"Hey, there's no rush here. Let me get a couple games under my belt. I feel like things have been off kilter for the past few months and I need to get back on track. And after that, we'll... talk." The way his voice dropped suggested a lot more than simply talking and her skin burned to feel more.
Thoughts and cravings conflicted. She definitely needed more time to think. "Then I guess I'll see you here at ten o'clock tomorrow for the morning skate."
He loosened his hold and slowly slid his hand free, the achingly slow progress prolonged their contact. "I'll be here. But I'll be thinking about you tonight, Blair."
Want pooled in her blood, and her eyes fluttered closed. When she opened them, Dylan gave her a final smile and then he walked away.
She blew out a breath and watched him go. He was only thirty-one, the same as she. If he played for another six or eight years like he'd talked about wanting to do, and if he sustained any more concussions, what would his future hold? She couldn't shake the scary image of him becoming as debilitated as her dad. And she didn't want to be a caretaker for yet another person who was too stubborn to listen to medical advice. Maybe that was selfish, but she already felt stretched too thin.
But maybe she was getting ahead of herself there. She'd take her time and think, and then when it came down to talking, she would be honest.
And then she would see where they stood.
DYLAN STOOD IN THE tunnel with his teammates, restless, anxious, and so ready to get back on the ice. The atmosphere was electric. The fans were ramped up, and the intensity of the playoffs made everything feel bigger. He'd been on edge all day.
Six weeks was a long time away.
A staff member opened the door in the boards and waved him forward.
Finally, go time.
He led his teammates onto the ice. The roar of the crowd rose like a wave, building and building until it faded into the rock music blaring from the speakers. He took a lap of the Bedlam's half of the ice, ignoring the Tampa Bay players on the other side on the rink, and taking in the crowd.
He'd missed this. All those days and nights when symptoms had plagued him, all he'd wanted was to get back to the place he loved most. The cool air swirling around him, the smooth surface beneath his skates, the familiar blue jersey, the fans, his teammates, and the game itself.
As he stood between Celek and Leo for the National Anthem, he spied Blair and Peter at the bench. They'd been a huge part of his recovery. Especially Blair, with her care and concern, bringing him dinners, checking on him, keeping his spirits high when he sank too far down. He had to convince her to give him a chance.
But first, the Bedlam had a game to win.
Lining up for that first face-off had never felt so good. He won, poking the puck to Celek. Then joined the rush and chased it into the corner with two Tampa Bay players. His muscles tightened and shoulders hunched as he moved in and knocked the puck free of their skates. He hated turning his back to the ice now. Hated that he was playing with one ounce of worry. He couldn't get distracted wondering whether a hit was coming. He needed to focus only on executing the game plan. There was no room for fear.
Twisting, he fired the puck to Leo. The huge winger muscled through a defenseman, and his shot rang off the crossbar.
When play moved to the opposite end, Dylan headed to the bench for a line change.
Leo tapped his thigh until he shifted over enough for the winger to sit beside him. "You need to relax. You're playing too rigid."
Dylan huffed a sigh. His frustration at himself doubled. "I know."
"I have your back out there."
"I know that too." And that made him smile. He was bound to get hit, or could fall to the ice in a tangle of players. Cautious or timid play never worked out well.
As the game wore on, he relaxed.
On the last shift of the first period, Dylan and his line mates kept up the pressure in the Tampa Bay zone. The Tampa Bay goalie made a pad save on Leo's shot from the right circle but didn't hold on to the puck. Celek gained control and spun around. Dylan rushed toward the goalie, calculating where Celek would go. Tied up with a defenseman, he tapped it to Dylan. Handling the puck, he kept moving and his wrist shot sent the puck just past the goalie's pads and into the net.
