Mister Hockey

by Lia Riley

  There was an old saying that still waters run deep. Deep in the coach’s serious eyes stirred a nameless emotion when focused on her sister.

  Hard to say if he wanted to kill her or kiss her.

  “This is people’s lives,” he bit off. “Not a game.”

  “I’m not dignifying that statement with a reply.” Neve sniffed. “My sister had nothing to do with this. Neither did I. End of story.”

  “Jed . . .” Breezy knew there were right words for any occasion. She had read so many that had shaped her life, formed her worldview. But right now they all abandoned her. If only he’d look at her, but he fixed on the blank yellow wall as if the truth was written there.

  And who knows, maybe it was. That wall could be spelling out a future doesn’t exist.

  “Come on, Westy.” Tor turned for the door, shaking his head. “We can weather this at my place.”

  “Don’t let the door hit you, Coach.” Neve’s tone was all sass.

  He froze, his hand tightening infinitesimally on the knob before he opened it and stalked onto the porch.

  “Jed.” Breezy wasn’t sure if she repeated the word, or if it was just the plea in her heart.

  But he didn’t turn back around. Didn’t offer so much as a single backward glance.

  He walked into the storm and when the door slammed behind all that remained was silence.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Breezy squeezed her eyes shut but when she opened them her living room was still the same. Neve stood in the middle of the area rug with a “what the hell just happened” look stamped on her face.

  “Before you say anything. Can I see it?” Neve crossed the room and grabbed her wrist. “The hand that decked Jed West.”

  “Don’t try to make a joke and make me feel better.” Breezy couldn’t laugh, cry, sigh or even yell at her sister. How was she supposed to feel? There’d been no warning the day was going to be like this. When she woke up it had been sunny. Jed had kissed every square inch of her body. It had even been a good hair day.

  No sign that the universe was sending over a giant shit storm of epic proportions.

  Neve walked to the window. “He’s talking to Channel Seven.”

  “Should you be out there?”

  “Yeah. Probably. But I should be here more.” She turned around. “I’m not even going to bother asking if you’re okay. But seriously. What the hell? I know what Mom told me, but I want to hear it from your lips. You and Jed West got together?”

  Breezy nodded miserably.

  “And you didn’t mention that you were his number one fan.”

  Breezy shook her head. Apparently head gestures were all she could muster the energy for at the moment.

  Neve blew out a breath. “And he told you that he planned to retire.”

  More nods.

  “Wow.” Her sister digested the information. “He must have really trusted you, sharing information like that.”

  “Except now he thinks that I sold him out. Tried to cash in on the story. I get how it must look. I’m related to you, a sports journalist. I lost my job the other day. I’m worried about money. I want to open a bookshop. But I didn’t say a word. I swear. Like, I think I’m falling in love with him. Real love. Not being starstruck and in lust.”

  Neve sank down to the floor, folded her legs crisscross applesauce, her cheeks pale. “Whoa. Okay. That’s a lot to unpack. You lost your job this week? Oh my God, Breezy. And of course you are worried about the mortgage. You just bought the cottage. And what’s this about a bookshop? And sorry, you are in love with Westy?”

  “Yep to all of the above.” Breezy sprawled starfish on the floor beside her sister. “That about covers the situation.”

  “You need to tell him the truth.” Her sister gripped her wrist. “That it wasn’t you.”

  “For someone so observant, maybe you missed the whole part from a minute ago where I said that and was essentially called a liar. I’m sorry for you too. For causing more trouble between you and the coach.”

  Neve snorted. “Tor Gunnar? He doesn’t scare me.”

  “Why do you guys have such beef?”

  “Beef? No, no, no. Beef is delicious, especially served medium rare.” She reached over and tickled her sister. “What we have is like chicken left on the counter for a week in August. Toxic. Deadly. Makes you feel sick.” Her joking tone held a note of seriousness.

  “But why?”

  Neve’s gaze locked on hers and for a moment, just a fraction, her usual confident demeanor slipped. “I have theories.”

