of spending time with her in a month or two—hell, maybe a couple of weeks—and they could go their separate ways.

  She ignored the little voice inside her mind that was shouting to consider Stefan’s feelings.

  What happened if he felt too much? What if she broke his heart?

  Hysterical laughter welled up. Like that would ever happen.

  Stefan’s heart didn’t get involved. Ever. She’d seen the pictures, the parade of women through the media, knew his reputation.

  There was no way she could hurt him.

  Holding that thought tight, she blew off his concern, tried to minimize his statement about her crying. “I am a girl, you know.”

  His pause was brief.

  A beat later, his eyes locked with hers, and the corners of his lips turned up. Just that easily, the tension between them faded.

  “That—the girl thing—I think, is most of our problem.”

  Brit snorted, extended her hand, and helped him to his feet. “Come on.”

  He followed her onto the elevator and she pushed the button for the gym. “Hope you’re ready to run.”

  Stefan chuckled. “Is this where I say I’m always ready?”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He grinned at her, and she smiled back. The strange fluttering in her chest had nothing to do with him. It was heartburn. Or gas.

  Definitely gas.

  The doors slid open on a ding, and Brit started to step off, eager to escape, to gain that perfect distance between them again, but Stefan stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “Hey,” he murmured, and when she glanced up into his eyes, she saw they were serious, the easy affability of the moment before completely dissipated. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

  Distance.

  Ha. That was a joke.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “I know you’re keeping secrets from me,” Stefan said all of ten minutes later. He’d popped up in front of her treadmill like a freaking whack-a-mole.

  Brit froze and immediately almost ate shit. Jumping with a move that showed her impressive reaction time—thank you very much—she landed with her feet on the plastic sides and glared at Stefan.

  “Don’t do that,” she snapped.

  “Don’t tell the truth?”

  Here they went again. He wasn’t going to let this go, and she didn’t know how to move forward without giving him something.

  “Look,” she said. “I already told you. There are things about me I can’t share. Secrets that aren’t mine to tell—” She broke off, jabbed at the stop button, the whir of the motor as the belt slowed the only noise in the quiet gym. “I—”

  Her eyes flicked up, and her frustration faded.

  He looked so earnest standing there, like a little boy trying to coax his puppy into rolling over.

  And, damn her, she wanted to oblige him. Except she couldn’t give in for a stale-as-hell biscuit of affection, for the mere potential of what-ifs and maybes. Not if she wanted to come out of this unscathed.

  So she went on the offensive. “Why does it matter to you?” she snapped.

  Stefan frowned, stepped back and, sensing victory, Brit pushed just a little more, enough to place a barrier between them that would protect her but, hopefully, not alienate him.

  It was her job as a goalie, always looking ahead, always planning the next three steps before the players on the ice had even grasped step one.

  “Look,” she said again. “Everyone has secrets. I’m no exception.”

  “I’m not asking you to spill every dirty entry from your diary, for God’s sake. I just want to know the secret that involves me.”

  Part of her wanted to tell him. Part of her thought he deserved to know, and it would be so much easier to not carry the guilt and shame and worry. But if she told Stefan, and he went to management, Brit had no doubt that Susan would carry out her threat to void both contracts—hers and Bernard’s.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  But she also didn’t think Stefan would let it go unless she gave him something.

  “Okay fine.” She released a loud sigh, called on every one of the skills she’d honed in her many interviews, and lied. “Bernard wanted to bench you for the stunt you pulled against the Ducks.”

  Stefan’s eyes narrowed, but there went the corners of his mouth again, twitching upward and looking all-too-kissable as they did so. “That’s your secret?”

  Of course not, but she was already all in.

  “Yup. I told him we’d talked and you had promised not to do it again. Don’t make me regret standing up for you.” And then she released the big guns. “So tell me what it was like to date Kelsey Lake”—the famous movie star he’d dated and dumped—“Is she as pretty in person as in her movies?”

  “Oh.” He glared. “You’re mean.”

  “I’ve been told that a time or two.” Brit tilted her head. Her heart was pounding, but amusement had crept onto the edges of her emotions, and it steadied her. There was something about Stefan that just made it so damned fun talking with him. “So are we going to be friends?”

  He stared at her and several tense moments passed, each ratcheting the turmoil in her gut, because no matter her previous confidence, Brit thought Stefan still might say “Screw it” and be done with the whole damn thing.

  Finally, he blew out a sigh. “You’re asking a lot,” he said. “I don’t trust easily—”

  God, did she know how that went.

  “—but I’m going to trust you in this, and hope your other secrets won’t come back to bite me in the ass.”

  “No ass-biting, promise.” He smirked and she grinned. “So can we braid each other’s hair now?”