The goal light and siren went off, and the crowd cheered. Getting the goal felt great. His first of the playoffs, but hopefully not his last. His teammates on the ice surrounded him in celebration, with hugs and taps of their helmets against his. He skated back to the bench and went down the line high-fiving his teammates. The memory surfaced of the last time he'd scored a goal, which had been the last moments in the last game he'd played. He'd high-fived his teammates as he glided the length of the bench and then had been slammed into from behind by an opposing player hell-bent on knocking him out of the game. The impact had been like a train crashing into him. He didn't have a memory of the rest of that night. Everything was hazy, like a dream. But standing in the exact spot where he'd sustained that second concussion, a chill crept over his skin.
He reached the end of the bench and met Blair's gaze. She smiled gently, as though she understood.
His trepidation eased. No matter what happened, he had people looking out for him. He didn't doubt for one moment that if she saw a cheap shot like that again, she'd jump over the boards and rush to defend him, just like any other Bedlam player.
Tampa Bay responded with the lone goal of the second period.
In the middle of the third period, he battled in the corner for the puck. The glass reflected a flash of movement, and a Tampa Bay winger barreled into his back. His chest hit the glass and his face pressed against the cool surface. His breath knocked out of his lungs and he lost control of the puck. But quickly regained his balance. The hit had been hard, delivered with the same intensity that Dylan himself always gave. He was fine, and glad to have gotten it out of the way. He rejoined the play. Leo followed the Tampa Bay player's trail, and knocked into the winger at the blue line, freeing up the puck for Vince to swoop in. He rushed down the ice, flying toward Dylan, and one-timed at shot from the blue line. It flew past the goalie's side and smashed into the back of the net.
The horn sounded for the end of the game and filled him with a sense of relief. He'd made it through one game. Nothing bad had happened. His body didn't feel off or funny. He was going to be okay. Best of all, they'd earned the win. Dylan congratulated his teammates and followed them down the tunnel.
Kelsey stopped him outside the locker room. His sister worked in fan outreach and did videos with player interviews for the Bedlam website, in addition to doing segments for the national network. Microphone in hand, she smiled at the camera. "We're here with Bedlam captain Dylan Fraser. Dylan, your recovery took six weeks. What's it like to be back in the lineup?"
"It's awesome. I missed being out on the ice with the boys. I missed playing in front of our fans. I'm really glad to be back."
"You took that hit in the third period. How are you feeling?"
His mind replayed being checked into the boards. "I feel great. I'm one hundred percent healed. The most important thing is that we managed to walk away with the win. The guys all worked hard tonight. It was a team effort."
"There you have it, Bedlam fans. The inside scoop from the captain. That's it for this edition of Kelsey's Corner. See you next time." Kelsey signed off and then lowered her microphone. With the camera gone, her wide celebratory smile faded and concern filled her gaze. "It's just me now. How are you really? Mentally, physically, emotionally?"
"I'm good. I swear. Being out there was a little rough, but I settled in."
"Good." She leaned up to hug him. "You're all sweaty. Go shower."
"Thanks." He entered the locker room and pulled off his jersey. More media interviews awaited him. Then his own post-game routine. Throughout, he was attuned to Blair's presence. But she had duties—handling treatments and injury assessments, talking with the coaches—and didn't need him getting in her way.
Instead, he watched her work. The graceful lines of her body reminded him of a dancer. She moved from one player to the next, offering advice and dispensing care with a confident tilt of her shoulders and chin, and a smile that warmed his heart every time.
She wound her way to him when he eased himself into the cold tub. "You looked good out there. How are you feeling? Any symptoms coming back?"
The anxiousness in her gaze needed to be soothed. He knew that she drew parallels between her dad's concussions and his—she'd mentioned the symptoms often enough. If she worried too much, she might not give him a chance.
So he smiled and hoped pain-free came through in his expression. "I feel like a broken record, telling everyone that I feel fine tonight. My sister, the media, the guys, the coaches, the equipment manager, Peter, and now you. I'm good."
Her eyes narrowed, forming a line between her brows, and her scrutiny intensified like she was assessing an injury. "Are you really?"
