Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel

by Skye Jordan

  She picked up her purse and met both Rafe’s and Tate’s gaze in turn. “I’m glad you’ll be in Boston next week. I could use some time away from you. Both of you.”

  8

  Mia knelt on the family room floor in Tina and Jake Croft’s home, holding pins between her lips and scissors in her hand. But her gaze wasn’t on the fabric in front of her. She was watching television, where the Rough Riders’ fourth playoff game against the Bruins filled a massive screen above the fireplace hearth.

  The room was stuffed with Beckett Croft’s family—his parents, his sister, Sarah, Sarah’s two daughters, Amy and Rachel, Beckett’s own daughter, Lily, and Eden. Since they were all watching the game from home tonight, Faith had also come over to hang out and add inspiration to Mia’s work.

  So as Rafe sprinted toward the opposition’s goal with solid command of the puck, Mia didn’t have to yell in hopes of seeing him make it. The entire room was screaming for her.

  A Bruin cut in front of Rafe. Rafe turned to protect the puck, skating backward, still pushing toward the goal. But the Bruin reached in, knocked the puck from Rafe’s control and right into the stick of a fellow Bruin. Then the puck was spirited back down the ice in the opposite direction.

  Everyone in the room deflated.

  “Man, poor Rafe.” Eden sat on the sofa again and pulled Lily into her lap. “He’s had a really rough couple of games. He’s going to be beating himself up.”

  “They’re still winning.” Mia refocused on the work in front of her, tuning in to the announcer’s account of the game while also trying to ignore the empathy that naturally surfaced for Rafe. She had enough problems. But here, ensconced in this little haven among people who had become her temporary family, Eden’s disappointment over her fallout with Rafe didn’t hurt quite so bad. And she wasn’t quite so lonely. Plus, they offered a distraction to keep her mind off her stupidity.

  But that wouldn’t last long. The team had played in Boston for the last two games and were at their home rink tonight. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Rafe in a full week. Very possibly, the worst week of her life, while she’d had all the time in the world to berate herself. Endless silence in Tate’s apartment during the day to remember every glorious, sweet, loving moment of their time in bed together. Then every awkward, hurtful moment at Top Shelf. And get confused and angry all over again. Hurt all over again.

  There was no way around it, the last week had been hell.

  She finished cutting the piece of fabric, then pulled the pattern off. “Okay, Faith, let’s test the fit before I put it on the machine again.”

  Faith jumped up from the sofa and shed the little cardigan she was wearing, bearing her tank top. “Ooooooh, I can’t wait.”

  Eden, Sarah, and Tina all lost interest in the game, their gazes glued to Mia as she draped the new Rough Riders jersey over Faith’s body, really just a bunch of other jerseys cut and re-sewn into a new design, one that didn’t just fit a woman’s figure, but showcased it..

  She used her hands to tug and pull the fabric where she wanted it.

  “I’ll give it a tuck here and here,” Mia said, “finish off all the edges in a contrasting thread color.” She shrugged and smiled. “Cute, no? Nothing fancy, but quick and easy.” She added in a whisper, “And if you wear a little pushup bra, you’ll have some seriously lickable cleavage going.” In a normal tone she added, “I can have one for all of you by the time I leave.”

  “I love it!” Eden said.

  “It’s perfect,” Sarah added.

  “So cute.” Tina crossed her arms and tilted her head. “You know, we should all wear them to the family skate next week.”

  “Us too?” Lily wanted to know, crawling into the circle at Eden’s feet. “With my daddy’s name on it?”

  “We could all match,” Rachel added with her infectious smile.

  “Well, let’s see how much time Mia has,” Tina said, laughing. “I spoke before I thought.”

  Jake’s groan pulled everyone’s gaze to the screen, where they replayed another one of Rafe’s poor moves. “Man,” Jake said, his hand to his jaw, “what’s wrong with him tonight? He’s playing for—”

  “Dad,” Sarah cut in, grinning. “Little ears.”

  Jake glanced at Sarah, then at his granddaughters, and grinned. “Right.”

