Anger flashed in her eyes again. She stiffened and pushed against him, trying to break his hold on her. Charles tightened his arms around her, refusing to let go.
"Chuckie, let me up."
"No. Not until you admit you're quitting."
"That's not what I said."
"Same thing."
"No. It's not." She pushed against him again then curled her hand into a fist and shoved it against his shoulder. "Let me up."
"Admit you're a quitter."
"No."
"Why? It's the truth."
"No, it's not. Let me go."
"Tell me."
"No."
"Admit it, Taylor."
She sagged against him, the fight leaving her body but still shining in her eyes. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because I want to hear you say it. I want you to prove me wrong."
Her gaze rested on his, her eyes filled with agony. Her voice was small, filled with uncertainty when she spoke. "Why?"
"Because the girl I had a on a crush on all those years ago would never quit." He eased one arm from behind her back and reached up, tucking the hair behind her ear. "And because the woman I fell in love with would fight for what she wanted."
Taylor stared at him for so long, he wondered if he had made a mistake. Yes, he had. He should have never said anything. It was too soon. She wasn't ready. He shouldn't have thrown that at her, not tonight, not after everything else that had happened. Hell, maybe not ever. Maybe she didn't want to hear it. Maybe she didn't—
"You love me? But—why?"
"Why?" The word came out on a burst of choked laughter. "Because I'm a glutton for punishment."
"But—"
"Do me a favor: don't say anything, okay? Just pretend you didn't hear—"
Taylor's mouth crashed against his, her kiss hard and soft and almost desperate. He tightened his arms around her and took control of the kiss, deepening it, slowing her down when all he wanted to do was roll her body under his and claim her.
He finally pulled away, his ragged breathing matching hers. She watched him with wide eyes filled with wonder then leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.
"You love me." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yeah. I do."
"I—"
He reached up and pressed his fingers against her lips, silencing her. "I don't need to hear the words, Taylor. Not until you're ready. Not until you're sure. I know it's probably too soon for you. I don't expect—ouch." He pulled his fingers away from her mouth and looked down at them, surprised he didn't see bite marks in the flesh. "Shit. What the hell was that for?"
"For not letting me finish. And for assuming I don't know what I'm feeling or what I'm ready for." She pressed a quick kiss against his lips then leaned back, the corners of her mouth turned up in the sweetest smile he'd ever seen. "I love you, Chuckie. I thought I did but I wasn't sure until last week, right before we went out on the ice at the Banners' game."
Something tightened in his chest—not in pain, but in delight. He was helpless to stop the grin on his face, helpless to stop his hand from cupping her cheek. "Why then?"
"Because you remembered. And because of what you said."
"I meant it."
"I know you did." She leaned forward, her lips grazing his in a featherlight kiss. Then she sat back, her hand reaching for his, their fingers threading together. "But I don't know what to do about tonight. You're right, hockey's everything to me. What am I going to do if I can't play?"
"What did you do when we were kids and somebody said you couldn't do something?"
"Get angry and throw a fit?"
Charles laughed. "Yeah, okay. That too. But what else?"
"I don't—" Taylor hesitated, her head tilting to the side as she studied him. Amusement danced in her eyes, chasing away some of the shadows. "You mean, beat them up?"
"Yeah."
"You think I should go beat up Mr. Murphy?"
"Sure. Why not? And I'm going to tell you how to do it."
And he did, later that night as they lay curled in each other's arms.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Charles stood just outside the door and took a deep breath, trying to push the doubt to the side and completely out of his mind. Coming up with plans had never been a problem for him—and he'd been lucky, because most of the time, those plans worked. If they didn't, he learned from what went wrong, formulated a new one, and moved ahead until he found success.
Because he was good at what he did.
But if this one didn't work out—if it backfired or blew up in his face or any one of the other million things that could go wrong—there would be no second chance. No stepping back to reevaluate.
This was all or nothing.
It was the nothing part that terrified him.
He took another deep breath and let it out, nice and slow. He ran his hands along the front of his jeans, gave himself a mental shake and one final pep talk, then opened the door.
The office was quiet as usual—there wasn't enough staff for there to be any real noise. That also meant there weren't any witnesses. That could work in his favor.
If he was lucky.
He strode down the wide hall, past the tiny cubicle that passed for his office, and kept going. His was heading for the big office, the corner one with a view.
Murph's office.
The door was open—literally. Whether it was open figuratively remained to be seen. He knew the man meant well—in theory. Now it was time to put that theory to the test.
James Murphy was seated behind the small island that passed for his desk, dressed immaculately in a designer suit, looking every inch the part of a successful businessman. Mike Henderson and Owen Smith were sitting across from him, looking slightly bored as Murph's voice droned on about something. The tension was palpable, thick and heavy.
Was that a good sign? Or a bad omen?
Murph looked up, a frown creasing his weathered face when Charles stopped in the doorway. The steely eyes drifted over the jeans and sweatshirt Charles was wearing. Murph leaned back in the large leather chair, his thick white brows lifting in annoyance.
"Is it Casual Friday again?"
