The rear lot is well lit, but the handful of people at their cars are too busy loading and unloading gear to notice us. Vaughn lets me into the passenger side of his beast of a ride, his hand remaining at my lower back until I’ve stepped up into the seat.
Sliding into the driver’s side, he cuts me a curious look and frowns. “What?”
“I think most people would be surprised by what a gentleman you are when no one’s looking.”
He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s me. Helping little old ladies cross the street and minding my language in polite company.”
There’s more to being a gentleman than limiting four-letter words. “I’ve actually seen you helping a little old lady. And she adored you for it.”
In fact, I’ve seen him hold doors, assist with bags and offer his arm enough times that I have to wonder how none of it shows up in the press. All they ever seem to have are shots with Vaughn shooting death glares, bumping shoulders as he passes other players, and that “resting prick face” thing that I’m starting to suspect might be tied directly to knowing people are watching him. Because right now? It’s nowhere to be seen. Right now, Vaughn’s rugged features are relaxed, his jaw isn’t set, and there’s no dark shadow beneath his brows. He’s so painfully handsome, I almost wish I could make myself look away.
But that’s the nice thing about being in his car. No one can see me watching this closely. Except for Vaughn, and when he looks over at me for a moment, giving me one of those almost-smiles before turning his attention back to the road, everything feels right.
We talk about my coaching, and his away game against Arizona next week. I tell him about my job as a physical therapist and how I work with one of the girls I used to play with. He tells me about Quinn O’Brian’s bet with Rux over the correct name of some iced coffee drink and how O’Brian ended up having to wear women’s lingerie under his pads to a practice the week before. I’m laughing so hard it hurts, because this is what I had that night in Vancouver. This is the man I couldn’t resist, even though it meant breaking every rule I had—at least for a few hours.
And when he pulls into a spot down the block from my place and cuts the engine, and my laughter quiets as he watches me with a look that tells me I’m not the only one thinking of that night, I wonder what would happen if I broke those rules just one more time.
He runs a hand over his mouth. “I need to know. Vancouver. What happened there?”
I’d figured it was only a matter of time before it came up. Had thought about how to answer. But now as he watches me, waiting for an explanation, I’m nervous to confess the truth.
“I used to watch you at my brother’s tournaments. You were the only guy who wasn’t either idolizing him or terrified of him. You were different, and I liked it.” I take a breath, feeling the heat filling my cheeks and wondering if he can see it even in the dark. “But it wasn’t just that. You were big and tough on the ice, but off… I remember watching you shoot pucks with the little kids between games, giving them tips and… I realized you were nice.”
He rolls his eyes, letting out a low laugh. “Nice? Not a lot of people would have said that.”
“I saw it, Vaughn. More often than not. And my crush kind of grew from there.”
“It’s weird to think that I could have met you back then.”
I smile. “You actually did. Once.” I lean in and drop my voice to a whisper. “You told me I had a killer slap shot.”
This time he barks out his laugh and looks at me like he’s searching for the memory. “So what happened then?”
“We moved to Dallas.”
“Ahh.”
“When we ran into each other in Vancouver…” Even now I feel that same skip in my heart. “I just wanted to talk to you. For a little bit. Find out who my high school crush turned out to be. And it seemed easier to be someone who wasn’t Greg Baxter’s sister.”
Our eyes meet. “And?”
I swallow. “And then you turned out to be pretty great. And I thought, why not? Why not take this one night and forget about all the reasons I couldn’t have you. Take one night to be the girl who could.”
“You’re killing me, Allie.” Vaughn’s focus drops to my mouth as he brushes his thumb across my lower lip. His eyes come up to meet mine, and the look in them has me forgetting about rules and whys and why nots completely. Time turns elastic, seeming to stretch and slow, pulling me closer with every breath. His. Mine. Then snapping back at the bark of a dog down the street.
Vaughn rubs his palm over his mouth and looks out over the street in front of us. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
Chapter 7
Vaughn
Waking up this morning was a bitch, but by the time I pull into the lot for morning skate, I’m ready to go. Physically, anyway. Mentally, I’m distracted as fuck.
It was a mistake following Natalie into her place last night. I told myself I wouldn’t. The whole drive from the rink, the plan was to drop her and go. But for as much as I’m busting my ass to follow the rules, this girl has me breaking them on the regular.
Only to a point, though.
I mean, hell, I didn’t pin her to her door the second I got inside. I didn’t touch her at all. I didn’t kiss her or fuck her or finger her or eat her or do any of the thousand-and-one dirty things that were firing through my mind from about the first minute I saw her standing there at the rink looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had rolled into one.
No, I was a model citizen. For two hours, I sat on the couch while she sat in her chair. She watched hockey highlights and I tried not to watch her. I tried not to think about how sexy she was in that old jersey or how hot it is that she was a player. And I tried even harder not to imagine what it would be like to have her in my lap instead of that chair…with neither one of us paying attention to the highlights as I teased my finger beneath her panties. In my mind, they’re white cotton, like the hot-as-fuck pair she wore that night in Vancouver.
The ones I think about when I’ve got my hand wrapped around my dick, replaying the breathy, desperate sounds she made when she came.