  The commentators on television continued their conjecture over what could have turned Rafe’s game sour, and Mia winced. “Since I’d rather not spend any more time around them than I have to while they’re playing like this, I have a feeling I’ll find plenty of time to sew.” She pulled the fabric off Faith and smiled hopefully, then darted the same look toward Eden. “Maybe we could make a trade—dresses and jerseys for one of you taking my place at the family dinner tonight?”

  Faith winced. “I totally would, but it’s my anniversary with Grant. Dating a year and a half today. We’ve got dinner reservations.”

  Mia frowned. “Who celebrates their year and a half anniversary?”

  “Um…we do,” she answered, hardly convincing.

  “Aaaaand, um, I’ve got Lily,” Eden worked up quickly, pointing at the little girl she’d all but adopted as her own since she and Beckett had gotten engaged. “I have to get her home and tucked in.”

  “Oh, honey,” Tina told Eden with a mischievous smile, “I’d be happy to—”

  “No, no, Tina,” Eden said, waving her off over-politely. “You know it’s my favorite time of the day.”

  Mia laughed a moan. “Why am I sure this is going to be the longest dinner of my life?”

  Faith, the only person in the room who knew about Mia’s future move and her plans to break the news to Rafe and Tate at this family dinner, patted her back and murmured, “Because it is, honey. It is.”

  The Bruins’ goalie was acting like a fucking brick wall tonight.

  The Bruins’ goalie was acting like a fucking brick wall tonight. And he goalie wasn’t the only thing working against Rafe. Nothing had been right since he’d pushed Mia away. His blades weren’t responding the way they should. His stick felt like lead in his hand. And, man, his timing sucked.

  Beckett slammed the Bruins’ right wing into the boards, freeing up the puck. Rafe swooped and sprinted down the ice. Two Bruins flanked him down the ice. The one on his right shoved his stick against Rafe’s. Rafe shouldered the guy off and swung behind the net. He took a tight turn at the pipe, hoping to sneak in at the corner in the goalie’s blind spot.

  He shot. The goalie dropped his knee. The puck hit. Bounced off. And a Bruin grabbed the rebound.

  Fucking A. He couldn’t make a goal to save his ever-loving life.

  Somewhere on the ice, a penalty stopped play, and Rafe straightened, letting his muscles relax and breathe. He glanced toward the stands and the empty seat next to Joe where Mia should be. Where Mia always sat during home games when she came to town. Whether Joe came into town or not. Whether Rafe was talking to her or not. She’d never missed a game. In fact, she’d never missed texting him after a game.

  Over the last year, because Rafe didn’t text her back, her comments had become shorter and less enthusiastic, but she’d always texted him. Great moves or tough game, you’ll get ’em next time. That ref was a hard-ass, or congrats, you killed it. Something. Last night was the first time in his entire hockey career that she hadn’t texted him. And Rafe had fallen asleep alone in his hotel room with his phone clutched in his hand, just waiting for some sliver of connection with her.

  She wasn’t even returning his texts. He’d texted her the night after their argument at the bar with Tate, apologizing. He’d texted her twice yesterday, checking in to see how she was, and once earlier today asking why she was ignoring him—even though he already knew why. He didn’t deserve the effort of a text. He didn’t deserve her. Which was exactly why he needed to leave her the hell alone.

  The ref called them into the face-off, and Rafe glanced at the stands as he slid into position. The fact that she’d missed a hom
e game was bad enough. But missing one when she should have been sitting beside a man she considered a father was even worse.

  Rafe bent at the waist and positioned his stick, but the ache cutting a path from his chest to his gut distracted him. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t 200 percent invested in the game.

  The puck dropped, and Isaac smacked it toward Rafe, but a Bruin intercepted. Muscle memory had Rafe stealing it back. He skated backward, protecting the puck while he searched for an opening to pass. One of the Bruins’ defensemen came out of nowhere and slammed Rafe into the boards. Another Bruin stole the puck and headed toward the opposite goal.

  God dammit!

