Hooked on You

by Kate Meader

  She’d spent a few days with her mom in Bayamón, just outside San Juan’s city center. Although she was thrilled to have her there, Louisa’s first question on arrival was: Where’s the money? The second: What bastard put this frown on your face? Money and men, as inextricable for her mother as ever.

  The ache in her heart was surely a normal response after a painful excision. She’d gone through character-building surgery before. This would be no different.

  Her phone vibrated and she pulled it out of her cross-body bag, expecting Iz or Harper or even Cade, who had been checking in every day with game scores as if the Internet was unavailable outside Chicago. The finals were tied at two-all because those dumb Rebel lugs couldn’t make it easy on themselves.

  Her phone blared brightly with a FaceTime call from Hell’s Highlander himself.

  Heart in her throat, she sank to a nearby bench in the quad, smoothed her hair, and hit the answer button. Franky’s big blue eyes, the exact shade of her dad’s, blinked rapidly behind her glasses.

  “Hi, Violet!”

  “Hey, Franks! Is everything okay?”

  She’d called them the day after leaving Bren to let them know she’d be visiting her mom. They’d been accepting, but they knew something was up. On seeing Franky’s serious little face now after what seemed like forever, Violet felt her dumb old heart leap outside her body and crash against the screen.

  “I’ve decided to give the slugs a vacation,” Franky said, as if they were just picking up a conversation they’d recently left off. “I’m putting them back in the garden.”

  “Oh, cool,” Violet said, but Franky was no longer listening, having already started Operation Slug Repatriation. Propped up against a rock with a straight-on shot of Franky, the phone recorded each lucky winner accepting an all-expenses paid vacay to the St. James backyard undergrowth. The ceremony was set to a funeral dirge for piano, a strange choice for what should have been a joyous occasion for the slugs. Cat must have put aside her dislike for the instrument to collaborate with her sister. Knowing that did Violet’s heart good.

  Eight minutes and five slugs later, Violet had tears streaming down her face. For a bunch of slimy gastropod mollusks? Really?

  Now both Cat and Franky smiled back at her, making her heart morph into goo.

  “When are you coming home?” Cat asked, a little rudely. So like her father.

  Home. That cliché about home not being a place but a feeling had never seemed more apt. Violet knew deep down where she belonged.

  With him With these girls. With your sisters and the Rebels.

  “I—I’m not sure. I’m traveling and—”

  “Who you talkin’ to, sprites?”

  Bren.

  Her thumb moved instinctively to sever the connection. No one would question a dropped call, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Just knowing they were linked in this tenuous way sent her heart soaring.

  “It’s Violet,” Franky said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

  Bren grunted something. No surprises there. No surprise, either, that he didn’t put his bearded beauty on screen. He probably wanted this awkwardness to be over with as soon as possible.

  She’d make it easy on him. “Girls, it was great to talk to you, but I should get going.”

  They waved goodbye and blew kisses and told her they missed her, and she swiped at her tears like a sap. The phone shifted and Bren came into view.

  Her heart did backflips at the sight of him, then sank like a stone because he hadn’t changed. At all. Shouldn’t he look different? She felt like a completely different person, and surely that was reflected (negatively) on her outside. Why wasn’t the beautiful bastard suffering?

  “Hello.” He adjusted the screen to portrait view. “Didn’t know they had my phone.”

  “I thought it was you calling.”

  “It’s a wonder you answered.”

  She sat up straighter. “I’m not going to ignore you, Bren.”

  “Aye. You’ve never done that, have you?”

  What did that mean? Was he implying she’d thrown herself at him? Before she could pitch a fit, he asked, “Are you in Puerto Rico?”

  “I was, but now I’m in Nashville. Vanderbilt, actually. I’m—I’m visiting colleges with early childhood education programs.” She hadn’t told anyone where she was or what she was doing, but she knew Bren would understand. He’d never doubted she had more to her.

