by Avery Flynn
Ah, busted. “Who’s tough now?” she groused. But her father crossed his arms over the front of his dark green button down shirt, and shit, he wasn’t going to let her off the hook unless she convinced him to.
“You don’t have to worry about me.” She took another bite of her muffin. “This is what I went to college for, remember?”
Pride whisked through her father’s eyes. “I remember.”
January’s cheeks warmed. Of course he did. He’d been in the third row when she’d graduated summa cum laude with her degree in marketing, for cripes’ sake.
She threw back the last of her coffee, because it was less conspicuous than clearing her throat. “I know what I’m in for with planning a fundraiser on the fly. Anyway, I think they’re fun.”
One blond brow arched from across the table. “You think they’re boring and pretentious.”
“Okay. I think this one is going to be fun,” she amended with a bigger than necessary smile. This fundraiser would be fun. Provided she could figure out something new and fresh (and okay, fast) to make it that way, anyhow.
“Well, I know it’ll take a lot of work, but if anyone can plan a successful event, it’s you,” her father said.
Just like that, January’s smile became a whole lot less forced. “I really hope so.”
Planning this fundraiser was likely to make her month pretty crazy, but the money raised would go toward new, state-of-the-art equipment for the firefighters. Busting her buns for four weeks seemed like a small price to pay. She knew all too well how much steeper the price could be.
God, she missed Asher. She missed her best friend.
She’d miss Finn too, if she wasn’t so pissed at him.
January tamped down the thought even as it sent a pang through her belly. Finn had made his choices. Found the success he’d wanted. Left her behind in the process.
She needed to leave him behind too. No matter how badly she’d wanted him when he left Remington seven years ago.
Fundraiser. Equipment. Firehouse. Immediately, if not sooner.
“Right!” January said, just a second too quickly and a shade too loud. Tugging in a breath, she made sure to meter the rest of her words to match her smile. “Well, I hate to eat and run, but I have to be at work in fifteen minutes, and today’s going to be busy.”
She reached into her purse to cover her half of breakfast, but her father stopped her with a wave of his hand.
“Go.” He slid out of the booth to give her a quick hug. “Let me know if the Thirty-Third can help with the fundraiser.”
She brushed a kiss over her father’s cheek. “Thanks, I will. And Dad?” She waited for him to make full eye contact before continuing. “Do me a favor and wait until I’m out of the parking lot to order that side of bacon, okay?”
He laughed in a full admission of guilt. “I’ll finish the juice if that makes you feel any better.”
“Actually, it does,” she said, giving up a grin along with one last wave as she headed for the chrome and glass double doors.
Finn sat back against the well-cushioned seat in the Lincoln Town Car that had picked him up at the airport, wishing like hell the thing had a mini bar. He’d have been more than happy to simply rent a car and drive himself, but his twenty-four hours with the Cup started bright and early tomorrow morning, which meant not only did he have to travel with it in its gigantic protective trunk, but with the keeper of the Cup as well.
Talk about surreal. Once upon a time, his primary address had been the backseat of a beat-to-hell-and-back Chevy, and now, Finn had a fucking entourage.
“Alrighty!” The keeper of the Cup, Edwin Motz, clambered into the passenger seat of the Town Car and turned to give Finn a double thumbs-up. “The Cup is all strapped in and secure in the van behind us, so we’re good to go. Sorry it took a minute, but I had to double-triple check to make sure it arrived without a scratch.”
Unable to help himself, Finn lifted one corner of his mouth in an expression caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “The Cup never left its trunk, Edwin. A trunk that’s custom-padded and insulated and probably bulletproof on top of that.”
“Oh, a bulletproof trunk. That would be a good idea,” Edwin said, his eyes going wide behind the thick, dark rims of his glasses. “Imagine how well-protected the Cup would stay if we—”
Finn interrupted by turning his smirk into a laugh. “I was actually kidding about the bulletproof thing.”