  Before Rafe could even sprint down the ice after the other player, Andre Kristoff, their first line center, cut across the Bruin’s path, stole the puck, set up, and slammed the damn thing right past the goalie and into the net, putting the Rough Riders on the board for the first time tonight.

  Lights and sirens joined applause from the crowd, but Rafe still heard Tremblay’s order to return to the bench. He’d spent more time on the bench tonight than he had in any other game since he’d joined the NHL.

  He dropped beside Tierney, and before Rafe could pick up his water bottle, Tremblay’s hand settled on his shoulder from behind.

  “You hurt?” he asked. “Sick?”

  Rafe’s stomach dropped. As if playing shitty wasn’t bad enough, now his coach thought he had a physical impediment. Which meant Rafe was playing worse than shit. “No, Coach. Just having a bad game.”

  “Professionals don’t just have bad games,” he said. “Figure it out. Whatever you did to play like you played last week is what I want you doing before every fucking game from now until we win the Stanley fucking Cup. Got it?”

  Rafe nodded and shot water into his mouth. But he doubted Mia would be amenable to “doing” him senseless before every game. Though he was starting to think that was exactly what he needed to get back on track.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Tierney wanted to know. “You went from white to black in twenty-four hours, and now you’re stuck there.

  “You think I haven’t noticed?”

  One of the Bruins’ defensemen tripped Tate and took a penalty. While the Bruin skated to the penalty box and the others set up for a face-off, Rafe’s gaze drifted to the stands again. That empty seat made his gut squeeze. He wondered if she’d show up to the dinner they had planned with Joe tonight after the game. Rafe wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. Who needed this bullshit? Tate on her back, Rafe acting like she didn’t matter. Hell, maybe she’d hopped a plane back to New York like she’d threatened a week ago.

  That thought stabbed him so deep, he closed his eyes and rubbed them.

  The puck dropped, and Rafe refocused on the game. Watching the movement on the ice, he asked Tierney, “You’re not a suspicious guy, right? You don’t believe in habits and good luck charms, right?”

  “Not like those disgusting socks Belanger wears, or that stupid rabbit’s foot Jaeger sticks down his shorts before every game. But I believe there are things you can do to get you into the zone. The way Lawless goes into the rink before anyone arrives and piles those stupid pucks into two R’s on the ledge of the bench box when it’s quiet. That’s like meditation. It gets your head and your heart in the right place, you know? It focuses you. Centers you. That I believe in.”

  Centered.

  Rafe’s chest warmed and chilled at the same time.

  That was what he’d been missing since he’d pushed Mia away. He was fragmented. Distracted. He felt like all his pieces were jumbled and mixed up. Some of them missing.

  Mia centered him.

  But a lot of good figuring that out did. It took a lot to keep Mia away from a game. She’d clearly had enough of his and Tate’s bullshit.

  The second period ended with the Rough Riders two points behind. And as they filed into the locker room for the break, frustration permeated the air around the team. Rafe shouldered his share of the blame, and even though his teammates never said a word about Rafe’s shitty play, he knew they were all thinking about it.

  The coach didn’t lecture. He highlighted the good, gave direction to improve the bad, and let the guys have a few quiet minutes to rest.

  Rafe set his helmet on the bench beside him, wiped the sweat from his hair and face with a towel, then kept the terry there as he rested his head in his hands. He needed to get his groove back. Needed to find a way out of this funk.

  “What’s going on?” Tate’s voice interrupted Rafe’s thoughts, and he mentally rolled his eyes before dragging the towel away and picking up a water bottle.

  “I’m playing for shit, that’s what’s going on.”

  “Why? You were on fire two nights ago.”

  Because Mia sets me on fire.

  For a split second, Rafe thought of voicing that fact. In the next second, he realized that would turn this mess into a catastrophe.

  He took a long drink of water, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at the concrete. “I don’t know why. When I figure it out, I’ll make sure to notify you, okay?”

  “Don’t bother. Just get rid of this asshole attitude before we meet Dad for dinner.”

  Tate walked away, and Rafe closed his eyes on a sigh of dread, dropping his head back to his hands. Dinner with Joe.

  And Mia.

