Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  I wince at the mention of the Blades’ defenseman. At twenty-eight, Cain is still young, but the sport doesn’t play nice when you’ve got a penchant for dropping gloves and throwing fists. The body might be a temple, but on the ice, it’s a punching bag on the best of days and roadkill on the worst.

  “And then there’s Jackson Carter.”

  My gaze cuts to Steven’s, even as my stomach twists with unease. “Oh? What about him?”

  “There’re rumors.”

  He says it like I should know what he’s talking about. Me, the wife. The ex-wife. Jackson and I might be friendly whenever we cross paths—like we were at Andre and Zoe’s wedding two weekends ago—but we don’t talk otherwise. I don’t pick up my phone to send him a how are you? text, and he definitely doesn’t reach out either.

  The Cold War has reached Boston, Massachusetts, my friends.

  Appropriate, I think, since it’s so damn cold out for half the year. Which couldn’t be more different than my hometown of Natchitoches, Louisiana—a small, historical blip on the map some three hours outside of New Orleans. Living in New England for more than a decade, though, has thickened my blood in more ways than one.

  I set the pen down and push away from my desk to stand. “Steven, personal reasons aside”—it’s not like he didn’t blatantly check out my bare ring finger when he first walked in—“Carter Photography isn’t equipped to handle the scale of a production like Getting Pucked. We’re a small company that packs a big punch, but we have our limits.”

  “That’s what we want.”

  Yeah, sure he does. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Right now, you think that’s what you want. But when we’re knee-deep in preseason, and there are multiple players’ storylines to relay to the viewers, whose do we prioritize?” Folding my arms over my pink knit dress, I tilt my head and study him. “I know where you’re going with this—you want the ex-wife of the Blades’ beloved captain trailing him and making you some damn good TV. If you wanted this to succeed, you would have approached a media firm that’s as deep as the Blades’ roster.” My chin lifts. “Instead, you chose me. Us. Carter Photography. Ten employees total—three of which are strictly admin.”

  Not even an eye twitch from the peanut gallery. Watching me steadily, Steven says, “Carter Photography has won multiple awards in the last few years. Your photos have graced the front page of every big-time sports magazine in the States. Every pro-sports team in the Boston area has you on their payroll because of the quality that you deliver—you and your nine other employees.”

  He’s not wrong.

  In the last few years, the company has skyrocketed to heights I never even allowed myself to consider tangible. Carter Photography started as nothing more than a hobby. It was my way of discovering what made me happy when faced day in and day out with the fire Jackson applied to his career. Living with a formidable force like my ex-husband . . . Well, it was either start a fire of my own or be swept up in the maelstrom that was his everyday life.

  I opted for the former at the risk of being destroyed by the latter.

  Turns out, my knack for taking pictures was something others appreciated. The New England Patriots have us creating visual anecdotes that they use on their social media platforms. The Boston Celtics have us on speed dial—every time they want innovation in the form of commercials or mini-documentaries about their players, Carter Photography is the first firm they call.

  I might not be able to spiral a football or shoot a free throw, but I’ve spent the latter part of my twenties and early thirties making Carter Photography indispensable to New England’s professional sports teams.

  And it cost you everything, didn’t it?

  My lids fall shut, and I rock back on my heels as though experiencing the blow of my failed marriage all over again.

  Where’s Ben & Jerry when you need them?

  “I won’t lie,” Steven says, “your rocky relationship with Jackson Carter only makes this all the more interesting. But your divorce isn’t why I flew out to Boston, Holly.” When I look his way, he plants his hand down on the spreadsheets he laid out earlier in our meeting. “The teams love you and your company, and if you ever opened Carter Photography to franchises outside of the Northeast, you’d be swamped with offers. So, we’re bringing L.A. and Sports 24/7 to you here in Beantown.”

  I swallow, my mouth feeling parched like I’ve skipped the liquids and have gone straight for sawdust. “Only tourists call Boston Beantown.”