Shit.
Yeah, I tried. But in the end, I just suffered through, talking my dick down every time he started getting ahead of me. And when I finally left, it was with a kiss on her forehead while she looked up at me with those big, blue, uncertain eyes. Because really, what was she going to say?
That she had fun hanging out and she hoped to do it again? We both knew I shouldn’t have been there at all, and it definitely shouldn’t happen again. Which sucks, because she’s cool as hell and about the only thing in this city that makes me forget how much I wish I was somewhere else.
I shoulder through the doors into the locker room and half the guys are already here, joking around and giving each other the kind of shit Garcia used to give to me. There are a few nods as I walk through, but mostly they’re watching Ruxton Meyers—
I stop and stare.
“What the hell is he doing?” I ask nobody in particular, watching his big fucking body springing into some invisible action, feet moving in place, arms out like he’s barely maintaining his balance.
O’Brian walks past, nodding at the action with a grin. “Double-dutch.”
“What?” But then I see it. Popov and Shore are at either end, arms moving like they’re swinging jump ropes.
“Gotta give it to him, Rux has the moves.”
Rux is crazy. And fine, the guy is all right. Or he would be if he wasn’t hair-braiding besties with Baxter.
That ginger head comes up and he points to me. “You want next, man?”
I snort and wave him off.
But Baxter is up now, bouncing on the balls of his feet. And sure enough, he jumps into the ropes that aren’t there, his feet syncing up with Rux’s.
Jesus.
A handful of guys have their phones out recording, and one of them is talking about making Natalie’s week when he sends it to her. Great, now I’m thinking abo
ut her again.
“Whoa, you okay, man?” O’Brian asks, adjusting his chest pads in the stall next to mine.
“Yeah, why?”
He shakes his head and sits back on the bench as I drop my gear. “For a minute there, you almost looked like you were smiling. I mean, no worries, that shit’s good and gone, but wanted to make sure you were okay. No fever or recent body-snatching incidents.”
“Ha-ha-ha. Fuck off.”
“There he is. That’s the guy we all know and give a wide berth to.” He slaps my shoulder. “Enough dicking around, Vassar. Time to get on the ice.”
Practice is brutal and intense and keeps my head where it should be. On hockey. But once it’s over, I’m back to thinking about Natalie, keeping one ear open for her brother to start running his fucking mouth and spill something about her I don’t know.
Like whether he’s flying her out to the game tomorrow night. Or what her favorite cereal is. But all I get is that his wife is out of town and his parents came by to make sure he wasn’t lonely and ruined some spank date he’d set up with Julia.
Shit like this is why I wear my headphones. But I can’t keep them on for more than ten seconds before I dump them again and suffer through the monotony of my teammates’ post-practice minutia.
Jesus, why can’t I shake her? Six months from now I’m going to be half a country away and she’s going to be here, coming to games wearing Baxter’s number.
I need to get my focus on where I’m going, so once I’m done with tape and lunch with the team, I call up Garcia.
“If it isn’t Chicago’s sweetheart.” He answers like it’s been a day since I talked to him instead of a month. “Baby, you been missing my big stick?”
I snort, shaking my head. “You know it. Just not the one in your pants, thank fuck.”
Jesse Garcia and I have been paired up since my rookie year. We clicked. He was my friend. And that was something rare for me. Right up until he got picked up by the new expansion team in Oregon. They wanted us both. It was part of the plan. My contract was coming up first, so they took him with the intent of me coming on board after this season.
The deal is as good as done. So long as I don’t fuck it up.
“Things not gelling with O’Brian? You two looked pretty tight against the Predators.”
That was a good game. “He’s a solid player. And there are moments where it feels like something’s there, that connection, you know. But it’s not the same.”
Not like it was with us, where I’d look for Garcia, and he’d already be where I wanted him to be, eyes on me, waiting for the pass I’d already be taking.
“It’s one season, bro. Get through it and then get your ass up here.”
Climbing into the Escalade, I close my eyes without starting the engine. “Yeah, I know.”
“Haven’t heard anything about you and Baxter mixing it up lately. You behaving?”
When I don’t answer, he groans. “Come on, man. I’m not getting any fucking younger. I want the cup next year. And I need you to make it happen.”
I get it. He’s three years older than I am and while he isn’t looking into retirement communities, it means it gets harder for most guys to come back from injuries and perform at the level we do without seeing some slowdown.
“I’ve been staying away from Baxter. But—” Shit, I don’t want to tell him, but he’s pretty much the only guy I can. “You remember the girl from Vancouver?”
Silence. Then deathly low, “If you fucked his wife, I’m catching the next flight and—”
“Jesus, no! What the hell, man?”
“Sorry, sorry. I know you’re better than that.” He takes a breath. “Okay, lay it on me. What about the girl from Vancouver?”
Look, I’m not a pussy. I’m a big guy with a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Not much scares me, but when Garcia loses his shit—hell. This could get ugly.
Poking at the button that controls my mirror, I mumble, “She’s his little sister.”