  Breezy perked. “So there is a reason? You’ve never said. I just wasn’t sure if Coach didn’t like you in the locker room. He’s youngish, but that seems old-fashioned.”

  “Understatement,” Neve said. “But for real, there’s bigger fish to fry at the moment. You dated Rory for how long? Years. You even got engaged. But you know what, in all that time, I never heard you to declare that you loved him.”

  “Never once?” Breezy wrinkled her brows. “Come on, are you sure?”

  “Cross my heart. I wanted to bring it up when you announced the engagement, but Margot ordered me to mind my own business, said that everyone is entitled to have relationships in their own way. In her case, that means going to a remote section of Baja with two six-foot professional surfers for a getaway.”

  “Ah, yes.” Breezy smiled in spite of herself. “You saw her last Instagram post too?”

  “Her life, I swear to God.” Neve shook her head. “I consider ordering a Blizzard and not doing my breakfast dishes a big free-spirited move. She’s probably having a threesome in a beachside bungalow as we speak.”

  “Well, if she was to spare us a thought, I’m pretty sure she’d expect me to be hosting Toddler Reading Hour, not deleting my Facebook account while Jed West announces his retirement from the game.”

  Neve looked thoughtful. “Who is going to take his place, you think? As captain, I mean? Think Patch Donnelly is up for—hey!”

  Breezy had half sat, grabbed a pillow and was now smacking her sister.

  “Ouch!” Neve threw her hands over her head. “What’s this for?”

  “Can you not be a Hellions Angel for two seconds. Forget he’s . . . you know . . . Jed West . . . and think of him as like . . . Jed West.”

  Neve raised her brows. “I’m going to need help deciphering that.”

  “Think of him as a guy, just a guy that I am really into. Beyond all the rest of what anyone else says, least of all random strangers on the internet. Or the people out there wondering about his retirement.” Breezy waved her hand in the direction of the closed up window. “I understand if it freaks him out too much that I was a huge fangirl and didn’t tell him. Because that is creepy. I was creepy.”

  “You had a healthy fantasy.”

  “Yes. But all these players me and other girls drool over . . . they’re like . . . people, you know? Like they are real. And he is real. And what we had, Neve, it was real and I blew it. I can’t get that back.”

  “Can’t you?” Neve looked thoughtful. “Because there might be a way.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Forty-five minutes later, Jed was kicked back in a patio chair on Tor’s rooftop condo. “Thanks, man,” he said, taking the offered pilsner. The bottle was icy cold, a welcome relief against his too-hot skin.

  “Time for a come to Jesus.” Tor opened his bottle with his keychain. “You’ve been dodging my calls since the playoffs. Now this. What the fuck?” Coach didn’t raise his voice. He never did. Other coaches might scream during the game. Make themselves hoarse in the locker room. It wasn’t that Tor was soft-spoken. No. There was nothing soft about Coach Gunnar. It was that he was unshakeable. Nothing rattled him.

  Except for Neve Angel.

  “I know. I’m sorry. Shit.” Jed took a long pull from the bottle. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go down, believe me. I’ve been trying to decide what to do for weeks.”

  Coach shook his head wearily
. “My door has always been open to you.”

  “I know. I know. But I was in my head.”

  “And that woman.” Tor turned to face out. If the Denver skyline was erased, they’d be able to look at the mountains. “The one in the little house with the big hair.”

  “Her name is Breezy. She’s Neve Angel’s little sister.”

  “And she ratted you out?”

  “She swears she didn’t. But there’s that whole Occam’s razor principle, right? Whatever is the simplest explanation is probably correct.”

  “Very logical.”

  “So what?” Jed’s fingers clutched the bottle’s neck. “You think I did the wrong thing?”

  “Do you?” Coach’s stare was unwavering.

  Not to mention unnerving.

  “Why’d she lie?” Jed got up and paced, scowled down over the railing at the pool and courtyard below. A few people swam laps or read magazines. They looked normal. Didn’t they know? The world had gone mad.

