Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  Angi is a Publisher’s Weekly Bestseller. Her romantic suspense work has been a Romantic Times Best Intrigue Series nominee twice and a finalist in the Bookseller’s Best Award, Romantic Times Best First Series, Carolyn Readers’ Choice, Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, and the Daphne du Maurier. Her first book won the RWA Golden Heart and went on sale for Harlequin Intrigue the same night.

  ~ From The Author ~

  A special thanks to the wonderful women writing the Cajun Rage hockey team. They’ve been so supportive and kick-ass heroines!! Thanks for including me.

  And a big THANKS for reading book three in the Bodyguards in Heels series. I hope you enjoyed Brooke’s story. The adventures of Hallie and her bodyguards will continue when you meet Carrie, Scotty, and Kyle…the handyman who lives next door. Grammy’s house is always a full one. She’ll make sure that Emma and Essie get their own exciting happily ever afters. And one day, Brooke and Deacon will be in the same city continuing their romance.

  Sign up for my newsletter for monthly giveaways, exclusive content, and to be the first to know when the next book is available. Follow me on Amazon, connect with me on Facebook, or Tweet dog pics with me @AngiMorganAuthr.

  Happy Reading!

  ~Angi

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  Hit and Run Hallie, # 1

  Licensed to Carrie, # 2

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  TEXAS RANGERS: ELITE TROOP

  Bulletproof Badge

  Shotgun Justice

  Gunslinger

  Hard Core Law

  WEST TEXAS WATCHMEN

  Protecting His Child

  The Sheriff

  The Cattleman

  The Ranger

  TEXAS FAMILY RECKONING

  Navy Seal Surrender

  The Renegade Rancher

  STAND ALONE INTRIGUES

  Dangerous Memories

  .38 Caliber Cover-Up

  Hill Country Holdup

  Under the Midnight Sun

  by

  Kim Golden

  To my noisy, hockey-loving muse -- you are the only man for me.

  And to the Philadelphia Flyers - you are the only team for me.

  1

  Jonas

  "Mariam...?"

  Jonas blinked against the bright, invasive light. He lifted his head, but it felt leaden and heavy. A blurry figure loomed before him, reeking of sweat and adrenaline. Or was that smell coming from him? It must have been... He tried to piece it together... he'd been on the ice...pressing forward, trying to avoid a stick-check from the Spartans' Alec Crenshaw. That was all he could remember.

  "Don't try to move yet, Magnussen." He could just barely recognize the voice of Mason "Rage" Courage, his coach. "Let the doc do his job."

  He nodded, moved is lips to say 'okay' but his throat was too dry for any sound.

  "You took a bad hit," someone else said. "Can you breathe?"

  He couldn't tell. His face was cold, wet. His mouth tasted metallic.

  "Who's Mariam?"

  "Someone..." Jonas blinked again, tried to focus his eyes before the room blurred and the voices whooshed in his ears. "I should...fan, that hurts."

  "Broken." This time it was the team doctor. "I got it."

  "How's your leg feel, Magnussen? You landed pretty hard."

  He remembered nodding again, mumbling something close to "I'm fine..." and pushing himself up to sit. His chest burned as he heaved in air. He winced and cursed in Swedish. Everything spun before him. He shut his eyes quickly and swallowed down the sour nausea curdling in him. "I need to get back out on the ice..."

  "Not yet."

  "Yeah, his nose is broken." The doctor gripped his shoulder. "Stay still, Magnussen. Going to tape you up."

  The pulsating roar of the crowd permeated the thick dressing room walls and grated at his ears. Jonas winced again as they jabbed gauze in his nostrils to stop the bleeding. Fuck... He clenched his jaw. The glare of the lights, the whooshing sound throbbing in his head...."I can't see...fuck...my head feels like it's going to explode."

  "No way you're going back on the ice tonight, Iceman."

  "Let's get him to the hospital."

  For just a moment, he thought she was there. Was it her hand cupping his cheek? Was she murmuring to him that everything would be okay? He wasn't sure. He just knew the whole world went black.

  "Time to return to the land of the living, Mags."

