All the Way

by Ryan, Kendall

  Extending his arms out to his sides, he does a spin, encouraging me. “Laugh it up, Becs.”

  Relief washes through me at the realization that maybe, just maybe, our friendship hasn’t been completely ruined. If Owen is still joking with me and poking fun, there’s a chance we’ll be okay. Because really that’s all I want—to come out on the other side of this unscathed. Well, and to be okay with the opposite sex, but baby steps. Am I right?

  He settles onto the couch while I grab a couple of bottles of water from the fridge. I was serious about being dehydrated.

  “We were interrupted back there,” he says, uncapping his water once I settle in beside him.

  I nod, sucking in a deep breath. “Yep. I, uh, was about to tell you about a proposition I have for you.”

  “I’m listening.” He sets his water bottle down and leans back on the couch, showing me I have his full attention.

  Owen really is a good friend. When I met Elise four years ago, I never could have imagined I’d become such close friends first with her, and then her brother. They’re even the ones who helped me get a job working for the team. I’d been an administrative assistant for years, but now I report directly to the team owner.

  It’s my dream job, and Owen’s always been there for me. He’s the one who taught me how to change a flat tire, where to find the best burger in town, and all about the team lines and training schedule. This doesn’t need to be any different, right?

  “First, I’m sorry for how I acted last night. The things I said . . . the things I did . . .”

  He holds up one hand, stopping me. “You’re forgiven. It was a little . . . unexpected, but you don’t need to apologize. I was there too. And I wasn’t that drunk. I’m a big boy; I knew what I was doing.”

  He certainly is.

  A big boy, that is.

  My cheeks turn warm again. Focus, Becca.

  Owen has always been good to me. Ever since I befriended Elise, he’s been there—buying our drinks, holding open doors, making sure we got home safely anytime we went out. Simply put, he’s easy to be around. Sweet, and fun, and easy going.

  But despite all that, what I just witnessed with Puck Bunny Barbie proves that I can’t get involved with Owen. As if I had any doubts before. For the record, drunk me just got confused for a hot second. But I’m good now.

  “I’m more concerned about you. I want to know you’re okay,” he says, concern in his deep voice.

  I nod. “I’m fine. And I didn’t mean for all that to come out last night that way, but apparently tequila is my truth serum.” I pause, waiting for Owen to laugh or flash me that signature smirk, but he does neither, so I press on. “I know I need to put myself out there more, and it’s why I signed up for some of those dating apps and have even met up with a couple of guys. I’ve started pushing myself to go out and meet people.”

  Owen puts his hand on mine and gives it a light squeeze. “That’s great, Bec.”

  I nod. “It’s been fine so far. I’m good with talking to new people and meeting up for drinks. It’s just that every time things start to get physical, I freak out and make an excuse to leave.”

  He frowns, squeezing my hand once more. “You went through some seriously bad trauma in your past. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to take things slow. It’s okay to say no.”

  He sounds like my therapist. The one I stopped seeing because all she did was encourage my neurosis, and my progress stalled to a halt. I need someone who’s going to challenge me. Push me outside my comfort zone. Encourage me to move on. I can sense it deep in my bones that it’s the only way to move forward and reclaim who I want to be and the life I want to live.

  “Slow is fine, but I feel like I’m not moving forward at all. It’s been six years . . .” I leave the rest of that sentence unfinished.

  “Okay . . . so, what do you want to do about it? How do you feel you can move forward?”

  “Well, I think I need some help. No, I know I need some help. Someone to push me over the edge. Someone I feel comfortable with. Someone who knows my history. That someone being you.” I grin cautiously at him, feeling optimistic but also way out of my element.

  With Owen’s broad shoulders and massive chest, his ready smile and playful jokes, the guy just oozes sexuality. It comes so naturally to him. It sometimes makes me feel a little anxious around him, yet if he notices that I’m a woman at all, he’s never let on. But right now . . . he just looks confused.

  Owen’s dark brows push together. “That’s your proposition?”

  I nod.

  “But how can I help?”

  I shrug. “You’re the king of hookups. I thought you could teach me, coach me through getting back into the dating scene. Be my wingman. Talk me down from the ledge when I freak out. That kind of thing. I trust you, and I know you know what you’re talking about when it comes to all of this.”

  He weighs my words as if I’ve just proposed an arranged marriage or something equally as outlandish. “Can I think about it?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck, looking somewhat nervous.

  What’s there to think about? I figured he’d give me an enthusiastic yes and be dishing up dating advice faster than I could blink.

  The dryer buzzes, and I jump up quickly from the couch.

  “I’ll grab your clothes,” I mutter, almost tripping over myself as I rush away from him. When I return, I hand Owen his clothes, and he goes into my bedroom to change.

  When he emerges, he heads for the door and begins slipping on his shoes. “I have to get going. We have a team skate in a little while.”

  I nod, following him to the door. “Thanks for the chat.”

  He grins. “Of course.

  I pull open the door and lean against the frame, watching him move past me. “Think about what I said. I know with you as my guide through the world of online dating, this won’t be as hard.”

