by Kate Meader
A reason for striving that wasn’t tied to his dysfunctional relationship with Henri.
“I know you think your old man doesn’t have much to offer. I still think you had a better chance of staying with that team when you played the wing. You can make more of an impression that way. With this center business, don’t be surprised if they trade you out.”
Another move, another team. If someone wanted him.
“No one has said anything. Coach seems happy with my play once I settled into the groove.” Once he had opened himself to possibilities.
To Kennedy.
“Well, no one’s gonna give you a heads-up. They’d prefer to blindside you so they can squeeze every last drop out of you. Listen, put up a good fight, show them you can go toe to toe with the best, and you might be in with a shot at the contract. No holding back now. I’ll see you after the game.” The twisted pep talk at an end, he ended the call.
Reid’s mind rebelled against the black seed Henri had planted. He was playing well, his best season in the NHL. Sure his brother would always be the star winger and Reid would always be in his shadow. That was the trade-off he made by switching to center. By becoming more of a team player. The Rebels management would recognize that. They had to.
Fuck you, Henri. Fuck. You.
Distracted, he turned back to the laptop. Something on the screen caught his eye. He clicked on it, then wished he hadn’t as the breath clean left his body.
A folder labeled: Travel Docs. Inside was a PDF of a travel itinerary for Chicago to Bangkok on New Year’s Eve.
One way.
He checked the date. She bought that ticket weeks ago, probably with the money he gave her for the first time looking after Bucky. Reid had effectively bought her a one-way ticket out of his life.
There was something else with the file name: Visa.
She had said there was some paperwork delay but not according to this. According to this, her path was clear, the visa issue resolved, and her start date at the new job in Thailand was January 2.
Twelve days away.
All that spirit he’d summoned in answer to Henri’s negativity a moment ago wavered in the face of this reminder. She hadn’t promised a thing. She had been crystal about her intentions: save money, chase the sun, erase the memories.
After everything he assumed was growing between them, after her defense of him, after offering the sensual harbor of her body, she still remained on this course she had set.
Away from Reid and the life he was building here.
Henri was right about one thing. If Reid wanted that contract, he had to give it his all tonight. Prove that he was worth the shot and not even his more talented brother could stop him. No one could. Then it wouldn’t matter that he didn’t have Kennedy.
It wouldn’t matter at all.
Bond came off and tapped Reid’s stick. “Don’t go easy on him now.”
That almost made Reid laugh, except he wasn’t in a laughing mood. His skin felt too tight, his usually normal pulse pounding.
It seemed like the whole world had been waiting for this showdown, and finally it was here.
He jumped the boards and moved into position. The electricity in the arena was a breathing charge passing from fan to fan, streaming through the players like a live current.
The first fifteen seconds of the shift went by so fast that Reid was barely aware his brother was on the ice.
Lie. Of course he was aware, but he was doing his best to not let it get under his skin.
Bast had to be nervous. How else to explain why he turned over the puck the second Reid got close? Reid passed to Foreman, skated forward, took the pass back. No room to move, then he felt a resounding force to his side. A standard check. Not enough to make him part ways with the puck, but hard enough to send a message.
He pivoted to find his brother staring him down.
Allons-y. Let’s go.
The first period ended and Mia turned to the party assembled in one of the Rebels’ private suites with what Kennedy could only describe as a look of oh-shit.
“That was intense.”
Kennedy had thought so, too, but maybe hockey was like this all the time? Something about the pre-game interviews and commentary indicated it might be outside the norm. Blood in the air, someone had said. Reid and Bast had blown it off as nothing, but Kennedy sensed that this clash was years in the making, fueled by Henri’s pugnacious personality and his unreasonable demands of both his sons, but especially of Reid.
Seeing it from above like this gave her the sense of gods watching mortals in battle.
“Are there usually that many hits and …”
“Penalties?”
“I’d say that set some sort of record for the first twenty minutes of a game,” Casey said. “Those guys are going all out.”
Sadie sipped her wine. “I hate it when they get hit like that. Gunnar had a concussion in the early season and it scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Concussion?” Kennedy tried to keep the worry out of her voice. They wore helmets and enough padding to protect a matchstick model. “Does that happen a lot?”
“God, yes,” Tara said. “Some of it’s terrifying. Broken bones, split lips, skates to the neck—”
“Maybe don’t scare the newbie, T.” Mia glared at Tara. “Reid seems to be playing more aggressively tonight. Almost like he has something to prove.”
“His father’s in town,” Kennedy said. “Apparently, watching his sons face off gets him hard.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard stories. This guy I knew in college was on a Bantam team with Reid, and Henri was so pissed at a result that he went off at him in the locker room. Had to be told to leave by the coach.”
“He seems really anxious to make him proud. It’s pretty toxic.”
“Well, we’ve all been there,” Tara said. “The people who are supposed to love you unconditionally are often the ones trying to drain your life force.”
Kennedy exchanged a glance with Mia. She didn’t know Tara all that well, but their interactions rarely touched on anything deep.
