Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Except her mind wasn't clear, and she was moving too fast, barreling backward into Dani before she could safely stop.

  They both fell to the ice, a tangled heap of legs and arms and sticks. Dani rolled to her side, pushed a few strands of her bright copper hair from her face, then jumped to her feet.

  "What the hell, Reigs? You know I'm on your team, right?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sorry—" She accepted Dani's hand as the other woman helped her to her feet. "I got carried away."

  "You think?" Dani watched her through clear green eyes. Then the woman laughed and clapped a hand on Sammie's shoulder. "As long as you keep that up for Saturday's game, it's all cool."

  "Yeah. Cool." Sammie's gaze darted to the boards, where Coach Reynolds was huddled together with Coach Chaney. Had they seen the way she had plowed into Dani? Yeah, probably. They would have had to be blind not to. But they weren't looking this way, didn't seem to be concerned about it.

  At least, Coach Reynolds wasn't yelling and screaming and telling her to do laps. That was a bonus.

  Coach finally blew the whistle, signaling the end of practice as she waved everyone over. Her gaze swept over them, meeting each player's eyes for a brief second before moving to the next one.

  "Thursday's practice is going to be a short one. That doesn't mean we can take it easy. We're playing Philly on Saturday. Out of the three teams, we've had the hardest time against them so far—and it's not because they're better than us."

  Coach Reynolds paced in front of them, a clipboard held loosely in one hand, steely determination engraved on her face. "We've outshot them in every game, and we've only managed to beat them once. That stops with Saturday's game. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, Coach."

  "I'm sorry, what was that? I didn't quite hear you."

  "Yes, Coach!"

  "One more time."

  "Yes, Coach!"

  "That's better." The older woman moved back to the center of their group. "Mr. Murphy will be going with us to Saturday's game, along with a few of the other owners."

  A low groan echoed around the ice, cut off with an abrupt wave of Coach Reynolds' hand. "I don't want to hear it. He's the owner. His call."

  "But he's bad luck."

  All eyes turned to Shannon. Her chin shot up in defiance, refusing to back down from the warning look the coaching staff leveled in her direction. Sammie wasn't sure if she should wince in silent sympathy, or applaud the woman for saying what everyone was thinking.

  "It's true. Look what happened the last time he went on a road game with us."

  "That incident had nothing to with Mr. Murphy's presence." Coach's words lacked their usual command, and Sammie wondered if she merely felt obligated to say them.

  Everyone knew—logically—that Mr. Murphy had nothing to do with Amanda overdosing and being rushed to the hospital. She had done that all on her own. But he'd been there—and it had been the first time he'd ever gone to an away game with them, so of course that meant he was bad luck.

  Sammie wasn't sure she really bought into all that superstition stuff, not really. But she didn't exactly want to push the issue, either, figuring it was a case of better safe than sorry.

  "That's it for now. Go, get out of here." Coach's eyes darted to Sammie's. "Not you, Reigler."

  Unexpected dread filled Sammie and she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just been called to the principal's office. And how ridiculous was that? She wasn't a kid, she hadn't done anything wrong. So why the guilt? Why was Coach singling her out?

  Sammie skated over to Coach Reynolds, tried to hide her discomfort and forced herself to stand still, instead of shifting her weight from one foot to the other while Coach Reynolds studied her.

  Sammie finally cleared her throat, that feeling of having done something wrong growing stronger with each passing second. "Yes, Coach?"

  "You looked a little tired out there tonight. Anything going on you want to talk about?"

  Sammie dropped her gaze, not quite able to meet Coach's eyes, and shook her head. "No, Coach. Everything's fine."

  "You sure about that? I know you have your hands full, that you're juggling a bit more than anyone else on the team right now."

  Was she talking about Jon's sudden reappearance in her life? Because there was no doubt the other woman must know, must have heard—she saw too much not to know. Or was she talking about the fact that Sammie was the only parent on the team? Not just a parent—a single parent.

