by Amy Olle
Yet.
That’s what retirement was for.
He kicked the empty locker shut. Standing, he slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit.
There was only one way out of this mess. He had to get off this team before it destroyed not only his career, but his soul as well.
Only one person had the power to make it happen for him.
Haven.
On Friday, the sting of Jack’s disappointment with her and the mocking laughter of those TV jerks still throbbed in Haven’s chest.
It made zero sense. She’d given up trying to please people years before, once she realized she was incapable of pleasing anyone ever.
Unless she was naked, of course.
She’d spent the week working in her dad’s office, trying to learn the massive organization’s structure while pouring over the stats and numbers in Mel’s folder.
On her way out for the night, she stopped off at Mel’s desk, which sat as a barricade to her dad’s office.
Haven pushed a strand of hair back and tucked it behind her ear. “So, um, if I wanted to use the owner’s box tomorrow night, who do I ask about that?”
If she was going to turn this thing around, she was going to have to figure out what was wrong with this team. Which meant she was going to have to watch them play.
Mel’s sharp gaze found Haven over the rim of her cat’s-eye reading glasses. “I’ll let security know you’ll be in attendance.”
“Great. Thank you.” She hovered in front of Mel’s desk.
Mel waited for her.
“Do you like hockey?”
Mel’s mouth turned down at the corners with her thoughtful frown. “I suppose—”
“Will you come with me?” The words burst from Haven.
Mel blinked at her. “To the game?”
“I know it’s not part of your duties, and you probably have a hundred other things you’d rather be doing on a Saturday night besides watching a hockey game from the owner’s box, but… would you mind? Just this once?”
“Well, I don’t—”
“You can bring your family. Any of them. All of them.”
“My kids are all grown and out of the house. It’s just me and my husband.”
“Any chance he likes hockey?”
A bemused smile flitted across Mel’s face. “He’s more of a football guy.”
Haven’s shoulders slumped. “I understand. If you can convince him to come, I hope you will.”
As she’d done twice that week already, she stopped at the brewpub across the street from the arena on her way home from work. Bodies packed the bar and loud blues music flowed from the speakers overhead.
The bartender, a college student named Austin, smiled when he spotted her at the bar. “The usual?”
Haven returned his smile and climbed onto a barstool. “You talked me into it. To-go, please.”
Austin slid a pint of the brewery’s light beer across the bar to her and shouted her food order over the music to the guys in the kitchen.
She took a sip from the pint and then slipped off her winter coat. With a break in the music, she became aware of a commotion and turned to see three men each chugging a beer while a throng of onlookers chanted and cheered.
Their throats worked as they gulped. Liquid leaked out the sides of their mouths to trickle down their chins and onto their shirtfronts. One by one, their pint glasses struck the table. The winner bounded to his feet and pumped his fists in the air.
But Haven paid the blowhard no mind as her gaze latched on to the dark-haired man with the most incredible smile who sat watching from one end of the table, looking reluctantly amused.
Jack.
She realized then that the men, including the beer chuggers, were Renegade hockey players. Did they think she was a frivolous puck princess the same way Jack did? Were they even aware of her existence? She slipped off her stool and picked her path through the crowd.
Jack was the first of the men to notice her approach. The humor left his face, replaced by a dark simmering resentment. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his broad chest.
Awareness of her presence trickled slowly around the table, until one of the beer chuggers elbowed the still-celebrating champion in the ribs. Finally, the gazes of all ten or more men focused on her.
“Hello, boys. Back from your road trip?”
Someone belched.
She arranged her features into a serene smile. “Good to see you’re working on your defensive lapses.”
A few expressions turned hangdog.
“I’m not sure you’ve earned the right to judge our play yet.” Bitterness sliced through Jack’s deep baritone.
Standing so near to him, she could see lines of weariness bracketed his eyes.
“That’s the beauty of being a puck princess,” she said. “I don’t actually have to earn anything.”
He held her gaze. “It’s a long season. They’re entitled to a little downtime.”
“You may be right about that. The problem is they’re doing it wrong.” She plucked an empty pint glass off the short stack and reached for the pitcher of beer. She tsked. “You’re chugging the brewed beer? That’s so disrespectful.”
“Yeah, but it tastes the best,” said the man to her right.
“I know it does, but a beer this good should be savored.” Her glass full, she returned the pitcher to the table. “Cheap American beer is for chugging.”
“Nothing wrong with American beer.” This man, standing beside another man who looked exactly like him, dared to give her a flirtatious wink. “I happen to like cheap and easy.”
She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. “There is, however, something very wrong with that slop on your shirt.”
The charmer ran a hand down his chest. “It shows my dedication.”
“It’s the mark of an amateur.” She poised the glass before her. “You have to relax your throat, and if you’re a purist, no spillage or you’re disqualified.”
Aware of Jack’s eyes on her, she arched a brow at the beer-chugging champ, a burly blond with a missing incisor. “You ready?”
With a wide smile, the man scrambled to refill his glass and scurried around to stand beside her. “Set.”
“Go.”
