Knox: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Rothert, Brenda

  “You need to at least buy it dinner first, bro,” Rhett quips.

  Shaking his head, Luca squeezes the other pineapple, too. He adds both to our cart.

  “Can we fucking go now?” I ask impatiently. “I want to get to the beach before the sun sets.”

  “Quit whining, you pussy,” Anton says.

  A mom walking by us, pushing a cart with two young kids in tow, gives Anton a dirty look. He gives her a sheepish smile.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I shake my head, amused by his discomfort. Anton’s normally the last guy on our team who has to apologize for his mouth.

  We check out our groceries and pile into Luca and Abby’s two big SUVs to drive back to the house. It’s not just a house, it’s more like a compound, but everyone calls it the beach house since it’s located right on the water.

  This place is like another world. Everything is lush and green, and the views of volcanoes and the ocean are incredible. Every time I come here, I think maybe this is where I’d like to live when I retire. I could party with hula dancers every night until I croak.

  When we get back to the house, Abby’s in the kitchen with Luca’s nephew Jack, who’s like a son to them. She’s peering into the massive, stainless steel Viking refrigerator, looking for something, and I have a clear view of her profile.

  Holy shit. Her slightly swollen belly is unmistakable in the bikini she’s wearing, her lightweight cover-up draping open just wide enough that it’s on full display.

  Abby’s pregnant. I don’t show any reaction, because after losing her only biological child several years ago, she probably isn’t ready to share the news yet.

  “Mixed berry juice, lemonade or water,” she says. “What sounds good, Jack?”

  As she looks over at him, she realizes her cover-up is open and she quickly grabs the sides to tie it closed. She looks around, locking eyes with me, and I try to look as casual as possible.

  “Lemonade,” Jack says. “In a Star Wars cup.”

  “I’ve got it, babe,” Luca says, getting a cup out of a cabinet.

  “Anyone coming to the beach with us?” Abby looks around the room at all of us.

  “We need to get the grill going,” Luca says.

  I scowl at him, wishing we’d just ordered pizza for dinner instead. Winters in Chicago are no joke, and it seems to shift from freezing your ass off directly to drowning in rain directly to hot as fuck. There are no tropical breezes in the urban jungle, though I do like living there.

  I’ve been with the Chicago Blaze for seven years now, and I plan to spend the rest of my career with them. The ownership is fair and doesn’t get involved in coaching or personal stuff.

  In the time I’ve been with the team, I’ve only gotten nagged by the PR people once. Some photos of me partying with a bunch of models on a yacht came out, and it turned out one of the women on my lap, with her hand on my crotch, was married to some hotshot businessman who got pissed off. But I didn’t even know her name, how was I supposed to know whether she was married? She didn’t have a ring on.

  I probably deserved to get called out on it, though. I used to spend my off-season chasing down all the ass I could get. The past couple of years, though, I’ve preferred to keep a low profile. It’s too much fucking work to wine and dine women. I like to have a few I can call when I want to hookup, as long as they know that’s all it’s ever gonna be.

  “Knox Deveraux being considered for The Bachelor?” Jonah snorts with laughter from the other side of Luca’s massive kitchen.

  “Not anymore.” I shake my head. “I told my agent to tell ‘em to fuck off.”

  “Really?” Rhett gives me a confused look. “There are always hot chicks on there.”

  I balk at that. “Yeah, and they expect a ring when you’ve known ‘em for a couple of months. No thanks.”

  “Aw, you’d be a cute husband to a trophy wife,” Anton says, laughing. “I can picture you carrying some blonde’s purse while she shops on Rodeo Drive.”

  They all seem to think that’s hysterical, the laughter taking a while to die down.

  “No fucking way,” I say with resolve. “And can we get this grilling show on the road, fuckers? I want to go meet some Hawaiian chicks.”

  “Thought you wanted to go to the beach,” Luca says.

  “I can do both. I don’t have a warden making me go to bed at nine sharp.”

  Luca shrugs, grinning. “I’ll go to bed with my wife anytime she wants.”