  “Right.” He raps his knuckles on the desk, once, twice. “Whaddaya say? You agree to be the director of photography behind Getting Pucked and we’ll supply any additional staff you need to make this happen—their wages on us. We need your eye for storytelling—the way you instinctively know where the camera needs to be—and the guys feel comfortable with you.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that the guys are comfortable because they’ve known me as Jackson’s wife for far longer than they’ve known me as the ex. At the end of the day, though, if there’s anyone who can convince them to open up their lives on TV, it’s me.

  “Did the board sign off on production already?” I ask, moving to the floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooks Arlington Street and Boston Common. If I stare hard enough through the clusters of trees, I can spot tourists meandering through the park.

  Behind me, Steven grunts his affirmation. “Already done. Contracts have been signed for months now—we were only waiting till the beginning of preseason to start. Other shows film training during the summer but we want in on the real action. That’s priority, and you’re the missing puzzle piece to the master plan.”

  Preseason begins in less than three weeks, which means Sports 24/7 sure waited a long time before approaching me. With a timeline like theirs, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that, despite the silver-tongued bullshit being spewed, Carter Photography was not their first choice. Might not have been their second or third either.

  I’m the farthest thing from a rocket scientist.

  Unfortunately for Mr. Steven Fairfax, however, I’m no pushover. I learned from the best—my grandmother who raised my brother and me, all while owning and solely operating a corner store after my granddaddy died. Once, she even pulled a gun on a man who dared rob her store. She fired, too. Caught him right in the ass as he was fleeing the scene.

  Crazy woman ruled with an iron fist until her death this year, and I like to think that some of that bullheadedness trickled down to me.

  In droves.

  I rest my backside against the windowpane and stare at the gussied-up L.A. businessman seated at my desk. Unlike him, I don’t bother beating around the bush. “Let’s talk pay.”

  Steven’s brows shoot up at my boldness. It takes him a second to recover, but then he’s leaning forward to riffle through his papers. He slips one sheet from the rest and slides it across the desk with the tip of one finger. “I think you’ll be pleased with the number we’ve come up with for you.”

  I kill the immediate eagerness in my chest. Don’t let him read you like that. Until recently, my emotions were as transparent as the swirling winds just before a hurricane. I hid nothing. I lived my life in unedited freedom, always convinced that every person I met was just another friendship waiting to be started.

  Learning the truth about my parents in my grandmother’s will changed all that.

  But only the living can adjust to what secrets the dead reveal. Time that particular revelation with my divorce, and is it any wonder why my heart went on lockdown?

  I approach the desk and quickly scan the contract. My jaw hardens when I spot the number that’s highlighted and bolded. Underlined twice, too, just in case I couldn’t see it otherwise. There could be unicorn stickers on that sheet and it still wouldn’t impress me.

  It’s just like a ten-inch dick to be all show and no delivery.

  Steven mistakes my silence for shock. “Exciting, I know. That’s a healthy price for four months of w
ork,” Steven murmurs like we’re in on our own little secret. “And, of course, all of your expenses will be compensated for by the network. Travel, accommodations, dining. We pay the best for the best.”

  “Double it and I’ll sign the contract today.”

  “What?”

  I meet his gaze without flinching. “You said that the contracts with the Blades were signed months ago. And yet, you’re here just three weeks before preseason starts. The first game is on September fifteenth. A network like yours wouldn’t show up so close to deadline unless you were in a tough spot.” Knuckles planted on the desk, I try to look more intimidating than my five-foot-one frame will ever be. “I can read between the lines, Steven. You tried to hire other companies first. For whatever reason, they turned you down. And so here you are.”

  His Adam’s apple dodges down his throat. “And so here I am,” he rasps, the rapid blinking resuming once again.

  He’s out of luck—there’s no way I’m offering my eye drops now.

  Sorry, not sorry, buddy.