The last thing she saw before she tilted her head back and drank was the nasty scowl on Jack’s face. Haven regretted that she disappointed him so much, but she didn’t know any other way to get the upper hand with these men. For once, they were on her turf. It might be her only chance to get their attention and, maybe, a teeny tiny smidgeon of their respect.
Calling upon her undergraduate education, she relaxed her throat and let the liquid slide down. She drank as quickly as she could, eager to be out from under Jack’s displeased scrutiny. Her movements optimized for efficiency and speed, she plunked the glass onto the table with a thud a fraction of a second before her competitor.
The men’s reaction was predictably loud and overblown, with plenty of taunts for their teammate for getting beat by a girl.
No amusement appeared on Jack’s face that time.
Austin appeared at her elbow carrying a plastic bag with her takeout tucked inside.
“Thanks for the drink, guys.” She backed away. “I hope you all get a good night’s sleep and are ready to play tomorrow night.”
She turned and fled, with the feel of Jack’s dark scowl spearing her between the shoulder blades.
Chapter Twelve
In a Renegades jersey and baseball hat she’d swiped from the pile of promotional freebies, Haven slipped inside the arena through the employee entrance more than an hour before the game was set to begin.
People milled about in the halls beneath the arena floor, mostly Renegades staff members and a few beat writers. She pulled her ball cap lower, hoping to go undetected by the press, and rounded the corner to the bank of elevators that’d take her up to the executive suites.
She stumbl
ed upon Wyatt and Darby huddled in the conversation.
“The press wants to talk to him,” Wyatt was saying.
Darby’s jowls jiggled when he shook his head. “No way.”
“It might give him a chance to apologize, or show some remorse….”
“Hey, guys,” Haven said. “What’s going on?”
Behind his heavy glasses, Wyatt’s dark eyes glittered with worry. “Bryce Lovejoy’s suspension is over and he’s set to play tonight. We’re considering whether we should let him go before the press.” Wyatt turned back to Darby. “He did express interest in repairing his image.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Darby conceded with a grimace. “Give him a chance to gain back the fans’ trust.”
“And the team’s trust,” Wyatt added.
Haven frowned. “What about his girlfriend’s trust?”
Wyatt knuckled his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Uh, yeah. That, too.” Then he brightened. “Maybe she could take part in a quick presser. She wouldn’t have to speak or anything. Just be there, you know, as a show of support.”
“Stand by her man?” Haven quipped.
“Exactly,” Wyatt said, missing the sarcastic taint to her words.
But Darby was shaking his head again. “Let’s keep it simple.”
Things moved quickly and within a few minutes, Darby chatted with a pool of press reporters at the other end of the hall while Haven hung back. A moment later Wyatt emerged from the locker room, a tall, broad man with light brown hair and eyes at his side.
Bryce Lovejoy, she presumed. Not an unattractive man, but he had an aura of conceit that cast an ugly shadow over his well-formed features. With their appearance, Haven noticed a pretty woman hovering in the hallway. A faded bruise marred her left eye.
Haven watched the way the woman watched Bryce and concluded she must be the girlfriend. And the bruise must be the reason why Darby didn’t want her in front of the cameras.
Wyatt held out a loose-leaf sheet of paper to Bryce. Frowning, Bryce looked down at the paper and shook his head. Wyatt shoved the paper at him again, and with a curt remark, Bryce snatched it from Wyatt’s hand, but the moment Wyatt turned away, Bryce wadded up the paper and tossed it onto the floor.
Then Wyatt gave the press the go-ahead and they surged forward to surround Bryce.
“Bryce, this is your first game back. How are you feeling?”
“Feels great,” Bryce said.
“Is there anything you want to tell fans?”
“Uh, yeah. I want to apologize to my coaches and my teammates. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for them, but now I’m back, and I’m ready to get out there and hit some guys.”
Haven cringed. Did he seriously just apologize for hitting his girlfriend by vowing to hit more people?
She looked to Darby and Wyatt, who appeared unperturbed.
“Bryce, how is Monica? Is it true you two have gotten engaged?”
“Monica’s great. We’re great, but, uh, I’m here to talk about hockey.”
A reporter asked him about the Renegades’ opponent, and Bryce complimented the visiting team’s star player.
“Bryce, there’ve been some changes with the team while you were away. Have you met the new owner?”
“No, we haven’t met.” A smile worked its way across his face. “I’ve seen her though. Man, I hope she comes to the games. I wouldn’t mind looking at her some more.” He dropped his head in a miserable attempt to hide a snigger while uncomfortable laughter arose from the cluster of reporters.
Haven’s stomach lurched.
With a look from Darby, Wyatt plunged forward and broke up the gathering. Bryce returned to the locker room and the reporters dispersed.
In the quieting hall, Haven glowered at Wyatt and Darby. “What the hell, guys?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Darby said.
She gaped at him. “He had one job. All he had to do was pretend to respect women for, like, two minutes. Two minutes, and he couldn’t do it.”
Wyatt placed his eyeglasses on top of his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. “This should play really well for the next few days.”
“Relax.” Darby was already moving away. “Morality has no place in sports journalism. It’d interrupt their time allotted for criticism and mockery.”