  He passes me and Rhett some knives and two cutting boards, putting us to work cutting up the pineapples.

  By the time we all sit down for dinner at the table of the outdoor patio, I’m so hungry I just eat in silence until I’ve thrown back half of my steak. I’m sitting next to Luca’s niece Emerson, who keeps grinning at me.

  “What?” I finally ask her.

  Her eyes get wide, but still have that mischievous sparkle. “Can I touch your beard?”

  A single note of laughter bursts out of me.

  “Have at it,” I say, setting down my fork and bending closer to her.

  She extends her little hand tentatively, pausing right before she gets to my dark, short beard.

  “It doesn’t look like Santa’s,” she whispers.

  When her fingertips graze over my beard, her lips part with surprise.

  “It’s so…hairy,” she says.

  “That’s because he’s part wolf,” Victor says from across the table.

  Emerson’s eyes grow as big as saucers as she pulls her hand away.

  “If you hear howling tonight,” Vic tells her with a serious look, “it’s him.”

  When Emerson turns to me questioningly, I just shrug.

  “He scares our opponents on the ice by growling at them,” Vic continues. “One guy pooped his pants when Knox growled at him.”

  From beside him, his girlfriend Lindy gives him a look. “Really? While we’re eating?”

  I can’t help laughing at the memory. Chris McMorrow did shit himself as I was taking off my gloves to throw down with him on the ice during a game a couple years ago. He gave me a look of horror that made me freeze in place.

  “I think I’m sick,” he’d said. “I just shit myself. Can we do this another time?”

  Dumbstruck, I’d told him we could and called one of his teammates over to help him off the ice. Poor dude found out he had a nasty infection in his colon. But from then on, I was known as the guy who made another enforcer shit himself at the thought of fighting me.

  Emerson now looks terrified of me. I don’t like that. I lean closer to her once again.

  “I’m a nice wolf,” I assure her.

  She lowers her brows, still looking concerned. “I don’t want to poop my pants.”

  “Never. I only do that to the other team’s enforcers on the ice.”

  A smile plays on her lips as Abby sets bowls of pineapple on the table for “dessert.”

  I speak into Emerson’s ear. “Hey, I snagged some chocolate chip ice cream at the store, what do you say we go get some?”

  She nods enthusiastically and we head for the kitchen together, the crashing of the nearby ocean waves still calling to me.

  After we finish our ice cream, Luca and Abby’s housekeeper takes care of the dinner cleanup so we can all head to the beach. I let the kids bury me in the sand and I have a couple beers before I give in to the pull I’m feeling for some alone time.

  The sun is starting to set, and it’s a beautiful sight here. I head down the beach wearing just my swim trunks, a beer bottle in my hand and the sand between my toes as I walk.

  While I love my second family, I also like my solitude. There’s no one I want to be around all the time. It’s just the way I’m made.

  Chapter Three

  Reese

  I switch from my side to my back, sprawling out as far as I can in the king-sized bed I’ve had all to myself for the past three nights. My bridal suite at The Point at Poipu resort is incredible, from th
e crazy comfortable bed to the spectacular ocean views.

  And the champagne for two they deliver every night with two goblets? Well, I just grab one of those glasses and the bottle and enjoy it solo on my balcony.

  God, was I a fool. I can’t stop replaying my nightmarish non-wedding in my head. Part of me wishes I could stay here forever, and never again have to face anyone who knows I was on the edge of marrying a man who screwed two of my bridesmaids.

  I imagine my phone is blowing up with notifications, but I don’t have to worry about it because I didn’t bring it. My parents know I’m here in case of an emergency. I’m planning to spend my six days here relaxing, sleeping in and recharging mentally.

  But sleeping in isn’t happening today. I glance over at the clock and see that it’s 6:52 a.m., then sigh heavily as I give up on going back to sleep and sit up.

  After a quick shower, I put on a bikini, shorts and a T-shirt and decide to go exploring on foot. Eric and I had activities scheduled for most of our days here, but I cancelled all of them. This is my trip, not ours.