"I quit."
Murph's brows snapped together in a sharp frown and he leaned forward so fast, the leather chair bounced. It would have been funny—except there was nothing humorous about this whole thing.
"What the hell is all this about?"
"It's about you making my job impossible."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Charles shot a glance at the other two men then stepped forward and planted his fists on the edge of Murph's desk. "You brought me on to market this team yet you have thrown roadblocks my way at every turn."
"If this is about the budget, I already said I—"
"It's not about the budget, Murph. It's about that lamebrain stupid ass shit you pulled yesterday."
A stony expression crossed Murph's face. He sat back in the chair, exchanged a glance with the other two men, then slowly nodded. "I see. This is about your girlfriend."
"No, Murph. It's about you suspending the team's captain—who just happens to be one of your best players. It's about belittling the team by making them piss in a cup in front of witnesses. What the hell did you think that would accomplish?"
Owen Smith spoke up, his voice filled with condescension and disdain. "Those girls work for us. We pay them. After the debacle at last weekend's game, it was the right thing to do. As far as your girlfriend—" A small smirk crossed his face. He propped his foot against his knee and smoothed the sharp crease of his pants leg. "We can't afford bad publicity. If the press found out that the players are screwing around—"
Charles reached down and grabbed the front of Owen's shirt, twisting his hand in the material and pulling him out of the chair. "You better be damn careful of what you say—"
"Enough!" Murphy's voice exploded around them, loud and booming. Charles cl
enched his jaw then released his hold on Smith, wondering if he had just totally fucked everything up.
Murph watched him, his steely gaze steady and calculating. This was the side of Murph that he'd heard about but hadn't yet seen—the shrewd businessman with a reputation for ruthlessness. And Charles couldn't get a read on the man, had no idea what he was thinking, not right now.
Murph leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands under his chin. He watched Charles for several long minutes, those gray eyes of his revealing nothing. "You do know that if you quit, nothing changes, right? There's nothing stopping me from hiring someone else to take your place."
"True." Charles waited several heartbeats then offered the other man a cool, calculating smile. "But you have to remember that marketing works both ways. And trust me, Murph, by the time you get someone else on board, there won't be much they can do to put a positive spin on this."
"Are you threatening—"
Murph sliced one hand through the air, silencing Owen. Several seconds went by, filled with tension, as Murph sized Charles up. Trying to figure out if he was bluffing? Possibly.
"I have to say I'm impressed, Chuck. I never expected this from you. Even if you follow-through with this…plan…what makes you think the team won't eventually recover?"
"Oh, I'm sure it could, given your money. The problem is that you won't have a team to market."
Direct hit.
Murph couldn't hide the surprise that flashed across his face. His gaze shot to the other two men then darted back to Charles. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you're one hell of a businessman, Murph, but you don't have a fucking clue when it comes to the bond that holds a team together." Charles straightened and moved to the window, tilting his head for Murph to join him. The older man reluctantly got to his feet and walked across the room, followed by Henderson and Smith.
The men gazed out the window, identical expressions of surprise etched on their faces. Down below, gathered in a show of solidarity, stood every single member of the Blades.
Taylor. Sammie. Shannon and Dani. Jordyn Knott and Rachel Woodhouse. Coach Reynolds and Coach Chaney. Everyone was there, all eighteen names on the roster.
"Son of a bitch." The strangled whisper came from Murphy and was laced with a hint of respect that surprised Charles.
"Most of them had to take off work to be here, Murph. That means losing a day's worth of pay—and none of them can afford that. That's how important this is."
"You're telling me they're ready to quit? Just like that?"
"Yeah, they are."
Owen Smith laughed, the sound cold and bitter. "Then let them. We can find other players—"
"Out." The single word was filled with cold authority. For one horrifying second, Charles was afraid Murph was talking to him, that the entire plan had backfired. But Murph was looking at the other two men, his stony expression leaving no room for argument.
Owen stepped closer, disbelief on his chalky face. "Jim, we can find other players."
"No, you won't. Once word gets out, nobody will want to play for the Blades. Or you. It's happened before. Trust me, that's a PR nightmare you can't recover from—no matter how much money you throw at it."
"Jim—"
"Out. Both of you."
The other two men reluctantly left the office, closing the door behind them. Murph watched them leave then turned back and looked out the window. His face was carefully blank, unreadable.
"You definitely surprised me, Chuck. I didn't see this one coming." Murph turned away from the window and walked back to his desk. He leaned against it and crossed his arms in front of him, that thoughtful expression still on his face. "What are you going to do if I call your bluff?"
"What makes you think it's a bluff?"
"You're telling me the girls are ready to walk, just like that?"
"Yeah, they are. This is important to them."
Murph nodded then lowered his gaze, studying the top of his expensive Italian loafers for a long minute. He released a sigh then looked back at Charles. "What you said, about the bond—you're right. I don't know anything about it. When they first approached me about buying into this team, I thought it was a waste of money. Part of me still does. Lord knows we're not making anything back on the investment."