  "Feel like I've been run over by a god-damn Mack truck." Jonas blinked against the stark, almost blinding white light. Everything blurred. His mouth tasted dry and sticky. He recognized the voice--if there was anyone he trusted with his life if was Zim, better known to fans as Constantine Zimin, defensemen extraordinaire and feared by their opponents. He was the aggressive on the ice and picked his battles well. When they first started playing together, the hockey press nicked name them Fire and Ice since Zim's fiery temper contrasted with Jonas's icy, slow burn. They both played to win--you had to in the league, but Zim was quick, sharp and decisive in picking off his opponents on the ice and Jonas was more rational, thinking it through before their blades even touched the ice and then slowly putting on the pressure against whomever he faced.

  They were contrasts in looks too. The puck bunnies went crazy for Zim's dark good looks. He was all snarls and cross-checks in the heat of the game, but off the ice he emanated a silent burn that ignited sparks in his wake. There was always a woman willing to chase him, even when he glared at them and let them know they were wasting their time. And while they liked Jonas's typically Scandinavian blond hair and pale blue eyes, his reticence off the ice left them exasperated. He hated small talk, hated stumbling over English words and trying to translate what he wanted to say from Swedish what he'd wanted to say quickly enough to keep their eyes from eventually glazing over as they glanced over his shoulder in search of someone more interesting to talk to, someone easier to size up and have fun with later on.

  Zim nudged a cup of water into Jonas's hand. "Here. Your breath smells like death, man."

  "You come all this way to insult me? No wonder we get along so well."

  "Just glad to see you opening your eyes again, Maggie. That asshole Crenshaw hit you hard."

  Jonas tried to smile but his skin pulled so tight it burned. Another injury to chalk up. "They didn't call my sister, did they?"

  "I don't think so. I think they were waiting to see how you shape up today." Zim scratched his chin through his dark beard. "No point in getting her too freaked out if it's not so bad."

  "How bad is it? My head is killing me...I'm pretty sure my nose is broken too."

  "It is." Zim confirmed with his typical honesty. "You hungry, knucklehead?"

  Jonas shook his head no. "Just...can you turn off the lights or something? It's making the headache worse."

  Zim got out of his chair and stalked across the room to hit the light switch. As soon as the ceiling light was turned off, the sharp pain behind Jonas's bleary eyes began to subside.

  "That hit you took was pretty bad," Zim said again. "You were out for a couple of minutes. And when you came to, it was like you weren't completely there."

  "I don't think I was." Jonas admitted. It had been a while since he'd taken that bad of a hit. Most of the time he was fast enough on the ice that he didn't take too many beatdowns. "Did we at least win?"

  "Yeah, Trip scored the winning goal."

  "Trip?"

  "Yeah, Trip." Zim grinned for the first time since Jonas opened his eyes. "It was fucking amazing."

  "Then I guess it was worth it."

  "What?"

  "Getting injured. If we'd lost, this would piss me off
beyond belief. But we won, so it's a good battle scar."

  "Everybody's outside--well, not everybody, but Thibs, Babs, Rage and Stevie G."

  Zim had a nickname for everyone. This was Guy Thibodeault, their former head coach who'd suffered a heart attack not too long ago. Even if he was officially retired, Thibs still came to every home game and was like a dad to most of the team. Babs was Michael Babineaux, owner of the Rajuns. He wasn't too thrilled with Zim's choice of nicknames but it stuck. Even the rest of their teammates had taken to calling him Babs. Shit, if he was here, then it must be serious. Babs didn't usually concern himself too much with ins and outs of the team. As long as they filled the Crescent Centre and won enough games to keep them from making New Orleans look bad, he was happy. And then there was Rage...or Mason Courage. He'd stepped in as interim Head Coach now that Thibs was retired. And Stevie G was Steve Garsey, their GM.

  He must have been pretty banged up if all the big guys were there. "I guess I'm a lost cause for the rest of the season."

  "Yeah, pretty much." Zim pushed open the door. "He's awake now," he called out into the hospital corridor. Thibs was the first to shuffle past Zim and nab the empty chair to the left of Jonas's hospital bed.

