Skating the Line (San Francisco Strikers Book 2)

by Stephanie Kay

  Focus on the task at hand.

  She scoured her notes again.

  Skeeball had been amazing. Who knew booze paired so well with arcade games? Yes, there was a chain that had focused on that for quite a few years now, but they were still family friendly, for the most part. The new spots that had popped up in the last few years, including ping pong bars, boozy arcades, and City Putt were definitely for the over twenty-one crowd. It was a great place for a first date.

  Maybe she could convince Betsy to let her write about dating in the city. God knows she’d done enough of that before she’d left six years ago and periodically in the months since she’d returned home.

  Well, not in the last few months. Ever since that kiss…

  Dammit. She didn’t want to think about that kiss. Or the one over a week ago. Or the one that didn’t happen three nights ago because he’d never shown up at City Putt. She was still pissed about that.

  Not that he’d agreed to meet her there, but come on, after the kiss in the parking lot at the blues club, it was a sure bet. Why didn’t he want a sure bet? It usually led to fun for a while, until the itch wore off. Mutual satisfaction and no hurt feelings the next morning, week, month…however long they lasted.

  The hot and cold thing was irritating as shit. And she wished he’d just get over himself and clue in to the fact that they would be amazing in bed. His kiss told her that clear as day.

  What wasn’t clear as day was why she still cared. Why she hadn’t moved on? But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  That was not freaking normal. Not. At. All.

  Of course, watching all of the Strikers games since the night at the blues club—okay, since Penny had dragged her to that first game a few months ago—wasn’t helping get her mind off of him. All it did was make her want to get on top of him…under him…next to him.

  Images flashed in her head, and she took in a deep breath. So not safe for work.

  And she was starting to like the game. The pace. The hugs. She bit back a chuckle. Her friend Lexi always talked about the hugs. Amanda was definitely on board with getting in the middle of one of those.

  Again. NSFW. She should come with a warning.

  Article. Focus on the article. The one that wasn’t going to write itself no matter how hard she willed it.

  A knock on her wall saved her from trying to form additional sentences that made sense.

  “Hey, Amanda,” Ann said, slipping into Amanda’s workspace. She didn’t really have an office, more of small enclosed space that sat right outside Betsy’s office. Always available for barked orders for Splenda and kale. A glorified cubicle. As if there was any way to glorify a cubicle.

  When she’d put California in her rear-view mirror six years ago, she’d promised herself she’d never end up in a cubicle.

  Life really knew how to kick you in the ass.

  “What’s up?” she asked, focusing on her co-worker. Ann started with the magazine at least six months before Amanda had come on board. A fellow editorial assistant, but she worked with the food and entertainment writers. And she loved to gossip. A lot.

  “Just saying hello and seeing how everything is going.”

  “Everything’s great. Finishing up this week’s article and working on tomorrow’s blog post,” she said, hoping her tone was friendly, yet busy. She still didn’t have a good read on this woman, but Ann appeared to always be around. Looking to take on new tasks. Just not in a go-getter, helpful way, more of a look how important I am to the magazine kind of way.

  That was a large assumption on Amanda’s part, but instinct told her not to trust her. But why should she care? This was never a permanent job for her.

  “Let me know if you need any help. Betsy has you taking on a lot,” Ann said, almost sounding sincere. Almost.

  “I’m good. Should be done in an hour,” she said, holding back her snort. Yeah, only if the writing fairies deemed to make an appearance, but she wasn’t offering up that information to Ann.

  “You know, we should grab lunch some time. Us editorial assistants need to stick together.” Amanda was surprised the woman didn’t follow up her statement with a fist pump.

  Jesus, she was a bitch. Ann hadn’t given Amanda any reason to doubt her sincerity. And yet, she did.

  “I can’t today, but another day,” Amanda said, giving the woman her friendliest smile.

  “Sure. And I loved your articles the last two weeks. I’m steering clear of that country bar,” Ann said, laughing.