  After he’d played like shit for two days.

  God, he hoped Mia’s pattern of no-showing held true through the night.

  Not only couldn’t Rafe get lucky enough to have Mia pass on dinner, he couldn’t be lucky enough for her to come in something casual and ordinary. He could have done a decent job of ignoring her curves in jeans and a blouse. A dress would have made it a little harder to focus on dinner, with his mind constantly veering toward sliding his hands up her legs, beneath the skirt, and over her tight ass.

  But there was no ignoring all her luscious sexuality in the burgundy number she had on now. From the front door, she set confident strides toward their table. Rafe loved the way she moved—with a little of that model swagger she’d been exposed to on fashion runways and all the confidence of the woman she’d become. Her dress sheered up one side, pulling the soft fabric at angles across her body and accentuating every delicious curve. The sleeveless tank’s neckline and hem were modest, but the way the design showed off her body was sinful. And Rafe couldn’t help but wonder what she had on underneath.

  He fisted his hands and clenched his teeth. This dinner was going to last for-fucking-ever.

  Mia sauntered to their table, and all three of them stood, something Joe had taught them young. Mia ignored Tate and Rafe and walked straight to Joe with a genuine smile. She gave him a big hug and kissed his cheek.

  “Hey, you,” she said, pulling back and sweeping a glance over his casual khakis and button-down. “Someone’s losing weight.”

  Joe chuckled and slid a hand over his moderately sized belly. “Down ten pounds.”

  “I can tell. And in just, what? Didn’t I see you a month ago?”

  Joe traveled for his work as a corporate attorney and often visited Mia in New York. “Five weeks.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s a start.” He kissed her cheek and pulled out her chair. As she sat, he said, “You look beautiful. Is this dress one of yours?”

  Rafe glanced at Tate for explanation, but Tate was listening to the conversation.

  “It is,” she said. “You like it?”

  “One of your what?” Rafe asked.

  “Her designs,” Tate answered, equally subdued tonight after losing the game.

  “Designs?” Rafe looked back at Mia and Joe. “You designed that dress? Like, from scratch?”

  Joe laughed, but Mia didn’t think Rafe’s ignorance was funny. Neither did Rafe. He was annoyed that he was the only one at the table who didn’t know Mia had risen to the level of designing her own clothes under the guidance of a well-known New
York designer. But there was no one to blame for that but himself. That’s what he got for avoiding her all year. For not asking about her work since she’d arrived.

  “I did,” she told Joe. “I also designed the dress I was wearing the night I got here.” Her gaze turned on Rafe, and he felt the heat of her stare straight through his body. “Remember, the one I was wearing when I saved you from that date from hell?”

  Her get laid dress.

  Rafe didn’t answer. All he could remember about that dress was the way it looked sliding off her body. And how goddamned beautiful she’d looked. Like now, with her dark hair falling in loose curls to her shoulders. Her makeup was soft, enhancing her eyes, cheeks, and lips just enough to pop. Just enough to send his mind into fantasy mode.

  Joe covered Mia’s hand with his and squeezed, smiling at her. “Sweetheart, you are one talented woman.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I ordered you a wonderful Syrah,” Joe told her.

  “I can’t wait. I’ve found all my favorite wines with you.”

  Rafe stared at the table and turned his fork over and over and over.

  “So,” Mia said, “how was the game?”

  Rafe’s hand froze. But it was Tate who voiced what Rafe was thinking.

  “What do you mean how was the game?” Tate’s voice was filled with attitude. “Didn’t you watch it?”

  “No. But judging by your faces, I’m going to guess it was bad, so we can just move on to other subjects if you’d like.”

  “Other subjects?” Rafe said, lifting his gaze to hers. She never wanted to talk about anything else after a game. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Mia?”

  She gave him a cursory smile. “Sorry it’s a sore subject. I’m sure it’s just a blip. You’ll hammer them in the next game.”

  Tate’s gaze darted to Rafe. “Not if Rafe doesn’t get his head out of his—”

  “Don’t,” Rafe warned. “If you want this to be a nice dinner, just don’t.”