Shot on Goal: Seattle Sockeyes Hockey (Game On in Seattle Book 11)

by Jami Davenport

  “Marina,” he whispered huskily. “I—”

  She put a finger to his lips, halting the words before he uttered them and broke the spell. “Kiss me.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He pulled her close. His mouth moved over hers, tentative at first, then hungrier. He slid one thigh between hers and rubbed at the apex of her thighs. His kisses became more demanding, and she opened to him, their tongues tangling. He tightened his arms around her waist and slid them downward until he was clutching her ass and grinding his erection against her sweet body. She ground right back until they were dry-humping with the enthusiasm of a couple teens behind the football bleachers during lunch break.

  She clutched his sweater, wishing she could crawl underneath his skin and be one with him. There was only one way she knew to do that.

  The small piece of her brain still intact and functioning chose that moment to rain on her parade.

  I’m his coach.

  She froze, and in response he also froze. His gaze searched hers, a combination of lust tempered by concern. Using more strength than she thought she possessed, Marina flattened her palms on his chest and pushed. His fingers tightened briefly on her butt, as if he were fighting letting her go. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he released her. She skated backward several feet, still woozy from the power of those kisses. Her heart warred with her head, demanding an explanation as to why she’d stopped him. She hadn’t wanted to and in a few more seconds, she wouldn’t have been able to.

  Their relationship had to be strictly professional. She’d gotten in huge trouble for being anything but in the past, and she wouldn’t get another chance if she screwed this up.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have encouraged you,” she said, her voice husky with unspent desire.

  He ran a hand through his unruly hair and swallowed, raising his head to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry, too. We can’t do this, Marina. It’s a bad idea on so many levels.”

  She bit her tongue to prevent herself from asking what levels. “I need to be getting home. It’s late.”

  He scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed. “Yeah, late. I guess I should go face the music.”

  “Face the music?”

  “Yeah, my dad is staying with me through the playoffs.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK.” His expression was grim once again.

  “Are you going to tell him about the exhibition?”

  “Yeah, eventually, not that he’ll be invited to the season ticket holders’ exhibition after last year.”

  “Do I want to know what happened?” She managed a teasing smile, even as her body was crying for justice and her heart already missed him.

  “Nah. Best left alone and forgotten.”

  Drew avoided drama like she avoided Brussels sprouts. More reasons to avoid a personal relationship with him. Any woman he was with would take a back seat to his parents and his deceased brother, which probably said a lot about why he didn’t have a girlfriend.

  What woman in her right mind could compete with that?

  * * * *

  Drew pulled into his three-car garage. His father’s sedan was parked inside. He hadn’t seen any lights in the house, but Stafford liked to sit in the dark and drink, as if he thought God wouldn’t see him if he kept the lights out.

  He entered as quietly as he could, pausing near the family room door. His father was passed out on the couch, snoring deeply. Beer bottles littered the coffee table along with an empty vodka bottle.

  Drew grimaced and quickly made his way upstairs, promptly locking his door. He had a reprieve, but tomorrow morning Dad would be hung over and looking for a fight. He dreaded dealing with him.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  Get some balls.

  He had balls. No one understood. It wasn’t that easy. If his problems stemmed from his father, he’d tell Stafford to go to hell, or cut him off unless he behaved. Only things were way more complicated. Drew blamed himself for his brother’s death because it was his fault. His father he could handle. The ghost of his heroic brother, not so much.

  Once he made it through the playoffs, he’d consider some life-changing decisions, his father be damned. The way he saw it, he’d have fulfilled his obligation to his brother’s memory, and he’d move on to the life he wanted, not the life his brother had wanted.