Casey nodded wisely. “Best to cut them out with the sharpest implement you can find.” Said with feeling. “We need more Chex Mix.” Said with even more feeling.
“Okay,” Mia murmured, watching Casey head over to the snack counter to replenish the bowl. This suite was something else—big TV screens, a help-yourself bar, cupcakes. (Cupcakes!)
Tara turned to Kennedy. “Ken, have you succeeded in your mission?”
“What mission is that?”
“To keep poor Reid on the straight and narrow … into your vagina!”
“Tara!” Mia mimed shock then grinned at Kennedy. “You may as well tell her.”
Tara screeched. “It’s happened? But shouldn’t I have felt a disturbance in the force?”
“I guess it wasn’t that good,” Kennedy said, trying to remain serious. “Nothing all that earth-shattering.”
“Liar,” Mia said. “You should have seen them at brunch a couple of weeks back. Even dared to be cuter than me and Cal!”
“Aw, you guys are double-date brunching already?” Tara sighed wistfully. “Livin’ the dream right there. So, he’s definitely off the market?”
Sadie threw up her hands. “Are you really that desperate to snag a hockey player?”
Mia grinned. “She’s just looking for love wrapped up in a multi-million-dollar contract. Eight-pack preferred. You know, Reid seems to be in a better mood these last couple of weeks. Even Cal commented on it.”
“I think being kinder to himself has opened him up,” Kennedy said. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s still intense, but maybe not as tunnel-visioned as before. There’s more to life than hockey.”
“Sure, there’s puppies,” Mia said, counting off on one hand. “And hot sex. And too-hot curries. And whatever else you’re doing to keep him satisfied.”
“Bucky is good for him.”
“So are you.” Mia’s words were swee
t but painful. “I know he might be a hard guy to love.”
“Why do people think that? If you took the time to—”
Mia, Sadie, and Tara stared back at her with obnoxious smiles.
“Oh, shut up.”
They had her number and so did Reid. She didn’t want to dwell on the past, when a burning ball of fire ushered in an era of darkness. She wanted more afternoons in blanket forts and nights watching a game she knew nothing about and bingo with Edie. She wanted to embrace possibilities, not just with a man, but with her life.
She had decided to decline the job in Thailand, refund her ticket, and tell Reid how she felt.
Mia eyed her over the neck of her beer bottle. “You’re thinking of sticking around, aren’t you?”
“Possibly.”
She needed to talk to Reid and see if they were on the same page. After last night, she thought that maybe …
It might be easier if she got her own place and separated the employer/landlord aspect from the personal. The dog-walking business might be sustainable, but would be even better if she could expand it to concierge services. So much to think about. So much to do.
“Sadie, Kennedy’s thinking of starting up a personal assistant business with the Rebels as her primary client base.” Mia winked at Kennedy. “Any tips for her?”
“God knows they need it,” Casey cut in before Sadie could respond as she sat down with a giant bowl of Chex Mix that was apparently only for herself. “You know Erik Jorgenson once asked me to buy his clothes for him. I told him that’s not the job of the CEO’s PA!”
Everyone stared at Casey, who seemed pretty riled.
“Well, it’s not,” she insisted faintly, slightly less riled.
Mia pointed her beer bottle at her. “Do you have something against Erik? Because he’s the sweetest guy on the planet.”
“Yeah, sure he is. The sweetest.”
Everyone shared baffled glances, wondering what Erik had ever done to Casey beyond asking for some assistance at Big n’ Tall. As far as Kennedy could tell he was a doofus man-child with great hair. The flow was strong with that one. (Look at her, learning the lingo!)
At the risk of incurring Casey’s wrath, Kennedy mentioned how she had been running errands for the Rebels goalie. “He’s been paying me to do some things. Dry-cleaning, research. Some of the other guys, too.”
“You should do that!” Tara said. “Like a business.”
Uh, yes, Tara. That’s what I’ve been trying to say for the last five minutes.
Kennedy wanted to pick Sadie’s brain some more, but the second period had started …
… and then it all turned to absolute shit.
33
Coach Calhoun came into the players’ lounge. It must be the second intermission.
“Any word, son?”
Reid shook his head. The medics had rushed Bast off the ice ten minutes ago and no one had come out of the medical room. If it were more serious than that, surely he would be in an ambulance to Riverbrook Memorial by now.
“Sorry I fucked up.”
“You went hard. Too hard. The ejection was the right call.”
The words were abrupt. Angry. Exactly what Reid deserved, a nice warm-up to the verbal beat down he would surely receive when Henri got some face time.
The first period had been messy, and not just because of the Durand boys facing off on the ice. Crosstown rivalries often took on an even more adversarial vibe. The fans smack-talked, the press bayed for blood, the players got caught up in it.
It was a routine play at the beginning of the second period, a standard chase for the puck. Bast got there first and while usually it was Kershaw’s job to defend, Reid forced himself into the mix. His elbow came up and found a soft landing right under Bast’s visor, the chaser to a full-body check of his brother against the boards.
On any other day Bast would’ve picked himself up in seconds. Not tonight. Tonight, he stayed down.
