Winning Hard

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Charles stared at the familiar number, excitement mingling with frustration. He'd been calling that same number for two weeks, only to be placed on hold or brushed off. So why the sudden change? Was it the news piece from last night? Or did it have more to do with Sonny LeBlanc and JP Larocque? Unlike Taylor, Charles didn't care. He'd use whatever advantage he could to get his job done.

  Especially now that it looked like he still had a job.

  He curled his fingers around the crumpled slip of paper and glanced back at Murphy. "I'll call them as soon as the office opens."

  "Good. Let me know what they say. And Chuck?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I don't have a problem with Casual Fridays but next time, maybe you want to make sure you don't look like you just rolled out of bed."

  Heat filled his face as he ran a quick hand through his mussed hair. Murphy just laughed and walked away, leaving him standing there.

  Stunned.

  Surprised.

  Shocked.

  He'd walked in fifteen minutes ago, expecting to be out of a job, only to learn that things were picking up. He still had work to do—a lot of work. Maybe Murphy was happy with the way things had gone so far, but Charles certainly wasn't. Not by a long shot.

  And now that he knew he still had a job, it was time to put the second phase of his plan into motion. Would it work? Who the hell knew. But it certainly couldn't be any worse than yesterday's fiasco.

  He spun on his heel and headed to the small cubicle he called an office, his mind already racing ahead and making plans.

  Chapter Ten

  Sweat covered her face, dripping into her eyes with a sting that made the breath hitch in her lungs. Taylor ignored the burning and kept pushing. Harder, faster, the puck cradled against the blade of the stick. She moved down the ice, spun and darted to the left then cut back to the right, darting away from Rachel Woodhouse. She heard the other woman mutter under her breath, calling her a bitch as Taylor left her behind.

  Her lips curled in a cold smile, just a quick one as she pulled back with the stick and sent the puck flying. It hit the back of the net with a satisfying whoosh and Taylor smiled again.

  No, it didn't count. The net was empty and this was nothing more than practice, but it still felt good. The sweat. The stretching and burning of muscles. The cut of blades slicing across the ice as her legs moved beneath her.

  She was at home on the ice. Comfortable. Relaxed. It was where she belonged.

  And it was exactly what she needed to work out her frustrations after yesterday morning, when she woke up.

  Alone.

  She circled around the net then leaned down and grabbed the puck. Her eyes darted to the left, resting on the solitary figure sitting on the bleachers. Her stomach did a slow roll when their gazes met and she looked away as heat rushed to her face.

  Or maybe she had only imagined meeting his gaze. Maybe he wasn't looking at her at all.

  And maybe she was the world's biggest fool for jumping into bed with him the other night. God, what had she been thinking? She didn't do things like that. Ever. She could count her limited number of partners on one hand—with fingers left over. And she had never had a one-night stand. Never ever.

  Until the night before last with Chuckie.

  What the hell was he doing here, anyway? No, he hadn't been fired—she had learned that this morning before practice started. But it was a Saturday morning. Shouldn't he be somewhere else, doing whatever it is he usually did?

  Coach Reynolds blew the whistle and stepped out to the ice, waving everyone in. Taylor yanked her helmet off and headed toward center ice. Rachel slid up next to her, anger simmering in her blue eyes.

  "You're not as good as you think you are, LeBlanc." Her voice was pitched low, laced with venom and dislike. Taylor clenched her jaw and did what she always tried to do: ignore her.

  Rachel grabbed her arm, her grip a little too hard. "You shouldn't even be playing on this team, not after the embarrassment you caused the other night with the media."

  Don't say anything. Don't say anything.

  Rachel moved closer, her face only inches away, her mouth twisted in a sneer. "And you sure as hell don't deserve that C."

  Taylor had seen that one coming. The only surprising thing was that it had taken Rachel this long to say anything. She had seen the woman's face this morning when Coach Reynolds had made the announcement, naming Taylor as Team Captain and Sammie and Maddison as Alternates. Rachel had been livid, her face turning an unbecoming shade of red. Taylor was surprised the woman hadn't thrown a hissy fit right then and there.