  He lay back on the bed, not bothering to undress beyond kicking off his shoes. Raking his fingers through his hair, he stared unseeing at the ceiling. Tonight he’d crossed the line and added another complication he didn’t need. He’d kissed Marina like a starving man lost in the wilderness. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve avoided her, but this situation made it impossible to do so. Of all the figure skaters the Sockeyes could hire, why did it have to be her? His dad had major issues with her. Even worse, he understood where he were coming from, just as he understood why his father was so wrapped up in his life, as he’d once been wrapped up in his brother’s. Only his father had been different then, more laid back, less drinking. He’d been happier.

  Drew had spent the past eight years striving to make Dad happy. He’d reached the conclusion that he couldn’t. The only person he could control was himself, and right now he was doing a piss-poor job of it.

  But Marina—

  She was so beautiful, and her haunted eyes only added to her beauty in a tragic kind of way. They’d both suffered loss, and they both hurt. Maybe that’s what drew him toward her? Maybe he sensed a kindred spirit? Or a person who could understand rather than berate him for not measuring up. She had to know how that felt. The entire country had attacked her relentlessly, both in person and on social media.

  He wanted to hate her like so many others did, but he couldn’t. Not with those sad brown eyes watching him, as if waiting for him to be like everyone else.

  Only Drew wasn’t like everyone else.

  He wasn’t sure whom he was like.

  All he knew was that he couldn’t keep living a lie. It was tearing him apart, and he was too young with too much life to live.

  Right now, he looked forward to two things. Neither of which was playing for the Cup, but helping Bronson out at Gone Missing Investigations and learning a pairs skating routine with Marina.

  He’d hit a new low, or so his father would say.

  What a waste of talent his mother would probably think but never say.

  Chapter 7—Empty Net

  A day later and the day of the Sockeyes first home playoff game, Marina arrived at the SHAC at eight a.m., despite Coach Gorst telling his staff to come in late and get some rest. She’d laid low the day before, avoiding Drew at all costs, and worked with the guys who needed her the most. She couldn’t avoid him forever, though, and she continually caught herself searching for him in the crowd of practice jerseys at the opposite end of the ice.

  Today she’d approach him as if he were any other player, because he couldn’t be that guy. They both knew it, and they’d both been fighting the cold, hard truth. No more. She resolved to keep their relationship strictly business despite their one slip-up.

  The head coach was already in his office. He glanced up as Marina walked past his open door.

  “Marina, join me for a cup of coffee.” He waved her in, unusually jovial for a man whose team had started the playoffs with two decisive losses.

  Marina hesitated but stepped inside. She feared Coach might read on her face she had the hots for his up-and-coming star player who was currently struggling. She’d been tasked with helping Drew get his game back, not getting him naked.

  “Have a cup and let’s talk.” He pointed to the Keurig on a small table.

  Marina gratefully made a cup of coffee. She needed some serious caffeine this a.m. She’d barely slept a wink last night as her brain kept replaying the feel of his mouth on hers, hot and insistent and promising a smorgasbord of sexual gratification. Too bad she’d never be able to dine at that table.

/>   Her thoughts would be safer if she directed them to how incredible skating with Drew had been. His eyes had lit up with joy, and she suspected he didn’t show much joy lately. Her body had shivered with excitement when he’d touched her, and in pairs figure skating there was a lot of touching. She wouldn’t be able to avoid it.

  She was doomed. Thoughts of Drew had infiltrated her brain until she wanted to scream in frustration or admit defeat and cling to him as he sank deeply inside her and drove her to blissful completion.

  Gah, this line of thinking had to stop.

  She glanced at Coach, who regarded her quizzically. “Sit down, Marina.”

  She sank into a plush chair near Coach’s desk, grateful for the support before her knees gave out.

  “Have you had a chance to work with our project yet?”

  “Project?” She blinked several times and fought to clear the mental fog.

  “Drew.” Gorst cocked his head and watched her with interest. She hoped he couldn’t read minds, but some of his players swore he could.

  “Yes, we worked on a routine. He catches on fast. Incredibly fast, in fact.”

  “Drew is crazy talented. He’s the full package physically. Now if we can repair his emotional state and help him find his passion.”

