Deep Check
Kimberly Kincaid
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About the Author
Also by Kimberly Kincaid
DEEP CHECK is dedicated to singer/songwriter Michael Ray
whose song “Kiss A Little More” inspired the love story,
and to singer/songwriter Matt Nathanson,
whose song “Adrenaline” inspired the (ahem) sexy bits.
Download their music responsibly, y’all!
Prologue
Game Seven of the Cup finals. New Orleans Cajun Rage: 1, New York Spartans: 0. Series tied, 3-3. Twenty seconds left in regulation.
Finnegan Donnelly needed a fucking miracle. And seeing as how the man upstairs had already dished one up tonight by way of the ridiculous shot-block that had saved their goalie’s ass and—oh by the way—the Rage’s chance at winning the Cup, Finn was damn near certain they wouldn’t get another.
Which meant the next twenty seconds of his life were about to get as ugly as homemade sin.
Finn scanned the ice, forcing his breath to slow down as his instincts fired up. The Spartans would need to throw everything they had at the Rage’s net if they wanted to tie this thing up and force overtime; hell, they were already in position to do just that. Shifting. Advancing. Bearing down.
No. No way was Finn going to let that happen. The Rage was too close. He was too close, and the win was the only thing he’d wanted for the last seven years.
Okay, Ash. Help a brother out. Just twelve more seconds. Eleven. Ten…
Finn’s muscles screamed beneath his pads, but he welcomed the pain. Lasering his focus on the Rage’s goal, he rushed forward with only one purpose: defend. Their goalie and Finn’s closest friend on the team, Flynn Kazakov, dropped into a menacing stance as every last player on both teams rushed forward. Skates hissed, scraping and slapping the ice, but Finn was oddly calm, focused. His heart pounded with each second—thump-thump, maneuver. Thump-thump, hold. Thump-thump, defend.
Thump-thump. Win.
The Spartan’s center unleashed a punishing shot, aiming right for the space over Kazakov’s shoulder, and Finn’s composure slipped. Throwing everything he had into the movement, he raced toward the goal.
Two, one…
The puck clattered to the ice outside of the net, and holy shit. Holy shit. They’d done it.
They’d won the Cup.
Finn’s heart catapulted against his rib cage, his breath jamming in his lungs for just a split second before releasing in an unholy shout. His teammates—bunch of scrappers and wanna-bes and has-beens that they were—swarmed the ice, all of them tackling each other and whooping and pumping their fists in the air. The keeper brought the Cup onto the ice and handed it over to Coach Thibodeault, who lifted it high overhead. But rather than skating over to join the melee, Finn dropped to his knees on the ice, letting his eyes squeeze shut.
Asher had always said, always known Finn would get here one day. His best friend had been the only person who had believed Finn would fulfill his dream of winning it all.
And now, seven years after he’d wrecked their friendship and left Remington without a backward glance, he would go back to the hometown he hated with a passion in order to bring the Cup to Asher’s grave.
One
Three weeks later
“If you’re trying to kill me, I’ve got to admit, this is probably going to do the job.”
January Sinclair sat back against the electric blue banquette of her favorite booth at the Fork in the Road diner and laughed despite the gravity of her father’s words. “The whole point is that this isn’t going to kill you,” she said, gesturing to the breakfast on the Formica between them.
Her father’s frown, however, didn’t budge. “Oh yes it is. I’m going to die of boredom.”
January looked at the pair of bran muffins, each with a side order of sliced bananas, and ugh, he had a point. “Look, I know this breakfast is a little bland, but between your cholesterol and your blood pressure, you’ve got to make some changes, Dad.”
“I run an intelligence unit in the busiest police district in Remington,” he said, the lift at the corners of his mouth certainly a sign of affection for his job rather than the thimble-sized cup of decaf he’d just liberated from the table. “High blood pressure is an occupational gold standard.”
January’s heart twisted beneath her light blue blouse, but she covered the sensation with a breezy smile. Yes, her father’s workaholic lifestyle and his questionable eating habits were a big deal. But spotlighting that out loud wouldn’t get her anywhere, so she simply said, “Not anymore. Here, have some tomato juice. It’s loaded with vitamins.”
“For the record, it’s also awful.” He raised one blond brow at her, his stare narrowing in the abundant June sunlight spilling in through the diner’s windows. “Are you going to make me resort to my bad cop routine in order to get some bacon?”
“Well that depends.”
“On?”
January dialed her voice to its gentlest setting, but didn’t scale back on her words. “Whether or not you’re going to make me remind you that I’m your only child as well as your only living family member, and that since Mom lives eight thousand miles away on an ashram in India and I haven’t spoken to her in easily a year, you’re pretty much my only family too. Which means I’d like to keep you around for as long as possible, if that’s alright with you.”
“Dammit,” her father muttered, picking up the tomato juice and taking a sip. “You’re tough as hell, you know that?”
January buried her smile in her coffee cup. “Thank you. I come by it honestly.”
“So how are things at the firehouse?” her father asked, reluctantly spearing a slice of banana with his fork as he shifted the subject. “Those guys aren’t working you too hard, I hope.”