  “Vanderbilt? That’s great, Violet.” His smile gave her life. “You’d be perfect at that.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her old doubts checking in to say hello. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about, and working with the girls made me realize that corrupting young minds is where my true talent lies. And I have all these quality jokes that need an audience!”

  He chuckled, but didn’t follow up with a comment. Typical Bren. She wished he could just let it all out. Scream at her about his ex, his sobriety, his life. After all, she wanted to yell, to blame anyone and everyone for the pain she was enduring.

  For a moment, she thought the screen was stuck because he was so damn still.

  “How are things?” she asked nervously. “Is Addison close to popping? Is Remy still driving everyone nuts with baby talk? Why haven’t you won the Cup yet and made me rich beyond my wildest dreams?”

  Bren laughed, and then he proceeded to fill her in. She already knew most everything he told her, but she still loved hearing about these people who’d carved their initials into the bark of her heart. Mostly, she loved hearing his voice. She’d always had, even when he barely spoke a word to her.

  Maybe they could get through this. Be friends. She couldn’t imagine not having him or the girls in her life, yet tears clotted her throat at the idea of half measures with this man she wanted body and soul. She’d thought her problem was that she was a commitment phobe, but it turned out she was a commitment junkie. She wanted love that was unapologetic, unrelenting, unreserved. Love with no conditions. But she knew his girls had to come first.

  She loved him for it.

  The reason this couldn’t work was the very reason she adored Bren St. James. Thanks, Grade A Bitch of a Universe.

  Though she hadn’t said a word, he picked up on her melancholy. “I’m sorry, Violet.”

  “Bren, you don’t have to—”

  “I do. You deserve the best, baby. I once said you were a gift because you appeared in my life at a certain time. The right time. Like an angel with a mission to make me—my girls better. I meant that. You’re a woman without equal. I don’t think I could have gotten through these past couple of months without you.”

  Just as she couldn’t have done it without him. He was there for her when she needed him, right until he stopped needing her.

  “I should go,” she rasped. “I have to catch a flight.”

  “Where next?”

  “New York!” I’m going places! “I have an appointment with the program director tomorrow morning.”

  “They’d be lucky to have you.”

  “I know.” It had taken her a while to realize this. People were fortunate to know her, to have her in their lives. Anyone who couldn’t appreciate that could take a hike.

  “Just win the damn Cup already, Bren.”

  He smiled, a heartbreaker of a grin that made her feel both hopeless and hopeful at the same time.

  “Good luck, Violet Vasquez. Go forth and be victorious.”

  He didn’t sign off, just stared at her with that trademark St. James intensity like he was trying to memorize her. With a shaky finger, she ended it. Again.

  An incoming message chimed in on the screen from Remy: In Petrov’s suite on 15. Don’t make me come down there.

  Bren would much rather stay in his Boston hotel room, wallowing in his misery, but Remy would eventually stop in to haul his ass out. Two minutes later, he knocked on Vadim’s door, which was opened almost immediately by a grinning Cade.

&nbs
p; “About time, Highlander. Your girls good?”

  “Aye.” He stepped in, surprised at seeing that the contingent was smaller than usual. Besides Cade, just Remy, Erik, Ford, and Vadim.

  “Where’s the rest?”

  “Figured we’d keep it quiet. By invitation only.” Remy pulled a bottle of Coke out of an ice bucket and passed it to him.

  Bren nodded his thanks. He was grateful that it wasn’t some noisy affair, yet there was something a little expectant about the way his brothers were looking at him. And make no mistake, everyone was looking at him.

  “If this is some kind of intervention, I’m not interested.”

  Cade smirked. “Pretty sure that’s what every interventionee says.”

  Bren took a seat on the end of the nearest sofa. “What’s happening in my personal life is not impacting my game. You’ve seen how I’m playing.”