"I swear. I'll never lie to you. You'll be the first to know if anything feels off."
The lines faded and her expression eased. "All right then. We have a deal. I trust you."
"You can, you know." He held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe him.
She glanced behind her at the players who still needed attention, then turned back to him. "I'm happy you had a good game. I know how badly you wanted to get back on the ice."
"Yeah. One game down. I'll be able to relax a little more now. Well, as much as a player can relax in the playoffs." He laughed as he let his gaze roam her body. Her Bedlam shirt and tan pants were modest and gave only a hint at her figure. His hands itched to dive under the fabric and feel her. But just as much as he yearned for that, he also wanted the simple things like sharing a meal together, and holding her close while watching a movie, and holding her hand as they walked along the street.
Her fingers met his on the side of the tub and intensity sparked between them like a live wire. Heat surged through him and his body hardened. He flexed his fingers to feel more of her touch. The urge to kiss her, to taste the softness of her lips and to hear her whisper his name burned through him.
She stared at him for another heady moment. Someone, maybe Slater, maybe Celek, called her name. Biting her lip, she withdrew her hand. "I need to get back to work."
Dylan blew out a breath he hadn't realized that he'd been holding, and watched her walk away. He sank further down, grateful for the cold and its ability to temper his body's reaction. He'd need at least a few more minutes before he could walk away.
CHAPTER THREE
THE TEAM'S HOTEL IN Tampa Bay was beautiful. Blair meandered down the hallways to the elevator. They'd arrived at the hotel too late for her to do anything except sleep the first night, and the following day and night had been spent at the arena, getting players ready for the third game of the series, which they'd won.
Tonight was an off night, but she'd still spent a full day at the rink working on chart notes and preparing for the day's treatments and therapy sessions in the morning, then working out with the injured players, and then helping the rest of the team once they'd arrived for practice: stretching, taping, treating any previous injuries, and evaluating new injuries. As soon as practice ended she'd returned to the training room and worked with the players who needed to finish treatments, therapy, and workouts.
A long, long day.
But a shower had helped, as did dinner, and comfortable clothes.
She stepped inside the car, craving fresh air after being stuck indoors most of the day. After a brief debate, she skipped the rooftop pool and hit the button for the lobby and the walking path that lay just outside the hotel's doors.
The elevator doors opened. Dylan stood on the other side in a black polo shirt and gray jeans. He did a double-take, and then his smile lit up the room. "Hey."
Surprise mixed with pleasure, jolting her heart into a faster beat. "Hi."
She stepped into the lobby wishing she'd changed into something nicer than her faded jeans and favorite red shirt, its soft material worn thin from so many washings.
Rather than getting into the elevator, he moved closer to her. "You're wearing your hair down. I don't think I've ever seen it like that."
She brushed the strands over her shoulder. When she wore it down, it was long enough to reach her lower back. "I always pull it up for work or working out so it won't get in the way."
"I like it. Up or down." His hand reached toward her as if he wanted to touch her hair, paused, and then he lowered it back to his side. "Where are you headed?"
"The Riverwalk. I want to get outside for a bit."
"Want some company?"
His words, spoken at the practice facility days earlier, echoed in her head. I need to get a game or two under my belt, and then we'll... talk. Since then, he'd gotten through three games, and a few full-contact practices and his head seemed to be fine. Daring herself to take the chance, she nodded. "I'd love it. Where were you coming from?"
"I just came from there, but it's a nice night so going back is a good idea." He dipped his hands into his pockets as they walked. "I just needed a walk to clear my head. I was a little keyed up with all of the preparation for tomorrow's game."
She noted the slight lines fanning from his eyes. "Stressed?"
He shrugged, and his brows drew together. "I think it's more like experiencing information overload. I've watched a lot of video on strengths and weaknesses for both teams. When we're at home, it's different. I have things to distract me or allow me to shift focus. Hell, Rod alone is one big distraction. He always has something going on at the house."
