Mister Hockey

by Lia Riley

  Everyone twiddling their thumbs in the folding chairs was expecting to meet the Hellion’s popular coach, Tor Gunnar, fresh from his second straight NHL championship victory, who was sidelined due to bad weather. Ugh. Bad news on a good day, a disaster when the Library Board of Trustees kept making ominous rumblings about pending cuts.

  Municipal appropriations had plunged and to add insult to injury the library system had lost several hundred thousand dollars in federal funding. It wasn’t a question of if there would be branch closures or department belt-tightening, but when. Her department better shine if it hoped to survive the dark days ahead.

  Breezy nibbled the inside of her cheek, wincing as one bite too hard flooded her mouth with a faintly metallic taste. No way would she get flushed down the professional tubes without a fight. Her department transformed the children’s zone for each holiday, made it a place where young patrons could come after school and get homework help from senior volunteers, reluctant readers were paired with the perfect book, or took part in a Lego or chess club, participated in drop-in Robotics or Minecraft, and where local parents could form connections with one another at toddler story hours or in a parenting class.

  Anyone who wanted to dismiss librarians as boring bookworms had never heard Breezy rap out “I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie” after one Jack and Diet Coke too many—bonus points for her twerking skills.

  And if she ever daydreamed about opening an independent children’s bookshop, well it was nothing but another of her fantasies, like the one where she met Jed West and he fell madly in love.

  Here! The phone buzzed with her sister’s text. Speaking of someone who lived their dreams, Neve had the perfect job for a card-carrying member of the Hellions Angels, the nickname of their family’s hockey fan club. From October to April (and the playoffs, God willing), Angel women spent Hellion game nights crammed into Aunt Lo’s creaky Victorian in Five Points behaving like unashamed dorks: Mom, Granny Dee, Aunt Joanie, Aunt Shell and her best friend, Margot, who was basically an honorary member of the family.

  Those were the evenings when her stepdad and the uncles retreated to the man cave above the garage to shoot pool, play foosball and pout over their loss of the living room’s sixty-inch flat-screen. The men were Bronco diehards to a one, obsessed with fantasy football leagues.

  But the Angel women?

  They were all about the puck, a tradition started with Granny Dee and proudly passed through three generations.

  Some folks were obsessed with Marvel Comics or Doctor Who or Harry Potter. She self-identified as Ravenclaw, but the rest of her family didn’t know the word cosplay or that Comic-Con existed. And yet they donned red devil horns, smeared their faces with crimson-and-white paint and brandished plastic pitchforks without a shred of embarrassment.

  “Good, you’re here!” Neve burst in wearing black dress pants and a gray collared shirt. Breezy loved vibrant patterns, the bolder and funkier the better while her big sister had an allergic reaction to wearing anything that wasn’t a neutral color or cotton. “Your assistant thought you’d still be changing.”

  “Thanks for bailing me out on no notice.” Breezy rinsed the Westy mug and tossed it in her “Reading is Sexy” tote bag before reaching for the door. “We’re running late so here’s how it’s going to go up there. I’ll introduce you and . . .”

  “Breezy—wait!”

  The nerves connecting her feet to her brain snapped midstep into the hall. She froze, her gaze raking a pair of vintage Adidas sneakers and climbed up gray sweatpants hanging off a trim, narrow waist. Shadows played on the cotton, highlighting the merest suggestion of a bulge. Then up to a broad chest and even broader shoulders. The distinctive chin. The scruffy jaw. Those eyes that were . . . that were . . . what were colors?

  What was life?

  Every muscle in her body flexed tight, her heart unable to squeeze anything approaching a full beat.

  Holy guacamole with a side of chips.

  Jed.

  West.

  Captain of the Hellions.

  Jed West.

  Her ultimate celebrity crush—Jed freaking West was in her library. Leaning against a cinder block wall four feet away.

  Her heart paid a visit to her throat. Small hairs prickled at the nape of her neck.

  No way. No freaking way. But yes. Oh yes. Oh God yes.

  His black raincoat offset the rich, espresso-brown gloss to his thick hair. Tiny rain beads clung to each perfect strand, bright as carat diamonds. The Fates swooned. Nope, wait. That particularly breathless mewl came from her own parted lips.