  “Only if you paint my nails first.”

  She stepped up onto the treadmill, turned it on. “Fatal flaw, Barie. You paint your nails after you do your hair. Don’t want to mess up your mani.”

  He took the machine next to hers. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  Her heart lightened. “I’m a wealth of information.”

  Stefan turned up the speed so it matched hers. “I’m impressed.”

  “Yup,” she said and hit her button so the treadmill went just a little faster than his. She might be pursing this relationship for a whole host of complicated reasons, but Brit still liked to win, couldn’t step away from a challenge.

  And there was definitely challenge in Stefan’s eyes.

  He sped up, two clicks more than her speed.

  Yeah no. That wouldn’t do. Three beeps on her own machine.

  “I can also do a mean smoky eye,” she announ
ced.

  He glanced at her, jaw agape. “A smoky what— Shit!” He slapped at the stop button and jumped clear of the belt when he almost fell.

  Brit started laughing so hard she had to hit her own button and step clear.

  “You did that on purpose,” he said, glaring at her while she tried to catch her breath.

  “I regret nothing.”

  He huffed out a sigh and sat on the end of the machine. She did the same on her own treadmill, enjoying the sensation of just being next to him, of smelling the spicy scent of him, mixed with the salty tang of sweat.

  It was probably a sign of insanity that she thought the scent of his sweat was sexy—because, really, what was she going to do next? Sniff his dirty shirts? But Brit found she didn’t give a damn.

  “You can’t really do a smoky eye, can you?” he asked.

  Hell no, she couldn’t. Even putting her hair into anything more complicated than a ponytail was impossible. “I’m a woman of many talents.”

  There was a brief silence before they both started laughing again, even harder than before.

  Stefan was a good man. Funny, charming, athletic—a trifecta of temptation wrapped into a muscled package of sex appeal. But the draw was more than that.

  She liked being with him. Which was the most dangerous part of the entire situation. Standing, she wiped her hands on her sweats, and climbed back on the treadmill. “Let’s finish this workout and get to the arena.”

  An hour after they’d arrived at the rink, her lawyer called to tell her the contract was sound, and she walked it over to Bernard’s office so he could sign.

  It took her almost that long to convince him to scrawl his chicken-scratch-of-a-signature on the paper, but the relief in his eyes when she finally convinced him it was okay made the whole situation worth it.

  She delivered the contract to Devon and watched as he signed his name beneath Bernard’s before making two copies.

  By the time she’d delivered Bernard his printout and stashed her own in her backpack, she was feeling very much like a law intern.

  But it was done.

  She was doing this. There was no option of going back.

  Especially not after pictures of her and Stefan sitting on the ends of the treadmills, laughing their heads off and smiling at each other exploded all over the Internet before she’d suited up for the mid-morning skate.

  Susan approved apparently, if the indiscreet thumbs-up the older woman had given her in the hall was any indication.

  Blane—who was walking next to her—frowned. “What was that?”

  Brit shrugged. “That’s Susan. One of the board members.”

  They stepped into the locker room. “I know that. What’s with the thumbs-up?”

  “No clue.”

  “Brit.”

  She glanced up.

  Blane’s expression was worried. “You know I’m here for you, right? If you’re ever in over your head? This thing with Stefan—”

  Her heart swelled, and she couldn’t resist giving him a hug.

  Blane froze for a heartbeat before hugging her back.

  She wasn’t surprised. She’d never been a touchy-feely kid, and after the incident, things had gotten worse.

  Brit couldn’t remember the last time she’d initiated a hug with someone other than her brother.

  “Thanks,” she said before covering Blane’s hesitation with a laugh. “Things with Stefan are complicated. He’s a good guy, but the press”—and management—“is insane.”

  “Hey, at least they won’t ask if you’re gay anymore.”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “That’s a positive, I guess. But only a small one, because now they just want to know every detail of my relationship with Stefan.” The press were still pushy, relentless, and unfortunately, a necessary evil.

  “And do you?” Blane asked.

  Brit pulled back and gave him a blank stare even as her heart jumped. What did he know? “What are you asking?” Her tone was controlled, careful.

  “Do you have a relationship with Barie?”

  “I—” She sighed, the truth and lies all tangled up. “Maybe.” Hell, she didn’t know where they stood at that moment.

  “You like him.”

  No point in denying it. “Yup.”

  Blane was quiet for a beat before his lips tugged up. “Barie and Brit, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S—”

  “I can’t believe you!” But she was laughing. He made a kissy noise, and she smacked him. “You know you may be my brother in everything but blood”—she glared —“but don’t forget I caught you checking out my ass the last time we were together.”

  “Yeah, no,” he said. “You’re definitely not my sister.” He met her gaze full on. “As you well know.”