Haven and Wyatt watched him stride down the long hall.
“Any chance he’s right?” Wyatt asked.
“Probably, but there is something worse than being criticized and mocked.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“Being a despicable human being.”
Her first game in years off to a shaky start, Haven retreated to the sanctuary of the owner’s box. The luxurious suite had a fully stocked bar and a row of plush leather seats with a bird’s-eye view of the arena.
She poured herself a fountain pop behind the bar and wandered over to the cushy chairs.
Since the time she and Ryan were little kids, her dad, a season ticket holder, had taken them to hockey games. While her dad and Ryan analyzed the guys who played the same position Ryan did, Haven would take in the atmosphere.
She’d loved everything about it. The competitive fire of the players, their incredible talent, the strength of their will, the coach’s ever-shifting strategies, the crowd’s energy, the music and food and smells of an arena. Game days were her favorite days.
But that was a lifetime ago. A different life, of a different girl. A girl she hadn’t glimpsed in years and one she didn’t particularly want to glimpse now.
She was watching the arena slowly fill with spectators and drowning in the sudden tidal wave of memories when a commotion sounded behind her.
She turned as the door to the suite pushed open and a little girl in a purple tutu bounded into the room.
Behind her, Mel emerged, her cheeks flushed pink. “I told you to wait for me, Clara Bell.”
“Grandma, look!” The little girl pressed her nose to the glass.
Haven surged to her feet. “You made it.”
Behind Mel, a large black man in a Packers baseball hat and puffer jacket filled the doorway.
Mel took a deep breath. “We made it.” She placed a hand the man’s arm. “This is my husband, Harlon, and that little blur you saw is our grandbaby, Clara Bell.”
At the sound of her name, Clara Bell returned to Mel’s side. She was a beautiful little girl, with warm brown skin and light blue eyes.
“Hi, sweetie,” Haven said. “How old are you?”
“Six,” Clara Bell announced, holding up five fingers.
Just then, the arena lights went dark and a booming voice crackled over the speakers inside the owner’s box. “Ladies and gentleman, introducing the visitors from Toronto.”
The measly crowd booed while Mel’s brood settled in the front row seats and Haven fetched snacks and drinks from the bar. By the time she sank into her seat, players skated in circles on the ice, flinging pucks at the net while the goalies put up cursory attempts to block their shots.
Strobe lights flashed and flickered, and loud music pumped through the cavernous building.
Soon, the game started, and Haven found herself noticing things unrelated to the play on the ice. Beneath the arena lighting, the building appeared old and run-down. At best, the seats were half-filled with fans, and the majority of them were engrossed in conversations or busy playing on their phones.
“Is this attendance normal?” she wondered out loud.
“This is my first game, so I’m not sure what normal looks like,” Mel said. “But I believe we hover around 65 percent capacity.”
Haven wrinkled her nose. “That’s not very good, is it?”
Mel’s gaze swept over the arena below. “I wouldn’t think so.”
His cell phone cradled in his big hand, Harlon stared down at the device. “Dead last in attendance in the league, as a matter of fact.”
Haven frowned at the glass.
Even the Renegade’s jerseys lo
oked old. The vivid royal blue on the players’ torsos seemed faded, and the vibrant green accents dulled and muted. Even the white trim appeared gray and dingy.
She watched their opponents steal the puck from a Renegades player and take off for the other end of the ice. The Renegades gave chase, but they appeared slow and sluggish by comparison. When Toronto settled in on offense, she noted a surprising size difference. Unless Toronto had a roster of abnormally tall players, the Renegades were greatly undersized.
“Is Toronto good?”
Mel and Haven looked to Harlon.
His forehead creased as he took several swipes across the cell phone’s screen. “They’re sitting in eleventh place in the eastern conference.” He settled back in his chair with a sour expression. “Out of sixteen teams.”
Haven frowned down at the arena floor once more.
Only to realize Jack had come onto the ice with the last line change. He wore number seventeen.
When a Toronto player sent the puck flying toward the net like a laser, Jack went down, throwing his body in front of the hard black disc. It struck him in the hip and bounced out into open space. Regaining his feet with one fluid motion, he took possession of the puck and headed up the ice.
His speed pushed him ahead of the others and soon only two defenders stood between him and the goalie. He shook off the first guy and juked the second to continue his reckless charge at the net. Toronto’s goalie was backsliding into position as Jack, teetering on one foot, sent the puck careening toward the open net.
A collective gasp sprang from the crowd as the puck struck the crossbar with a loud clank, dropped straight down, and settled in the crease.
Jack lunged for it, but the goalie pounced on the loose puck and the referee whistled the play dead.
A beat of silence filled the arena, and then a smattering of applause arose from the stands. The clapping grew steadily, until the few thousand or so fans cheered and whistled, showing their appreciation for the new player’s effort.
Time expired on the goalless first period. The players disappeared through the tunnel and fans trickled out into the concourse in search of restrooms and the concessions.
Haven smiled down at Clara Bell, sitting in the seat next to her. “Did you like the game?”