by Kate Meader
“Lucy said there might be a bed here, if you’re interested.”
Joe raised his gaze, which was usually averted, and Levi saw the directness that must have served him well during his time in the military.
“Not really a mixer.”
Levi laughed because damn if that wasn’t himself to a T. “You’re looking at the guy who’d rather poke a fork in his eyeballs than play nice with other people. But sometimes you gotta join the team to get to the next stage, y’know.”
“Rah-rah, school spirit.”
“Something like that.”
Joe smiled, then his mouth straightened into a grim line as he looked around the cafeteria. “In these places, someone’s always trying to steal your stuff.”
Usually a fear of assault or having valuables stolen topped the list of reasons to stay out there.
“Figured I’d mention it in case you changed your mind.” Levi stood to let the man finish his breakfast in peace.
“What you been doing since your discharge?”
“This and that. Keeping busy.”
“Be careful you don’t think about it too much.”
Levi sat again. “Think about what?”
“It.” He shrugged, then wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee like he was trying to draw the warmth into his bones or transfer bad mojo to the porcelain. “You think about it too much and then next thing you know …” He flashed his hands, mimicking an explosion. Boom.
Every guy Levi had met in the service had memories they’d rather bury, images they’d prefer surgically removed from their brain. What shit had Joe seen and had it led him to where he was right now? Linking the two seemed like a job for Captain Obvious except there were a million decisions and branches in between those bookended events.
“You think about it too much?” Levi asked, testing the temperature of the conversation.
Joe tapped the side of his head, but didn’t speak.
“Levi,” he heard Lucy call out behind him. “These dishes aren’t gonna wash themselves.”
“Guess I’ve been told,” Levi said which yielded a chuckle from his new friend. “You take care, buddy.” And think about that bed.
Joe smiled secretively and headed off to get a refill of coffee.
Levi checked his phone, which had buzzed earlier, and lo and behold, if it wasn’t Susie Sunshine with a message just for him.
“Hi, Levi! Jordan here. Well, you know that! So, I called yesterday but maybe you didn’t get that message? We’re a go on the profile and I’d love to sit down and discuss the parameters, the scope, and what I have in mind. And of course, hear your thoughts on the direction of the piece. Oh, I’ve got a joke for you. How did the skeleton get to the hockey game? Driving a Zam-bony! Get it? Ah, good one, Jordan. Okay, call me, bye.”
Levi stared at the phone, then hovered a finger over the delete option. How the hell was he supposed to get through this?
Be careful you don’t think about it too much, Joe had said. Good advice for a multitude of situations.
Pocketing his phone, he headed to the kitchen to lose himself in the thought-suppressing power of dish duty.
5
Got questions for Levi Hunt? @HockeyGrrl is in the house! DM me and help me do my job ;)
#ChicagoRebels #OldestRookie #ChicagoSportsNet
* * *
CLIFFORD CHASE, the late owner of the Rebels, once famously commented that hockey was not exactly civilized given that it involved thousands of pounds of brute force distilled to superhuman physiques. Throw in knives on feet, clubs in hands, and a no-holds barred, full-contact environment, and you had society-sanctioned war with water breaks.
God, it was exciting, though.
Sitting rink-side during a Rebels practice session, Jordan was in awe of the effort levels going into drills. Pity her subject didn’t seem as in awe of her effort levels to schedule a sit-down interview.
Three calls ignored in two days. More than ignored, she suspected, because she had taken to imagining he wore a sneer when he listened to her cheerful voice mails. Maybe he played her messages on speaker for his new teammates while shaking his head, scratching his balls, and … spitting. Yeah, she could see that.
Today, the man was doing an excellent job of continuing their non-relationship. He had to have seen her, especially as Theo Kershaw had gone out of his way to skate over and say hi. She knew Theo from his early days on the feeder team in Rockford. He’d spent close to two years out of hockey after a brain aneurysm ruptured one night during a game. Open and easy with the press about it, Theo was the perfect subject with an outgoing personality to match.