  Amanda couldn’t stop her shudder. “Yeah, super gross.”

  “And the sports article was great. I haven’t been to a hockey game in years.”

  “Thanks. I’m not a huge sports fan, but I thought it would be a nice review for people looking for something else to do in the city. Too bad the only sport currently playing is hockey, it wasn’t as meaty an article as it could’ve been.”

  “I thought it was great. Gave a solid feel of the game. Brought back some memories.” Her expression was almost wistful, and Amanda felt like an even bigger ass for her assumptions.

  “It’s pretty awesome being in the stands. I didn’t expect it to be as thrilling. I’ve gone to a few baseball games over the years, and it’s not like hockey.”

  Ann laughed. “Definitely not. Maybe I’ll try to go to a game. Haven’t been in so long. I used to date a guy who played when I was in college.”

  “You should go to a game, then. They’re doing pretty well this year.”

  “Amanda. Did you order my lunch yet?” Betsy called out from the bowels of her office. Okay, that was a touch extreme.

  “I should probably deal with that,” Amanda grumbled, and Ann smiled.

  “I probably have my barking orders, I mean lunch orders, in my email. Talk to you later,” Ann said, and then spun on her heel.

  Amanda needed to stop assuming.

  She poked her head into Betsy’s office. “I’m heading out now. I already placed your order this morning.”

  “I don’t want it getting cold because you were chit-chatting with Ann,” Betsy barked.

  “It’s a salad,” Amanda muttered. It’s supposed to be freaking cold. “Want me to grab anything else while I’m out?”

  “No. Just hurry back. I have a call in an hour.”

  Amanda nodded and grabbed her coat, bundling up before heading out into the blustery March air.

  Man, she missed the warmth of South America. She’d written one of her most popular blog posts about her trip to Peru, “Twenty things to do in Peru, but don’t forget Machu Picchu.” She had plans to hike back into the clouds again. But it hadn’t happened, yet.

  A short while later, she headed back to the office, offensive kale salad in one hand, yummy turkey and cheddar panini in the other. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she juggled her bags and the last-minute smoothie Betsy had texted her about while she’d been in line at the café. If it was Betsy again, she’d scream.

  The security guard held the door open for her as she hustled into the building and made a beeline for the just opening elevator. If the text had been from Betsy, she’d claim she was already on her way up and her service sucked in elevators.

  “It’s about time,” Betsy said when Amanda dropped off her lunch. She’d been gone less than twenty minutes. Like seventeen freaking minutes.

  What the actual fuck? Amanda needed to figure out a way to boost her blog. More ad space or something, because Betsy was going to drive her over the edge.

  “Shut the door behind you. This salad is not completely crisp. Did you get something hot and put it on top of my salad?”

  “No, Betsy. I kept everything separate. Maybe it’s the hot air in the building.”

  She shut the door behind her before Betsy could say anything else, and she grabbed her phone.

  Penny: I have an extra ticket for the game tonight. You coming?

  She debated the pros and cons as she ate her sandwich. She wanted to go, and see Ben. No. He clearly wasn’t int
erested. Why would she want to see him again? She’d never been a glutton for punishment before. Why start now?

  Amanda: Can’t. I have a shit ton of work to do. Article for Betsy needs to be in her hands by tomorrow morning, and I have a few blog posts to work on.

  Penny: Boo. You’re no fun. Don’t you want to see hot hockey players in the flesh?

  Shit. Now she was thinking about Ben’s flesh. She bit back a snort. That sounded weird.

  Amanda: Maybe next time. We still on for lunch tomorrow?

  Penny: Of course. If you change your mind, let me know.

  Amanda: Thanks. Have fun tonight. Make sure they win.

  Penny: That’s the plan. And don’t work too hard. At least watch the game on TV.

  Amanda: I’ll try. See you tomorrow.

  Like there was ever a doubt what channel her TV would be on tonight. She was helpless. And it was frustrating as hell.