  “I’m not a miracle worker. I’m a figure skating coach.”

  “Is he giving you a hard time?”

  “Not at all. I think he enjoys it, not that he’d admit to anything.”

  “He wasn’t all that good at practice yesterday or the optional skate this a.m. His timing is off. He seems lethargic. I hoped moving him to the second line would give him a needed kick in the ass. He almost seems worse.”

  “I think he’s struggling with personal issues.”

  “I’m fully aware of those personal issues. If the disruption continues, I won’t hesitate to remove any disruptive influence from this facility and the Sockeyes arena, and I don’t care if the offender is Wayne Gretzky.”

  “Close, but not quite.”

  Gorst grimaced, his expression grim. “Delacorte may be a hockey legend, but he’s overstepped his bounds too many times. Ethan’s patience is wearing thin, as is mine. Every time he shows up, which is often, Drew plays like shit, not to mention my staff and I being subjected to his armchair coaching.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I can do.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything other than help him reconnect with his love of skating and hockey.”

  “Assuming he ever had it.”

  Gorst pursed his lips and rubbed his eyes for a moment. “Let’s hope he did. The future of this franchise is riding on Drew’s back. He was drafted high to be the next star of this team. He showed promise the first few years up until his injury. I thought maybe his issues were related to that, but I suspect they go deeper. I’m worried he’s considering hanging up his skates. We can’t have that. We need a complete Drew on this team for now and into the future. You can help us with that. Show him how much skating and hockey truly means to him.

  “I’ll try, but I don’t know that I’m the right person.”

  “You’re exactly the right person. Be his friend. Give him someone to lean on. He’s been missing that.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Marina, if you can pull this off, you’ll have a permanent place with this team. Ethan’s said as much.”

  Marina swallowed the last of her coffee and stood. “I’ll do my best.”

  Gorst managed a sincere smile. “I know you will. Good luck. And if Stafford gives you any shit, you come to me. I’d be glad to take care of him.”

  “Certainly.” She smiled and left the room. The last thing she’d do is go to Coach with anything related to Stafford. And Cassandra? Marina didn’t have a clue where she stood with her, especially after the weird conversation in front of the hotel elevators. Cassandra was a genuinely good person, so perhaps she’d moved on. Like Marina should do.

  Only now she was coaching Cassandra’s son. What a weird, twisted world she lived in.

  * * * *

  Drew came to the arena early. His father had gone to the airport to pick up a friend. He wasn’t aware of Drew’s demotion to second string, though Drew had attempted to tell him multiple times. He texted him and asked him to meet outside the locker room before the game.

  Drew had to catch him before the game. He couldn’t find out the hard way. Especially since one of the network announcers was an old teammate of Stafford’s, and Drew had heard his dad earlier on the phone with the guy bragging about Drew. Funny, he never said anything positive to Drew’s face, but he sure bragged him up to anyone who would listen. Of course, every remark was punctuated by Stafford’s belief he’d gotten Drew where he was today via DNA and hard work.

  Surprisingly, several of Drew’s teammates were already in the locker room. The atmosphere was festive. Even though they’d lost the first two games, the guys weren’t down about it. Music was playing. Guys were kicking a soccer ball around in the hallway. Drew stopped to kick the ball with them a few times before entering the room. He was going to tape his sticks and check his skate blades.

  He sat on the bench in front of his locker and shrugged out of his suit. He hated wearing suits. Getting dressed up for a minute walk from his car to the arena made no sense. Neither did wearing them for hours on a plane. The argument was it made the players look more professional. Whatevs.

  Coop stopped at his locker and looked down at Drew. “Do you want me to talk with Ethan?”

  Drew glanced up in confusion, his brain still on the business suit subject. “About wearing suits?”

  Coop blinked a few times and squinted at him as if he’d lost his fucking mind. “Suits?”

