Hooked on You

by Kate Meader

  “Hey, kiddo! Where did you come from?”

  In answer, Caitriona exited from one of the skyboxes, two doors down from the owners’ one. “Hey, Violet,” she said with a shy smile.

  “You missed the last game,” Franky accused. “Dad scored the goal to keep us in!”

  “I saw that. I had to go see my mom in Puerto Rico. I missed her.”

  Franky nodded in understanding, Violet instantly forgiven. “That’s okay. You’re here now.”

  “We missed you,” Caitriona said.

  Violet’s heart checked, especially hearing that from Cat, who wasn’t given to unprompted displays of emotion. “I missed you guys, too. So, uh, could I have a hug?”

  The girls shared a glance, then Cat, for once, took the lead. Violet held them both close, wishing things could be different.

  She had to ask, though she suspected she knew because of where they’d emerged from. “Is your mom here?”

  Caitriona thumbed over her shoulder. “Yeah, she’s in there.”

  “And things are good?”

  “She’s better,” Franky said, suddenly the least informative child on the planet. “We have to go to the bathroom. We don’t want to miss the beginning.”

  “Okay! See you guys later.” She watched them head to the restroom, looking out for each other like sisters should. At the last moment, Franky turned.

  “Hey, Violet, where does Batman go to the bathroom?”

  Tears thickening her throat, Violet managed to croak out, “I don’t know. Where?”

  “The batroom!”

  Cat rolled her eyes and dragged her sister away. With one last look at the entrance to the skybox they’d just left, Violet headed to the owners’ suite, and put her head around the door.

  “Hey, Rebelistas.”

  “Vi!” Harper jumped up and hugged her tight. Amazingly, she’d increased in baby girth in the past ten days. “How was your trip? Mom okay? Your aunts?”

  “Fine. Good. The same.” Violet smiled on seeing Isobel, who walked over from the buffet and squeezed her until she could barely breathe.

  “About time, sis. I thought you were going to miss the start of the game.”

  Dante stood near the window, suited up as usual, a scotch in his hand. He placed it down and walked over, surprising the hell out of her when he wrapped her in his big bear embrace.

  “Welcome back, Vasquez. Your snark and general inappropriateness were sorely missed. Apologies, I don’t have any of that Chivas junk you usually drink.”

  “The pricy junk will do.”

  Releasing her, Dante poured a couple of drinks, handed them off, then turned to her oldest sister. “Harper, I’ve no doubt you have something to say. You always do.”

  “You betcha, Moretti.” She sipped from a glass of sparkling water. “This is it, team. I was going to say that I can’t believe we made it, but well, I can. Because with this crew, anything is possible. We’re not a normal family. We’re screwed up, we’re a little broken, but together we’re stronger.”

  Isobel grinned. “No matter what happens tonight—”

  “Don’t say there’s always next year,” Dante said with a groan.

  “I was going to say that we’ve proven the bastards wrong. We’ve proven Clifford wrong. And that’s almost as good as winning the Cup.”

  “Almost,” Harper said, clearly unconvinced, which made them all laugh.

  Dante downed the rest of his drink in one shot. “Okay, puck drops in a few. I suspect I won’t be able to speak to any of you for the next ninety minutes without hissing, so I’m going to go throw up and then I’ll see you on the other side.” He left the box and yes, they all checked him out. Then they looked at each other and giggled, just like old times.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” Violet murmured.

  “You’re here to fight.” Harper stepped close and squeezed her arm. “I’m feeling some déjà vu here, ladies. Game night, a future on the line, love for the taking—”

  “Hormones gone wild,” Isobel muttered with a wink at Violet.

  “Maybe,” Harper said. “Maybe it’s just this crazy roller coaster of a season. Together we’ve overcome a lot of obstacles.”

  “With wine,” Violet said.

  “I miss wine!” they all said in unison.

