by Paige North
I swallow. “Congratulations,” I say stiffly, feeling my face heating. “You had one hell of a game.” My eyes fill with unbidden tears but I don’t hide them.
He runs his eyes dismissively over the ice, where the rest of his team his still celebrating. “Does this mean you’d consider getting back together?” He asks me, breathing hard.
The ego is gone; now he’s happy and hopeful. And can there be any other answer? I’d take him with the chip on his shoulder, or without. He’s mine, and I can’t live without him, any way he chooses.
“Fuck, yes,” I say, throwing my arms around him.
The crowd cheers louder as he kisses me. I’m vaguely aware that we’re on the overhead camera, but at that moment, I don’t care. I just savor his lips, his strong body against mine, and oh yes, this is the way it’s supposed to be.
“Good,” he murmurs with a smile, staring into my eyes as if I’m the only person there, and pushing a stray hair out of my face. “Now, I consider it a hell of a game.”
Epilogue
“I’m going to die. You know that, right?” I say, looking down the vast expanse of curved driveway ahead of me.
It sure hadn’t seemed like a horrible incline when I’d walked up it two hours ago, but going down, it feels like I’ll be coming down the side of a vast mountain.
“You won’t die,” Flynn says. I promise.”
I struggle to lift my feet up under the massive weight and study the new rollerblades on my feet. They’re beautiful, silver and sleek, and likely made for a pro, not someone like me who’ll probably disgrace them. Flynn likely spent a fortune on them. They feel as heavy as cinderblocks on my feet, and just as comfortable. “I think they may be a little too big on me. When you said you had a surprise for me,” I grumble in my sourest voice, even though I don’t think anything can sour my mood today. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Are you going to sit there and whine all day, or are you going to get on your feet, Freckles?” Flynn orders, swirling a figure eight across the driveway. He probably skates better than he walks, the bastard, which will likely only make me look more like a massive clod.
As I try to think of another way to get out of it, Livvie swirls by on her pink Barbie skates. Three months on them, and she’s already a pro. She’s a natural, like her brother.
And so unlike me. “I promise you, I’m much better at whining. I’m thinking of going pro with it.”
“Come on, baby,” Flynn says patiently, taking both of my hands in his. “Easy does it.”
Pressing my lips together in concentration, I let him pull me to my feet. He eases me along, and even though we’re going at a snail’s pace, I’m already feeling way too fast and out of control. Finally, we reach the end of the long, sprawling driveway, where the even ground of the sidewalk begins. I’m about to let out the uneasy breath I was holding, when his grip starts to loosen on my wrists. “Wait. What are you doing?” I ask in horror.
“Just . . . trust me.”
And I do. I trust him completely. He slowly moves his hands away, holding them up, watching my feet carefully. “Now. Left foot first. Like I showed you. Toward me.”
Clenching my jaw, I move my foot out, ever so slightly. Then my right. I’m actually getting somewhere, not fast, but at least I’m moving. It’s progress, for sure. He skates backwards with complete ease, doing that slight little sexy shimmy with his hips that makes me want him all over again, and soon I’m moving closer, closer . . . until I fall into his arms. I shriek. “I did it!”
“Yeah you did,” He says, hugging me. “Told you. No sweat. Try again.”
I nod, feeling more confident and determined this time. He backs up, and now I’m going down the sidewalk toward him. I even get a chance to savor the beautiful spring day, the chirping of birds, the beautiful gardens in this well-manicured neighborhood, all ready to come to life. Flynn had been a man possessed finding this place. When he’d shown me his list of must-haves, I thought he was asking for the moon. Massive gourmet kitchen, handicap ramps, an in-house elevator, an in-ground pool with a chair-lift, plus lots and lots of open space and a cul-de-sac for street-hockey?
But he found it. Flynn has a way of making things that seem impossible, possible.
Just look at me. I’m not athletic, not even close. And yet even though I’m next to the NHL’s rising star, the lead scorer for the season, with him to guide me, I feel powerful. I skate closer toward him, grinning all the while as he grins right back at me. “I’m doing it, right?” I say excitedly. “Flynn, I’m finally—“
Down in a heap, right on my butt, about as graceful as a dying cow.
“Ow. You were supposed to catch me.”
He winces. “Sorry, Savi.”
I look at the heel of my hand. It’s covered with grime and mottled with red dots from the imprint of the sidewalk. I hold it up to him. “Hurt my hand.”
He reaches for me, pulls me to my feet, and inspects the scrape. He gently blows the bits of grime off. “A scratch. You’re going to live.”
“Not sure, if I keep doing this,” I tell him as I watch him gently kiss it. Well, if I keep having wipe-outs, at least I can look forward to his lips, healing all my sore spots.
As I am wondering what other body parts I can coax him into kissing, Livvie skates up behind me. I can tell she loves having all this extra space to skate around in. It sure beats the cramped old street she once lived on. And I think Flynn is proudest of all that he can be the one to give it to her. When he signed his eight-figure, six-year contract with the Bobcats, the first thing he said to me was, “Now I can get them all out of that hole.”
“I fell all the time, at first!” she tells me encouragingly, wiping some dirt off the leg of my jeans. “You’ll get it.”