  "You took a doozy last night, son," the older man patted Jonas's arm and then eased into the chair. "Had all of us worried."

  "Sorry about that." Jonas grimaced against the dull throb of his headache. Everything still felt off kilter. "I'll duck next time," he joked.

  "Yeah, you do that. Don't give me another heart attack."

  Babs took watch at the foot of the bed. As always, he was impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place. The only visible sign that he was worried was the slight twitch of his eyebrow and the serious countenance on his face. "Magnussen, glad to see you're pretty much in one piece."

  "Don't think I'll make tonight's game though."

  "No, but you played hard and you're okay. That's all that matters." He folded his arms across his chest and flashed a tight smile. "I think it'll take more than a scuffle to bring down the Iceman."

  "It was a tough game." Mason "Rage" Courage added as he came around to the other side of the bed. He flicked a glance at Jonas's chart. "The Spartans were playing dirty and you boys rose to the challenge."

  "We always do," Zim reminded him before Jonas could say anything. "And we kicked their asses."

  The only one who hadn't spoken yet was Steve Garsey, or Stevie G. He was pacing the width of the room, his head down, his hands shoved in the pockets of the gray wool suit pants he wore no matter what the weather. Now they all began talking at once, recapping the last moments of the game for Jonas, but he could barely follow them. Their voices meshed and grated at his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shut off the pain. Christ, even his ears ached. And now even the natural light spilling in through the window exacerbated his headache.

  "You okay, kid?" Now Garsey came forward, leaving his post at the foot of the bed. Concern etched his tanned face. "Con, get that nurse. Kid's gone gray on us."

  Despite his size, Zim was fast on his feet. He was already out of the door before Jonas could assure them that he was okay, but their voices....no, now he could practically taste the pain, cold and metallic in his mouth. He grimaced again. She crept into his thoughts again. Mariam. A flash of her, turning towards him, her thick curls tumbling to her shoulders, tickling his skin. That first night they'd spent together, two stupid kids thinking they knew what the world had in store for them... God, why was he thinking of her now? Was it the pain?

  Someone pushed a cup of water in his hand. "Drink, Magnussen..."

  "Jag vill hem..." He gulped down some water, but it came up again, sputtering over his dry lips. He was pretty sure it was Thibs taking care of him, wiping away the spilled water, telling him to take it easy, there was no rush. He heard rather than saw Zim return with a nurse and someone else. It must have been the doctor. He vaguely remembered both of them from the night before, the few moments he'd been lucid and hadn't felt like he was punch-drunk.

  "How are you feeling, Iceman?" It was the doctor now. Jonas opened his eyes again. He couldn't remember the doctor's name, but her thick, black hair and dark skin reminded him of Mariam. Everything did now. While the nurse administered some pain meds and then adjusted Jonas's pillows, the doctor checked the chart and then said, "How many concussions have you had?"

  "Two..." he managed to say.

  "Congratulations then, you're on lucky concussion number three."

  "Great, lucky me," he tried to joke. "I hope there's a prize."

  "Sure there is. Your summer vacation starts early. No ice time for you tonight." Well, that was a relief. His entire body ached, especially his right shoulder. The doctor, he could read her tag now, Priya Singh, set his chart on the table and then added, "We're going to be running some tests on you today, Jonas...an MRI, a neuroscan—"

  "A neuroscan?" Rage looked even more concerned now. "Is that absolutely necessary?"

  "In cases like this, yes." Dr. Singh was peering now at the stitches holding Jonas's eyebrow together. "I saw the game last night. He took a nasty hit, he was out cold when he was brought in and by his own admission this is his third concussion."

  "But a neuroscan...?"

  "You do realize that a concussion is brain trauma, don't you?"

  The nurse adjusted the bed so that Jonas could sit up more easily. "Do you think you can stand?" she asked him. "We'll need to test your balance."