"It's still early—"
"Yes, it is. But I don't know many people who would blame me for cutting my losses now and getting out."
Dread twisted his gut. Charles hadn't considered that possibility and it took everything he had to stay upright, to not collapse in the chair next to him. If Murph noticed, he didn't show it.
"The problem, Chuck, is that I find being an owner of a sports team rather entertaining—even if it's not even considered a semi-pro team. I'd go so far as to say I find it a little rejuvenating for a man of my age." He pushed away from the desk and took a seat in the chair, his gaze thoughtful as he watched Charles. "It seems I have a bit of a dilemma."
"Only if you make it into one."
"I'm guessing you have a solution for me?"
Charles heaved a mental sigh of relief and made his way back to the desk. "Yeah, I do. Bring Taylor back. Apologize for pushing that stupid ass test on them last night—"
"For the record, that wasn't my idea. Owen meant well but I happen to agree with you."
"Then you shouldn't have listened to him."
"You're right, I shouldn't have. Anything else?"
"Yeah." Charles straightened, knowing this one could be pushing it. He didn't agree with it himself, but it would go a long way to repair the damage that had been done. "Put Amanda Beall back on the roster."
"I don't think—"
"Not active. Offer to help her with rehab. Make that a condition."
"I'm not sure—"
"It's a risk, I know. But it'll look good. And it will let the team know you're serious about making amends. It'll let them know you care."
"Hmm." Murph steepled his fingers under his chin again and looked away, his face creased in a thoughtful frown. Minutes stretched around them, filled with a heavy silence. Was there anything Charles could say to sway the decision? Or had he said enough already? He didn't know and for once, his instincts were oddly silent.
It didn't help that Murph's face was carefully blank and completely unreadable. He stood up, met Charles' gaze for a split second, then walked around the desk.
"Let's go talk to the girls."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Are you sure this is going to work?"
"Yes." Maybe.
"What if it doesn't?"
"I don't know."
"We're fucked if it doesn't."
Everyone turned to look at Shannon but nobody said anything. There was nothing to say—she was right. If this didn't work, they were fucked.
Taylor curled her hands into tight fists and shoved them into the front pockets of her jeans. That might help stop them from trembling, but it did nothing to calm the nerves threatening to turn her stomach inside out. Would this work? There was so much at stake. It had to work.
She glanced around, studying the faces of her teammates surrounding her. Sammie. Shannon and Dani. Sydney and Maddison and Jordyn and Karly. Their coaches. Even Rachel, standing with them but just a little off the side.
These women weren't just her teammates—they had become her family. Dysfunctional, yes. Still getting to know one another, still working on their issues as they grew closer. But they were family nonetheless, held together with one common bond: their love of hockey.
And the desire to make something more of this tiny little chance they'd been given.
Willing to throw it all away if this desperate plan didn't work.
It had to work.
Jordyn nudged her then nodded toward the main doors of the small arena. "Here they come."
Stillness settled over the group as everyone turned toward the doors. Mr. Murphy walked out, looking every inch the shrewd businessman he had the rep
utation of being, with his tailored suit and neatly-trimmed white hair. What was going through his mind? She couldn't tell.
Chuckie walked out behind him, the total opposite in looks, wearing faded jeans and the old sweatshirt bearing the logo of his alma mater. His dark hair was mussed, his jaw covered with the shadow of day-old scruff.
And his face was as completely expressionless as Mr. Murphy's.
Taylor's stomach rolled, threatening to spill the light breakfast she'd forced down hours earlier. Sammie stepped closer, her trembling fingers gripping Taylor's arm with bruising strength.
"Oh, this doesn't look good. I think I'm going to be sick."
"At least you don't have to pee." Shannon muttered the words under her breath, causing a ripple of nervous laughter. Sammie loosened her grip on Taylor's arm and shifted, turning to look at Shannon.
"I always have to pee."
More nervous laughter, the sound quickly fading as the two men approached them. Taylor's eyes darted to Chuckie but he wasn't looking at her.
And oh shit, that couldn't be good. If it was good, he'd let her know. Wouldn't he?
Mr. Murphy came to a stop in front of them, his gray eyes scanning each face. He turned toward Chuckie, some silent message passing between them, then faced the team once more.
"I understand you ladies are ready to walk out. To give this all up."
There was a long minute of silence before Shannon stepped forward, her chin thrust forward in challenge. "Yeah, we are."
"I see." Mr. Murphy clasped his hands behind his back and scanned their faces again, his gaze stopping on Taylor's. She saw the faintest glimmer of humor flash in the gray depths then he blinked and it was gone.
Maybe she had just imagined it.
"That would put me in quite a bind if you did."
Shannon stepped closer, her voice clear and strong. "That's not our problem."
A bark of laughter escaped the older man, surprising them all. "No. No, I guess it isn't."
Sammie's grip tightened on her arm again but Taylor barely noticed, not when she was so focused on Mr. Murphy, not when she was trying to control the hope threatening to break free.
The older man looked at her again, admiration flaring in his eyes. Then he nodded, just once, before his lips twitched in a small smile.
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