by Elise Faber
Susan and the woman glanced at each other then back to Brit. “I believe some introductions are in order. This is Jessica, my niece.”
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you . . .” Except Brit had no idea what this was about aside from it involving Susan. And that meant, it couldn’t be good.
“Jessica is the reason that the Gold have gotten so much good press lately. She’s a reporter for The Herald.”
Brit didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say. Congrats? Thank you?
“But because of some . . . conflicts with her employer, she finds herself without a position.”
“What kind of conflicts?”
Jessica rolled her eyes. “The kind where my boss is an asshole who accused me of sleeping with another reporter’s source to steal the article from her.”
Brit plunked down onto her pale-blue armchair, sinking into the comfy cushions. “Did you?”
“Of course I did,” Jessica said without rancor. “That’s how women get ahead in our fields. It’s a necessary evil.”
“No, it’s not.”
Or at least, it shouldn’t be. No one should have to endure the secret shame, the guilt, the not-being-good-enough, just because they didn’t own a pair.
Jessica sat up a little straighter, thrusting her chin and boobs into the stratosphere. “I’m going to write an exposé on the Gold and what they forced you to do—”
“Your aunt was the one who forced me to do it,” Brit interrupted, her voice shrill with incredulity. “It was her idea.”
Jessica smirked. “Mine, actually. My auntie here just supports my career. I needed a really good way to get back at Stefan. What’s better than painting him as the blackmailing bad guy?”
Brit’s mind was spinning as it scrambled to keep up. Jessica and Stefan? Stefan as a bad guy?
“Blackmail?”
“Yes.” Jessica smirked. “Some of the pictures I took of the two of you weren’t PG enough for the traditional media, but I know of some websites that might like them—”
“Stefan is the best man I know,” Brit said. “You can’t do this to him.”
“I can do what I want,” Jessica sneered. “He refused—” She sniffed. “Never mind. I’m too good for him anyway.”
Brit glanced around the room.
“What are you doing?” Susan snapped.
“Looking for the cameras, because I’m clearly on some scripted reality show. People don’t act like this in real life.” Her eyes flashed back to the pair. “You two cannot seriously be interested in ruining a man’s life just because he turned you down for a date.”
“This is not about a date,” Susan said. “That’s not important—”
Jessica opened her mouth. “It is impor—”
“Shut. Up.” Susan shot her niece a dirty look. “This isn’t about a date and it’s not just about Stefan. We’re going after what matters.” The older woman’s frown lines increased ten-fold. “Men are scum. They take what they want and then throw you away when they’re done.”
“That’s not true,” Brit protested.
“Yeah?” Susan asked, cold cruelty filling her words. “So where is Stefan then?”
“That’s not the—”
“Point?” Susan interrupted. “Brit. That’s exactly the point. We’re going after the Gold. The board. Devon Carter. We’re going to show we’re not disposable. That they have to respect—”
“Auntie,” Jessica interjected, probably wanting Susan to shut up just as much as Brit did.
“This is the time to fight.” Susan said, waving her off. “For all women.”
“Yes. Yes. Women’s rights, blah, blah, blah.” Jessica rolled her eyes. “But further that, this could be the story of the century. If we work together . . .”
It could be a huge story.
If Brit were going to be a part of it.
If she believed a word Susan was spouting.
Which she wasn’t. Which she didn’t.
“No one is going to believe Stefan acted on his own,” she told Jessica. “Not after the scandal last season with Gordaine. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, and management—your aunt right alongside them—is going to take the fall.”
It was that part Brit found hard to believe—Susan supporting this risk to herself. Then again, the older woman hadn’t gotten as far as she had without knowing how to protect her own back.
“Definitely not,” Jessica said. “Management is going to fall. But not my aunt. She’s a victim, same as you, and has certain items to . . . ensure that fact.”
Of course she did.
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this”—no, actually, she wasn’t—“but I will not be a part of this story. Write what you will, but I won’t cooperate. And I definitely won’t confirm anything.”
Not like this. Not being forced into a situation where she knew the people on the other side of the lens, so to speak, didn’t give a damn about her as a person and certainly didn’t give a damn about the wrongs that had been committed.
No, if—when—Brit discussed this with the media, it would be on her terms with a person of her choosing.
“I don’t know what Stefan sees in you,” Jessica muttered. “You’re not pretty and only mediocre at hockey. He could . . .”
Brit stopped listening. Because yeah, no. The person Brit poured her heart out to definitely wouldn’t be the prissy bitch sitting across from her.
Susan stood. “I would encourage you to reconsider. This story is, pardon the pun, pure gold. A female player rises above the ranks, finds her way through horrible circumstances, only to gain a staunch supporter in a woman who fought her way up the management side.” She paused, tapped her chin. “Devon will have to go, of course, and the rest of the board. But I have enough on them to make that happen.”