There’s a beat when I’m not sure he heard me, but then I wince as a string of angry Spanish fires through the line so loud I have to pull it away from my ear. I’m not fluent, but my guess is most of it’s swearing, possibly with a few pleas to a higher deity thrown in. Definitely some threats.
When he finally comes up for air, I’m slumped in the driver’s seat ready for the English translation.
Instead I get a disappointed sigh, and shit, that might even be worse. “Does he know?”
“No.”
“You mean, no, not yet.” Another deep breath and I can practically see him shoving that hank of black hair from his face, head shaking as he mutters at the ceiling. “Because you know he’s going to find out. The only question is whether it happens before or after your season is up.”
He doesn’t need to remind me what happens if it’s before the season ends. Sleeping with the team captain’s sister would definitely fall under the heading of confrontational bullshit. I’ll get scratched from the lineup. I won’t play. I won’t even dress for games. Which could mean I don’t get picked up by Oregon.
And Garcia wants me there.
“If Baxter hasn’t found out yet, he’s not going to. I’m not going to tell him, and you better believe Natalie doesn’t want him to know.” O’Brian knows there’s something between us, just not exactly what. But I’m confident he’ll keep his mouth shut, so no need to give Garcia something else to worry about.
“You believe that?” he asks hopefully.
“Yeah, man, I do.”
A heavy sigh sounds through the line. “Okay. And you’re staying away from her, no eye contact, no conversation? If she walks into the room, you walk out?”
I rub the back of my neck, trying to figure out how to explain what I don’t totally understand myself.
“Oh fuck, man,” he sighs when I still haven’t said anything. “Guess we had a good run. Hope you enjoyed your career while you had it.”
Jesus. “Garcia, it’s not like that. I talked to her a couple of times just to make sure we were on the same page. That she was okay.” I mean, that was mostly what it was about. “But it’s not like we’re together.”
She told me herself she could never sign up for the uncertainty and lack of control a relationship within the NHL meant. She wanted a life where she came before hockey. A life that she got to choose.
“Forget together. You sticking your dick in her or not?”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I growl, the threat in my tone unmistakable.
I’m answered with silence from Garcia and the slow popping of my molars grinding together as I suck a breath through my nose.
“You’re still into her,” he says, frustration coating his words. “Of course, you are. Six years and you never so much as ask a woman on an actual date. But Baxter’s little sister gives you a couple of hours and she’s all I hear about for a month.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not in the cards for us and we both know it. And after the season, I’ll be out of here.”
“You hope.”
I know. Whatever happens or doesn’t with Oregon, Chicago is the last city I’d ever stay in.
Chapter 8
Vaughn
It’s been a week and a half since I saw Natalie, and yeah, sure, the road trip helped, but even when we touched down in Chicago, I held strong. No stopping by her place to check on how she was. It’s none of my business. No asking if she’d seen the games—of course she has, and probably more than once—or what she thought of that play in the third against the Sharks. Nah, I went straight home like a good little NHL player and slept coma-deep until I had to get up for morning skate.
But now I’m edgy again. We’ve got a game tonight, but with all the hours in between, I ought to be grateful for the book drive scheduled this afternoon. But I can already feel the muscles along my spine ratcheting tight. It’s not the event stressing me out. It’s having a camera trained on me for the two hours I’m scheduled to be there. I fu
cking hate it, but I’m going anyway because it’s for a good cause.
I park in the back and it’s a short walk to the square brick building where the door is being manned by a kid wearing a Slayers cap and an awed look in his eyes. I shake his hand and bite my tongue about the fact that he’s wearing Baxter’s jersey. I’m used to it by now. And who gives a shit. Once I get out to Oregon and I’m playing with Jesse again, this sea of number twelve jerseys will be nothing but a distant memory.
The kid walks me through a back hall, shooting anxious glances my way that make me feel like shit as we go. I like kids, and this one looks like he’s going to piss himself.
“Erik, right?”
Now he really looks freaked, but he turns to face me. “Yes, sir?”
“Call me Vaughn. You play or just a fan?”
I know he’s a player before he says it. “Player, sir.”
It’s the common ground we need and pretty soon he’s running through his last game for me, telling me about the guys on the team, and the goalie he wished had moved up with them but went to play for the girls team instead… all in one breath. It’s almost enough to distract me from the coming cameras and press, but as I get closer to the voices spilling out of the room ahead, I stop a second and rub the back of my neck. The kid stops too, looking between me and the end of the hall.
“You okay, Vaughn?”
“Yeah, man, fine. Just taking a minute before I go in.” This is ridiculous. “Hey, you got a stick or something I can sign for you?”
He’s like a blur darting off to wherever he’s got his stuff, giving me a minute or two reprieve. If he moves that fast on the ice, this kid’s got a future ahead of him. Laughter rises up from the end of the hall as Martin Wozniewicz makes a joke. But it’s not my teammate’s voice that has me pushing off the wall and edging closer. It’s the softer, more melodic sound behind it. The one that slides down my spine and signals my limbs to move.
I stop at the doorway and watch Wozzy ruffle the dark curls falling around Natalie’s smiling face. Swatting at his hand with another laugh, she turns around and stops dead when our eyes lock.
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