  “She needed the money,” he continued. “She lost her job at the library. She has a mortgage. She wants to start a bookstore.”

  “So she was paid to do a tell-all exposé on you? By what, leaking gossip on Twitter? That’ll set her up for life.”

  “Shit.” Coach didn’t say a lot, but when he did, it always made sense. “I don’t know.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m fucking confused.”

  “Neve insisted her sister wasn’t the leaker, I’d take that at face value.”

  “Say what?” Jed dropped the bottle down against his hip. “You can’t stand Angel.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have a poor opinion of her ethics,” Coach shot back coolly.

  Jed opened his mouth, slammed it, opened it up again and finally shrugged.

  “But you don’t like her.”

  “I don’t like most people.”

  Jed laughed despite himself. “Fair enough.” Coach was a good guy, loyal to a fault, committed to the team and had an uncanny ability to notice other people and take their measure.

  “Do a gut check.” Coach was big on those.

  “You don’t think I tried?” Jed knew his voice was sharp, but something felt broken inside him, the pieces jagged and grating. “I met this woman. It was unexpected. The connection. The attraction. It was a whirlwind. But the whole time it felt right,” he quietly declared. “It felt real . . . natural even. Not a single alarm bell ever went off that she was playing me for a long-game.”

  “You know what? You keep talking about that girl,” Tor said. “Not about retiring.”

  Jed froze. Shit. Coach had a point. He was mourning Breezy more than his career. He lowered his chin, glaring at his sneakers. What the hell did that mean? His phone started ringing. “Twenty bucks it’s my agent.”

  “Or one of the guys.” Tor tore the label off his bottle, rolling it neatly.

  Shit. Of course. All his teammates would be seeing the retirement news pop up on their feed, or on the news. They’d be blindsided. “I’ll get back to them later,” he said, flicking off his phone without looking at the screen. He wanted to tune everything out.

  “What’ll you do now?” Tor asked. “If you don’t play?”

  The unsettled feeling in his stomach became turbulent. “Truthfully, I don’t have the first fucking clue. I’ve got money. I’ve got time. So I’m lucky.”

  “Got enough rope to hang yourself.”

  Coach was also a “glass is half-full” type.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t given me shit for retiring.”

  Tor was quiet a moment. “I’m not happy, but from the little you’ve told me about your brother, I understand why you wouldn’t want to push it.” Tor was one of the few people in the world that he’d opened up to about Travis’s injuries. Coach understood that Jed wasn’t embarrassed about his brother, but wanted to look out for him, the best way he knew how. Travis coped when his world was kept quiet, with strict structure and routine. The highs couldn’t get too high or the lows too low.

  Nothing in Jed’s career invited that.

  And as Travis’s condition deteriorated, any fluctuation in those routines made him increasingly agitated and erratic. And being around Jed only exasperated his own sense of loss.

  “The roster’s undergoing a major state of transitions,” Tor continued. “Veterans are being traded. You’re out. We might opt to rotate alternate captains for the moment. See who rises. Petrov might make a solid bridge to the newer players.”

  “Have you thought about Patch Donnelly?” The quiet new goalie had an unexpected maturity.

  “Him?” Tor’s brow creased. “Donnelly strings five words together on a good day.”

  There was that. “Focus on getting him out of his shell next season. He’s a Catholic boy, right? Played at Boston College. I hear he goes to church every morning during the off-season. Petrov said he was almost a priest.” Jed’s muscles loosened as his brain whirled, reviewing the goalie’s strengths and weaknesses.

  “A good goalie lets go of fear, lives fully in the present.” Tor shook his head. “He’s not there. Not yet anyway. But I’ll give him opportunities to prove me wrong.”

  Jed regarded Tor with approval. “You would have made a good general, Coach.”

  “Probably.” Nothing else was forthcoming. Coach wasn’t big on small talk or humility.

