The article had been good. The perfect mix of information and anecdotes. And with the uptick in online traffic on the site today, Betsy had been pleased. That was all that mattered. The dragon had almost cracked a smile. Amanda had briefly toyed with the idea of asking the woman if it had hurt, but she’d resisted.
“Well, I think it’s a very interesting take on the game. Most sports articles are filled with numbers, percentages, and stats,” Penny said, the worry still on her face after the confrontation with Ben. Amanda definitely hadn’t heard the last on that topic from her friend.
Ethan chuckled, pulling his girlfriend close, and brushed a kiss across her curls. “You get this dreamy expression when you say stats. Should I be jealous?”
“I assumed you knew all about her weird number love by now,” Amanda chimed in, the tension around the table fading with every second that passed since Ben had left.
But Amanda was still wound tight. He’d thrown her for a loop tonight and then bolted before the dust could settle. All he did was drum up more questions. And while part of her wanted to shrug them, and him, off, she was too curious about the different sides of the captain.
“We aren’t making the post season if you play like you did last night. A different team better show the hell up tomorrow afternoon,” Bugsy barked out at the end of the team meeting. He’d handed them their asses over the last hour, and they’d deserved every remark that came from the coaching staff.
Ben grimaced. Six-one was unacceptable. They’d played sloppy last night, and their one goal had been a fluke.
They’d spent the morning on the ice, running penalty kill drills and two-on-one scenarios. The breakaways last night couldn’t happen with the regularity that they had. Ben still wasn’t sure what had happened last night and that pissed him off even more. He was the captain. He should always be on, always aware of what was going on with his team. And making a concerted effort to push the guys to be the best they could.
Last night he’d failed on all counts. His concentration was off, and he was not happy about it. His concentration was never off. One of the perks of focusing on hockey his entire life was that he was never off.
“We can’t make a deep run with the shitty team that played last night,” Bugsy’s statement pulled Ben from his thoughts. Their coach was right, and it irked Ben that Bugsy had to state the obvious to the team this far into the season.
The guys nodded in agreement, a few shouted yes and no shit, but it was one thing to say it and another to actually follow through.
“Now get out of here,” Bugsy shouted. “And rest up, because tomorrow’s game is early and we can’t play like shit again.”
The guys skated off the ice, Ben, tapping each helmet as they passed. He was always the first one on the ice and the last one off. Had been that way since he first started playing. Harty took his sweet time making his way to the bench.
They’d been teammates since the start of the season. And linemates almost from the beginning. Ben had heard the rumors of Harty’s bad behavior, of why he’d been traded, but Ben hadn’t seen that version of Harty. All he saw was a great teammate, a guy who wanted to help out on and off the ice.
“What’s up?” he asked, when Harty reached the bench door.
“I should ask you the same.”
Ben stared at him quizzically, but he knew exactly what Harty was getting at, and he didn’t want to talk about it. About her.
“Yeah, last night’s loss sucked,” Ben muttered. “But tomorrow is a new game, and we’re going to win it.”
“That’s the plan, but that’s not what I’m talking about. What’s up with you running out of the bar last night?”
Shit. He wasn’t getting out of this easily.
“I didn’t run out of the bar. Little dramatic, aren’t you, Harty?” he stated, keeping his expression neutral. He ignored his linemate’s smirk.
“Look, I know you aren’t a fan of reporters. They can be annoying as hell, and you don’t have to tell me that one of them did something to you, but Amanda isn’t like that. Read her articles, man. She’s not trying to write an exposé about the team.”
“If you say so,” he muttered. “Can we just forget about last night?”
“I’d love to. But, if you want to talk about it, I’m a decent listener.”
Ben brushed him off. He had no desire to talk about it. He’d been an ass to Amanda last night, but he’d been blind-sided. “Thanks. You guys stay out late?” he asked, trying to shift the conversation, and wishing Harty would just get off the damn ice so he could shower and go home.
“No, we all headed home pretty early.”
“I would hope so. I can’t imagine dealing with today’s practice hungover.” Much safer topic. Not that he drank much during the season. One drink after a game, and he rarely had a drink on nights before a game day. Alcohol made him sluggish and that would not get them to the playoffs.
“As long as that’s it,” Harty said, his hedging not subtle. Confiding in a new friend was not something Ben was on board with. Not that he had anything to confide, but he wanted this line of questioning over.
“What are you girls gossiping about?” Baz stuck his head out at the end of the bench.
“Nothing,” Ben grumbled. The last thing he needed was Baz invading the inquisition. The man gossiped more than the bunnies. “Just trying to get Harty to move it so I can wash the stench off me.” But he couldn’t bring himself to head down the tunnel until Harty exited the ice. He was essentially trapped. He bristled at his quirks, but remained where he stood, resting against the boards.
“Yeah, nothing’s going on, Baz. Just chatting with the captain about last night,” Harty said, his gaze finally neutral, the inquisition over.
“Man, last night fucking sucked,” Baz said, shaking his head. “And it was a team effort in suckage. And what was your deal with Amanda last night? She’s great.”