  “You’re out of options and signing this contract puts me in an unfavorable position.” Let’s face it, spending hours upon hours in Jackson’s company will send me into diabetic shock. I’ll be lucky if I don’t drive good ol’ Moose Tracks into early extinction. “Here’s how this is going to work. Double it, or Carter Photography is off the table and you’re back to square one.”

  Checkmate.

  As I wait for Steven Fairfax to answer, I make a point to keep my expression neutral.

  He makes another pass of his tongue along his bottom lip. Then reaches into his briefcase to pull out yet another folder. Setting it on the desk, he flicks it open and spins it around so that the words are legible from where I stand.

  “You know,” he drawls with a subtle edge, “your ex-husband warned us that you wouldn’t agree to our first offer. Seems he still knows you pretty well.”

  Every thought scatters on my next exhale.

  I shake my head, mouth parting and then snapping closed as the words sink in. Jackson spoke to him? It sounds so utterly ludicrous that laughter bubbles to life in my chest, demanding to be released in all of its sarcastic, bitter glory.

  Not now. Be professional!

  “I’m sorry”—my gaze falls to the contract pinned to the desk under my palm—“but did you say that Jackson told you that I’d ask for more money? When in the world . . . why would he—”

  “We were required to meet with every player to re-verify that they would allow us to film them. The owner’s request when we first did our rounds. Same with the coaches.” Sports 24/7’s producer only shrugs. “Only this time, Carter wouldn’t sign unless you were the one who . . . Well, you can see where I’m going with this.”

  You can see where I’m going with this.

  Oh yeah. I can absolutely see where Steven Fairfax is going with this, and my professional veneer cracks a little more. So, it wasn’t at all that Sports 24/7 had gone through other companies before arriving at mine. Or maybe they had. Hell, maybe they’d even gone so far as to sign on one of the countless firms across the country—until Jackson threw a goddamn wrench in their plans and had them spinning a complete one-eighty in the opposite direction.

  A direction that points unfailingly at me.

  My fingers clench at my sides, nails carving half-moons into my palms.

  I’m going to kill him—and I’m going to make it hurt, too.

  His precious hockey stick right to the twin pucks between his legs.

  It’d serve him right for interfering with my life after we made the joint decision to go our separate ways.

  I stride to my office door and yank it open so hard that Shelby, my poor assistant, flings herself at the wall. The folder she was holding drops to the floor and her hands lift in the air as if to shield her face.

  After three years of working together, her reaction doesn’t come as a shock. She’s an aspiring actress with a love for drama, even if she’s never had a single callback. Every few months she tells me that her big break is coming and that she’s preparing her resignation letter—and every time, she waltzes back into the office the very next morning like nothing happened.

  Even so, I’m totally going to have to pick up her favorite peanut butter brownies from Mike’s Pastry on the way in tomorrow or she’ll be giving me the stink eye for the rest of the week.

  When Steven calls out my name, I glance over my shoulder at him.

  He gestures to the papers spread about my desk. “Do we have a deal? You take the six-figures and you sign on with Getting Pucked for four short months. This will be massive exposure for your business. Massive.”

  Thirty minutes ago, I’d been hesitant to sign onto a project that would have me working in close spaces with Jackson for months. Hesitant, but still intrigued, despite my reservations. A job like this could be the difference between keeping the business relegated to New England or expanding across the country.

  But knowing what I do now—that Jackson won’t even commit to the show unless Carter Photography is involved—my answer is a lot firmer than a maybe.

  My fingers circle the doorknob. “No deal, Mr. Fairfax. You can tell Jackson Carter that I don’t need his pity. Better yet, I’ll tell him myself.”

  The Cold War is about to come to a boiling, explosive end.

  Damn you, Jackson. Damn. You.

  3

  Jackson

  I’m eating baked chicken at my kitchen island when I hear it.

  Or, should I say, when I hear her.

  “Jackson!”