  And she wasn’t totally lying to Penny, she did have work to do. If she was ever going to leave this job, she had to focus on her blog, on keeping her name out there. Every time she posted something for the magazine on California, wine tours in Napa or hiking through Muir Woods, she questioned why she’d kept her blog going. Adventurous Amanda had a solid four-plus year run of exotic destination spots. It wasn’t the same, when she hadn’t left the state. She’d lost some subscribers. Not a ton, thank God, but some. She even posted a poll last week for local sites her readers might want to see in San Francisco.

  The response had been smaller than she’d hoped, but what had she expected? They were used to her biking through Ireland and kayaking around New Zealand. Not that there weren’t areas of northern California that were amazing to visit and explore, but it wasn’t the same.

  And she missed traveling. It was part of who she was. Sitting in a glorified cubicle fetching green smoothies wasn’t.

  Ben rolled his shoulders back, working out the kinks, then grabbed his guitar from the corner of the living room to continue his game day routine. Routines made everything make sense.

  Nap accomplished, pre-game dinner of three grilled chicken breasts, rice, and steamed vegetables consumed, and now he played. He flexed his fingers, strumming the chords.

  Same song every time.

  Led Zeppelin’s “The Rain Song.”

  It never failed to bring a smile to his face, and make his heart clench in his chest as the first note emerged, vibrating through his body, while he hummed along. His mother had loved this song.

  His father had played the song for his mother on their first date when they were teens. And almost every night of Ben’s childhood. After the accident, his father never played the song again. Ben was almost positive his father didn’t play, period.

  But Ben did. He kept up the tradition, the routine, even if no one was around to see or hear it. But only at home. Never at the club. The song brought him back to memories of his family when they were whole—happy. And it centered him. Knowing how happy his parents had been watching him play hockey, knowing how much his mother loved this song. It only made sense to combine the two when nothing had made sense after the accident.

  As the final chords rang through, Ben stilled his fingers and took in a deep breath. He was ready for tonight. His focus set. Placing the guitar back in the corner, he grabbed his bag and keys, and headed to the arena. Two points were on the line and he was grabbing them.

  ***

  A few hours later, Ben walked down the arena corridor, snagging his sticks that rested against the wall before heading into the locker room. The rest of his gear was ready to go for warm-ups, and his locker stall was set up perfectly. Three bottles of water and three bottles of his favorite sports drink were lined up on either side of his stall. Grabbing his tape, he wrapped and rewrapped the shafts of his sticks three times, before wrapping and rewrapping the blade with white tape three times as well, while Led Zeppelin’s III played through his headphones.

  Routine.

  He wasn’t the only one with quirks. In fact, he dared anyone to find a hockey player who didn’t have quirks, routines. People might poke fun, but it worked for him more times than not, so he was sticking to it.

  After a quick pep talk from the coach and Ben, the guys headed down the tunnel, the music pumped through the arena and the energy bubbled to the surface. He lived for this. Every day.

  Harty knocked the stack of pucks off the boards and onto the ice, and when Ben’s skate hit the smooth surface, he was flying. Nothing would ever come close to this.

  “You ready for Calgary tonight? They’re making a run,” Harty said, skating to a stop next to Ben as they watched their teammates take shots on the open net. Gally was chatting and stretching next to Calgary’s goalie on the center line. Both goalies had played for Team USA in international competitions over the years.

  “They’re still behind us, but too close. We need to shut them down in regulation,” Ben said, dropping down to stretch his hips. They’d ached more than he wanted after the last few games.

  After stretching, he skated back to the bench, meeting up with the coaches and his alternate captains, Liam “Boosh” Boucher and Eric “Finn” Finnegan, to discuss a few initial plays. Calgary’s top scorer was out with an undisclosed upper body injury as of last night, so they were watching Calgary to see who would be in the starting lineup.