  He nodded. Standing was easy. He moved slowly though, not wanting to exacerbate the intensity of his headache. Zim hovered like a mamma bird, ready to help or catch Jonas, but Jonas managed to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed without too much problem. He focused on steadying his feet on the cold linoleum floor. At first, everything felt fine. He pushed himself to his feet, heard all the familiar creaks and crackles that been a part of his life since he'd first started playing hockey. His left knee throbbed. It always did, but now it hurt to even put pressure on it. He adjusted, shifting more of his weight to his right knee, and bit through the pain. Once he was standing, he felt the world sway a bit. Shit...maybe this was more serious than he'd thought.

  But he grinned at the doctor and said, "See? Fit for fight."

  Dr. Singh nodded, but the serious expression on her let him know she remained unconvinced. "How do your knees feel?"

  "Like usual."

  "Do you usually favor your right one?"

  He shrugged, but Thibs spoke for him. "The kid took a hit last season, had some surgery on his left knee."

  "And last night your right knee slammed against the boards. You're lucky your gear took most of the battering," she said. "But I can see that you're in a little pain. We might need to x-ray that knee then."

  "I want to play tonight—"

  "Out of the question." Dr. Singh scoffed. "Magnussen, you can barely hold any weight on either knee. The only reason you're even managing now is that you're used to pain. And... I’ll say it one more time--you have BRAIN TRAUMA. There is no way you're going out on the ice tonight."

  "Okay, okay..."

  "We'll kick the Spartans' asses," Zim assured Jonas. "We got it covered."

  "We'll bring the Cup here as soon as the game is over."

  "Visiting hours will be over though."

  Dr. Singh finally cracked a smile. "For you, we'll make an exception."

  The rest of Jonas's day blurred from one test to another. Dr. Singh and the nurse were only the first of his official hospital "visitors". A neurologist called Boudreaux, trailed by several interns, another neurologist and then an orthopedic specialist made the rounds. Each one confirmed Dr. Singh's decree: Jonas's season was over.

  The neurologist was the one who really brought it home for Jonas though. After reviewing the results of Jonas's MRI and brain scan, the older woman gave Jonas the tough love no one else--not even the team doctor--wanted to give.

  "If you keep playing, you're playing with fire," she didn'
t mince words as she tapped her pen on her desk. "The next concussion could be permanent brain damage. Is that what you want? How old are you anyway?"

  "Thirty-three." He felt older though. Every morning when he got out of bed his body, his bones complained. His muscles groaned and let him know they weren't happy to keep going through this constant struggle. "I turned thirty-three a couple of weeks ago."

  "You want to need someone's help to wipe your ass?"

  "Hell no."

  "Well, you go out on that ice again, playing the way you league guys play, then you're risking everything. Your brain will be permanently damaged. Your motor skills, your memory, everything will be go into decline. Is that what you really want?"

  When he didn't answer, she continued, "I've got another patient. He's like you—driven, at the top of his game—he plays football, or he used to. One concussion too many and he's here having to learn how to speak again. We spent seven months having to teach him how to walk again."

  "Shit..."

  "Shit indeed. And the worst part of all of this? He has a two-year-old daughter and sometimes his memory is so shot to hell that he can't remember her name." The older woman let out a sigh and then shook her head. She removed her eyeglasses and pinched the bridge of her prominent nose. "I don't want to see the same thing happen to you. I know you think you've got to be the local hero, but let someone else wear that mantle."

  News of his hospitalization traveled fast. Sometimes nurses showed up with children in wheelchairs who just wanted to see one of the Big Easy's heroes up close. All of the kids wanted selfies, a few asked for autographs on their casts or their hospital gowns. While Zim was there, he helped out, giving the kids collector's cards Jonas signed. Jonas didn't mind the intrusions. The kids were always respectful and asked him how he was feeling. Mostly they wanted to know if his injuries still hurt. The press though was already speculating if Jonas would be back the next season. They even printed quotes from "sources close to Magnussen"—who those sources were was anyone's guess. He hadn't spoken to anyone other than his teammates and staff at the hospital since he was admitted. But he knew just as well that the walls had ears. An orderly or a nurse could overhear something while Jonas was talking to Zim or Thibs, let something slip to a reporter for snabba cash, or fast money.