  But Rachel was too smart for that. She would have drawn the ire of the coaching staff if she had said or done anything.

  So why was she doing it now, when Coach Reynolds was watching them?

  "Let it go, Rach."

  "No. It's bullshit. We both know the only reason you're even on this team is because of your last name."

  "Whatever." Taylor jerked her arm from the woman's grasp and started to move away. Rachel grabbed her again, spinning her around.

  And snapping Taylor's last nerve.

  She tossed her helmet and stick to the ice and moved forward, fast, shoving her shoulder into Rachel's chest. The move caught Rachel by surprise and she stumbled back, her arms pinwheeling for balance. Taylor reached out and curled her hand in the woman's jersey, catching her before she fell. Then she yanked Rachel forward until they were nose-to-nose.

  "I'm on this team because I'm good. Damn good. I have no idea what the fuck your problem is but you need to get over it. We're supposed to be on the same fucking—"

  The shrill blare of a whistle sounding in her ear interrupted her. Taylor glanced to the right, not surprised to see Coach Reynolds standing right next to them.

  And she was pissed.

  Taylor released her hold on Rachel's jersey and stepped back, her jaw clenched so tight that her back teeth actually hurt. Silence descended over the rink, thick and uncomfortable. Was everyone watching them? Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? They were squared off at center ice, looking like two combatants ready to tear each other apart.

  Coach stared at both of them, her face a mask of anger and impatience—and disappointment. The silent scrutiny went on for so long that Taylor started fidgeting on the ice, anxious for Coach to dish out whatever punishment she was going to deliver.

  "Laps. Both of you."

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder then looked back at the coach. "But—"

  "Now. I'll tell you when to stop." Coach spun around and walked away. Taylor muttered under her breath and retrieved her equipment from the ice. Rachel spun toward her, her face red with anger.

  "This is all your fault, you stupid bitch."

  "Whatever, Rach."

  "I have somewhere I need to be."

  "Then start skating."

  "If it weren't for you—"

  "You know something, Rach? I'm sick and tired of your attitude. Maybe if you learned to keep your mouth shut, shit like this wouldn't happen."

  "But—" Rachel's mouth snapped closed as she blinked, then blinked again. And oh shit, was she getting ready to cry? It sure as hell looked like it.

  Taylor hesitated. Rachel was too hard, definitely not the kind of woman to cry. Then again, she was the kind of woman who would stop at nothing to get her way.

  Whatever. Not her problem. Taylor dropped the helmet onto her head then started moving around the boards, her stride long and steady and slow. Rachel finally moved in next to her, anger rolling off her in waves.

  Coach's voice rang out across the ice. "Pick it up ladies. I want to see some speed in that stride."

  Taylor groaned, the sound echoed by Rachel. She gritted her teeth and pushed forward, picking up her pace as she rounded the boards.

  How many laps? How long before Coach took pity on them and let them stop? Five? Eight? Twelve? Taylor lost count, could focus on nothing more than putting one skate in front of the other.
/>   On her chest, heaving to draw air.

  On her legs, burning with fatigue.

  On her eyes, stinging with the sweat dripping into them.

  The whistle finally blew, ending the agony with one short blast. Taylor bent over at the waist, her stick braced against her legs, and glided to a stop. She wanted to drop to the ice and simply collapse but that wasn't an option—she needed to stretch. To cool down. To rehydrate.

  But not yet, not when Coach stepped onto the ice and faced both of them, the expression of anger still clear on her face.

  "Now do either one of you want to tell me what the hell is going on with you two?"

  Taylor exchanged an uncertain glance with Rachel before they both shook their heads and answered in unison.

  "No, Coach."

  "You're both on the same team. I need you to remember that. And to start acting like it. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Coach."