  “Uh, sorry. I was thinking about something else. You mean my being on second string?”

  “Nah, not that. You have to work to earn your spot back.” Coop didn’t have the most patience, and he was getting visibly annoyed.

  “Then what?”

  “This ridiculous pairs skating exhibition.” Coop rolled his eyes, and a couple guys nearby chuckled.

  “First, Brick does a figure skating routine with his daughter, which was cute by the way.” Ziggy paused and waited for the rest of the clowns in the group to utter an exaggerated ahhhhh. Some even clasped their hands to their hearts. “But now you’re doing a figure skating routine? Shit, when will it end?”

  “Better him zan me,” Rush chortled. “I not look good in sparky stuff.”

  “Sparky stuff? That’s sparkly. Sequins, stuff like that?” Ziggy asked.

  “Yeah, I don’t like sea-queens, but I can skate.” Before Ziggy could respond, Rush grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet. Ziggy recovered quickly, and the two clowns danced around the room in a crappy imitation of a pairs routine, leaping and spinning. The rest of the guys were in an uproar.

  Drew threw a puck at Rush and pegged him in the back of the head. Rush whirled around and rubbed the spot, glaring at his teammate.

  Coop stepped between them. “Don’t you have something better to do, Rush? How about getting onto the ice and working on your edges. I know Marina is waiting for you.”

  Sheepish, Rush turned away, as did Ziggy. They slinked off like dogs being disciplined by their master. Smooth stood and tapped Drew on the back, winking at him.

  “You would look hot in sea-queens.”

  “Fuck you.” Drew chucked another puck in Smooth’s direction. He snagged it out of the air with one hand and made a show of juggling one puck. Matt threw him another, and he incorporated it into his performance. With the team’s attention turned elsewhere, Drew turned back to lacing his skates.

  So, the cat was out of the bag. His teammates knew about his pairs skating routine. He could see a shit-ton of pranks coming, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

  Moving Drew to the second line had been the team’s best kept secret outside the locker room. Yesterday’s practice had been closed, and the lineup hadn’t been released
yet. Gorst loved to wait until the last minute.

  He’d finished taping one stick by the time Smooth topped out at juggling four pucks. He needed to get some more tape from the training staff since the rest of his teammates had hogged the locker room supply.

  When he walked out of the locker room to find a trainer, his father and Mack Morris, his dad’s buddy from his playing days and an announcer, were doing an interview near the locker room door.

  When they took a break, Drew strode toward his father. “Dad, I need to speak with you in private.”

  All smiles and basking in the attention, Dad waved him over. With feet of lead, Drew shuffled to his father’s side. Stafford threw a comradely arm around him as if they were the best of pals.

  “Dad, we need to talk—”

  “Not yet.” Stafford pulled him toward Mack.

  Shit.

  Drew didn’t want to do any pre-game interviews, and the coaches had protected him by not signing him up for any, but his father didn’t get that memo and wouldn’t have read it if he had.

  “The most talented father and son to ever play hockey,” Mack commented into the mic. Stafford beamed, and Drew forced a smile.

  “Drew, how are you feeling about the coach’s decision to move you to the second line?”

  His father’s arm stiffened around him like a boa constrictor trying to squeeze the life out of its prey. Drew glanced at Stafford. His amiable smile was still plastered on his face, but he’d always been a good actor when necessary. He was truly pissed as hell.

  “It’s a temporary setback. I’ve been in a slump lately, and the coaches made the right decision. I’m going to get my game back soon. When I do, I’ll be back on the first line.” Drew extracted himself from his father’s vise grip and put a few steps between them. “I need to get to my pre-game prep. Nice talking to you as always.”

  Stafford’s eyes burned a crater in his back as he ducked into the training room. Resentment boiled inside him. He was fucking tired of being torn apart by his father’s endless criticism and guilt trips. If he could channel his fury into his game, maybe he’d be back on first line by the end of the first period.