Winning Hard

by Lisa B. Kamps

  He turned back to Taylor. "What's that all about?"

  "Who knows?"

  "You sure about that?"

  "As sure as I'll ever be."

  "I take it things haven't gotten any better between the two of you?"

  "Gee, you think?"

  "You ever going to tell me what's going on?"

  "Probably not."

  "Taylor—"

  "Not because I don't want to. Because I don't know." She looked back over at the two women, her frown deepening, then turned back to him. "Honest, Chuckie. I really don't."

  "She hasn't said anything—"

  "No. And I don't feel like talking about it right now." She started to skate away then stopped and spun around, her ponytail whipping behind her as another smile warmed her face. "I almost forgot. Did you want to go to dinner Sunday after the game?"

  "Yeah, sure. Was there any place you had in mind?"

  A small flush stained her cheeks and she glanced away, suddenly shy. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath then her gaze shot back to his. "Yeah. My parents. For Sunday dinner."

  She spun around again and took off down the ice, leaving him standing there against the boards in stunned silence. Her parents? She wanted him to meet her family? He stood there for a long minute, wondering what the sensation was that was twisting his gut. Nerves? Yeah, definitely. But there was more to it than just nerves. Was he reading into it? Putting more importance on the invitation than there really was?

  Did he want there to be more to it than simply having dinner at her parents' house? He didn't know. And part of him was afraid to look too closely at it—because what if he did, only to be wrong about it?

  And shit, would he ever get rid of the last threads of self-doubt that seemed to follow him from his childhood? He thought he had, years ago—until he saw Taylor again. He needed to stop reading into things. Needed to stop overanalyzing and worrying and just enjoy things as they happened.

  Sunday dinner with her parents. Not a big deal. He could handle that. And there was no need to worry about it beforehand, not when there were a million other things to worry about.

  Like the small exhibition at the Banners' game on Saturday night.

  And making sure that Murphy and his cronies were suitably impressed with tonight. That was the biggest thing he needed to worry about right now.

  Charles sucked in a deep breath and pushed away from the boards, heading toward Murphy at center ice and hoping for the best.

  Chapter Twenty

  "Holy crappola. Now this is what I call a locker room." Sammie dropped her bag on the bench and looked around, her eyes wide with amazement. The other girls were doing the same, a reverent hush hovering over the room as they filed in.

  Taylor stopped next to Sammie and stared at the gear hanging in the open cubby. Pads. Helmet. Skates. Jerseys. This had to be Chuckie's doing. How else could their things have been placed here ahead of time?

  Like they were professional hockey players, everything taken care of for them so they could focus on the game.

  Except this wasn't a game—it was a quick, ten-minute show during the first intermission of the Banners' game tonight versus Tampa. They'd perform their little dog-and-pony show then come back here, get rid of their gear, put on clean jerseys, and be herded out to the concourse for autographs.

  Please, let people show up for autographs.

  Taylor pushed the negative thoughts from her mind and took a seat on the bench, trying to calm her racing nerves. It was stupid to have nerves. This wasn't a game. It meant nothing. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing more than a tiny little inconsequential blip.

  Except it wasn't. She didn't know why, but she was positive something big could come of tonight.

  Or maybe it was just more wishful thinking on her part. A chance—just a tiny one—to play on the big ice. To pretend she was in the pros, like she'd always dreamed about.

  Focus. Just stop and focus.

  She kept repeating the words to herself as she pulled the gear from the cubby and stripped down so she could start dressing. Compression shorts. Pads. Hockey socks. Tape. Padded hockey shorts. Arm and chest pads. More tape. Her lucky moisture-wicking t-shirt emblazoned with the Banners' logo, the eagle and crossed hockey sticks faded with age. Sonny had given her two of them right before she played in the biggest game of her career not quite five years ago and brought home the gold.