  “Told you I was bringing a surprise.” Neve spoke in a slow, even cadence while her piercing gray eyes silently ordered, Get a grip, dude. Do not lose your shit.

  “Nice cape. Do I get one?” Jed’s famously lazy smile twisted an invisible screw at the apex of Breezy’s thighs, a sharp twinge that settled into an acute ache. Of course he didn’t know about the starring role he played in her biweekly Hitachi wand sessions. Or the imaginary dirty talk he groaned in her ear while she writhed in the dark.

  I taste you on my lips, sweetheart. Tell me who owns you.

  He couldn’t have the first clue about her dirty overactive imagination, but Jesus H. Christopher Christ riding a unicycle, she knew. Whenever she fantasized about a guy putting ranch dressing in her Hidden Valley, he was the one wielding the big, big bottle.

  Her cheeks turned a subtle shade of rose-blooming-in-hell as she forced a gasping chuckle. “Uh, hang tight. I forgot . . . a . . . thing.”

  Beating a quick retreat into the bathroom, she did what any non-freaking-out, red-blooded gal would do when encased in ancient threadbare red Lycra and confronted by their ultimate dream man.

  She let the door smack his beautiful face.

  Chapter Three

  “Please.” Breezy’s horrified gaze bored into the bathroom door until her eyeballs burned. “Oh please, oh please,” she chanted through the fingers pressed to her mouth. Let this nightmare be an oxygen-deprived dream triggered by the too-tight costume.

  A comforting flicker of hope flared in the black pit of her belly. God, if that could be the case than she’d never park crooked at the grocery store ever again.

  Jed West standing five feet away—ridiculous! Not improbable. Straight-up impossible. He was on her mind because of that silly coffee cup and her stressed-out brain manufactured a hallucination. Not altogether comforting, but then a psychotic break was preferable to encountering her ultimate sexual fantasy while sporting serious camel toe.

  A short rapping knock came at the door. “Breezy?” Neve’s peeved voice was a half step below testy.

  She expelled a lungful of air, tightened her grip on her tote bag and stepped back into the hall. “Forgot to turn off the sink. Water conservation is very important.” Her laugh came out thin and high.

  Jed West wasn’t a mirage. She was speaking to him, actual words out of her actual mouth. He made eye contact. Knew that she existed in this mad-spinning world. The downside was that he stared as if she’d sprouted a second head, one that insisted on belting out the Titanic theme song.

  In Russian.

  “Wait. You two are sisters?” Incredulity infused his syllables.

  “Affirmative.” Neve looped an arm around her waist. “Born eleven and a half months apart.” And they were night and day. Neve defined dainty, at least on the surface. Although she was a former figure skater who’d followed in the footsteps of their mother, she held a black belt in Brazilian jujitsu. These days she took down dudes twice her body weight during weekly sparring sessions.

  Breezy had a black belt too, hers just happened to be in bookworming. July had barely started and already she’d logged one hundred and sixty books on Goodreads, well on track to surpass her year-end goal of two hundred. Neve had inky hair, strong brows and a wide sulky mouth. Breezy was a placid dairy cow in comparison, big-eyed and big-boned. Not blonde enough to have more fun, nor sleekly brown enough to classify as a
n elegant brunette.

  “I’m the big sister,” Neve deadpanned the long-standing joke as the top of her head scrapped Breezy’s shoulder.

  Breezy licked her dry lips, fighting to remember how to put the English language into usable sentences. “So, um, Jed. What brings you here?” Yes. Good. A perfectly safe, normal question. Way better than “Mind if I step closer to better assess the nuances of your scent?”

  “Heard you’re in the market for a reader.” His deep rumble was a chisel striking granite. The vibrations thrummed to her bones. “We stopped in the kid section to grab a book. Want to vet my choice?”

  What she wanted to do was gather each of his words like a precious bloom, build a bouquet and hug it to her chest then skip through sun-dappled meadows. Her sister had pulled off the coup of the century–Dear, darling Neve, currently sporting a bemused you’re being a giant idiot expression.

  “Nah, as long as it’s not The Giving Tree you’ll be fine,” Breezy said, fighting to regroup.

  Neve huffed a husky “Oh good God” under her breath and the hall went into rapid decompression, all available oxygen whizzing through invisible cracks.