  Sammie shook her head again, trying to put more confidence in her voice than she felt. "It's all good, Coach. Nothing I can't handle."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. Absolutely."

  "Because if you're not, I need to know."

  "I'm sure."

  Did Coach Reynolds hear the tiny hint of doubt in Sammie's voice? Had she noticed the way Sammie couldn't quite meet her gaze for more than a second at a time? Probably. But she didn't say anything about it, didn't call Sammie out on it, just simply nodded.

  "Okay, I'll take you at your word for now. But if anything changes, I need to know."

  "Yes, Coach." Sammie turned, started to skate away when Coach called out to her.

  "Reigler—if you need to talk, we're here."

  Sammie nodded again and turned away, swallowing against the lump in her throat and the tightness in her chest. We, the coach had said.

  Maybe the other woman really meant it, or maybe it was nothing more than a turn of phrase, meant to reassure Sammie.

  It didn't matter because it did the trick—the words were reassuring, reminding her again that she was part of something bigger now.

  That she wasn't as alone as she sometimes felt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jonathan stood in the entranceway of the Victorian farmhouse, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans as he waited, feeling every inch the outsider.

  He hadn't been invited inside, hadn't been told to have a seat or make himself comfortable while he waited. He was surprised he'd been allowed in this far, that Mr. Warner hadn't forced him to wait outside on the porch, in the bitter cold.

  In fact, he was surprised that Sammie's dad had let him inside at all, that he hadn't slammed the door in Jonathan's face. Yeah, probably because Sammie's mom had been standing there—she'd placed a hand on her husband's arm and stepped around him, telling Jonathan to come inside—

  And to wait right there while Sammie went to get Clare ready.

  Fair enough, Jonathan thought. He didn't blame them for the cold welcome, for the barely-concealed anger and confusion in their eyes as they looked him over. If the positions were reversed, he'd feel the same way: cautious, protective, angry. Bitter. Doubtful. Hell, he'd divorced their daughter, turned his back on their granddaughter. Nothing could excuse that.

  He didn't think telling them he agreed with them would help anything so he just stood there, waiting.

  Trying to ignore the harsh whispers coming from the kitchen at the back of the house. It was becoming harder and harder to do because the angry words weren't really being whispered anymore—

  And because they were about him.

  He should have given this more thought, should have realized coming here had been a bad idea. It was early Saturday morning, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, and he was here to pick up Clare before Sammie had to hit the road for her game in Philly this afternoon. She had offered to drop Clare off at his place—grudgingly, because it was obvious she didn't even want Clare to spend the day with him—but he talked her out of it. Had told Sammie it would be easier for him to pick Clare up, so she wouldn't have to rush around, so she would have one less thing to worry about. Jonathan had honestly thought he was being helpful. He could see the exhaustion in Sammie's eyes, could feel the tension rolling off her in waves every single time he saw her.

  Just like he saw the worry and doubt clinging to her. And he knew—absolutely knew, with crystal clear certainty—that she was doubting herself, telling hersel
f that she was doing too much. Worrying that she was neglecting Clare. She hadn't said anything to make him think that, but he still knew, could see it in her eyes.

  And he could hear it in the underlying tones of the angry voices coming from the kitchen.

  "She shouldn't be going anywhere with him, Samantha."

  "He's her father."

  "Which means nothing. That doesn't give him any rights, not when he hasn't been here for her at all."

  A long pause, broken by a weary sigh. Sammie's voice. Tired, drained. "He's trying, Dad."

  "Too damn late, if you ask me."

  "Dennis, keep your voice down."

  "Why? Let him hear." The sound of heavy footsteps, moving across the tile floor. "After everything he did to our daughter? Our granddaughter? I can't believe you're okay with this, Margaret."

  "It's not up to me, Dennis. And it's not up to you. This is between Sammie and Jonathan."

  "Not as far as I'm concerned, it isn't."

  "Dad, please. You're not helping."

  "Not helping? And you think you are? Do you really think letting Clare spend time with that man is good for her?"