  Idiot. Why had she brought that up? She laughed again, this time awkwardly with a dash of old guilt thrown in. Because she did know that. Problem was, her mind might see Blane as a strong, attractive male, but her body said, “Meh.” That hadn’t made things easy on their friendship, and she generally wasn’t so callous with Blane’s feelings, didn’t joke about what couldn’t be.

  Or at least she hoped so.

  She sighed. Social skills. Seriously, she needed to improve hers.

  “Hey. It’s okay.” Blane touched her hand. “I know you don’t feel the same. We covered that enough times over my teenage years for me to write you off as a total lost cause.”

  Her smile was small and tinged with misery. She was a lousy friend and an even worse surrogate sister.

  “Brit.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m fine. It was a joke. Let it go.”

  “You mean like how I punched your crush out of you?”

  “Exactly. So abusive.” He gave her sad puppy-dog eyes, but at least they held no genuine hurt. “My nose has never been the same.”

  She gave a mock shudder. “Let’s hope your kissing ability has improved, okay? Because that much tongue—”

  “You wound me.” His hand went over his heart, as though to protect the precious organ, before his tone took on a serious note. “My kissing ability aside, I count you as my friend and I will kill anyone who hurts you. Okay?”

  There her heart went again, expanding like a balloon.

  “Okay.” She bumped her shoulder with his. “Thanks.”

  “I’m still going to ogle your ass.”

  Her laughter was loud, accompanied by a shake of her head. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Stefan

  Stefan watched Brit walk into the locker room, Blane at her side. It took everything in him to curb the vicious jealousy tearing at his insides.

  He wondered if she’d seen the pictures before quickly dismissing the notion. No, she couldn’t have. She looked too happy and relaxed for that.

  After the first news story, she’d been violently angry, the cloud of her anger perceptible.

  Now he wondered how pissed she was going to be when she did see them.

  Or if she discovered he actually liked the pictures.

  The images of the two of them laughing as though they’d just shared the world’s funniest joke had filled him with such a sense of rightness that it had been almost painful.

  He’d had to breathe through the longing, the desire to claim her as his own.

  Brit had set boundaries, and he’d obey them.

  Except, after the scene in her hotel room, he didn’t really know what those boundaries were.

  Was that a red herring? Some sort of self-destructive tendency to self-harm? She certainly had other hang-ups with personal space.

  Though—he watched her hug Blane—apparently not with her former teammate.

  Maybe it was more. Perhaps she was simply as attracted to him as he was to her.

  Did the reasons really matter? They’d be stupid to act on it anyway.

  Blane leaned close to her, his expression serious and a twin
of Brit’s. It made Stefan’s gut clench. He wanted to be the one she turned to.

  Where in the hell had that come from?

  They could be friends—and maybe they were already tentative ones—but he didn’t need to be her lover, her partner—

  His lace snapped.

  Forcing a breath, he pulled off his skate and yanked out the broken lace. Before he could go in search of a new one, Rich, the equipment manager, had brought a replacement.

  “One-twenty and waxed, right?” Rich said, confirming the length and texture preference before setting a new lace in Stefan’s hand.

  “Yup. Thanks, Richie.”

  Two minutes later, Stefan’s skates were on, and he was pulling on his practice jersey. He was on the black team today, which meant, for some God-awful reason, Bernard had decided to pair him with Stewart.

  Clearly, he’d pissed someone off in his last life.

  But he was captain, and that meant he needed to get along and work with every person on the ice.

  Practice was a lesson in perseverance.

  Mainly because Stewart was a pain in the ass.

  Only when the coaches weren’t directly next to them, of course, only when screwing up the play made someone else look bad. Mainly Stefan.

  When one of the coaches was watching, Stewart was a lesson in proper play, but when they rotated to another group . . . Mike pulled shenanigans.

  He made Stefan skate to pucks he should have taken, threw passes without looking . . . was uncooperative, lazy, and generally uninspired.

  Which mostly made Stefan want to punch him in the face.

  He didn’t, of course. But the fantasy of his fist colliding with Stewart’s nose and blood gushing everywhere was what got Stefan through that interminable practice.

  Still, Bernard wasn’t an idiot, and whatever had kept the coach off ice the previous week hadn’t done so during the last few practices.

  He saw more than Stefan gave him credit for.

  “That’s it for today. Hit the showers,” Bernard told the team as they gathered at center ice. “Take the morning off tomorrow, but be here for a pre-game meeting at two.”

  The guys disbanded, headed for the locker room. “Stewart, Barie, wait.”

  He and Mike both stopped, Stewart with a teenage-sized sigh, and Stefan with a quiet sort of resignation.