  Owen looks deep in thought, his lips pressing into a firm line as he heads out. He turns briefly to look back at me.

  “I’ll think about it. See you soon, Becs.”

  3

  * * *

  Rock, Meet Hard Place

  Owen

  I’ve never been this hard in my entire life.

  Needing some distance, I jog down the steps from Becca’s apartment. Yes, I need to get to the rink, but mostly I just need some space from Becca to figure out what just went down. I walk back to where I parked my car and make the drive to the rink on autopilot, the entire time replaying our conversation in my head. I’m still trying to wrap my head around what she’s asking me to do.

  Because my brain? It’s getting all kinds of crazy ideas. And every single one of them is not safe for work.

  Last night with Becca, listening to her tell me that she’s thought about me—about us—that she uses a toy, that she’s scared to be physical with a man . . . that it’s been six years. Six freaking years.

  It broke my fucking heart. But more than that, it did something to me.

  I want to help her, but I’m selfish, because I want to be the one to do it. Not just get her ready to go on a date with some fucker she meets online. She has to see that would be the entirely wrong move here. One bad encounter could set her back another six years. I’m not going to let that happen. I can’t.

  But I need time to put my thoughts together. She sprang this conversation on me—all while I was sitting there dressed in a ridiculous pink bathrobe.

  I park my SUV behind the arena in the designated parking area and grab my hockey bag from the back. As I head inside to change, I force my thoughts away from Becca, but that doesn’t work out so well for me.

  I start the practice by almost murdering like four people.

  “Gird your loins, boys,” Teddy calls out as I sprint by him on unsteady skates. Teddy King is one of the best forwards on the team and a good friend of mine, but right now he’s in my way, and I waste no time moving around him.

  “He’s on fire this morning,” Asher says.
He’s the top line’s center and one of my favorite people on the team, but I don’t even bother with a hello.

  Whizzing past my roommate, Justin, I give him a shove.

  “Who pissed in your Cheerios?” he asks, giving me a strange look.

  Ignoring their comments, I push myself harder, faster, until my muscles are screaming and my lungs burn.

  I don’t like being late to practice. And I hate that my brain is filled with so much turmoil. When I’m on the ice, it usually clears my head of everything else. Today, not so much. Today I’m all pent-up adrenaline and useless energy and thoughts of Becca.

  I make it through the two hours, but just barely.

  “Parrish, can I talk with you?” Coach Dodd calls out as most of the players hobble past him toward the locker room.

  I stop at the threshold to the ice and give him a nod. “Sure. Here, or . . .”

  “Go shower. Change. Meet me in my office in ten,” he says with a nod before turning away.

  Uncertainty swarms low inside my gut. It’s never a good sign when the coach wants to talk with you in private. If it was praise for my performance today—which, let’s be honest, it’s not, considering I’m still spinning over my conversation with Becca—he would have said his piece right here while I was still on the ice.

  No, he wants me out of earshot and away from the team. Which can only mean that whatever he has to say requires privacy because it’s not something I’m going to like. I swear to God, if he even thinks about starting our rookie goalie, Morgan, at this weekend’s game, I’m going to lose my shit. That roster spot is mine, and I intend to keep it that way.

  I make record time showering and changing in the locker room, and then I’m knocking on the glass door to Coach’s office in under nine minutes.

  “Come in,” he calls from inside.

  I let myself in and find Coach Dodd seated behind his desk, staring down at his laptop.

  Carl Dodd is a legend. He’s been the head coach of the Ice Hawks since Seattle first got a professional team twelve years ago. He’s fair and honest and highly respected in this league.

  He’s also not a man you want to piss off.

  Before becoming a coach, he was also a player. He played eight seasons in both Canada and the US for a handful of teams, and his stats speak for themselves.

  But rather than racking up goals and assists, he was known more for his conduct during the game. The dude spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice some games. He wasn’t afraid to drop his gloves, and most disagreements were settled with his fists. Then again, he seems pretty mild mannered these days, so maybe age has mellowed him out. Who the hell knows.

  “Take a seat, son,” he says, closing his laptop and giving me his full attention.

  I lick my dry lips, suddenly wishing I’d grabbed one of those sports drinks on the way into this meeting.

  Coach Dodd studies me over the rim of his glasses. “I’ll cut to the chase. You seemed distracted today. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” It’s not a complete lie.

  He lets out a slow exhale and removes his glasses, then rubs the bridge of his nose. “I was watching you out there. You seemed off today, and I just wanted to check in.”

  I press my lips into a line and shake my head. “I’m good. Honestly, Coach. I’ll be ready for the game against Montreal.”

  He swallows, nodding. “I’m sure you will. But something was different today. I saw it, and I’m sure some of the team did too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He folds his glasses and tucks them into his shirt pocket, taking his time before responding. “Normally, you’re the first one here, out on the ice before anyone, stretching and working with the younger guys. Today, Morgan was out there looking a bit lost before you finally arrived just as practice was starting.”

  I swallow, the sinking feeling in my stomach coming back. “Yeah, I kind of had something come up this morning.”

  He nods. “I figured as much. Something you want to talk about?”