  Chuckling, Harper linked Violet’s arm while Isobel took ahold of her other one and practically dragged her over to the glass. She felt like she was being led to the edge of a volcanic crater. Her knees were on the verge of folding, but her sisters kept her upright with a strength only Chase women could possess.

  The warm-up was in the final stages. After Bren’s great performance in game six—and she’d watched every pass, penalty, and goal—there could be no doubt that he’d feature prominently tonight. Her eyes frantically searched until they found him.

  O Captain! My captain!

  “Don’t Stop” by the Mac came on, a classic crowd pleaser. Bren was right, it was overplayed, but it was also perfect, because at that moment, he looked up and their gazes connected. He waved. And Violet moved her hand back and forth like a crazy person until she realized that most likely he was waving at his daughters a couple of boxes over.

  She couldn’t tell if he smiled at her. She couldn’t remember what his smile looked like at all. How could she have forgotten?

  He did another circuit of the ice, punctuating it with a second glance upward. This time, he placed a fist on his chest and gave three short taps. When his hand came away, she saw it.

  A pink ribbon, the kind that people wear to support breast cancer awareness. Even stranger, he wasn’t the only one. Cade zipped by heading for the blue zone, an unmissable flash of pink on his chest. Remy, too.

  All the players were wearing one. She turned back to the box to find Harper affixing hers.

  “What’s going on?”

  Isobel smiled. “Charity begins at home, sis. It was Bren’s idea.”

  Harper’s eyes remained on the rink. Her kingdom. “A donation equivalent to tonight’s gate will go to breast cancer research. In the name of the Rebels.”

  “But that has to be—”

  “A couple of million,” Isobel said. “Give or take.” The lapel of her tracksuit had a ribbon on it.

  “You bitches, are you seriously trying to make me cry?”

  Isobel laughed. “You? Pretty sure your tear ducts are glued shut.”

  Not anymore. Not now. Finally, she broke.

  “She’s—she’s—here,” she said between spectacularly ugly sobs. “His—wife.”

  “His ex-wife,” Harper said. “And he’s down there, but he’s not thinking about her.”

  “He’s thinking about his daughters and he’s thinking about you,” Isobel said. “You’re going to have to learn to deal with her. If you want a relationship with him, with those girls, then you have to learn how to coexist. It’ll be messy, but hey, look where you come from. You’re a Chase. When has it ever been anything else?”

  “I don’t know if he still wants me. If he ever really wanted me.”

  “I already told him I’d cut him if he hurt you.” Harper’s mouth tipped up. “Now I know he did, so I reserve the right to beat him to a bloody pulp after tonight’s game. But I think he needed to figure some stuff out. You both did. Athletes are intense guys, but they’re not always the sharpest blades on the ice. Bren’s a man. He can’t be expected to get it right the first time.”

  How lucky she was to be part of this family. She’d never thought she’d be grateful to Clifford Chase for anything beyond a Catholic private school education and the one-third ownership he’d given her in the Rebels. Love fierce had always been her motto. Violet needed to love deeply and be deeply loved. She hadn’t expected it with these girls. She hadn’t expected it with anyone.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly to both her sisters. “Seriously.” Then she offered a silent prayer of gratitude to Clifford Chase—great player, so-so manager, terrible father, all-around asshole.


  The reason Violet was as strong and amazing as she was.

  A captain’s band meant something. Responsibility, leadership, rock-solid strength. And Bren needed every one of those traits to be working at 110 percent when they entered the third period tied at two-all.

  Petrov had scored a sniper shot in the first period to even up the score. When they fell behind in the second, Remy managed to level two minutes before they entered the last break, a minor miracle because he was playing on the right wing with Ford off the roster. Baby Callaghan had decided to pick the most important day of the postseason to make his entrance.

  But finals games weren’t won on the ice in the third period—they were won in the heart. At that point, skills didn’t matter. Stats were worth shit. Passion was the only benchmark.

  The woman who represented Bren’s was here.

  She’d waved at him during the warm-up, but then every time he looked up while he was sitting on the bench, there was no sign of her. He saw his girls, though, their hands spread wide on the glass. He heard their shouts of encouragement in his head above the screams in the arena.