  "I've got enough to worry about without two of my players going at each other every chance they get." Coach Reynolds brushed the light brown hair off her face and leveled a biting glare at Rachel. "Woodhouse, get off your high horse and accept that LeBlanc is on this team because of her skill, not her name. Whatever petty jealousy is lurking inside that blonde head of yours needs to go away. Is that clear?"

  Rachel slid a tense glance at Taylor, gritted her teeth, and nodded. "Yes, Coach."

  Coach turned her anger on Taylor. "LeBlanc, I gave you that C because you deserved it. Don't make me regret it. Start acting like a leader. Understood?"

  Taylor swallowed, the heat of embarrassment filling her already-flushed face. "Yes, Coach."

  Coach stared at both of them for a long minute then finally stepped to the side. "Both of you, get out of here."

  They both headed toward the door, their pace even until they reached it. Taylor sensed Rachel's hurry and moved to the side, letting her pass. The woman tossed her a glance, one filled with anger and worry, then pushed past Taylor and practically ran to the locker room.

  "Gee, you're welcome." Taylor muttered the words under her breath and stepped off the ice, only to come to a sudden halt when Chuckie pushed away from the boards and stopped right in front of her. He held a bottle of water out in a silent offer.

  Taylor almost walked right past him—she wasn't in the mood to deal with him right now, not after those grueling laps. But the water was too tempting to pass up so she grabbed it from his hand, uncapped it, and downed half in one long swallow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand then gave him a curt nod.

  "Thanks." She started to step around him but he moved, blocking her.

  "Remind me to never piss off a coach."

  "Yeah."

  "You look beat."

  "You think?" She shifted her weight from one skate to the other then blew out a deep sigh. "Was there something you wanted, Chuckie?"

  "Just wondering if you wanted to grab something to eat."

  "All I want to do is shower and pass out." She hesitated, frowning. "Alone."

  Confusion flashed in his eyes. His brows lowered in a frown and he leaned closer. The frown turned into a grimace and he quickly stepped back. Taylor tried to swallow the laughter that threatened to break free but couldn't, not at the look of horror that crossed Chuckie's face when he realized what he'd done.

  "Yeah, pretty ripe, huh?"

  His face turned an even deeper red. "I didn't mean—"

  "It's not a big deal. I'd do the same. Which is why I really need to hit the shower."

  "And then we can grab something to eat?"

  "Why?"

  "What do you mean, why? Because you need food. And because I wanted to talk."

  "About what? The other night?" A brief spurt of anger flared inside. "Or maybe about how you disappeared afterward?"

  "I didn't—" He stopped midsentence, his mouth snapping shut at her frown. "Okay, I screwed up. You can beat me up for it over lunch."

  "Not in the mood."

  "Sure you are. You're just being stubborn."

  "I don't want—"

  "And after you beat me up, I have something I want to run by you."

  "Not interested."

  "Don't care. Go, hit the shower. I'll wait for you."

  "Chuckie, I'm not going to lunch with you." But she was talking to air because Chuckie had already stepped around her, heading toward Coach Reynolds. Taylor hesitated then finally shook her head and started toward the locker room. Let him wait all he wanted. She still wasn't going with him.

  Even if she was curious about what he wanted to run by her.

  Chapter Eleven

  The diner was surprisingly empty. Or maybe not so surprising, considering it was early Saturday afternoon, well past the normal lunch time. If Charles had known how empty it would be, he would have picked a different place.

  Like maybe the busy airport. Or a train station. Or hell, even the food court in the mall. At least then, there'd be noise and conversation. Not theirs, of course, not with the way Taylor was sitting across from him.

  Toying with her food.

  Not saying a word.

  He reached for the glass of soda and took a quick sip, then sat the glass back on the table. Maybe a little too hard, because the thunk echoed around them. Taylor glanced up, raised her brows in silent question, then moved her attention back to her nearly-empty plate.

  Still not saying a word.