“First of all, some of those guys are women,” she reminded him jokingly. Shae McCullough and Quinn Copeland were just as much a part of Station Seventeen’s A-shift as the engine and the ambulance they rode on.
Her father raised his hands in concession. “Figure of speech. Some of my best guys are women, too. Speaking of which, Moreno told me to tell you she says hello.”
“Oooh, tell her I said hi back.” Isabella Moreno might be one of her father’s detectives, but she was also living with Kellan Walker, who just so happened to be a firefighter on A-shift. As far as January was concerned, that made Isabella part of the Seventeen family, too. “And secondly, I love my job at the firehouse. They’re not working me too hard at all.”
“You’ve been their administrator for almost four years,” her father allowed. “You run a tight enough ship that even a mountain of work looks like a speed bump to you.”
January took a bite of the bran muffin she’d ordered in solidarity and shrugged. “I don’t mind working hard to keep things running smoothly over there. Those guys are my family, just like you.”
“And I thought I was the workaholic.” Her father gave up a wry twist of his lips, which she didn’t think twice about returning.
“You are. I guess that’s another thing I come by honestly.”
“Is that why you’re chairing next month’s firehouse fundraiser?”
Her pulse stuttered in surprise. She’d just agreed to take the volunteer position yesterday. “Who told you that?”
“I’m a police sergeant.” Her father
tried on his most serious poker face. “I know things.”
Ah. Of course. “Isabella ratted me out.” January knew she shouldn’t have said anything when they’d hung out at the Crooked Angel last night.
“She mentioned it when I talked to her this morning,” he admitted. “But come on. Pulling together a fundraiser in four short weeks on top of your regular workload is a pretty big deal. Not to mention a pretty big undertaking, kid.”
“Dad. I just turned twenty-five.” Although she tried to keep her tone serious, she was pretty sure her laughter canceled out any admonition the protest at her nickname might’ve otherwise carried.
Her father wasn’t having it, though, with or without the laughter. “And when you’re ninety-five, you’ll still be my kid. You worry about me, I worry about you. Now stop dodging the subject.”
Ah, busted. “Who’s tough now?” she groused. But her father crossed his arms over the front of his dark green button down shirt, and shit, he wasn’t going to let her off the hook unless she convinced him to.
“You don’t have to worry about me.” She took another bite of her muffin. “This is what I went to college for, remember?”
Pride whisked through her father’s eyes. “I remember.”
January’s cheeks warmed. Of course he did. He’d been in the third row when she’d graduated summa cum laude with her degree in marketing, for cripes’ sake.
She threw back the last of her coffee, because it was less conspicuous than clearing her throat. “I know what I’m in for with planning a fundraiser on the fly. Anyway, I think they’re fun.”
One blond brow arched from across the table. “You think they’re boring and pretentious.”
“Okay. I think this one is going to be fun,” she amended with a bigger than necessary smile. This fundraiser would be fun. Provided she could figure out something new and fresh (and okay, fast) to make it that way, anyhow.
“Well, I know it’ll take a lot of work, but if anyone can plan a successful event, it’s you,” her father said.
Just like that, January’s smile became a whole lot less forced. “I really hope so.”
Planning this fundraiser was likely to make her month pretty crazy, but the money raised would go toward new, state-of-the-art equipment for the firefighters. Busting her buns for four weeks seemed like a small price to pay. She knew all too well how much steeper the price could be.
God, she missed Asher. She missed her best friend.
She’d miss Finn too, if she wasn’t so pissed at him.
January tamped down the thought even as it sent a pang through her belly. Finn had made his choices. Found the success he’d wanted. Left her behind in the process.
She needed to leave him behind too. No matter how badly she’d wanted him when he left Remington seven years ago.
Fundraiser. Equipment. Firehouse. Immediately, if not sooner.
“Right!” January said, just a second too quickly and a shade too loud. Tugging in a breath, she made sure to meter the rest of her words to match her smile. “Well, I hate to eat and run, but I have to be at work in fifteen minutes, and today’s going to be busy.”
She reached into her purse to cover her half of breakfast, but her father stopped her with a wave of his hand.
“Go.” He slid out of the booth to give her a quick hug. “Let me know if the Thirty-Third can help with the fundraiser.”
She brushed a kiss over her father’s cheek. “Thanks, I will. And Dad?” She waited for him to make full eye contact before continuing. “Do me a favor and wait until I’m out of the parking lot to order that side of bacon, okay?”
He laughed in a full admission of guilt. “I’ll finish the juice if that makes you feel any better.”
“Actually, it does,” she said, giving up a grin along with one last wave as she headed for the chrome and glass double doors.
Finn sat back against the well-cushioned seat in the Lincoln Town Car that had picked him up at the airport, wishing like hell the thing had a mini bar. He’d have been more than happy to simply rent a car and drive himself, but his twenty-four hours with the Cup started bright and early tomorrow morning, which meant not only did he have to travel with it in its gigantic protective trunk, but with the keeper of the Cup as well.
Talk about surreal. Once upon a time, his primary address had been the backseat of a beat-to-hell-and-back Chevy, and now, Finn had a fucking entourage.