“Nothing. I don’t like not knowing when someone is press. Just leave it,” he muttered. Most of the guys were aware of his distaste and they usually let it ride, but snapping at Amanda, who’d become friendly with his teammates through Penny, had brought his issue to the forefront. Which was the last thing he wanted.
“Don’t give her such a hard time. Did you read the article? She didn’t even mention me. Not once,” Baz said, his hand pressed to his chest.
“The horror,” Ben deadpanned.
“Anyway. Don’t be a dick to her,” Baz said, the humor gone as his eyes narrowed. What the hell?
“I’m working on it. Just like I’d like to be working on that shower.”
“Yeah, seriously. You guys smell worse than Timmy’s gear bag last month.”
“You have no one to blame but yourself for that,” Harty said, and Ben barked out a laugh. It came out harsh, but he wasn’t known for his laughter, so the guys shrugged it off without question. He was relieved for the subject change.
Baz had tried hazing the rookie last month. It was tradition, and he never got them at the beginning of the season. You knew it was coming, but the anticipation made the sadistic ass smirk with glee, so he waited until you were comfortable.
Connor “Timmy” Horton had been with the team for months. His guard was down. Or so the guys had thought. Somehow Timmy’s gear bag that Baz had filled with every unwashed jock he could find had wound up in Baz’s stall, not Timmy’s.
Timmy’s pure joy at one-upping the guy had been short-lived when Baz had face-washed Timmy with an especially used strap. The words oh god, it’s in my mouth still made the guys chuckle. Baz had cemented himself back in his prankster role, but seeing the guy knocked down a peg, however briefly, had been worth it. Maybe not to Timmy.
Baz grinned. “Ah, you win some, you lose some. Luckily, I typically win.”
Harty finally stepped off the ice, and Ben followed behind him, tapping his stick against the bench door three times before heading down the tunnel. At least the questions weren’t on him anymore.
&nbs
p; Dammit. He needed to work on not being obvious. He’d hoped no one had paid attention to his abrupt departure. He didn’t want to think about last night. Or finding out that the woman he wanted to kiss more than anything was part of the media. He hated the media. They weaseled in, exposing any secret they could get their hands on, embellishing to suit their needs and further their careers.
He’d rather think about Amanda and how he still wanted to kiss the hell out of her, especially when she’d turned on him last night. Calling him out. It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. Her eyes blazing, that flush creeping up into her cheeks. He hadn’t been in the right headspace to deal with her, so he’d bolted. Not that he was ever in the right headspace where she was concerned.
He’d gone home and reviewed everything he’d ever told her in his head. Not that it’s been much. He was guarded. Everyone commented on Captain Stony. Another nickname he could do without.
There was always some reporter in the room after the game, shoving a camera or mic in his face, trying to squeeze more information out of him. Get to know him. They didn’t want to know him. They wanted to exploit him for page views and copies sold.
Hell. He sounded arrogant. He was well-aware that the world didn’t revolve around him, that most people didn’t know who he was. But he could thank Tara for making him think the worst of anyone who carried a media badge.
After he’d finished stewing, he’d gone on to read every article Amanda had written. And every post on her Adventurous Amanda travel blog. He’d been amazed at some of the places she’d visited. And jealous. He rarely left the country. And when he did, it was for away games in Canada or a quick vacation in between off-season practice sessions.
After a quick Google search, he’d discovered that she’d been nothing but honest with him. Her articles and posts were about travel and food. Mundane topics. No hard-hitting news pieces.
He’d let out a sigh of relief at that. And then he’d felt like a total douche for his reaction last night. She hadn’t deserved his scorn. But he didn’t know her that well. Aside from the brief moment of having his tongue down her throat last month.
That kiss ever-present in his mind. Shit. He needed to work on banishing it.
And her articles were good. Her writing was solid and engaging. With every travel article he’d read, he could feel the sun on his skin, the taste of the local delicacies, and the thrill of each adventure she’d taken. Not that he planned to bungee jump off some random bridge in Costa Rica any time soon. His fear of heights and his common sense would’ve kept him far away from the rails.
Chapter 4
Here in Buenos Aires, soaking in the sun and just in time for their annual music festival. Adventurers get out and see the local music scene. Dance under the lights, but keep your wits about you and don’t drink too much. It’s easy to get carried away in the moment.
~ Adventurous Amanda, November 2011
Amanda hoped this bar would be better than the last. She shuddered, remembering the bathroom in the country bar last night, wondering if the last time they’d cleaned it was when the dive opened forty years ago. Definitely wouldn’t be featuring that in her article as a must-see. The drinks had been strong—probably so you’d forget what you saw in the bathroom. Vodka did not kill all germs, despite what she’d believed in high school.
Her sports article had brought in great numbers last week, and she hoped that this article about the local live music scene would have the same results. She’d picked four local bars with live music to visit over the last few days. The jazz club Thursday night had been insane. Fun, but insane. With martinis to die for. She’d limited herself to two—well, three, if she counted the one that a ridiculously hot guy had bought her. She’d watched the bartender make it and hand it to her directly.