“Oh. Right, right, of course.” Edwin nodded, but tapped out a quick note on his iPhone that made Finn think a bid for a bulletproof trunk might be in the Cup’s future. “At any rate, you’re the first player with the Cup this year. The Rage’s win is only a few weeks old, so we’ll probably get a little more press than usual.”
Finn brought his teeth together, biting back the urge to tell Edwin they wouldn’t be getting any press at all. His agent had practically had a kitten—Finn was hip deep in contract negotiations. But all that smile-for-the-camera press Marty wanted would have to wait until after Finn had gone to Asher’s grave. After he’d righted the wrong that had wedged between them for far too long.
After he’d tied up all his loose ends and gotten the fuck out of Remington, once and for all.
“Did you need me to go over any of the rules with you before tomorrow?” Edwin turned to rummage through the bag on his lap, presumably for a fresh copy of the six-page spreadsheet he’d already given all the players on the care and keeping of the Cup, but Finn shook his head to stop the guy mid-move.
“Your handout was pretty clear,” he said, watching the buildings and storefronts of downtown Remington flash by as the driver maneuvered through rush hour traffic. Christ, so much had changed in the last seven years. Including him, he supposed.
Hell if that wasn’t the whole point of this trip.
Finn took a deep inhale and rerouted his attention back to Edwin to count off the highlights. “Nothing illegal. Nothing that will damage the Cup. No charging anyone for photo ops with the Cup.” That one had surprised him, actually. He wasn’t exactly a saint (or, you know, even fucking close) but you had to be a special breed of dickhead to go there. “Hey, do guys seriously try to do that?”
“I think you’d be shocked to know what some people try to do with it,” Edwin replied gravely, and ooookay. Moving on.
“And the number one rule of my day with the Cup is I can take it anywhere I want as long as it never leaves your sight.”
Edwin nodded, pushing his glasses higher over the bridge of his nose. “That about sums things up, yes. If you’ve got an itinerary for tomorrow, I can make a detailed plan to help you deal with the press accordingly.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Confusion pulled the edges of the keeper’s mouth into a frown. “I thought…well, the dossier you have on file with the Rage says you lived here in Remington for five years before you went to the minors in Tallahassee. Since it doesn’t list anything before that, I assumed this was your hometown.”
Finn made a mental note to have his team dossier shredded into confetti as soon as he got back to New Orleans. Not that anyone other than Edwin actually read those goddamn things. “It’s not.”
“Oh.” Edwin’s fingers twitched over the seat back, and Finn would bet the bank the guy was just itching to go in and edit Finn’s personnel file right there from the front seat of the Town Car. “Well then, perhaps just a list of places you’d like to go so I can call ahead to make arrangements,” Edwin tried again. “It really is in your best interest to be prepared for your day with the Cup so there are no mishaps.”
“There won’t be any mishaps.” Finn directed his gaze out the window again, hoping the move would put a cap on the conversation.
No such luck. Not that luck had ever been in Finn’s wheelhouse. “Mr. Donnelly, I really think we should—”
“I’m all set, Edwin.”
A tiny part of Finn felt bad for killing the conversation so abruptly. But the gu
ys on the team—Kazakov, Ford Callaghan, James “DC” Washington; hell, every last one of those crazy sons of bitches—they were the only close friends Finn had, and they’d each get their own day with the Cup. He didn’t have any grand plans. No local parade, no rah rah fanfare. No family members to oooh and aaah over the thing.
The only place he wanted to take it was Asher’s grave so he could finally make amends for the way he’d busted up their friendship, the way he damn well should have before Asher had died.
But Ash isn’t the only best friend you burned a bridge with here in Remington, now is he?
The thought came out of nowhere, hitting Finn like a slap shot at center mass. Edwin had smartly turned his attention to their driver, regaling the poor guy with one hockey statistic after another, so Finn gave in to the weird urge to go all blast from the past and slide deeper into his thoughts.
He should’ve known January would edge her way into his brain pan as soon as he set foot in Remington. After all, he and Asher and January had been best friends from the beginning of the eighth grade to the day they’d graduated high school. She’d been bright and kind and funny as hell, the polar opposite of Finn’s gruff attitude and shitty upbringing.