  On the main level of the resort, I buy a coffee and seriously consider a pastry, but decide against it. I’ll eat later this morning. The head chef here generously gave me a tour of his kitchen yesterday afternoon when I asked, and he said I can drop in anytime to see what they serve for breakfast and dinner.

  I haven’t worked at a place that served breakfast since before culinary school. At Les Amis, where I work now, we don’t even open until 5:00 p.m. Being the head pastry chef there means five late nights a week, but I love my work.

  At this hour, the path the concierge told me about when I checked in is almost deserted. It leads me around the back of the resort and down to the beach. The water is a beautiful clear blue, the sun just starting to rise as light reflects off the waves. I can see why people fall in love with this island.

  It’s a nice feeling, not having a schedule to worry about. I’ve found in my first few days here that just sorting through my feelings keeps me pretty busy from morning to night. It’s impossible for me not to run through the “what ifs.” What if I’d broken up with Eric four years ago when we were going through a rough patch and I was seriously considering it? What if we’d gone to pre-marital counseling like I wanted to? What if my mom was still here to talk to about all of this?

  But it’s just me. My mom’s gone and I’ll never speak to my ex-best friend again. My dad’s a good listener and he does his best to fill the gap left behind when my mom died, but it’s just not the same.

  I’ve walked about half a mile down the beach when the sight of a sea turtle plodding along in the sand makes me stop. He’s slow, but utterly unbothered. When I crouch down to watch him, he gives me a bored look before resuming his trek.

  I envy the turtle as he cuts small swirling patterns into the sand on his way down the beach. It looks as if he’s charting a map. Instead of following in the prints of steps he’s already made, he’s creating new ones.

  Since I got here, I’ve been feeling the urge to do the same. Now that Eric and I are over, I don’t want to live in the apartment we shared anymore. I don’t want to hit our favorite cafe every weekend for coffee and fresh bagels. Actually, I don’t want to do any of the things I did during my life with Eric.

  But what could I do instead? I don’t have any answers yet, but I did click on an email with job listings yesterday from a professional trade organization I belong to.

  At the sound of a crashing wave, I look away from the sea turtle and stand. On an impulse, I slip out of my shoes and pull my T-shirt off, then slide my shorts down to the sand. I leave my clothes in a pile on the beach and wade into the water, which is cool against my skin.

  I left behind all the new swimsuits I bought for my honeymoon, instead taking my oldest red bikini. Though I weighed ten pounds less when I bought it, it still fits fine. If anything, my boobs look even better in it now. And my stomach…well, it doesn’t look better, but who cares? This trip is about me and no one else.

  Leaning back, I close my eyes and soak in the warmth of the sun on my face. I couldn’t have asked for a better place to recover from my disastrous almost-wedding. Kauai is paradise. The warm breezes and gentle waves remind me that somehow, eventually, this too shall pass.

  After swimming out further into the water, I’m feeling very zen when suddenly, something slimy brushes across my thigh. Instinct takes over as I start to scream and flail, kicking my legs and flapping my arms in an effort to get whatever it is away from me.

  “Fuck off,” I cry, yelping as I feel another slimy slither against my leg.

  I swim like hell. Not only do I not want to get eaten by a shark or whatever that thing is, I refuse to die on this trip. What a story that would make.

  As soon as I feel sand beneath my feet again, I dig my toes into the ground, trying to gain traction. I’m breathing hard, panic still racing through me. But the water is clear here, and when I look around me, I don’t see anything but my two feet and the sand they’re in.

  Slowing, I try to catch my breath as I make my way out of the water, my zen swimming moment gone now. As the water gets shallower, I feel warm air against over my bare shoulders and chest.

  My chest? I look down and give a strangled yelp. My bikini top is gone. Gone. My breasts are on full display, and even though there’s no one close by, there are a few people down the stretch of beach.

  I fold my arms across my chest and bend my knees, sinking back down far enough in the ocean so that the water covers my shoulders. Realizing I must’ve lost my top when I was making a mad dash for the shore, I look around, hoping to find it floating close by.

  No such luck, though. Closing my eyes to keep myself calm, I weigh my options.