This might blow Reid’s shot at that Rebels contract. Why the hell would they want a guy who couldn’t control himself on the ice, who let his emotions get the better of him when faced with his more talented brother? Who let his problems with a woman bother him like this?
Because as much as he wanted to think he could separate the personal from his work, it turned out he was no better than Cal Foreman or any of the other players who let their sex lives affect their play. Except those guys were all better players and deserved their spot on the team.
“I know you have to get back out there but could you see how he is?”
Coach nodded and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll check on him.”
A minute later, Henri came flying through the door and got up in Reid’s face.
“Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“What the fuck were you doing out there?”
That was rich. “What you taught me. Trying to win.”
“At all costs? You can’t win clean so you have to win dirty.”
“Henri, don’t.” Nadine put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Not now.”
“This is what you wanted, Dad. Both of us going at it until no one’s left in the cage. Don’t act all surprised when someone gets hurt.”
His father stared at him, his gaze thick with disdain. “You think this is what I want? All that talent out of the game for the rest of the season?”
No, he wouldn’t want that. No one would. When Reid went hard enough at Bast to knock him out, he wasn’t even thinking of besting his brother to win Henri’s approval. He was thinking of making his mark, separate from the Durands. Forging a path that won him a contract, a team where he could belong, a home with his dog and the woman he loved.
He no longer cared what his stepfather thought, not really.
All he cared about was Kennedy.
Kennedy, who was already packing her suitcase and turning her face to the sun. Away from the darkness that was him.
The medic came out and Henri pounced on him. “Is my son okay?”
“Sure. He’s concussed but awake. Busted nose. Wrist fracture.”
Henri’s expression turned even darker. “His wrist? But that’s eight weeks, minimum.”
The medic looked sympathetic. “Yeah, usually he would have been able to brace himself but he probably lost consciousness first and fell badly on it. Give the docs a few minutes. They’ll be transporting him to Riverbrook Memorial for X-rays and to set the fracture.”
Henri turned to Reid and jabbed a finger in his shoulder. “His wrist, Reid. You know what that means? He’s out of the Olympics. Probably the rest of the season.”
Reid’s heart plummeted to a new personal hell. “Dad, you know I didn’t intend for that to happen. I would never want to hurt him.”
“Sure. You think I don’t remember how rough you were on him as a kid? Still jealous, I see.” Henri shook his head in disgust. “Just stay away. He doesn’t need to see you right now.” He headed out to see his son.
Nadine squeezed his arm. “Just give him time, Reid. You know how invested he gets.”
Sure, with one of them.
Alone, Reid collapsed on a sofa in the lounge, every bone and muscle in his body suddenly giving out at once. On the ice, he had played hard and rough, determined that no one would come away thinking Bastian Durand was the only talent in the family. If he could take it to his brother, he would prove he was in the right place with the right team. He wouldn’t need Henri or Bast or Kennedy because he was here where he deserved to be.
Instead he had acted like a barbarian.
He had become Henri.
His phone buzzed with a message from Kennedy. She’d already called three times.
Is he okay?
When he didn’t respond, she called again, her pretty face flashing on the screen. He had freeze framed it one night when she was FaceTiming him, a moment that captured her mid-laugh, a ball of sun in his dark world.
He pressed ignore.
She would wa
nt details, maybe even to talk to Bast. Reid was sick of himself and speaking to Kennedy would only highlight everything that was wrong with him.
A screen in the lounge broadcast the game on mute. The third period was starting, the Rebels already down by two, owing to the power play the Hawks got when Reid was ejected.
Reid turned away, repulsed, only to find Kennedy standing at the door.
Her roommate was here, looking about as dejected as she had ever seen him.
“Is Bast okay?”
He met her gaze, his pain a shockwave that hit her hard. “Who told you I was here?”
“Mia found out.” She closed the door behind her and came closer. “Is it serious?”
“A concussion and a wrist injury. He’s conscious. Or so I hear.”
Thank God. “You haven’t seen him?”
“Henri is with him. He won’t want to see me. Not after what I did.”
“I doubt that.” That sounded like Henri talking. “I imagine he’ll be out for a while but—”
“He’ll miss the Olympics.”
Oh, poor Bast. This game was so much more dangerous than she had imagined. Seeing Bast stretchered off the ice tonight had sent her down a Google rabbit hole.
Tara had not been kidding about hockey’s propensity for horrific accidents. Listicles abounded detailing skate blades to the hand, the neck, the head. One guy had received so many stitches after one incident his face looked like a football. Even Isobel Chase, one of the Rebels owners, had suffered a career-ending injury when 37 minutes into her first professional hockey game, a skate blade sliced through her skull and almost killed her.
Bast was hurt tonight, all because his brother had something to prove to an asshole who shouldn’t be allowed to raise children. Next time, it could be Reid. A gash to his neck, a concussion that shook his brain loose. An injury that killed him.
But even knowing that, she was prepared to take a chance on him.
On them.
“That was scary. Seeing him knocked out like that.”
“By me.”
Sitting close, she placed a hand on his arm. “Yeah, by you. Why did you go at him so hard?”