  I give my head a shake. That’s a firm no. Somehow I doubt he’ll understand Becca’s insane request of me. Hell, I hardly understand it myself.

  “Is it a lady?” he asks, his gaze latching onto mine.

  “Um. Yeah, sorta?”

  Fuck. Coach is the last person in the world I want to talk to about this Becca situation.

  “It always is, son.” He pauses, his expression softening. “But I’ve been around a while. If there’s one thing I know about hockey, it’s that the girls come and go. Even the WAGs.”

  The acronym stands for wives and girlfriends, and it’s a phrase I’ve never heard Coach use. Probably because I’ve never given him a reason to lay into me with this little speech before.

  “The game is where your focus needs to be,” he adds.

  “I’m aware of that, Coach. The game is my number-one priority.”

  We sit like that for a moment, in stony silence, before Coach clears his throat and looks at me again.

  “You know the best thing about you, Parrish?”

  “What’s that?” I lean forward, genuinely curious about how he views me.

  “You don’t let anyone get into your head. You don’t let anyone distract you.”

  I swallow, nodding.

  “Don’t change now, kid. You’ve got a bright future here on this team, and in this league.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  He nods. “Good. Now go on and get out of here, but don’t forget about what I said.”

  I rise to my feet. “I won’t.”

  And I can’t. I’m living the dream I’ve chased since I was a kid. This is my career, one that pays damn well, and all I have to do is keep my head in the game. But with Becca’s little proposition ringing through my skull, that’s going to be easier said than done.

  I want to help her. I also want to not completely fuck things up.

  For both of us.

  4

  * * *

  Big-Girl Panties

  Becca

  I’m trying to forget about my disastrous conversation with Owen.

  God, the way he looked at me. Like I was damaged goods. Like he felt sorry for me.

  All I want to do is forget, but since I’ve decided to break up with alcohol for the time being after I molested Owen in his bedroom that night, my brain is fully sober and replaying the entire conversation we had on my couch in vivid Technicolor nonstop.

  Good times.

  I could really use a drink—or three—right about now. Instead, I’m perched on a bar stool next to Elise, watching the team celebrate their victory. They won their game against Montreal earlier this week, three to two, and everyone’s in a happy mood. Well, mostly everyone. I’m totally faking.

  Only amping up my frustration? There’s some overly touchy blond puck bunny draped across Owen’s lap, and based on the expression on his face, he doesn’t hate it. He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and the dark stubble on his jawline tells me he hasn’t shaved in a few days. He looks good, better than good, and it’s pissing me off.

  I didn’t like this about myself. Didn’t want to admit that I needed help from someone with a Y chromosome but shit, I kinda did. Because living like a monk, with no one’s company to sweeten my bed, well, it could make a girl lonely. After I saw what Elise and Justin had, how sweet and loving he was with her, I started to get Big Stupid Ideas that I should be dating too.

  I might be damaged, but I’m sure as hell not dead. And maybe it’s taken me all this time to realize I deserve to feel good again, goddammit, but I do deserve it.

  If I didn’t push for this with Owen, it would be like letting that asshole who touched me win, and I’m damn sure not going to do that. I’m tired of hiding out in my apartment, tired of pretending to be fine. I want to be better than fine, and that includes having some really good sex. One look at Owen, and I know the sex would be incredible. There’s zero
doubt about that in my mind.

  But he still hasn’t given me his answer about helping me, and now it seems pretty obvious what that answer will be, considering we haven’t spoken in days. Deciding I can’t sit here and watch the peep show I’m sure is about to unfold, I hop off my bar stool.

  “Where are you going?” Elise asks, a crinkle forming between her brows.

  “I’ll be back in a few,” I say, my eyes already fixed on my target.

  The rookie backup goalie is sitting by himself at the end of the bar. He’s cute, incredibly tall and well built, and has a sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. It’s kind of hot. I’ve never paid him any attention before, but now seems as good a time as any for a friendly chat.

  “It’s Morgan, right?” I ask, stopping beside him.

  “Yeah. Becca, isn’t it?” he asks, his gaze sweeping over me.

  I work in the office at the arena as the assistant to the team owner, so most of the guys know who I am. I’m always the first one in the building and usually the last one to leave, so I pretty much know everyone involved with this franchise.

  “Can I sit down?” I gesture at the empty stool beside him.

  Morgan grins and pulls out the stool. “Of course you can. Can I get you something to drink?”

  I’m just about to refuse when a hulking shadow stops beside us. It’s Owen, and he looks pissed off. His deep blue-gray eyes are filled with turmoil as they move between Morgan and me.

  “Becca, can I have a word with you?”

  I can feel his hot gaze drilling into me as I turn and face Morgan again. “Sorry, I’m busy right now.”

  Morgan’s eyes widen slightly. He and Owen work closely together, and it’s obvious the last thing he’d want to do is piss Owen off.

  “Morgan, get lost,” Owen growls out, and faster than I thought possible for a six-foot-four dude to move, Morgan has hopped up from his seat and sidestepped around us.

  Rather than occupy the empty seat like I expect him to, Owen remains standing. “We need to talk.”