Brit wondered why Susan hadn’t mentioned Pierre’s purchase of the team. Surely that would shake up things, management-wise, alter these carefully laid plans. But if Susan didn’t know, Brit sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her. She needed to hold on to as many cards as possible.
“I’m not doing this,” Brit said, even though they were basically ignoring her as they discussed their grand plans to take over the world.
“Photographs,” Susan and Jessica said in unison without turning to look at her.
For God’s sake.
“Fuck the photographs,” she told them, slamming her beer down hard enough on the table that some of it frothed over the top and splashed down the sides. Susan and Jessica turned, regarding her with calculating expressions, but Brit wasn’t about to back down.
Hell. No.
“Print them or don’t,” she said. “Put them on a goddamned billboard, for all I care. I’m done with giving them any power over me.”
“Little late to get a conscience, don’t you think?” Susan asked. “Maybe I need to arrange a trade . . .” It was a musing statement and full-to-the-brim with derision.
Even though Brit’s stomach churned at the thought of being forced to leave the team, she knew that it was now or never.
If she didn’t find her spine now, she might not. Ever.
“It’s time for you to leave.”
“I thought you told me that Stefan and Stewart both said they would activate their trade clauses if you released Brit?” Jessica asked.
Susan made a noise of disgust even as the terror gripping Brit’s heart diminished slightly. She needed to remember she wasn’t alone.
“Those clauses are the worst thing management ever allowed,” Susan said as she grabbed Jessica’s arm and yanked her niece to her feet. “And you need to learn the art of keeping your mouth shut.”
At the door, she paused to look back at Brit. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to reconsider. Then Jessica is running the story. With all the pictures.”
Brit swallowed but stood and squared her shoulders before walking across the room. Her voice was rock-stea
dy. “I don’t need twenty-four hours or minutes or seconds,” she told the women. “I’m done being manipulated, so take your story and shove it up your—”
She slammed the door.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Their game the following night was one of the tough ones.
The thing about hockey was that sometimes the other team got the bounces, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it.
Tonight had been one of those games.
They’d lost 3-5, and only one of those goals had been something Brit should have stopped. Two had gone off defensemen, one had been on a missed offside call by the officials, and the last had been an empty netter when Bernard had pulled her in exchange for a sixth skater during the game’s last minutes.
It was only one game, but Brit had a hard time shaking off the goal she should have stopped. She’d let it in just when her team had finally tied the game.
Totally demoralizing. Completely killed the momentum.
Post-game, she’d had her standing appointment with Mandy where she’d spent a few extra minutes chatting—okay, dawdling and avoiding the rest of the team—in the PT suite afterward.
But her delay had paid off, and the locker room was empty when she slipped back in to change.
At least, now she didn’t have to make up an excuse to miss the team dinner Stefan had planned for Blane’s birthday. No one had been much in the mood for celebrating after the game, but she knew they’d warm up.
Brit didn’t want to warm up.
She wanted to get her fucking blocker up to snuff.
The thing about professional players was that they could shoot, which meant they could exploit her weaknesses. And if the Gold were going to go all the way, she couldn’t have a single one.
With a sigh, she grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
Brit was moping, she knew that. Just as she knew that by morning she would feel better. She’d hit the ice again, schedule some extra sessions with Frankie—though she was monopolizing his time already.
Wrinkling her nose—because she smelled like musty gym socks and B.O.—Brit turned to the door.
First order of business when she got home was a shower.
Except . . . she hesitated . . . did she really want to sit in her stink the entire way? Did she really want to continue to let the unreasonable fear rule the way she lived her life?
Why not just take a freaking shower?
And with that thought, Brit decided. It was time. She would take a damn shower.
Two strides brought her into the tiled space. A creak, and the water from one head was on. With a fortifying breath, she walked out, dropped her bag on the bench, and stripped.
By the time Brit had slipped her feet into her flip-flops and snagged a towel from the stack, her heart was pounding and a light sheen of sweat covered her body.
Every part of her, all of the nerves that had been wired to fear screamed at her to stop, to get dressed and go home.
She walked into the showers anyway.
Then jumped when the water nearly scalded her.
Some of the tension within her disappeared. She could do this.
After adjusting the temperature, Brit stepped into the spray and began washing.
The scent reached her as she was rinsing conditioner from her hair. Spicy. Masculine.
Stefan.
She was delusional and her longing was acute. So painful that it threatened to take her to her knees. How she wished things were different—
“Hey.”
Her eyes flashed open. Stefan was there. Three feet away. Fully dressed and standing just outside the range of the water.
One side of his mouth was curved up, and his eyes were warm, exactly like they’d been two months before.
“You did it,” he said.
“I—” She swallowed. She had done it. But even as she reveled in that, Brit was very aware of Stefan’s eyes traveling down and heating to a molten shade of blue.
Just that quickly her heart was pounding for a completely different reason.