  They spent the next hour drinking good beer and playing air hockey before Coach checked his watch with his usual abruptness. “Hey, I got to run. It’s my night with Olive,” he said by way of explanation. He shared custody of his daughter with his ex-wife and her fiancé. “I’ll drop you off on the way.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll Uber.” But once Jed left Coach’s condo, a walk sounded better. He kept to shady residential streets, crossing the road if anyone was on the sidewalk or in their front yard. It took a few times before he shook his head, laughing at himself. Not everyone was looking for him. Hell, most weren’t even thinking about him.

  “Paranoid much?” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. His retirement from the Hellions was newsworthy, but it wasn’t like he’d negotiated peace in the Middle East. Soon even the most die-hard fans would move on. Embrace the new roster. Focus on the new season.

  And what would he have once the limelight faded?

  More importantly, who would he have?

  Coach had believed Breezy’s denial. Jed stared up at the sunlight filtering through the maple leaves. Had he been wrong to come to a snap judgment? He’d gone into lockdown mode when he looked in that box, then remembered the closet she had steered him from the day her room flooded.

  After that it was all over. He’d tried and sentenced her without letting her offer any explanation.

  Kind of an asshole move, really.

  No wonder she decked him. He rubbed his cheek. The moment he’d been tested, he’d retreated. Freaked out. Acted like a coward.

  Bitterness flooded his mouth.

  Maybe she’d called? Maybe he should nut up and call her. He turned on his phone, checking his voice mail. By the time the screen powered on, he’d made a decision. He’d dial her up, ask to meet and talk things over. She deserved that much.

  There were four new voice mails. Two from his agent. One from his publicist. But it was the third name on the list that froze the blood in his veins.

  “Shit.” It was like someone Windexed the grime off his brain and the truth shown.

  His arm holding the phone, dropped limply to his side. The street might not even exist.

  He’d gotten everything wrong. Royally screwed the pooch.

  No, those were just statements of fact. They didn’t come close to describing his fuck up. He’d just crashed and burned so hard that he should be nothing but a few splinters of bone, some singed hair. He resumed walking, picking up the pace, as if he could move faster than the avalanche of regret bearing down on him.

  Breezy hadn’t done shit. And he’d accused her with all the self-righteousness of a
n Old Testament God. He could barely focus. His body ached to move. Run. But even as his feet pounded the concrete, breath tearing from his chest, a single question chased him.

  What the hell was he going to do now?

  Chapter Nineteen

  For the next few days, social media had a field day with the news of Jed’s surprise retirement. His image was everywhere, in the form of career montages and old interview clips. Every time she glimpsed his face it punched another hole in Breezy’s stomach.

  It was impossible to venture online or read a paper. Instead, Breezy tried to find solace in her favorite place on Earth—her bed. But even reading eluded her. She was unable to escape into make-believe.

  This wasn’t a book slump. It was a bone-crushing pain.

  After a busy morning talking to real estate agents and visiting banks and putting together the first stage of her plan, she went to her closet and yanked out the cardboard Jed West cutout.

  “Why don’t you call me?” she snapped.

  He stared at a fixed point with that stupidly perfect smile.

  “Look. I can’t call you. Not when you’re so mad at me. The last thing I want to do is have you not believe me.”

  She sighed.

  “I know. I lied to you, or at least hung out in that gray area of omission. I guess that I felt stupid if you knew I was a fan. I was afraid you’d dismiss me, or think I was desperate. A pathetic bookworm who believes in fairy tales and fantasizes about a prince. Actually . . . it’s sort of our story, but it’s more than that. Just like you are more than the guy everyone cheers for on game nights.”

  She dabbed the corner of her eyes. “Anyway, speaking of pathetic, I should stop having a long one-sided discussion with a piece of sexy cardboard.” She regarded the cutout for a long moment before making a decision. “This will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

  She marched to the kitchen and yanked a garbage bag from the roll beneath the sink. Back in her bedroom, she folded the cutout in half and stuck the sucker inside. The poster met the same fate as did her calendar, the Westy bobblehead and other assorted trinkets.