  Puncturing the chicken with my fork, I lean back on my stool and eye the front door like there’s a mythical Yeti on the other side instead of a slip of a woman whose head doesn’t even reach my chin.

  I wait for her Southern drawl to holler again as I chew . . . and nearly choke swallowing the chicken down.

  Shit, that’s awful.

  After thirty-four years of drawing air into my lungs, there’s no hiding from the fact that my skills don’t extend to the kitchen.

  Holly knew it.

  I know it.

  My goddamn stomach knows it.

  I eye my dinner with distaste. I should have ordered takeout.

  “Jackson!” she shouts, voice tinny as it echoes through the front wall of my Back Bay condo, followed by the insistent hammering of her fist on the door. “Jackson, open up right now or I’ll-I’ll—”

  There really should be a rulebook on dealing with ex-wives. Then again, I’ve never been all that good at following the rules—not when it comes to Holly, the only woman I’ve ever loved. She had me wrapped around her finger the minute we met at Cornell during my junior year and not much has changed since then. Divorced or not, there’s not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for her if she needed me.

  But there’s only one reason she’d show up unannounced today, which means she’s out for blood. Once upon a time, Pissed-Off Holly came in second place only to Sexed-Up Holly, our limbs tangled together after a round of hard sex.

  Since the sex is off the table and has been for the better part of two years, I set down my fork and ditch dinner in favor of heading for the front door. Time to face the music . . .

  And prepare for the knife that’s bound to be angled for my jugular the moment we’re face to face.

  I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror opposite the door. Thanks to extra physical conditioning at practice today—one of the guys decided to mouth back to Coach Hall—I look like hell. Not that it matters much.

  Holly isn’t here to do the admiring stint.

  More heavy knocking that’s loud enough for my neighbors on the floor below to hear. Then, “Jack—”

  The rest of my name is swallowed by a short-lived shriek when I swing open the door and catch her off guard. She rights herself at the last moment, color blooming on her cheeks as her fingers accidentally graze my chest in her struggle to keep from wiping out. My fingers twitch at my sides, which is better than giving in
to the disastrous urge to haul her upright and touch my skin to hers. Would she feel the same? Taste the same? I’ve got no shame in admitting that the questions haunt me more nights than not.

  Keeping my treacherous fingers to myself, I give her a quick once-over that’s done sooner than it began. Wavy, long, blond hair tucked behind her ears. Blue eyes that have always—always—reminded me of the Texas sky in my hometown, Zachsville. A trim body: small breasts, nipped in waist, narrow hips. Holly has always been small in everything but personality, graceful entrances notwithstanding.

  Dipping my chin, I look down and meet her gaze. “You stop by for dinner?”

  We both know that she didn’t stop by for my half-assed cooking, and she does that Holly thing where she scrapes the inside of her thumb with the nail of her index finger. When she’s pissed, the finger scraping commences.

  Willing to press my luck so I can see her all fired up, I casually lean against the doorjamb, arms linked over my chest. “Havin’ baked chicken in case you were wondering what’s on the menu.”

  Her glossy, pink lips part. Clamp closed a second later.

  “Gotta give you a disclaimer, though.” I lift my left hand, index finger and thumb millimeters apart. “It’s about this dry.”

  More finger scraping. And then she ups the ante by blowing out a long breath that does nothing to alleviate the stick from her ass that’s keeping her back ramrod straight. “You set the temperature on four-fifty again. Didn’t you.”

  Not a question. She knows me too well.

  She was your wife.

  Was. Operative word there.

  “You caught me.” In another life, I would have winked and turned up the charm. Had her laughing hard enough at my pathetic cooking skills that she’d drag me down for a kiss and simply order pizza instead. I don’t wink now. I do, however, turn up the charm, knowing that it’ll drive her up a wall and I’ll reap the benefits when her cheeks turn rosy and her eyes darken from a sky blue to the turbulent navy hue of Boston’s harbor. Shrugging, I drawl, “Never fails that I forget I’m cooking in the first place.”