Not that the money has changed Flynn, at all. If anything, I think it scares him, because he seems extra intent on just being a normal guy and not letting it go to his head. He hasn’t gone out and blown it on anything for himself like a new car, like most of his teammates did. He doesn’t throw money around on dates. He still eats McDonald’s and shops at the Stop & Shop and pumps his own gas. For someone who used to be so wrapped up in portraying a certain image, he’s remarkably relaxed and unconcerned with those things, now.
Now, when he’s out on the ice, it’s just about the game.
And when he’s not on the ice . . . he spends a lot of time with me.
“Dinner!” a voice calls from faraway. Standing on the front porch is Mr. Taylor, wearing his dapper little apron. It’s a perfect Spring Sunday, and his whole family is together, celebrating the new house. I’ve been helping as much as I can. We’ve gotten most of the unpacking done, even with Flynn’s crazy travel schedule. He just came back from a road trip to Memphis, and is looking forward to four whole days off for Easter vacation. Professor Morgan, too, has given me the weekend off from the latest study I’m working on with him, and I already finished applying for fall admission for the Masters program in Psychology at several Boston universities, so we’re finally free.
Four whole days together, with absolutely nothing to do! I can’t wait.
Livvie and Flynn take me by the elbows and start to skate me up the curved drive when a couple of kids bicycle into the opening of the cul-de-sac. They stop short, and I watch the girl on the pink bicycle nudge the boy across the street. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a crumpled jersey with the Bobcats’ red.
I thrust my chin in their direction. “Looks like a couple of fans found you.”
“Are you Flynn Taylor, from the Bobcats?” One of the kids calls, excited.
Flynn nods. “How you kids doing?”
They look at each other. “Cool!” The boy says. “You live here?”
Flynn grins and nods again. “We just moved in. Where are you guys from?”
The girl wheels forward and points down the street, at a brick home that’s half hidden by enormous oak trees. “I live there. Cal lives in the next neighborhood over.�
��
“You’re so lucky, Sarah. You live in the same neighborhood as the Beast.” He holds the Bobcats jersey and a Sharpie up to him. “Would you sign this for me?”
Flynn looks at me to make sure I’m all right. I loosen my grip on him and he skates forward, takes the jersey, and signs it. “You guys skate, I hope? We’re doing street hockey in this court all summer long.” He motions to me. “This one—the lightning rod straight outta Bourneville, Ohio— is going to be our star player, but you can get in on it, if you want.”
I snort as the kids look at each other, dumbfounded at the prospect of playing street hockey with a veritable hero. “Yeah!” they enthuse.
“You two go to Duxbury Middle School?” he asks.
They nod.
“This is my sister, Livvie,” he says, pointing to her. “She’s new here. Doesn’t know anyone. Maybe you guys could show her around?”
“Sure!” Sarah says, smiling at her.
Flynn hands the jersey back to the boy and says, “See you guys around,” then turns back to me. He looks all concerned, all of the sudden. “You okay?” he asks, skating toward me and putting his hand on my elbow again.
I guess I always get a little shocked whenever he signs an autograph for someone. People want a piece of him, and yet here he is . . . all of his pieces, all with me. How did I ever get so lucky? Taking that leap, spreading my wings and flying to Boston was, hands down, the best decision I ever made. It led me to Flynn.
We skate up the ramp to the front door, sniffing the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked lasagna. We gather around the table, his entire family and me. Though I’m renting a small apartment in Cambridge, I’ve been out in the suburbs with them enough that I’m almost a fixture here, now. Before we eat, we say grace, and when we finish, Mr. Taylor clinks his glass with his fork. This is something I’m not used to. I’m used to the boys fighting over the dinner rolls, or Regan getting yelled at for using her phone, or some other friendly screaming match to begin. But instead, they’re all silent, watching Flynn and me.
“Flynn,” Mr. Taylor says, “You’re on.”
He nods and clears his throat, as I wonder what was going on. He pushes away from the table a bit, so he’s facing me. “Savannah,” he says, his voice a little weaker. I push away to look at him. “I wanted to thank you for everything. For being here and helping my family, even when I was on the road. For being at every home game to cheer me on. For just . . . being you.”
I smile at him. He’d said something like that when he gave me the skates, so I repeat what I’d said then. “You’re welcome, but it’s my pleasure. You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
“Right.” Wow, I don’t know, he’s usually so good at hiding his nervousness, but something is making him visibly nervous. His face is flushed and there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow. He takes a deep breath and looks up at his mother, at the rest of the people seated around the table, watching us intently. His smile disappears and his voice turns grave. “But I have something to tell you. Those rollerblades were only part of your surprise.”
My brow wrinkles as I look at the faces of his family members, seated around the table Something tells me they know exactly what the other surprise is. “Oh, Flynn, you shouldn’t have. You bought me a hockey stick, too?” I tease.
He reaches into the pocket of his sweat jacket, and realization hits me like a pile of bricks when I see the small, sleek black box in his hand. He opens it to me, revealing a blindingly gorgeous diamond solitaire, surrounded by dozens of tinier diamonds. “No,” he says. “I bought you this.”