  She paused, sadness filling her at the memory. Almost five years? Had it really been that long ago? Yes, it had. She'd had such high hopes back then. Such big dreams. She'd been certain she'd be playing in the pros by now. Certain there would be a pro team for her to play on.

  And there was. Kind of. If you put a really big positive spin on it. Just not the pros she had dreamed about.

  She pushed the depressing thoughts away, telling herself she was being melodramatic. That she was overreacting. No, things hadn't turned out like she had dreamed, but it could be worse—she could not be playing at all.

  Taylor shoved her feet into the skates, tapping each one against the rubber mat covering the floor, then leaned down and started tying them. Tight and snug, the knots secure and tucked away. Then she folded her hands and let them hang between her legs, her eyes focused on the toes of her skates as she took a deep breath in and held it out for the count of five before releasing and repeating. Two more times, followed by one more, then she sat up and turned toward Sammie, ready to give her a high five. But Sammie wasn't looking at her—she was staring at the floor, one skate held in her hand, her face pale.

  "Hey." Taylor nudged her in the side. "Are you okay?"

  "I think I'm going to be sick."

  "What? Why?" Taylor glanced around, looking for a trashcan or a bucket or something. "Are you coming down with something?"

  "Yeah. Nerves. Holy crappola. I don't think I can do this."

  "Yes, you can. We're just going out there to skate around. It's not even a game."

  "What if they boo us? I don't think I could handle that."

  "They're not going to boo us."

  "Or what if everyone gets up to leave? That would be worse, I think."

  Taylor thought about lying then changed her mind. "Well, some people will leave, sure. They'll want to go grab some food and beer and stuff or use the bathroom. But not everyone."

  "I don't think that makes me feel any better."

  "It'll be fine. Come on, finish getting ready."

  Sammie tilted her head to the side and studied her with wide eyes. "How can you be so calm?"

  "Who said I'm calm?"

  "Well, if you're not, you're doing a great job of hiding it."

  "Am I nervous? Yeah, a little. But that's normal."

  "Easy for you to say. You've done this before."

  Taylor tried to swallow her laughter, afraid it would come out sounding bitter. To her surprise, it wasn't. "Not since I was playing youth hockey and our team came here for the same thing. And that's been something like, I don't know—ten years, at least. Probably a little longer than that. Maybe twelve."

  "Yeah, but you've still done it. I haven't. Not even anything close."

  Taylor nudged her again. "Doesn't matter. Now come on, finish getting ready or you're going to miss the whole thing. What's Clare going to think if she doesn't see her mom out there tonight?"

  Sammie pursed her lips then nodded, some color finally seeping into her face. "You're right. I can do this. No more nerves. I can't disappoint Clare."

  Taylor laughed again then looked around the locker room. Everyone else was geared up and ready to go, sitting or standing in small groups, waiting to be told what to do next. Coach Reynolds pushed through the door, her focused gaze sweeping the room. She gave everyone a short nod and a quick smile.

  "Remember ladies, this is just for fun. No pressure. A quick scrimmage, show off some of your moves, and then it's off the ice and back here to change before heading up to the concourse. I don't want anyone getting physical—save that
for the game tomorrow. Any questions?"

  There was a quick chorus of no's then Coach Reynolds read off the line-ups. Taylor bit back her surprise when she realized Rachel's and Amanda's names hadn't been called. She looked over, not surprised to see Rachel scowling in her direction.

  Sammie leaned over, her voice pitched low as she whispered in Taylor's ear. "What's up with that?"

  Taylor shook her head but didn't answer—not that she could, because she didn't have an answer.

  Coach gave a short whistle and told everyone to line up. Then they were marching out of the room and down the hall, toward the ice. She could smell the ice, that tang of frozen air that tickled her nose. She could hear the scrape of blades against the frozen surface, hear the grunts and yells, the cheers of a crowd of thousands, the noise far away yet somehow amplified by the concrete walls of the hall.