  For a lunch date, it was less-than-successful. Failure was actually a more appropriate description. Not that this was really a date but still—

  "How was your food?"

  Taylor glanced up, her eyes carefully blank, and shrugged. "Fine. For the dozenth time."

  Had he asked her that already? He must have, but damned if he remembered. Trying to draw her into conversation was like pulling teeth—from a lion. Or maybe lioness was a better word.

  He pushed his cleared plate away, ran the napkin over his mouth, then balled it up and tossed it on the table. "So what's going on with you and Woodhouse?"

  "Nothing."

  "Didn't look like nothing to me. I thought you were getting ready to flatten her on the ice."

  "Nope."

  "Maybe I need my eyes checked, then."

  "Probably." Taylor pushed her plate away with a soft sigh then looked to the left, her gaze darting out the large plate glass window next to their booth. Traffic on York Road was busy, filled with cars moving north and southbound. He glanced out the window, his eyes squinting against the bright sun.

  The day was too nice to be spent inside. Crisp and clear, the air tinged with the scent and feel of autumn. In another week or two, you'd need a jacket to go outside. Maybe—October in Maryland could change in the blink of an eye. But today was one of those rare days, filled with sun and a clear blue sky and no hint of humidity. It was a day to be spent outdoors, not inside a mostly-empty diner trying to have a conversation with someone who obviously had no desire to talk.

  "So what do you normally do on the weekends?"

  Taylor's gaze shifted from the heavy traffic to him. Impatience flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by resignation. "Practice on Saturdays. Family dinner on Sundays. Then get ready for work during the week."

  "I don't think I realized you worked."

  "Of course I work. Why wouldn't I?"

  "I just didn't think—"

  "Newsflash for you, Chuckie. We all work. Everyone has another job. This hockey thing? It doesn't pay squat. It's, like, one step up from a beer league."

  "That could change, you know."

  "Really?" The disbelief was clear in her eyes. "Excuse me if I don't hold my breath."

  "You know, for someone who wants to play hockey more than anything else in the world, your attitude pretty much sucks."

  "My attitude does not suck!"

  "Yeah? Then what do you call it?"

  "Being realistic."

  "Your definition is obviously different from mine."

  "I have a feeling your reality is
a bit different than mine."

  Charles leaned back and studied her for a long minute—maybe too long because she shifted on the bench and looked away. He released a sigh and took another sip of his soda. "Listen, it's the first year. Hell, the season hasn't even officially started yet. And I know the pay isn't exactly the greatest—"

  "The greatest? Do you even know what we're getting paid?"

  "Well, no, but—"

  Taylor propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, interrupting him with the force of her whiskey-gaze. "A couple hundred a game, at the most. And that's not even everyone. We don't get paid for our two practices a week. We have to pay for our own equipment and jerseys. So don't sit there and try to put a sunshine-and-roses marketing twist on it, okay? It's not going to work, not when I know damn well you don't have to worry about a second job to make ends meet."

  Charles looked down, wondering if the surprise he felt showed on his face. Yes, he had known the girls weren't making a lot of money, but he hadn't known the extent of it. Guilt crept over him and he pushed it away. "I didn't realize—"

  "Yeah, no kidding."

  "Taylor—"

  "Just drop it, okay? You said you wanted to run something by me. What was it?"

  He started to brush her off, to tell her he wanted to keep this particular conversation going. An idea was already forming in his mind, one that might help. But he snapped his mouth closed, thinking better of it at the last minute. It was just a small idea, one that wasn't completely formed. And it wasn't something he could manage on his own—he'd need some outside help. No sense in even bringing it up, since he wasn't sure it would ever come to fruition.

  He drained the soda then leaned across the table. "I'm trying to work something out with the Banners. I had a nice conversation with the head of their marketing group yesterday."

  Taylor watched him through narrowed eyes filled with suspicion. A long minute went by, filled with heavy silence, before she finally spoke.

  "This isn't going to be like that fiasco from Thursday night, is it?"