  Had Violet left? He refused to entertain the notion that she might not be here afterward, win or lose.

  Four minutes left in the period. Boston was getting cagey, relying on their shaky defense and doing a lot of passing back in their zone. No one wanted to fuck up when they were so close to getting to overtime.

  Three minutes, ten.

  Coach called the final time-out and the team huddled. “No one get fancy out there, because if they score now, I will murder each and every one of you fuckers in your sleep.”

  Nervous laughter greeted that and died quickly when Coach maintained his balls-shriveling glare.

  “Petrov, that was really directed at you. I know you like to take chances, but not now. Not until we make it to overtime.”

  “At which point we’re looking at first to score, Coach,” Remy said. “And it’s over.”

  “Yeah, but we get a few minutes to breathe first. Regroup. Everyone here is fuck-tired, but I don’t want any sloppy moves in the last couple of minutes of regulation. Get us into overtime, got it?”

  The crew mumbled its affirmation.

  Back on the ice, Bren gripped Remy’s arm. “You see an opening, you take it, okay?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  He saluted Petrov on the skate-by, then did a figure eight that took in his D-men, Cade and Kazinsky, and Jorgenson in goal. “You’re a wall back here,” he said to Alamo. “Nothing gets by you.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Cade said with a wink and a shit-eating grin.

  Boston had possession, but was obviously under the same orders from their bench: hold on to the puck and don’t make any sudden moves that might result in dispossession. But they also had three guys under twenty-five on the forward line, players with fresher legs than the Rebels. Sure, Chicago had Petrov, a relative baby at twenty-seven, but combined they were looking at fifteen years plus on the age of those Cougar pins.

  Chicago might not have much left come overtime.

  Two minutes, forty-five.

  One of the Boston defenseman, Billy Stroger, had history with the Rebels. History that involved physical abuse of Harper years ago and the eventual beat-down by Remy in a January regular season game. So far, they’d kept the trash talk and shoving to a minimum, but now Stroger took it upon himself to get all up in Remy’s grille. Words were exchanged, and whatever occurred, Stroger came out of it fuming.

  One minute, thirty.

  During the next play, Stroger made a mistake: his pass to his teammate fell short.

  Remy pounced. Not only had Stroger left it hanging, he’d also left an alley a mile wide up the right lane—the lane that Remy was now streaking through on his way to the goal. Petrov had already cut left, and Bren hung a few feet behind, waiting for Remy’s pass.

  He scooted it across to Petrov, who had a better shot at goal from the left, and with the instincts of a killer, the Russian drove it to the top shelf, only to have it deflected by the Boston tender.

  The rebounded puck landed right at Bren’s feet.

  They say that at the moment of death, your life’s important moments flash through your mind. The highs, the lows, the ones that defined you and made you a man. No one ever told him that it would happen at other times, such as in a moment of rebirth.

  Holding a wrinkly baby Cat for the first time.

  Hearing a precocious ten-month-old Franky say “Dada.”

  Feeling the warmth of Violet’s smile the day she found out she was still cancer-free.

  Now he could add one more:

  Watching as the puck slid through the pocket.

  He knew it had made it before the buzzer sounded, before the crowd roared, before Remy crashed into him, screaming, “Yesss!”

  Puck luck had found Bren at last.

  Forty seconds.

  Now they would be cagey.

  Boston threw everything into it, including their goalie, leaving an empty net. But every Rebel stayed back and defended what was theirs. Trap-pass. Trap-pass. Trap—buzz.

  It was over.

  THIRTY

  The entire arena exploded in pande-fucking-monium.

  Bren whipped around, frantically seeking out his girls. Harper was already here, crashing into Remy’s arms before he fell to his knees and kissed the child swelling her belly, whispering something over and over in French.

  Petrov was practically humping Isobel against the Plexi. She had her legs wrapped around his waist and her lips suctioned to his face. Even Cade and Dante were getting in on the act—about time those two offered a little PDA to the soap opera–hungry masses.