And the guy—he’d been just her type. Tall, adorable, a dimple that winked at her every time he smiled, available—but nothing. She’d sipped her drink, making conversation, but when he’d asked if she wanted to continue the party, she’d declined. A few months ago, she would’ve taken him up on his offer, but now—shit, what was wrong with her? Had the lack of getting some caused her libido to go dormant?
She snorted. That was definitely not the case since it fired right up every time Ben was near. And aside from that random kiss, he clearly wasn’t interested. She’d thought they’d had something going at the bar two nights ago, until her job had come up. Holy shit. She still couldn’t get over his personality change.
What was his deal? And why was she thinking about him again?
She’d wanted to pepper him with questions about his clear disdain for the media, but it would’ve just driven home the fact that she was a journalist. She’d done a quick Google search on him yesterday, stumbling across articles about a horrible concussion he’d had a few years into his career, but aside from that, she’d only found standard articles about his career and childhood. Apparently, he’d had skates on before he could walk.
The concussion had sounded so awful, her stomach had clenched when she read his recovery time and whether he’d ever play again had been questionable. She’d found a few gossip pieces about his superstitions and how reserved he was, which of course led to the gossip media wanting more, but nothing else had come up, outside of the normal sports articles.
Not that she’d done a deep dive. He’d wanted nothing to do with her and at this point, she’d gladly return the favor. But she was curious. Shit. Thinking about Ben wasn’t going to get her anywhere.
The music picked up, pulling her from her thoughts of Ben. She had a job to do. Enjoy some of best blues music in the city, along with a surprisingly delicious Tom Collins.
The place was small. A well-loved bar ran the length of the room, with bistro-sized round tables scattered throughout. She leaned against the bar and took another sip of her drink as the three-piece band played under the soft light. This was the type of music she truly loved. It reminded her of her grandfather when he’d play blues on his guitar every time she visited.
She missed the old man. She and her mother had lived with him for a while after Amanda’s dad had bailed when Amanda was five. She barely had any memories of her father. Those four years were her favorite growing up, until her mom found another guy and they’d moved in with him. They’d ended up back with her grandfather five years later. It was a cycle she both hated and loved.
It’d also led to a fondness for musicians—that had backfired multiple times in her early twenties. Luckily, she’d been traveling when she’d met them, so she’d never moved in with any of them. Lessons learned at her mother’s feet. While her mother chased true love, Amanda chased happiness, and she’d been lucky for the most part.
She missed her grandfather. He’d passed away last year, right after she’d taken her current job. His illness was part of the reason she’d come home. That she’d had a few brief months with him before he passed was a blessing and a heartbreak at the same time. He’d given her a chunk of money to start her travels as a graduation gift six years ago. Encouraging her to live her life and explore the world. No dream was too big in Thomas Butler’s eyes. Men like her grandfather were rare.
When she’d researched the local music scene, Oscar’s was listed as the best place for live blues and rock in town. She remembered her grandfather mentioning this place when she was a kid, but this was her first visit. A collection of framed photographs scattered along the back wall, and she scanned across, spotting a few musicians she could actually name.
She leaned in. There was no way…
A picture of her grandfather, grinning, thirty years younger than he’d been the last time she’d seen him, looked back at her. She stifled her gasp and plopped down onto an empty stool, staring at the image.
Her heart clenched. She missed that smile. Her grandfather was standing next to another grinning man that looked like a younger version of the bartender currently making a martini. She bit the inside of her cheek, keeping her emotions at bay. Her grandfathe
r had been the only father figure in her life, her own father’s visits and calls were sporadic at best, until they’d ended completely, more than fifteen years ago.
“You okay, darling?” a rough voice asked, and Amanda looked up at the bartender.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, choking out the words, and plastering on a bright smile. At least she hoped it was bright.
“Can I get you another?” he asked, gesturing to her almost empty drink.
“Sure. Umm. Did he come here a lot?” she asked as she pointed to her grandfather’s picture.
The bartender looked over his shoulder. “You mean Tommy?” He barked out a laugh. “That guy was a fixture here for years. His wife, too. He was amazing on the guitar. Even got him up on stage more than a few times. He passed away almost two years ago, if I remember correctly.” A sad look washed over the man’s features. Probably echoing her own.
“Sixteen months, actually.”
“You knew him?”
“I’m his granddaughter,” she said, lightly.
A grin split his face. “Little Manda? He used to bring in pictures of you.”
Her cheeks heated. “Really?”
“I thought you looked familiar. You look just like your grandmother. Amazing woman. And what a voice. We got her up on stage a few times, too,” he said, his smile still warm.
“I wish I could’ve seen that. She passed away when I was five. And I definitely don’t have her voice,” she said, with a short laugh. From her brief memories of her grandmother, she remembered her singing along while her grandfather played his guitar.
“Well, I’m glad you finally stumbled in here. And Tommy’s granddaughter drinks on the house.”
“Thanks. And I would love it if you’d include a few stories about my grandparents with that Tom Collins.”
“Your grandmother’s favorite,” the bartender said, before he started making her drink. “And it’s Oscar, by the way.”
Skating the Line (San Francisco Strikers Book 2) Page 4