  Option one—rush out of the water and grab my shirt, then put it on as quickly as possible and hightail it back to my room. Pray no one sees me before I get my shirt on.

  Option two—hope some nice soul comes along and agrees to bring me my shirt so I can put it on in the water. A wet T-shirt is better than no T-shirt.

  When I see a couple walking down the beach toward me, I decide on option two. I also decide I’m never, ever going to a topless beach. Clearly I’m too modest for that, since the thought of even these two strangers seeing my breasts makes me burn with embarrassment.

  As they get closer, I see that they’re a middle-aged Asian couple. And they’re both smiling, which I hope means they’re nice.

  “Hey!” I call out to them, waving. “Hey, hi!”

  They stop walking and turn to look at me, both shielding their eyes from the sun with a hand.

  “Hi, can you please help me?” I ask. “I lost my swimsuit top in the water and my shirt is lying there in the sand. Could you bring it to me?”

  “Hi!” the man calls out to me, waving.

  “Hello!” the woman says, grinning. “Hi, hello!”

  I smile back. “Hi, can you just grab that shirt right there?”

  “Yes, hi. Hello,” the woman says again.

  I sigh softly as I realize they don’t speak much English. They won’t be getting my shirt.

  After a few more rounds of “hi” and “hello,” they start walking again. The beach is clear of people, and I consider going for my shirt, but I just can’t do it. I can’t have my boobs bouncing all over the place on a public beach in broad daylight.

  “Hey! No! Get away from that shirt!” I cry out as I notice three large, white birds walking over to where my shirt is laying.

  One of them starts pecking its beak close to my shirt, and I moan helplessly. If they take my top, I’ll be stuck here in nothing but my bikini bottoms.

  Splashing and yelling in their direction, I try to distract them.

  “Go away! Get out of here! No!”

  I see movement in my peripheral vision, and when I turn to see what it is, my hopes soar back to life. It’s a runner, and he’s alone. Maybe he’ll help me. I was hoping for a woman, but with the birds so close to my shirt, I’l
l take help from anyone.

  As he stops and looks out at me, I see that the runner is buff. More than buff, actually. He’s even got defined abs. Wearing nothing but black shorts, with a gray T-shirt half-hanging from his back pocket, he’s sweaty and…well, hot. He’s tall, with broad shoulders, black hair and a short black beard.

  “You pissed at these birds for some reason?” he calls out to me, sounding amused.

  “Uh…kind of, yes,” I holler back. “I don’t want them to take my shirt.”

  He laughs. “Maybe you should try reasoning with them.”

  I shake my head with aggravation. There’s not one thing about this that’s funny.

  “My swimsuit top came off in the water,” I explain.

  The runner hikes his brows up with interest. “I see.”

  “Anyway…could you bring me my shirt? Please?”

  Shrugging, he says, “Yeah, sure.”

  I wrap my arms around my chest as he slips off his shoes and socks. He reaches for the waistband of his shorts, pausing to ask, “Do you want me to leave these on?”

  “Of course! Why would you swim out here naked?” I look up and down the beach, suddenly wishing there were other people near.

  “I’d rather not run in wet shorts and underwear,” he explains. “But it’s fine, I’ll leave ‘em on.”

  He picks my shirt up. As he wades out into the water and gets closer to me, I get a better look at him. Damn, he really does have an incredible body.

  When he reaches me, the water barely even comes up to his chest. He looks down at me, crouched with my arms wrapped tightly around myself. One of his brows hikes up in amusement.

  “Can I have my shirt?” I ask impatiently.

  He holds out the wadded-up shirt in his hand. “You’re planning to put this on under water?”

  I consider this situation for a second before saying, “I guess I’ll have to.”

  “You’re not gonna be able to get dressed under water.”

  I scowl at him. “Did I ask you to bring me my shirt, or did I ask you for advice?”

  “I’m gonna turn around so I can’t see you. If anyone else is on the beach, they won’t be able to see you, either. I’ll pass the shirt over my shoulder, and you stand up and put it on.”