  Still no sign of his girls.

  He skated over to Harper. “Where are they?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “They were right behind me. Where have—oh, there they are!”

  And then he saw them, running down the tunnel, their beautiful faces shining back at him. Kendra walked behind them slowly with Drew beside her, but that was okay. Bren held no ill will toward him, and they had to figure out how to get along eventually.

  Fuck, they’d won.

  “Dad!” Franky yelled, and crashed into his outstretched arms. Cat joined in and twined herself around his neck.

  “You won!” she screamed in his ear. “I knew you would.”

  “Glad one of us did,” he said, laughing.

  Over their heads, he shook hands with Drew and met his ex-wife’s eyes. “Thanks for coming to the game.”

  A week ago, he’d flown to Atlanta, and against the advice of his lawyer, met with her one-on-one to tell her how their daughters’ custody would be handled from here on out. She’d fumed and railed and called him names, but he had her over a barrel, and she knew it.

  She wouldn’t be the wife of this NHL champion, but he expected she’d land on her feet. Kendra was a survivor.

  “Dad, Violet’s here,” Franky said. “We saw her up in the box.”

  He stood, his mind crazed with missing her. With needing to see her and touch her and hold her close.

  He had to find her.

  A large palm landed on his shoulder and he turned to see Remy. “Come on, mon capitaine. You’re needed for the Cup presentation.”

  Kendra smiled at him over their daughters’ heads. “I’ve got them.”

  The next ten minutes were a blur. The commissioner spoke and a few other suits said their piece and then there she was, brought down on the red carpet by NHL brass wearing white gloves: the Stanley Cup. All shined up and ready for their greedy mitts.

  It was his right as captain to raise it first, and as he skated to the pedestal where they’d placed it, his mind rewound to everything that had happened this year. Rehab, divorce, hell away from his girls, getting them back, making it to the play-offs against all odds.

  Violet.

  She was here somewhere in the building. She wouldn’t come to the final game of the season to support her family and leav
e without a word. She’d want to see it through.

  He scanned the faces of his teammates, his coworkers, his soul brothers and sisters. They’d put up with his shit, and he couldn’t have done this without them. The commissioner congratulated the team and called out his name, but he was already skating back to his circle of truth before he’d laid a finger on the hardware.

  “Remy,” he said to his friend, who had his arms wrapped around Harper. “I’d carry your woman and child, but I reckon you’d feel safer doing it yourself.”

  “Captain, you have a trophy to lift,” Harper said, gesturing behind him.

  “Aye, but not alone.”

  Remy smiled in understanding. “C’mon, minou.” He lifted her heels a few inches off the ice, and holding her tight, skated over to the pedestal with Bren following him.

  “What the hell? Remy, put me down!”

  “Yes, boss.”

  The commish, who had never exactly approved of a woman-owned team, looked on in semidisgust, but the man had to admit Harper Chase had done a helluva lot more for the Rebels—and hockey in general—than her old man had.

  Usual form was for the commissioner to hand it off to the captain, but there was nothing usual about this Cinderella run to the finals and all the way to the winner’s circle. Bren took Harper’s hand, squeezed it, and placed it on the Cup.

  “Thank you, Harper. For everything.”

  “You bastard,” she said with a watery sniff. “You know how hormonal I am.” She lifted the Cup a few inches off the pedestal.

  “Good enough,” he muttered, then he took over and raised it above his head. Damn, the fucker was heavy, but it was a weight he could handle. One he’d longed for. To raucous cheers—and a few boos because there were still some shitheads who hated him—he skated a couple of rings before passing it off to Remy.

  “Merci, mon ami,” the Cajun said before he whooped and hollered like a little kid.

  Tears streamed down Harper’s face as she watched her man achieve his life’s goal, or one of them, anyway.

  “Is she still here?” he asked her.

  Harper nodded, smiling through the tears. “She came back.”