  But she wasn’t Neve of the quick comeback. Her tongue tied into a figure eight knot. “I . . . it’s . . . the message . . . not good. Bad.”

  Great. Apparently she also took elocution lessons from Tarzan.

  “I see.” The bewilderment on his face begged to differ.

  “Terrific little getting-to-know-you, Breezy, but Jed doesn’t have all day and you need to get this show on the road.” Neve stepped in, saving her from more self-inflicted humiliation.

  The next twenty-five minutes passed in a blur. The crowd who’d braved the terrible weather had murmured with disappointment when Breezy stepped to the podium and announced that Coach Tor wasn’t going to make the event after all. But the grumbles transformed into cries of delight as she announced the presence of Jed West. A mother in the back row praised, “Sweet Baby Jesus.”

  Breezy gave an internal nod in solidarity. Amen, sister.

  After Jed announced his reading choice, his gaze skimmed the crowd before landing on her, in the back corner, arms locked to her chest to keep her heart from jumping out of her rib cage. Her stomach constricted. Talk about a visceral stare. It felt as intimate as a private caress. She could have sworn that he winked, but yeah . . . right.

  Earth to Breezy, come in, please.

  Guys who looked like Jed West didn’t flirt with girls like her. By sixteen, her place in the social pecking order had been cemented. The friend. The funny one. The one packing junk in the trunk, who bought her own drinks at the club, and always got charged cover.

  As if to confirm her theory, the moment vanished. He turned away, offering a view of his outrageously chiseled profile. The amount of scruff roughening the edge of his carved jaw was absolute perfection.

  Opening the book, his rich velvety baritone imbued every cringe-worthy sentence with a sense of yearning and noble sacrifice. As he slowly flipped through the pages it was almost enough to convince her she’d been wrong to be such a hater.

  “Guess this makes up for me forgetting your birthday for the past three years?” Neve leaned in beside her.

  Breezy gave a giddy nod. “You get a pass for Christmas and birthdays forever more. Jed West is in my library. How did this happen?”

  “What can I say?” Neve shrugged smugly. “Occupational perk.”

  “Of course, let the record show that I had no idea you were interviewing him today.” Breezy leveled a bemused side eye. “That’s a pretty big skeleton to hide in your closet.”

  “Way I saw it, I had two options if I fessed up.” Her sister stared back without a shred of shame. “One, leave you green with envy or two, wonder if you’d turn up and stalk us from a back booth at Zachary’s.”

  “You watched him eat?” She bounced on her toes and clapped her hands. “Details, details. Was it perfect?”

  “There was chewing. Mouthed closed.” Neve gave her chin a thoughtful rub. “Oh! He ordered orange juice. Fresh squeezed.”

  “Eeep!” Breezy swallowed herself, after a muffled moan. “You know I love juice.”

  “Guess you two are soul mates.” Neve used only a pinch of her usual sarcasm, a small smile played on the edges of her mouth. “Honestly, I’m thrilled to have gotten to do this for you.”

  Wild applause broke out as Jed finished the last line of the book. It went on and on before eventually dwindling into an uncertain silence. Finally, he cleared his throat, seeking her out with a single raised brow. The implication was clear—what now?

  “Oh! Right!” Breezy jolted from the wall, adrenaline flushing through her system. Time to host a short Q & A with the object of her most depraved lust while her butt cheeks chomped the skintight Lycra. “Let’s take a few questions.”

  Every hand in the room shot toward the ceiling. Some kids waved both. Jed answered queries ranging from “What’s your favorite number?” “Five,” (same as his jersey), to “What’s your favorite movie?” “The Big Lebowski,” to his pregame rituals “Dressing left-to-right,” and “Never shaving during playoffs.”

  When he absently combed his fingers through his hair, the faintest scent of freshly tilled earth crossed the podium. No wait, make that a cedar grove in snow. She sniffed deeply, catching base notes of Earl Grey, her favorite tea, before mentally shaking her head.

  Stop! The head of the children’s section wasn’t allowed to get hot and bothered while promoting literacy. Or to sniff the special guests.

  Neve made a subtle “wrap it up” gesture.