  Taylor's heart raced, fluttering with excitement beneath her breastbone. The feeling, so unexpected, caused her to stumble. Who had she been kidding, trying to tell herself this was no big deal? Maybe it wasn't a game, but it was still a big deal. A small taste of what she'd dreamed about her entire life.

  The sound of a horn, its blare long and loud, split the chilled air as the crowd screamed. She didn't know what the score was, had no way of knowing, but the Banners were obviously winning. The crowd wouldn't be so wild if they weren't.

  Sammie crowded closer and grabbed Taylor's arm, her head dropping against her back. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  "Deep breaths, Reigler. Deep breaths. We've got this." Taylor took her own deep breaths, trying to calm the excitement racing through her.

  Players from the Banners pushed their way through the hall, looming larger than life as they moved past. Taylor suddenly felt like she was ten years old again, small and insignificant compared to the giants she had looked up to when she was a kid. A memory floated to the surface, long-forgotten yet oh-so-poignant.

  She had been standing in this same hallway, the stick held loose in her gloved hand, watching the players move past her. More than a few stopped to tap her on the head with their sticks, wishing her luck before heading back to the locker room.

  Uncle JP knelt beside her, his knuckles rapping her helmet twice.

  "Show them what you're made of, ma lutine. Remember the moves I showed you, eh?"

  She grinned and bumped his fist. "You know it, John-Peere."

  JP laughed at the nickname then moved past her, tapping the other kids on the head and wishing them luck as he moved by. Then Sonny was there, looming larger than life, such an intimidating man with the scar running down his cheek. Her new father, even though she hadn't started calling him Dad yet.

  "All set, Pumpkin?"

  "Yup."

  "Not nervous?"

  "No." She saw the way his brows shot up in surprise and quickly looked away. "Well, maybe a little."

  "Nothing wrong with that. It keeps you sharp. Now go out there and have some fun. I'm proud of you, Pumpkin." He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against the top of her helmet then moved away, barking words of encouragement to her teammates as he passed by. She turned to watch him go, noticed Chuckie-the-fart standing beside her, an odd look on his face, one of anger and longing.

  "You think you're so special, don't you Tay-Tay? Just because your father's some hot shot coach. Well, you're not special at all. He's not even your real father."

  "Shut up, Chuckie. You don't know what you're talking about. And at least I have a father, you stupid—"

  Their coach had come up to separate them before she could say anything else, and then it was time for them to go onto the ice, to play in front of thousands of people.

  Taylor blinked, the memory fading as quickly as it had appeared. She blinked again, surprised at the burning sensation in her eyes, surprised at the moisture filling them. She reached up and rubbed her chest with one gloved hand, surprised it was so tight. God, she hadn't thought about that day in…she wasn't sure how long. She remembered it, of course, but had never recalled the details until just now. Had she really been such a cocky little shit? Yes, she had. And Chuckie, the things she'd said to him—did he remember? He must have. How could he not remember?

  Taylor blinked again and looked around, surprised to see Chuckie standing across from her, next to Coach Reynolds and Mr. Murphy. His ocean blue gaze was focused on her, filled with things she couldn't decipher. He smiled, one of his charming crooked ones, and stepped toward her, looking so dangerously masculine in the dark suit he wore. So different from the lonely boy she had so mercilessly teased all those years ago.

  He tapped her on the helmet and dipped his head toward hers, his voice low and husky. "You think you're so special, don't you, Tay-Tay? Just because your father's some hot shot coach."

  Taylor's eyes widened in surprise, her face heating in embarrassment. "You remember?"

  Chuckie's grin widened and he leaned even closer. "Well, you are. You're more special than you realize."

  Her heart slammed into her chest, making it hard to breathe. Sammie knocked into her from behind, freeing her from the odd paralysis caused by Chuckie's words. She sucked in a wheezing breath and stared at him, her eyes wide. "That's not what you said. Back then, I mean."

  "I didn't know any better back then."

  "Chuckie—"

  He stepped back with a quick nod. "You better get going. They're going to start without you."