  “Bren, Bren, Bren.” Remy squeezed his shoulder. “Like that’s going to stop us from interfering. I seem to recall you having no problem getting all up in my business when I had a few problems with my beautiful lady.”

  “And you were the first person on the team I came out to,” Cade said.

  “Which I didn’t ask for. You blurted it out because you were at the end of your rope. I was geographically convenient.” A label he hated. The label Violet had assigned to herself.

  Cade patted his arm. “There’s no such thing. There are only people who step up and people who don’t. You offered to be there when I told my dad the truth, and you sat with me in that press conference when I told the world. Stop denying your awesomeness.”

  Annoyed, Bren shook his head and turned to Ford. “What have I ever done for you, Callaghan?”

  Their right-winger considered this. “Some pretty good passing in that last game.” Eyes to the ceiling, then a big, dopey grin. “Yeah, that’s about it. Makes you the best in my book.”

  Bren’s eye roll took him next to Erik. “What about you, Fish?”

  “You ruined my chance to be with Violet.”

  This was more like it. Someone with a grudge, who wouldn’t want any part of this ridiculous bromance shit.

  “Sorry about that,” Bren muttered halfheartedly. Like he could possibly regret a single moment with Violet.

  “But now she is free again and I can take my shot,” Erik said cheerfully. “So, we’re good, Captain.”

  Bren merely glared at Erik, but it had no effect. It was like the Swede’s mouth was surgically curved upward.

  Vadim stood from the sofa. As usual he was shirtless, but no one questioned it because the guy was a Russian supermodel and it was assumed this made him more comfortable.

  “It’s decided. We all think our captain is worth saving from his own worst impulses.”

  “Wait a second, Petrov,” Bren said. “I barely know you and we’re sure as shit not buddies. You’ve got no horse in this race.”

  Vadim muttered something in Russian, which Cade nodded at despite the fact that he couldn’t possibly know a lick of the language. “If Violet is unhappy, then this has an impact on my Bella. On all our women, because they are close, these sisters. Also, I am prepared to lend my vast experience in the workings of women. I, more than anyone, understand how they will happily remove your heart, hold it bloodied and pulped to the sky, and offer it in sacrifice to whichever gods they pray to.”

  Jesus wept. “Does Isobel seriously put up with this shite?”

  “She has accused me of drama on occasion. I have no idea why.”

  Over the resulting laughter, Vadim continued. “What I am saying, Captain, is that these trials are often a necessary test. Just like the finals are a test of how solid the bonds are between the men on a team. Are we strong enough to win the next two games and win the Cup? Are we strong enough to do what is necessary to win the hearts of the women and men”—he gestured at Cade—“who make us worthy?”

  Bren had thought that after a year of sobriety, he could handle anything, even listening to this BS spewing from Petrov. Nothing would stand in the way of a meaningful life with his daughters and his drive to make it to the top of his sport. Redemption in the eyes of his girls, his team, and the fans.

  In walked Violet.

  No. In boomed Violet.

  He had failed her. He wasn’t brave enough to risk losing his daughters again, not while Kendra held this sword over his head.

  “I’m not worthy of Violet. I doubt I ever could be.” He looked up at his friends, none of them as amused as before. “I let her down.”

  “Dites-nous tout,” Remy said quietly. Tell us everything.

  He did, including his shameful behavior when he almost hurt his girls and how it would forever haunt him.

  Heart sinking with every word ripped from him, he waited for their disgust. Last year, he’d shown up drunk before a game in the dying days of the season and was immediately suspended. It was the night after he’d hit rock bottom, and how do you think he celebrated? By getting shitfaced.

  Cade and Erik were the only men present who had witnessed that, but everyone else knew. Word of Bren’s suspension and mandate by management to get dry had spread faster than Petrov’s slap shot. He didn’t do it for his team. He didn’t do it for himself. He did it for his girls.

  “What did the lawyer say?” Remy asked, his face a mask of concern.