  Breezy stepped close, tall enough she didn’t have to whisper in his ear. A perk of being a five-foot-eleven giantess. “Ready to make a break for it? My sister will hustle you out.”

  He glanced over, covering the microphone and frowning slightly. “What about signing autographs?”

  “Oh. I don’t want to impose on your time.” Impossible to tear her gaze from the way his lucky hand scrubbed his chin scruff, bristly brown hairs that looked as if they’d feel delicious dragged across bare skin.

  “Wouldn’t be right,” he muttered to himself. “These are kids.”

  That’s it. She was dead—an official ghost, one who’d roam the library as a happy phantom because she’d kicked the bucket in the best of ways, discovering her celebrity crush was an actual good guy, not just playing one on television.

  The only improvement on the present moment would be if he happened to punch a fist to his sternum as if struck by a mortal blow. After a rueful head shake, he’d chuckle, a sound like a bag of gravel dragged through honey. “Breezy Angel,” he’d murmur, as if her name was a Shakespearean sonnet. “Why . . . you’re the one. The one that I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

  “How do you want me?” he asked, speaking slow as if repeating himself.

  A hectic heat fired up her neck. “Excuse me?”

  He arched a brow. “Up against the wall?”

  Her mouth opened but words formed a traffic jam in her one-lane throat.

  “Jed! Take position by the exit!” Neve clapped her hands and strode toward the conference room double doors, in her element bossing people left and right. “Hey, listen up! Westy has graciously agreed to sign a few autographs on your way out. Form a line and keep it to one per person. Also, remember to stay dry and drive home safe. Thanks so much for coming out.”

  Her sister’s brash voice served as a defibrillator, zapping Breezy back to life and the fact she was on the clock, not the steamy Playboy Grotto. “And . . .” She licked her too-dry lips before continuing, “Don’t forget to sign up for the summer reading challenge by the checkout desk. Lots of great prizes to win, including tickets to the Hellions home opener next season. Unmask the Super Reader in you.” Impulsively, she flexed her biceps in a double muscle pose.

  The gesture tested the limits of the old costume.

  Air-conditioned air kissed her suddenly bare skin as the threadbare material
gave way in an audible rip. Make that her bare-ass skin.

  Worse, she’d fallen behind on laundry and this morning the only clean underwear remaining in her dresser was her “Fox-trotting Foxes” thong.

  Before the full impact of the fashion disaster could register, a crunch of Gore-Tex encircled her hips. A silent scream detonated deep inside her skull. Jed West had his actual hands on her actual body, albeit through his rain jacket that he pressed to her naked butt cheeks with enough force to staunch blood flow, or more aptly, her wounded pride.

  The universe had a seriously sinister way of granting wishes. The pensive expression in his eyes couldn’t be further from passionate ardor. This wasn’t that sultry “Wanna play plant the parsnip?” look she’d imagined earlier. It was pity. She was an expert in being on the receiving end of those sorts of faces.

  Tonight Jed would take some svelte Sports Illustrated model out for cocktails, tell her about his crazy day, and they’d laugh and laugh.

  She’d be relegated to the punch line of a funny story, a walking, talking joke. Salt burned the insides of her eyelids, a warning that tears weren’t lagging far behind.

  “Why don’t you borrow this and get changed?” Jed didn’t sound as if he was fighting off a chuckle. No, he sounded grave, kind even.

  Of course he did.

  Everyone knew Westy was a good guy. The captain who always had complimentary words for the opposing team, never failed to yield the spotlight to teammates. He’d offered to stick around and sign autographs for children, and now had been blinded by a jilted librarian’s full moon. He wasn’t going to mock her. But he wasn’t going to really see her either, at least not as a woman. Just an awkward calamity.

  “T-thank you.” She stumbled, but he was already turning to walk toward Neve. As he reached for the first notepad pressed into his hand, a dozen camera phones flashed like paparazzi.

  “Jed West?” Daisy, her librarian tech, sidled up with an incredulous laugh. “Wow! Way to throw a wrench into Tater Tots’s plans. You might have bought us a reprieve today. No way can they shut us down after that stunt.” Tater Tots was the secret code name for their dour boss, Janet Tater. The lady disliked anyone under the age of sixteen, and barely tolerated the boisterous noise that often floated from the children’s department.