She’d been a perfect match for Asher, though. Which was actually pretty fitting, seeing as how the guy had been in love with her since the day he’d clapped eyes on her. Not that Finn could blame him. Even in high school, January had been a fucking knockout, with those ice-blue eyes that crinkled around the edges when she laughed and that dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose that she’d hated, but Finn had always secretly thought were sexy.
God love Asher and his titanium sense of honor, though. He’d never worked up the nerve to risk turning his friendship with January into anything more. Or hell, maybe he had, after the night everything had gone to shit between the three of them.
Jamming a hand through his hair, Finn shoved his thoughts back down where they belonged. The past was behind him for a reason, just as he’d left Remington for a reason. Yeah, his friendship with January had ended as a consequence, and yeah again, he missed her hard, more than he’d usually admit.
But he couldn’t go back. Not to the friendship he’d never deserved, even though she’d given it so fast and so freely. Not to the dilapidated house his father had left him two years ago when the old man had died. Not to the shitty reality of who he’d been and how he’d been raised—or more to the point, not raised by the man when his mother had pulled her disappearing act.
No, Finn most definitely couldn’t go back. But there was one thing he could do.
As soon as he and Edwin and the Cup were checked in all safe and secure at the Remington Plaza hotel, he could go find that drink he was beginning to desperately need.
Finn tipped his head to take in the sign reading The Crooked Angel Bar and Grille, and good Christ, this was more like it. After sitting at the bar in the lobby of the Plaza for a solid half an hour, all he’d gotten was an under-poured glass of whiskey and an overwhelming case of hives. His suite, with its panoramic view of the city and its fully stocked gourmet kitchen and its bathtub big enough for him and half his teammates, was definitely kickass. But all the chi-chi old money business that went with a hotel like the Plaza?
No fucking thank you. A cold bottle of beer and the corner bar stool were so much more Finn’s speed.
Tugging the front door open, he spun a gaze around the inside of the Crooked Angel. The place was pretty crowded, although considering the two-sided chalkboard sign propped over the sidewalk had boasted Thursday Night is Ladies’ Night! that wasn’t exactly headline material. The white lights strung from the rafters brightened the darkly paneled main dining room just enough to offer visibility while keeping the definitely-a-bar vibe. The sports memorabilia slathered all over the walls told him the probability he’d be recognized was likely to be high, but the Rage had been a Cinderella team all year. He was getting used to people picking him out of a crowd, and with the exception of diehard Spartans fans and overzealous puck bunnies who would screw anyone associated with a hockey team right down to the assistant equipment manager, it wasn’t so bad. Plus, he vaguely remembered Asher mentioning the Crooked Angel as a place he’d wanted to sneak into from time to time in high school, so walking the six blocks between the bar and the hotel to throw a few back seemed pretty damned fitting.
A pang centered itself over Finn’s breastbone, but he ran a hand over the front of his T-shirt to kill the sensation before it spread out. He’d come here for a drink. No jaunts down memory lane. No reminiscing about the past that was good and well behind him. Nothing but a couple of beers and a trip back to the Plaza to watch highlight films before grabbing some shuteye. His agent might be good, but that bright and shiny new contract wasn’t going to earn itself.
Finn stepped a little farther into the bar. For a second, he considered snagging a table in the dining area, but discarded the idea just as quickly. Sitting at the bar had never bothered him, and eating alone…well, yeah. He’d done enough of that by the time he was fifteen to last a lifetime.
Sliding onto the last stool at the far end of the wood by the corner, Finn realized belatedly how packed the place truly was. Waiting out the bartender gave him some time to relax and check out the beer menu, though, and by the time the black-haired woman arrived in front of him, the unease Finn had felt a few minutes before had disappeared.
“Hey, sorry for the wait. We’re a little short-staffed tonight,” she said, but he shook his head to cancel out the apology, so she smiled and continued. “My name’s Kennedy. What can I get you?”