  “That if Kendra brings it up, I risk losing all access. We’ve got her bad behavior over the past two months, but it’s not criminal. And if we win the Cup, she’ll be gunning for me. Maybe even—shit, wanting to get back together now that I’m the winner she signed on for all those years ago. That’s not happening.”

  “Don’t worry, Highlander, we’ll throw the game if it keeps you out of Kendra’s clutches.”

  Everyone glared at Cade, who’d uttered that piece of junk.

  “Uh, kidding. Look, this whole thing is basically Kendra’s word against yours. She didn’t report it.”

  “I won’t lie about it. I won’t say I didn’t do that.”

  “It is honorable,” said Vadim.

  “No, it’s stupid. What about Violet?” Cade’s voice was as hard as glass.

  “She knows why I can’t commit to her fully, but . . .” He trailed off.

  “But what?” Ford asked.

  “She didn’t fight. I expected she’d have ideas on how to counter this, but she just assumed I couldn’t come up with a solution. She gave up.” And now she was looking at degree programs in fucking Nashville and New York. Torn between happiness that she was embracing her future and misery that it didn’t involve him, he’d barely managed to hold it together on that phone call with her this morning.

  “She’s got it in her head she’s not good enough,” Cade continued, “when we all know it’s the other way around and she’s the best thing to ever happen to you. You should be fighting this together, telling Kendra where she can shove her accusation. I reckon you’re both total idiots.”

  Everyone went silent, thinking on what had just been said.

  Finally, Remy spoke. “Maybe you should come clean.”

  “With Violet?”

  “With the world.”

  Bren stared at him. “Tell everyone what a fuck-up I am?” That was exactly what he was trying to avoid. His entire universe had collapsed when he realized how close he’d come to endangering the people who were most precious to him. It was bad enough the media, fans, and his team knew he couldn’t hold his liquor. He’d fessed up to his teammates, but he doubted everyone else would be so forgiving.

  Remy had a curious look on his face, like he wanted to say something but would prefer Bren work it out playing charades.

  Tick. Tock.

  Cade made some weird noise that sounded like aha! “You did say you wouldn’t lie about it if Kendra accused you.”

  “Right, but I’d rather it not come out at all.”

  The Cajun rubbed his beard. “But if it did, people wouldn’t approve. Lots of people.”

  “Da!” Vadim
had the same look on his face as when he’d scored twice in game one. Was Bren the only person here who didn’t understand what the hell was going on? “In fact, Captain, I’d say a revelation like that might have a very negative impact on your career.”

  Recognition seeped into his consciousness slowly, building to a full-scale lightbulb-over-his-head moment.

  Yes . . . it . . . would.

  His heart was beating a hundred miles a minute. It was a gamble, but if he wanted to restart his life, then he had to go big in order to go home.

  Because home would be nothing without all his girls.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Stanley Cup Finals, Game Seven

  Chicago Rebels at Boston Cougars

  Violet was a masochist.

  That could be the only explanation for why she was at a hockey game ten days after leaving Chicago. Harper and Iz had bugged her with texts and calls every day, and begged her to return in case all their dreams came true tonight. Hers, too, given that the franchise would be worth more if the Rebels were crowned champions. The series was tied at 3–3, and now the Rebels had to win game seven in enemy territory.

  Mercenary considerations aside, she knew why she was really here: that other C-word, closure. Time to act like a big girl. She might never live in Chicago again, but she’d want to see her niece—she wasn’t an unfeeling monster. There would be visits and family gatherings, at which other team members would no doubt be present. Bren. Maybe with Kendra . . .

  No, that was unlikely. Not once had he ever indicated a reconciliation was in their future. But he would eventually find someone. Someone who would complement the image he needed to present to the world.

  Heading to the visitors’ executive box to meet her sisters, she stopped when something crashed into her.

  “Franky!”

  Franky peered up, raised her hands slightly as if going for a hug, then changed her mind. A brief twist of hurt flashed over her face.