“Alrighty!” The keeper of the Cup, Edwin Motz, clambered into the passenger seat of the Town Car and turned to give Finn a double thumbs-up. “The Cup is all strapped in and secure in the van behind us, so we’re good to go. Sorry it took a minute, but I had to double-triple check to make sure it arrived without a scratch.”
Unable to help himself, Finn lifted one corner of his mouth in an expression caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “The Cup never left its trunk, Edwin. A trunk that’s custom-padded and insulated and probably bulletproof on top of that.”
“Oh, a bulletproof trunk. That would be a good idea,” Edwin said, his eyes going wide behind the thick, dark rims of his glasses. “Imagine how well-protected the Cup would stay if we—”
Finn interrupted by turning his smirk into a laugh. “I was actually kidding about the bulletproof thing.”
“Oh. Right, right, of course.” Edwin nodded, but tapped out a quick note on his iPhone that made Finn think a bid for a bulletproof trunk might be in the Cup’s future. “At any rate, you’re the first player with the Cup this year. The Rage’s win is only a few weeks old, so we’ll probably get a little more press than usual.”
Finn brought his teeth together, biting back the urge to tell Edwin they wouldn’t be getting any press at all. His agent had practically had a kitten—Finn was hip deep in contract negotiations. But all that smile-for-the-camera press Marty wanted would have to wait until after Finn had gone to Asher’s grave. After he’d righted the wrong that had wedged between them for far too long.
After he’d tied up all his loose ends and gotten the fuck out of Remington, once and for all.
“Did you need me to go over any of the rules with you before tomorrow?” Edwin turned to rummage through the bag on his lap, presumably for a fresh copy of the six-page spreadsheet he’d already given all the players on the care and keeping of the Cup, but Finn shook his head to stop the guy mid-move.
“Your handout was pretty clear,” he said, watching the buildings and storefronts of downtown Remington flash by as the driver maneuvered through rush hour traffic. Christ, so much had changed in the last seven years. Including him, he supposed.
Hell if that wasn’t the whole point of this trip.
Finn took a deep inhale and rerouted his attention back to Edwin to count off the highlights. “Nothing illegal. Nothing that will damage the Cup. No charging anyone for photo ops with the Cup.” That one had surprised him, actually. He wasn’t exactly a saint (or, you know, even fucking close) but you had to be a special breed of dickhead to go there. “Hey, do guys seriously try to do that?”
“I think you’d be shocked to know what some people try to do with it,” Edwin replied gravely, and ooookay. Moving on.
“And the number one rule of my day with the Cup is I can take it anywhere I want as long as it never leaves your sight.”
Edwin nodded, pushing his glasses higher over the bridge of his nose. “That about sums things up, yes. If you’ve got an itinerary for tomorrow, I can make a detailed plan to help you deal with the press accordingly.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Confusion pulled the edges of the keeper’s mouth into a frown. “I thought…well, the dossier you have on file with the Rage says you lived here in Remington for five years before you went to the minors in Tallahassee. Since it doesn’t list anything before that, I assumed this was your hometown.”
Finn made a mental note to have his team dossier shredded into confetti as soon as he got back to New Orleans. Not that anyone other than Edwin actually read
those goddamn things. “It’s not.”
“Oh.” Edwin’s fingers twitched over the seat back, and Finn would bet the bank the guy was just itching to go in and edit Finn’s personnel file right there from the front seat of the Town Car. “Well then, perhaps just a list of places you’d like to go so I can call ahead to make arrangements,” Edwin tried again. “It really is in your best interest to be prepared for your day with the Cup so there are no mishaps.”
“There won’t be any mishaps.” Finn directed his gaze out the window again, hoping the move would put a cap on the conversation.
No such luck. Not that luck had ever been in Finn’s wheelhouse. “Mr. Donnelly, I really think we should—”
“I’m all set, Edwin.”
A tiny part of Finn felt bad for killing the conversation so abruptly. But the guys on the team—Kazakov, Ford Callaghan, James “DC” Washington; hell, every last one of those crazy sons of bitches—they were the only close friends Finn had, and they’d each get their own day with the Cup. He didn’t have any grand plans. No local parade, no rah rah fanfare. No family members to oooh and aaah over the thing.
The only place he wanted to take it was Asher’s grave so he could finally make amends for the way he’d busted up their friendship, the way he damn well should have before Asher had died.
But Ash isn’t the only best friend you burned a bridge with here in Remington, now is he?
The thought came out of nowhere, hitting Finn like a slap shot at center mass. Edwin had smartly turned his attention to their driver, regaling the poor guy with one hockey statistic after another, so Finn gave in to the weird urge to go all blast from the past and slide deeper into his thoughts.
He should’ve known January would edge her way into his brain pan as soon as he set foot in Remington. After all, he and Asher and January had been best friends from the beginning of the eighth grade to the day they’d graduated high school. She’d been bright and kind and funny as hell, the polar opposite of Finn’s gruff attitude and shitty upbringing.
Deep Check (Station Seventeen) Page 1