  Taylor stumbled, helped by Sammie's quick nudge, then regained her balance and moved forward into the tunnel.

  "Girl, you are so going to tell me what that was all about because wow, I'm having hot flashes like you wouldn't believe."

  Taylor choked on a laugh and glanced over her should at Sammie. "Later. Maybe. Like, much later."

  Sammie opened her mouth but whatever she'd been about to say was drowned out by the announcer's voice coming across the arena's speaker. Loud, deep and commanding. Booming with excitement, each word drawn out for maximum effect.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for…your…Chesapeake Blades!"

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Charles glanced over at Taylor, wondering why she was so quiet. She'd been this way for most of the night, ever since they'd left the arena. Before then, even, if he stopped to think about it. He had sensed something wasn't quite right when she was on the concourse, signing autographs with the rest of the team. Yes, she'd been smiling and laughing, posing for pictures and signing the stack of pucks and shirts Murphy had ordered for the event. But he'd seen the hint of shadows in her eyes, noticed the few times her smile had faded as she'd gotten a faraway look on her face.

  Almost like the look she had gotten on her face when they were standing in the tunnel before hitting the ice. He'd known exactly what she was remembering. How could he not, when he was remembering the same thing? It was hard not to, not when everything was almost exactly the same as it had been twelve years ago. That's why he'd gone over to her, why he'd said what he did. Had he been too obvious? Let too much show? Maybe, because Murph had given him an odd look when he joined him again, after the team had moved out to the ice. But Murph hadn't said anything.

  There wasn't anything he could say. There was no rule about fraternizing, nothing prohibiting it. Maybe there should be. Maybe there would be. But right now, there wasn't.

  And it wasn't like they weren't being discreet. They were.

  But none of that had anything to do with Taylor's uncharacteristic silence.

  He lowered himself to the leather sofa and held out the glass of wine he had just brought in from the kitchen. Taylor took it, her lips curling in a brief smile of thanks, then simply sat there, holding it, that faraway look in her eyes again.

  He shifted closer and draped one arm around her shoulders then pulled her closer.

  "I think tonight went fairly well, don't you?"

  Taylor nodded and took a sip of wine, then cradled the glass between both hands. "Yeah. It was good."

  "There was a nice turnou
t for the autographs. Another good sign."

  "Yeah. Good."

  Charles swallowed a sigh and ran his fingers through the length of her hair, watching as the soft light played on the silky strands. Taylor didn't move, just sat there staring into her glass of wine.

  He sat back and nudged her knee with his own, waiting until she finally looked over at him. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Why?"

  "Because you didn't brush my hand away when I started playing with your hair. Because you're just sitting there, looking like you're lost and lonely." He ran the tip of his finger along the bare skin of her forearm, across her wrist to her fingers. She released her hold on the wine glass and curled her fingers around his own, her grip loose.

  "Come on, out with it. What's wrong?"

  Her brows lowered over her shadowed eyes as she shook her head. "Nothing's wrong."

  "You know I'm not buying that, right?"

  A few minutes went by, filled with nothing but the soft strains of music coming from the sound system across the room. He waited, watching as Taylor shifted on the sofa, that odd frown on her face—like she was trying to figure something out, only she wasn't quite sure what it was. She started to raise the glass to her lips, hesitated, then leaned forward and placed it on the glass coffee table in front of them. Her shoulders heaved with the force of her deep breath as she turned and faced him.

  "How can you even stand to be with me?"

  The question surprised him so much, he couldn't even blink. He tilted his head to the side, wondering if he had misunderstood, then leaned forward until their noses were almost touching. "I'm sorry. What? I don't think I heard—"

  "You heard me." Taylor slid away from him, just enough to put a few inches of space between them. "How can you stand to be with me? After the way I treated you?"

  Charles reached for his own glass of wine and took a long swallow, trying to get his thoughts in order. It didn't help. "Am I missing something? After you treated me like what, when?"