“This IPA you’ve got on tap looks good.” Finn tapped the menu with one finger.
“Sure thing. Small or large?”
Finn was tempted to point out how loaded the question was. But even though Kennedy was pretty in an edgy, pierced, dark lipstick sort of way, he’d always had more of a soft spot for blondes. Plus, while the thought of getting laid wasn’t a terrible one, he wasn’t in Remington to do anything other than tie up loose ends once and for all, so he simply answered, “Large works.”
“You got it, boss.”
One song dropped off the overhead soundtrack, followed by another, and Finn began to wonder if his beer had gotten lost in the shuffle. Sitting up taller against the ladder-back of his bar stool, he shifted to look through the crowd for Kennedy, but instead, he found himself face to shocked-as-hell face with a pretty blonde standing on the business side of the bar.
Make that a very familiar pretty blonde.
Finn’s pulse clattered like a puck being dropped at center ice, but he battened down to cover the reaction with a small, guarded smile. “Hey, Calendar Girl. Long time no see.”
“Finnegan.” January hitched, but only for a second before those pale blue eyes went from wide to wary. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His smile turned into a chuff of irony-laced laughter. He had to hand it to her. She might be the kindest person he’d ever met, but she’d never pulled any damned punches, either.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing?” Finn volleyed. “I thought you worked at the firehouse.”
Her lips parted, betraying her surprise. But just because he hadn’t spoken to her at Asher’s funeral didn’t mean he hadn’t seen her with the firefighters who had laid their brother to rest, or overheard them talking about her administrative position at Station Seventeen.
She didn’t give him an inch, though. “And I thought you lived in New Orleans.”
“I’m in town for a few days. Figured a drink wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, lowering his gaze to the beer in her hand so he wouldn’t stare at her instead. Christ, she looked fucking gorgeous. He shouldn’t be surprised, he guessed. She’d been gorgeous since the day he’d met her on Asher’s front porch over a decade ago, all honey-colored hair and huge-hearted disposition and sweet, sexy smiles. “And for the record, no one calls me by my full name but you.”
“Well that’
s interesting,” she said, her gold-blond brows arching slightly as she plucked a cocktail napkin from the plastic dispenser to her left and placed his beer on the bar in front of him. “Since I don’t call you at all.”
Finn bit down on the urge to wince. Not that he didn’t deserve the direct hit, but… “No. I guess you don’t.”
Silence settled between them, thick and tightly strung, until finally, January shocked the hell out of him with, “Congratulations on winning the Cup. I know it’s what you wanted.”
“Thanks. I did.” Whether it was the fresh emotion of seeing her after so long or the old emotion of being back in Remington, Finn had no clue. But something twisted in his chest, prompting his mouth open without his brain’s permission. “Listen, I know I—”
“Christ on a Pop-Tart, Sinclair! Do you know whose beer you just poured?”
Finn blinked at the tall, dark-haired guy standing beside him, his knee-jerk frustration at the interruption quickly chased off by relief. Had he seriously been T-minus two seconds from blabbing to January—of all goddamn people—why he’d come back to Remington?
“I used to,” she murmured, so softly that Finn barely caught the words before she pasted an over-bright smile onto her lips. “Mmm hmm! Kellan Walker, meet Finn Donnelly. Kellan’s a firefighter at Station Seventeen,” she told him, her cheeks flushing just enough to trip Finn’s oh-fuck-yes trigger before she turned her attention back to the guy, adding, “And Finn is…obviously Finn. We used to know each other back in high school.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Kellan said, extending his hand toward Finn for a firm shake. “I’m a Remington transplant, so I’ve only been here for three years. But I’d heard you were from the area. Congrats on winning the Cup, man. We were rooting for the Rage all the way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Finn shifted his gaze back to the spot where January stood behind the bar, smiling at Kellan as she twisted the lid from a fresh bottle of beer before exchanging it for his empty one. An unwanted thought flared to life in his brain, followed by a stab of something hot and ugly he couldn’t quite identify. “So you two know each other from the firehouse?”