  "Dad—"

  "It's not. Maybe if you spent more time at home, with your daughter, instead of running around, you could see that."

  Jonathan heard a sharp gasp, knew the sound came from Sammie's mother. He held his breath, waiting for Sammie to say something, to argue or tell her father he was wrong or—something. What he heard instead made his blood freeze.

  "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should just quit hockey."

  Jonathan moved from his spot by the door. He wanted to storm along the hallway, wanted to race into to the kitchen and jump to Sammie's defense. But he didn't, not yet. He kept his steps silent, his moves slow and deliberate as he made his way toward the back of the house, listening as the shocked silence that greeted Sammie's words slowly faded.

  Her mother spoke first, her voice low and urgent. "Sammie, no. You don't mean that. After you worked so hard—"

  "If she wants to quit, Margaret, let her. She needs to focus on her priorities."

  "How can you even say that, Dennis?" Mrs. Warner's voice grew a little louder, the words holding more than a hint of anger. "After all the encouragement you gave her? After telling her how much you believed in her?"

  "I do believe in her. But it's too much. Even you can see that, see how tired she is all the time, how drained she is. Something has to go. Hockey is the only thing that makes sense—"

  "Sammie's not quitting." Jonathan's quiet words pierced the tension blanketing the room. He stood in the doorway, not moving, not even flinching as three sets of eyes stared at him.

  Dennis Warner took a step toward him, his face a hard mask of warning. "This doesn't concern you, Reigler."

  Jonathan ignored him, his gaze focused on Sammie—and only on her. Her face was pale, her dark eyes looking even larger because of the smudged circles under them. He could see the exhaustion clinging to her, saw the way her eyes filled with indecision and uncertainty.

  "Jon, please, not now—"

  "You can't quit, Sammie. You don't need to quit."

  "I can't—" She stopped, chewed on her lower lip as her gaze darted from him to her parents. "I'll go get Clare."

  She brushed past him, hurrying from the room. Jonathan turned, watched her disappear around the corner, heard the echo of her footsteps as she ran upstairs. He turned back, tension tightening his shoulders as her parents stared at him.

  Then her mother brushed past him as well, briefly reaching for his arm and squeezing as she muttered something about helping Sammie. Jonathan had no idea what to make of that touch, didn't know if she was encouraging him, sympathizing with him…or warning him.

  Mr. Warner crossed his arms in front of his wide chest, a scowl lining his weathered face. "You shouldn't be here, Reigler."

  "I'm just here to pick up Clare."

  "That's not what I'm talking about." The older man stepped closer, his gaze boring into Jonathan's. "You should have never come back. You should have stayed away."

  "That wasn't an option, sir."

  "There are always options."

  "Not always." Jonathan met the man's steely gaze head-on, refusing to look away. Silently letting the older man know he wasn't going anywhere, that he wasn't leaving. He wasn't walking away. Not this time.

  Not from this. Not from Clare.

  Not from Sammie.

  "You being here—" The older man shook his head, an expression of worry creasing his face. "It's not good. Not for either of them."

  "Clare's my daughter. I'm not leaving her again."

  "Even if Sammie has to pay the price?"

  "The price? What price? Sammie isn't—"

  "She still loves you, you know. She won't admit it, but she does." Mr. Warner forced the words between clenched teeth, as if he was reporting the world had just come to an end.

  Jonathan ignored the way his heart slammed into his chest, ignored the way that tiny little spark of hope he'd been holding close grew into a small flame. He released a quick breath, his gaze never wavering. "That doesn't concern—"

  "Don't you dare tell me it doesn't concern me. I'm her father. Everything about her concerns me, no matter how old she gets." The older man stepped forward, pointed one thick finger at Jonathan's chest. "You being here only complicates things. She's spreading herself too thin, spending too much time worrying about you. Everything was fine before you showed back up. You see how tired she is now. She's doing too much, dealing with too much—"

  "So telling her she should give up hockey solves everything?"