My jaw falls open. My hands shake, so I pile them in my lap, unable to believe what’s unfolding in front of me. The first thing that pops into my mind is, So he did buy something extravagant with his signing money, after all.
“I brought you here because the first time we had dinner with my family, you said there was no place else in the city you’d rather be,” he says, looking up at me earnestly. “And there’s no place I’d rather be than wherever you are. I want you to be my wife, Savannah.”
The rest of me is useless, but my hands find their way to my mouth, which is now in a perfect O. Tears slide down my cheeks as he pushes the chair away and kneels in front of me.
Words fail me, but I do muster enough muscular coordination to nod slightly.
A small smile breaks out on his face. “Is that a yes?”
I nod again, more vigorously this time.
He takes the ring out and slips it onto my finger. Unlike the rollerblades, it’s a perfect fit. “Come here,” he says.
Of course, as usual, I’m powerless to do anything other than what he says. He pulls me to him and kisses me, as the rest of his family cheers. I still haven’t said anything, because my vocal chords have been rendered useless, so he whispers to me, “That is a yes, isn’t it, Freckles?”
Shaking my head, I laugh. Then I whisper in his ear, “No. That’s a fuck yes.”
And then we’re holding each other close, and the entire world fades away until it’s just us.
Hockey, psychology studies, friends and family and fans….all of that is amazing.
But in the end, it’s just us.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
THE END
We hope you’ve enjoyed Hard Stick. Please leave a review and let us know!
Want to get alerted to the hottest deals in romance from Favor Ford Publishing and learn as soon as the next Paige North book is out?
Sign up now to the Favor Ford Romance newsletter!
Continue on to read the free bonus book, PUMPED by Harper James…
Bonus Content: PUMPED by Harper James
Chapter 1
There’s a stranger holding a pair of my panties.
I’m not the kind of girl who’s easily freaked out by people handling my clothes— even my underwear. I’ve been in the dorms for three years, after all, and using a communal washing machine means that eventually, someone’s going to be handling your panties, if only to move them out of the dryer. But there’s a big difference in someone handling my panties in the laundry room and someone handling my panties in my dorm room.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, pushing the door to my room the rest of the way open.
The person— the guy— spins around, a wicked grin on his face. His smile is the brightest thing in the room, though that’s not necessarily saying much. It’s move-in day, which means my room is, at present, varying shades of beige. Beige walls, beige boxes, beige flooring, beige blinds. And the fiercely white teeth and shadowy dark ink on the arm tattoos of this guy.
“I’m wondering why you’re moving your underwear into my room,” the guy says, dropping my panties back into the box he’d pulled them from. He looks wholly unapologetic, which makes me way angrier than catching him handling my panties did. Truth be told, seeing a hot guy handling your underwear isn’t the worst thing— but when he wasn’t invited to, and he doesn’t seem ashamed to be caught doing it? I scowl.
“This is my room. I’m the RA. This is the RA’s room. Check the door,” I say, and point. There’s the room number— 300— and beside that, a brown faux-wood panel that says RESIDENTIAL ADVISOR.
“Okay, but it’s also room 300, which is my room,” the guy says, leaning back against the bed and folding his arms over his chest. The tattoos on his arms are thick bands. No design, no text, nothing fancy— just black bands a few inches thick. I don’t know much about tattoos, but I know they must have taken forever to do, solid and dark as they are.
I shake the tattoos out of my brain and go on. “Let me see your check in sheet,” I say, and thrust my hand toward him. Pointing out the sign reminded me that I am, in fact, the RA, so despite the fact that he was handling my panties I have to help him find his actual room. That’s literally my job.
The guy shrugs and lifts a piece of folded paper off the bare mattress, then hands it to me. I unfold it hurriedly and pick my way through a mess of com
puter-automated form fields and notes scribbled in the margins. The guy’s name is Gabe Forest. He’s a senior, a transfer. Someone’s written his course load at the bottom of the page— Swahili, United States Geography, Intro to Computing—
“A football player,” I mutter. Football players always take these bullshit classes.
“You’ve got it,” he says back— from behind me. I spin around and realize that while I’ve been looking at the paper, he’s dipped back into the hall. He’s currently carrying liquor-store procured boxes into the room. His boxes, clearly, since mine are all neatly labeled and from the moving company down the road. He drops the box he’s holding on the floor at my feet. Socks washed to various shades of gray fly out, none of them paired up.
“Stop it,” I say, astounded— seriously? This guy is going to just move his stuff in here while I’m trying to sort this out? I repeat myself, this time trying to invoke my dad’s best Politician Voice. “Stop it. Give me a moment to call housing. There’s been a mistake.”
For a moment— a tiny, tiny moment— I think he’s actually going to stop. If nothing else, he does seem a touch thrown by my Politician Voice. But then he shakes his head. “I’ve got practice in an hour. I don’t have time for you to call housing.”
“Well, you don’t have much of an option, because this is my room—”
“It’s mine. See?” he says, and points to the paper. In the margin, someone has written ADAMS HALL, ROOM 300.
“That’s literally just someone’s handwriting. It’s hardly official. I need to call them,” I say firmly.