Speaking of personality, or lack thereof …
She waved at Levi, hoping to throw him off his mental stride without having him trip on the ice. Like the pro he was, he continued to ignore her.
Time to bring in the big guns.
She shot off a text message to Tommy Gordon, Levi’s agent, who she knew because he also represented Theo Kershaw.
Her phone rang immediately. “Tommy Boy!”
“Welcome to the big leagues, Jordan. I assume you’re calling about Hunt. Heard you were on the story.”
“He’s not playing nice, Tommy. Can’t you impress upon him how good this will be for his career? Or more important, my career? At minimum give me some nugget I can use as leverage.”
Tommy chuckled. “Sell my player down the river? Jordan, honey, this game is about trust.”
She managed not to scoff. Just. “The Rebels brass is on board and I’m on site, but your player is avoiding my calls to set up a sit-down. A word in his ear from my favorite agent might grease the skate. Besides, you owe me for that juicy nugget I slipped you about Nate Barker.” She’d overheard that Nate, a goalie with Nashville, was unhappy with his representation and passed it on. Tommy had been very pleased at the chance to swoop in before anyone else.
He growled. “Let me see what I can do.”
A shiver ghosted through her, maybe a premonition because a text message popped up from … ugh, the Dick Bandit returns. No pics this time, thank the gods.
Hey Red, been thinking of U.
Good Lord, didn’t he know that people no longer needed to abbreviate because of autocorrect? It took more effort to capitalize that damn U! And as for whether he’d been thinking of her, she’d prefer he not think of her at all.
Billy Stroger, or Dick Bandit, was a player on the New York Spartans who had started following her on Twitter four months ago. A notorious troublemaker and total goon on the ice, he’d offered to guest on her podcast at a time when she was anxious to build her audience and a name for herself. While she had no problem chatting with players—encouraged it, frankly, to start building those relationships she’d bragged to Mac about—an indecently swelling percentage assumed it gave them license to spill their most intimate thoughts and anatomy pics.
Stroger was one of them.
“Thanks for helping out, Tommy. Maybe I’ll see you at a game one night.” She signed off and refocused on the messages coming in from DB.
Heard U got a promotion. Maybe I’ll see U when Ur in town for the Rebels away game in NYC.
In three weeks. And not if she could help it.
Kinsey was right. She really should report it, but her position was precarious. Having promised Mac she could hang tough with the boys, she’d get short shrift if she made a fuss. He’d say she was too thin-skinned (read: lady-skinned) to be doing this kind of job. And who else would care? Stroger’s bosses in New York? Like anyone would go to bat for the temp at the local network.
Better to use a tried-and-tested female strategy: kill it with politeness, bury it with lies.
Probably not. My boyfriend might not approve.
Should she add a smiley face? She hovered over the emojis and after a few seconds of internal struggle, decided to go for it.
That damn smiley face felt like a sellout, but better that than risking the wrath of the species all women knew well: Butt-Hu
rt-By-Rejection Male.
Another text came in, this one accompanied by a pic. Abs—nice abs, to be sure—with a trail of hair crowning his … really?
The text said: U sure about that?
“Hey, Jordan, want to come to lunch with us?”
Guiltily, she looked up into the pretty face of Theo Kershaw. His green eyes flicked through the Plexi to her phone, lingered, then returned to meet her gaze.
She turned the phone over in her lap, mentally cursing that Stroger’s penis was so close to her non-consenting lady bits. “Us?”
“Yeah, I heard you have to get close to Envy for some exposé you’re doing. Swapping stories over massive amounts of carbs is probably a good way to do it.”
“I wouldn’t call it an exposé, more like a profile. And why Envy?”
“That’s the nickname we’re trying out for Hunt because of his time in the service. Green Berets, green with envy, get it?” He grimaced. “Sorry, that’s probably insensitive. I get accused of that a lot. No filter.”