Her nipples tightened, her stomach quivered, and the space between her thighs ached.
“Stefan,” she said. It was an invitation. A plea.
No matter what he’d said, how he’d hurt her and she him, her body still wanted his.
But her heart wanted his more.
“I didn’t come here for this.“ He raked a hand through his hair. “Not that I don’t want—” He stopped. “It’s just that . . . I heard the water, saw your stuff, and I knew what it meant.” His eyes locked with hers and glimmered intensely. “I’m so damned proud of you, Brit.”
“What?” she asked. The water was dripping into her ears, obscuring her hearing. Because no way could he mean . . .
“I’m proud of you. What you’ve done with the team, with yourself. It makes me so damn ashamed that I wasn’t as strong. I should have—”
“No,” she said. “I’m the one—”
“It was a fucked up situation, sweetheart. A bad beginning to something I want more than my next breath.” He took a step closer until the water licked at the toes of his boots.
“Be careful,” she said. “You’ll ruin your shoes.”
Stefan grinned. “Who gives a damn about my shoes, Brit? I know I don’t. Not when I have you in front of me.”
Another step. Water splattered on his slacks, soaking them, encasing them around the wide breadth of muscles there. Then he came closer, and the water seeped into his shirt.
“I want you,” he said.
Good God, did she ever want him back. The need was a fire within her, a burn only he could extinguish.
He was inches away, and her fingers cramped with the urge to touch him.
So she did.
It was as if the contact shattered something in him—the distance, the last wall around his heart. The moment her hands touched his skin, he was a flurry of activity.
He kissed and stroked, caressed and touched her in all the places that ached—her throat, her breasts, her stomach and thighs . . .
In between.
It was too much and not enough. The sensations coursed through her, drove her higher until she was desperate for release—
But that wasn’t the part of Stefan she wanted.
“No more,” she gasped, yanking up on his hair.
He stood and plastered her against his chest, his mouth on her throat, then her ear. Warm puffs of air punctuated his words. “No condom.”
“Then be thankful I’m on the pill,” she said.
Stefan pulled back, the desire in his eyes a physical caress to her system. “Please tell me you’re not joking.”
“Serious as a breakaway,” she told him.
“God,” he said. “I love you so much.”
She barely had time to process that before his pants were down, and she was pinned to the wall. The tiles were an ice-cold shock.
A heartbeat later, he was inside her, his body flush against hers, every inch—both inside and out—rock hard.
The cold was forgotten. The past, the fears, the deceit—it all disappeared.
Brit lost herself in the moment, in the hard strokes and hot kisses, and when she tumbled over the edge, her words followed suit. “I love you too.”
Stefan held her close and slanted his mouth across hers in the most tender kiss imaginable, and Brit knew she’d never look at those showers in quite the same way again.
And that was totally fine with her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Stefan
Stefan grabbed Brit’s elbow when her legs proved a little unsteady, then cranked the water off, and wrapped her in her towel.
He grimaced as he zipped up his pants. His clothes were soaked, having moved into the uncomfortably tight stage.
“Why am I always ending up with wet pants around you?”
Brit laughed, but the sound wasn’t as carefr
ee as he’d expected or had hoped.
He closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his palms. “You okay? Was it too much? Did I—”
“No.” She sniffed. “It was perfect.”
Then why was she looking as though someone ran over her dog?
“It’s just that I almost ruined this.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, and her voice was decidedly watery.
Stefan’s heart grew a full size. It seemed impossible that Brit made him feel so much, but every moment in her presence, he felt more.
Loved her more.
He snagged her chin, forced her to meet his gaze, dead on. “And that’s the last time that I want to hear you say that. We both made mistakes, and we won’t ever move forward if we keep looking back.” His fingers slid to the back of her head, wove into her hair, and he kissed her.
Because he couldn’t not kiss her, because her mouth was irresistible, and—most important—because the feel of her lips against his was everything. “I want this, Brit. Us. When I’m with you, I feel whole.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t want to spend another moment not feeling whole.”
“But what if we fight?” she asked. “We were together once, and it nearly ruined both of us. What if next time it affects the team? This whole thing could be a recipe for disaster.”
“Could be,” he said. “But I think we and the team have been playing pretty damned good, fighting or not.” He flashed her a smile and stepped back. “I think we’ll have more to worry about when we’re both limp and satiated.”
She snorted. “Satiated, really?”
“Yup. I might not have gone to college, but I can pull out a big word every now and then.”
Brit bent to pick up one of her flip-flops that had apparently fallen off her foot and slipped it on. “I’m impressed.”
“You should be. Now come here. I’ve got something to give you.”
What he’d been planning to give her before he’d been distracted by the sight of her naked in the shower.
His pants got tighter at the memory, more so when Brit walked over and snuggled up to him.
“Is it a present?” she asked. “I like presents.”