  "If it forces her to realize she's spending too much time worrying about you? Forces her to see that things were better before you came back? Then absolutely."

  "That's not up to you, Dennis."

  "Don't stand there and tell me it's not up to me. I think I know what's best for my daughter."

  "Is that what you think? Really? You think this is going to help?" Jonathan ignored the finger poking him in the chest. He stepped closer, his voice dangerously low. "It won't. It will be the worst thing you've ever done. Don't make the mistake of thinking you know what's best for Sammie, of not giving her a choice. I made that same mistake and I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

  Shock spread across the older man's face. Jonathan ignored it. Ignored the way the man's eyes widened in his lined face, ignored the truth that slowly dawned in their depths. He spun around, hurried from the kitchen—and nearly knocked Sammie over as she rounded the corner by the stairs. He caught himself at the last minute, stepped back and gulped in a deep breath of air as Clare looked up at him and smiled.

  He reached for her, his hands brushing against Sammie's. It was the first time they had touched since the night they had spent together. Did Sammie feel the same jolt? Or was the blush staining her cheeks caused by something else?

  He settled Clare in his arms, reached out and took both bags from Sammie, his hand lingering on hers. She pulled away, the blush deepening even more.

  "You'll have her back before bedtime?"

  "Yes."

  "And you'll make sure—"

  "Sammie, she'll be fine. Stop worrying. You need to get ready to leave for your game."

  "I—" Her mouth closed, shutting off whatever she'd been about to say. Jonathan saw the sorrow that filled her eyes, felt her hesitation and doubt.

  He tossed the bags over his shoulder, freeing one hand, then reached out and tucked a loose curl behind Sammie's ear. "Don't quit, Sammie."

  "It's not that easy. You don't understand—"

  "Yes, I do."

  "You don't. You don't know what it's like, trying to juggle everything, always worrying. Work. Practice. Being a single parent—"

  "But you're not. Not anymore."

  Her eyes widened for a split-second. Her gaze shifted to his hand, where it still rested on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing slow circles along the base of her neck. She shook her head, s
tepped back with a look of determination—and sorrow.

  "I can't count on that, Jon."

  The words sliced deep, hurting more than he could imagine. He ignored the pain, pushed it away. "You can."

  "How? How do I know that? You walked away once, Jon. How can I trust you not to do the same thing again?"

  "Because I won't."

  "I don't know that."

  "Then I'll prove it to you."

  "I don't think—"

  Jonathan dipped his head, cut her off with a gentle brush of his lips against hers. He heard her swift intake of breath, felt her body lean closer—

  Before she stiffened and pulled away.

  "We can talk later. You need to get ready for your game."

  "Jon—"

  "Don't do anything you're going to regret, okay? We can talk later. Just—go out and give them hell this afternoon." He stepped away, turned to face Clare and gave her a little bounce. "Isn't that right, Little Bits? Tell Mommy to go kick some butt."

  Clare giggled, bouncing up and down as she clapped her hands. "Mommy. Go kick butt. Now."

  "Jon! That's not even funny!" But laughter chased away some of the shadows lurking in Sammie's eyes, and Jonathan could see she was fighting not to smile.

  "Uh-oh, Little Bits. I think Daddy's in trouble."

  Sammie raised her brows, the smile she had been fighting finally breaking free, gently curling one corner of her mouth. "Gee, you think?"

  "It was worth it." He cupped her cheek, ran his thumb across her lower lip, then dropped his hand and stepped back. "Okay, Little Bits. Time to let Mommy get ready for her game. Give her a kiss and tell her good luck."

  Clare giggled and did just that, adding a high-five for good measure. Jonathan opened the door and stepped outside, then stopped and turned back to Sammie.

  "No decisions, Sammie, okay? Not until we talk?"

  He waited, breathing a sigh of relief when she finally nodded. It wasn't much, but he'd take it.

  For now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "You're not quitting."

  "I didn't say I was. I said I was thinking about it."