  Ben spotted Harty near the penalty box, his girlfriend Penny smiling down at him and blowing him a kiss. Ben had kept his eyes clear of those seats since he’d hit the ice, not giving in to the need to see if Amanda was in the stands watching. Seeing the empty seat beside Penny gave him a flutter of hope in his chest that he didn’t know what to do with.

  Was she here? He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, but she had to be pissed since he hadn’t shown up last weekend.

  Or maybe she hadn’t cared.

  And that caused a flutter of a different sort.

  Shit. He had a game to play. His concentration had to be on winning, not on the petite spitfire that wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

  “You ready?” Finn asked, drawing Ben’s gaze away from that empty seat.

  “Always,” he said, tapping his gloved hand against Finn’s.

  ***

  By the start of the third period, they were down three to one, and his eyes continued to search the stands. This was fucking insane. She wasn’t coming, and he’d just missed an easy pass. His concentration was a mess. And they were going to lose. That was not an option. He took in a deep breath, clearing his mind of the nonsense, and focused on his next shift.

  He jumped over the boards, his skates hitting the ice, with his linemates Harty and Sully right behind him. Finn, one of their top defensemen, shot the puck toward Ben, the rubberized disk hit the center of his tape, and he was off, passing it to Harty when one of Calgary’s defensemen tried to snag it.

  Harty sailed it blocker side high, right over the goalie’s shoulder and the buzzer wailed. The music blasted through the speakers, barely heard over the roar of the crowd as they surged to their feet.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Sully said as they slammed into Harty, knocking gloves and tapping helmets.

  Ben skated back to the bench, glove tapping his teammates down the line, before sliding back onto the bench and knocking his shoulder into Harty’s with a grin.

  “Two more to go, boys. Two more for two points,” he shouted down the bench. The guys were pumped, and six minutes later they’d tied it up with less than five minutes to go. Damn straight they could do this.

  Coach called a timeout with less than three minutes on the clock. Calgary was moving fast and had almost scored on a breakaway thirty seconds ago, but Gally had been a wall. Thank fuck for that. They needed to slow them down.

  The ever-present whiteboard was out and Seibs, one of the assistant coaches, was mapping out a play. Dom, Desi, and Soupy jumped over the boards, Baz passed the puck to Dom, their top scoring rookie, and the kid headed toward the net. The puck banged off
the pipes and Calgary’s goalie covered it before the Strikers could get the rebound.

  Calgary won the face-off and headed toward Gally, but Baz snagged it and dumped it back over the line so Dom, Desi, and Soupy could get off the ice. Ben hopped over the boards with Harty and Sully and ended up with the puck on his stick. With no easy pass to Harty or Sully, he focused on the net, moving in and out of Calgary’s defense, his eyes on that high blocker side that he knew was weak.

  The goalie shifted to meet Ben’s shot, and at the last second Ben knocked it low, right between the goalie’s legs.

  The buzzer wailed, the crowd roared again, and his teammates on the ice crashed into him, a five-man hug against the boards, shouts of encouragement mixed with a few choice expletives, rang around him. As they skated back to the bench, his eyes darted to the empty seat near the penalty box, next to Penny, who was screaming her head off and clapping.

  Shit. He had a problem. And tonight’s goal had been lucky. His concentration wasn’t where it should be, and he needed to rectify that immediately. Maybe he should screw her out of his system.

  He shook his head. As appealing as that idea was, he wasn’t a complete asshole.

  And now he was thinking about that kiss again—well, kisses.

  He didn’t look toward the penalty box for the remaining minute of the game, even when the final buzzer sounded and they’d gotten their two points. But as he headed back to the locker room, she didn’t leave his thoughts.

  He was in so much trouble—and it should’ve bothered him more than it did.

  Chapter 8

  Thailand is stunning, but as for the unknown item I just ate off a stick, not everything tastes like chicken. Try new foods, but always have a glass of water on standby.

  ~ Adventurous Amanda, August 2012

  “Loved the last article,” Penny said the following day after the waiter left with their lunch order.