She smiled her instant forgiveness. “It’s fine. Mentions of the armed services roll right off my back.”
The rest of the team were heading to the locker room, so Jordan stood and walked along the row to the exit while Theo trailed her on the ice.
“Levi’s not too excited about the prospect of me hanging out here, I gather.”
Theo chuckled. “He’s got that military, just-the-facts-ma’am thing going on, so he probably hates talking about shit.” At the entrance to the tunnel, he leaned in and not even the smell of sweaty guy could diminish his shine. “I’ve a better idea. You know your recording device just wants to listen to me talk about my favorite subject.”
“As in you?”
“Totally! Interview me for your podcast, Hockey Grrl.” He rolled the Rs dramatically.
Jordan laughed, trying to sound assured. Was he flirting with her because he’d seen that graphic photo and thought she’d be receptive? The last thing she needed was to give anyone ideas. Since Dick Bandit had led the charge into her Twitter DMs, every interaction with a player was tainted with suspicion as to motives.
Another glance at Theo confirmed that he was just a happy puppy, excited at the chance to get air time and spread the Word according to Kershaw. He’d make a great guest, but it was almost more fun to pod-block him.
A shadow fell, obstructing the light shining off Theo. Mount Grump, himself—tall, craggy, cranky. This was a much better name than Envy and she’d be happy to license it to Theo.
“Off to the showers, Kershaw,” Levi grunted with a glare at his teammate.
Oblivious—or maybe not—Theo winked at her. “See you for lunch, Hockey Grrl.”
The sudden tension intrigued her. Maybe she could give Levi a severe case of FOMO. “Oh, Theo, we should definitely sit down and chat about your return to the game. I think your fans would love to know more about that.”
“Yeah, they would,” Theo responded with another wink. It’s a wonder he didn’t pull an eye muscle.
When he was out of earshot, Levi turned to her. “Lunch?”
“Why, I’d love to!”
Levi growled. “I mean, why is Kershaw saying he’ll see you for lunch?”
“Because I was invited. No better way to get a feel for the team dynamic than by eating with the crew. I’ll also be traveling to Philly with you guys on Thursday.”
He looked pained, which strangely, was sort of hot. Stupidly hot. And that made no sense whatsoever.
Thrown by that conclusion, she collected her wits. “You haven’t returned my calls.”
“I don’t really have time—”
“To do what your bosses want? Have you already forgotten how to follow orders?”
That one earned her a grunt. Ah, the sweet sound of progress.
Perhaps they needed to clear the thick-enough-to-smother air. “Or is it just that you can’t stand that fate has thrown us together after all these years and you have to spend time with your sworn enemy?”
His mouth twitched. “Fate? Sworn enemy? When did this happen?”
“You’re obviously still holding a grudge about what happened back in the day.”
“You think I have a problem with this because I kissed you?”
Oh. Ohhh.
“Pretty sure I was the aggressor.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You? Jesus, Jordan, is that what you think?”
“Why else would you be so mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.” He scrubbed a hand through his dark hair, like he was mad at something. Maybe his hair?
No. It was him. He was mad at himself. Still, after all these years.
In that moment, something unfurled inside her. A twist in her stomach that had her reassessing the man before her. Levi Hunt was six feet three of Special Forces badassery, his body a honed weapon, his gaze sharp enough to fell the enemy or a weak-willed woman at fifty paces. Objectively, she’d recognized this when she first met him. He had a gruff, dangerous quality that would appeal to many.
She had never considered herself one of them.
Yes, there was The Kiss from Yore. But it had come at a strange time and existed outside the rules of regular attraction. Sad times sometimes led to sexy times.
But she was no longer sad. She was on a mission, and the last thing she needed was present-day sparks with the subject of a story.
Why, Lord? Why must you torment me like this?