"Speaking of Rod, where is he?" The brothers weren't usually too far apart.
"Last I checked, he was on the phone with Arielle."
"They're very cute together." She'd met his fiancée a handful of times over the past season. Rod and Arielle balanced each other out well.
They reached the door, and Dylan's hand grazed her back when she passed in front of him. The touch sent a shiver over her skin.
She lifted her face to the sky when they stepped outside and breathed in deep. The stress of her day faded. They walked for a few minutes until the hotel was out of view. She looked out over the water. "It's pretty here."
"From where I'm standing too." He stood a few steps away, his gaze intent on her face.
Heat flushed into her body. She moved closer to him and leaned on the iron railing that separated them from the bay. Wind whipped all around them in playful gusts, ruffling clothes and hair. She tugged her shirtsleeves over her hands and wrapped her arms around her torso.
"Cold?" Dylan slid his arm around her shoulder. Strong and warm, it held her snug against his side.
Her skin tingled at his nearness, at the touch and the closeness she'd thought about for so long. She relaxed against him and leaned her head on his chest. She was too short to reach his shoulder. The lights reflecting off the water and the palm trees wrapped in tiny white lights made her smile. Romantic, given the company.
He brought his other arm around her, enclosing her in the circle of his embrace. She lifted her head and tilted it to meet his gaze.
His expression a study in seriousness, he shifted his hold. Blair wet her dry lips. Pulse thrumming a steady beat, she traced the dark stubble covering his jaw. His eyes closed as she explored. When they opened, they were darkened with desire.
"I like this. It's softer than it looks." She cupped his cheek again. "And it's sexy."
He smiled. "It's the playoffs."
"Otherwise known as no shaving season."
"Unless we're not winning, then it can come off." Dylan's fingers wrapped around her wrist and traced a slow path to her shoulder then down to her elbow before it dropped to rest on her hip.
Blair shivered as fresh goosebumps rose. She slid her hand from his cheek to his neck. The move brought them torso to torso. Her curves fit against the hard planes of his body and his heat seeped into her.
Intensity crackled between them. Dylan leaned in, slow inch by slow inch, with a hint of a smile. Blair strained toward him until his lips were teasing over hers. Whisper soft and feather-light, from one side of her mouth to the other.
Then he settled more firmly in place, increasing the pressure as he slanted his mouth. Blair's core turned to liquid heat. She parted her lips and swiped her tongue over his lips to get another taste.
He groaned low in his throat. The hand on her shoulder moved to cradle the back of her neck. Strong fingers flexed there, angling her head to give him deeper access. His tongue curled into hers, tempting and teasing.
The flames of desire stoked higher. She curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt and hooked her other arm over his shoulder to pull him tighter against her body.
For a long while, the world consisted of nothing but Dylan hard and hot at her front, the cylindrical metal railing at her back, and the breeze blowing around them.
Desperate to drag in full breaths, she eased back. Dylan looked sleepy, sexy, and soft, like they'd just woken up after a long night together. His hands roamed over her back, soothing strokes that made her arch into his touch.
"So, I'd say there is a connection." His voice was raspy. "I didn't doubt it though, I've felt it for a while. You've always made my heart beat faster. You make me want things."
"Like what?"
"You." His mouth curved in a lopsided smile. "A chance. We were friends first. I think we can be more."
"I can't deny the way you make me feel or that I want more." Sparks didn't happen with just anyone, and she and Dylan had moved from kindling to an inferno in the span of a heartbeat. But he'd promised that they would talk and she needed to do that before they could do anything else. "I care a lot about you and we've been friends for a while. When you got hurt, it made me face my feelings for you. The concussions concern me. You know how my dad is now, and I know you're different, and that his problems are from several small concussions sustained over a twenty-year career, but I still worry about you."
Taking His Shot Page 2