“You seem mad? Just a smidge?” She rubbed her finger and thumb together.
“I just don’t like being the center of attention,” Levi said. “I’ve lived my life under the radar. In my previous job, shining a light gets you killed, so getting chatty and opening a vein isn’t my favorite thing.”
Her heart checked for him. That night after Josh’s funeral, he’d been the consummate listener. Just watching, taking her cues, waiting for her to open up about her pain, and not indulging in what must have been his own.
Then she took advantage by eating his face off.
Subtlety wasn’t her go-to, but she might have to change it up here. “Okay. How about you just pretend I’m not around for the first couple of weeks? I’ll be part of the furniture, a warm body on a plane, just another mouth stuffing my face with—what’s for lunch?”
“It’s usually pasta primavera on Mondays. There’s an Italian place that delivers Moretti-approved meals.”
Right, the Rebels GM was well-known for his cooking skills and heavy hand in the Rebels’ menus. Now she knew who to blame for those mini-macarons in the press box.
“I love pasta primavera! I’ll blend in, get a feel for the team energy, and then when you’ve settled and scored a few goals, I’ll pounce with all my pesky questions.”
“You’ll pounce? Probably not the best threat to make to a former Green Beret.”
Acknowledging what sounded like an attempt at humor, she smiled at him.
Zip. Zilch. Zero. Game life lost, back to square one.
“You’ll be aware whenever a conversation is on the record and I promise I won’t try to pull a fast one. I’m just looking for a shot here, to find a good angle on this profile.”
“There are no good angles.” Pronouncement made, he skated back to the center of the rink and started shooting drills with pucks even though practice was long over.
Well, Grumpster, I call liar. From the back portrayed a perfectly pleasant angle because Levi Hunt had an excellent ass.
While he was being an impossible one.
* * *
“DAD?”
Her father peered from the iPad screen, set up on Jordan’s kitchen counter. Owllike behind his glasses, he blinked as if he’d just woken up and was surprised that somehow he’d managed to press answer on the FaceTime call.
“Jordan? Is everything okay?”
“Of course it is. I usually call at this time, remember? A move to Chicago isn’t going to change my weekly check-in with the parental units.”
“Oh, right. O
f course.” He lowered his bifocals and eyed her over the rims. From a swivel chair he usually had too much fun with, he leaned in closer. “How’s it going, Jo-Jo?”
“Settling in. Is Mom there?”
“She’s at the conference in Copenhagen.”
“Forgot about that.” Her mom, better known as Dr. Tamara Wilson, world-renowned expert on human rights abuses and the law, was giving the keynote at the World Child Rights conference. Just another day. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. There’s no food in the house.” Her father was the epitome of the absentminded professor, especially when her mom wasn’t around to remind him to eat.
“Can you take a break?”
“I’m at a good point to stop. And I’ve got something to show you.” He moved out of frame and rummaged about. When he returned, he was holding up a hardcover book titled The Rise of the Sharing Economy.
“Oh, you got your copies!” Somehow her father was making bank on long-ass treatises about Airbnb and micro-lending. A three-time New York Times bestseller, he also had a named professorship at Georgetown in DC. The man made economics sexy.
If she ever told him that, he’d die.
He placed the book down, pride on his face that he didn’t bother to hide. “Don’t you have a match to watch?”
“Game, Dad. They’re called games and tonight they’re not playing. I’m heading to Philly to see the first away game of the season in a couple of days.”
“How’s your new place shaping up?”
“Stuff’s still in boxes for the most part. I’m going one room at a time, so I’m at the living room.”
“With the kitchen last?”
She laughed. “You know it.” Her parents were big fans of eating out and ordering in as they were far too busy being intellectually productive to cook. Along with her parents’ neuroses, she’d inherited the can’t-boil-water gene.
“Tell me more about this new job, sweetheart. Sounds like a step up from reporting on the matches.” He shook his head in apology. “I mean, games.”