by Penny Dee
I took out two glasses from the cabinet below the counter and filled them until the bottle was empty, then joined her at the fireplace.
“I love this picture. Who painted it?” she asked, accepting the glass of wine.
“I got it from a local artist at the market.”
“It’s fascinating.” She smiled as she studied it again and I couldn’t help but watch those dimples flicker beside those luscious lips.
She caught me staring and took a quick sip of her wine. Her eyes shifted to the packed boxes that lined the far wall, and then cast around the room, noticing the sheets covering the rest of the furniture in the apartment.
“Has this place sold already?” she asked, and I didn’t even question how she knew my place was on the market. Of course she knew. She probably knew my underwear size, too.
“Not yet. But I’m going out of town while it’s on the market,” I replied. I couldn’t wait to get out of New York and retreat to the only place I felt like I belonged.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to stay at my grandfather’s cabin out at Moose Lake.”
“Moose Lake?”
“Canada.”
She nodded, and then decided to end the small talk. “Jake, I want to help you get back on the ice.”
I looked at her blankly. Not expecting her to launch into her arguments so quickly. “Wow, you’re pretty much straight to the point, aren’t you?”
She shrugged. “Why beat around the bush?”
But I wasn’t keen to talk business. Suddenly I wanted to pretend that that wasn’t why she was here.
“Well, I vote we eat before we discuss business,” I said as I walked back to the kitchen and began serving up dinner.
She watched as I pulled out plates and cutlery. “What can I do to help?” she asked, leaning a hip against the counter. “But I am warning you, I basically burn water, so don’t give me anything that may end up with us calling in for pizza.”
“You don’t cook?”
“I’m lucky if I can make coffee.”
She smiled that amazing dimpled smile of hers and tucked her hair behind her ears.
“Here.” I handed her two large plates. “If you take those to the table, I’ll bring the chicken cacciatore.”
She carried the plates over to set the dinner table and sat down. I joined her, bringing a casserole dish of chicken cacciatore straight out of the slow cooker.
“Oh, my God, that smells so good!” she said as I placed it down on the table in front of her. I handed her the large serving spoons to help herself while I went to the oven to collect the risotto I was heating up. I’d picked it up from Mancini’s after inviting Mackenzie for dinner.
I grabbed another bottle of wine from the wine rack under the kitchen counter and when I got back to the table I was surprised to see her plate was almost full of food. The girl had an appetite and it was oddly refreshing.
“This looks amazing, Jake,” she said as I topped off our wine.
“Thanks.” I sat down across from her, noting the subtly of her perfume as I passed by her, my mind desperately trying to ignore how it made me want to press my face to her skin so I could inhale it from the warmth of her body.
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?
I swallowed deep. I didn’t think those things anymore.
“Dig in.” I nodded at her full plate.
She smiled, and again those dimples creased either side of her sweet smile and there were parts of me that tingled. Parts of me that had laid dormant for the past nine months. I looked away and took a hearty mouthful of my wine.
“This is really good,” she said with her mouth half full.
I grinned but said nothing. I loved that she was so at ease around me. I was used to women trying to impress me. Out to dinner they ate salads. Or they were never hungry. I imagined Mackenzie, on the other hand, would dive in head first into a burger and come up with sauce and cheese all over those glorious lips.
Oh, fuck.
One thing I was learning quick about Mackenzie was that she didn’t hold back. She had barely finished her first mouthful when she brought up hockey again.
“Jake, I think I can get you back in the championships,” she said boldly.
I took another sip of wine and decided to humor her. “And how do you plan on doing that?”
She rummaged through her backpack until she found what she was looking for. Looking proud, and with way more smugness than the moment warranted, she smacked a newspaper down on the table between us.
She said nothing. And for a moment we just stared at one another.
“Well?” she finally asked.
I gave a little shake of my head. “It’s a newspaper.”
She rolled her eyes and then pointed to the headline. Galveston Fury in Second Scandal.
“Those players are one more indiscretion away from vanishing in a whirlwind of sex, drugs, and bad choices.” She held up the paper and this time actually handed it to me, which I accepted with as little enthusiasm as possible.
“They need a halo over their name,” she continued. And when I said nothing, she sighed. “That would be you, Jake.”
I looked from the paper. “Me? A halo?” I shook my head, dropping the paper and dismissing it. “I don’t think so.”
But Mackenzie pointed a finger at it. “They are in desperate need of a miracle. Don’t you see? You could be their miracle.”
Me? A miracle? Hardly.
“It makes sense,” she said.
I don’t know why I picked up the newspaper and began to read it. Maybe it was the passion in her argument. Because it was obvious she really believed in what she was saying. So I kind of felt compelled to at least read the damn thing.
Christ. The team was a mess. I’d never really had a lot to do with the Galveston Fury during my career. They were in a different conference and had never made it to any of the championship playoffs. We’d played them only a few times during the regular season and had handed their asses to them. It wasn’t hard, if memory served. Their reputation for sloppy play and unprofessional conduct off the ice had always preceded them.
When I read the latest scandal about one of their defensemen being arrested for being drunk and disorderly in public, it pretty much confirmed every suspicion I had about them being sloppy. The article read like a rap sheet of offenses.
Following their defensemen’s drunk and disorderly fiasco, their left winger got caught up in a cocaine bust the very next week. Partying at an ex-NFL star’s mansion, he’d had too much of a good time, and when the police had busted in, the left winger had been in a tub full of hookers and so high all he could say was, “I’m Batman.”
As if things couldn’t get any worse for the team, their captain was arrested soon after when his nineteen-year-old girlfriend turned out to be fifteen. And pregnant.
I dropped the newspaper down on the table. This team was a mess.
“Seriously, Z? These guys don’t need a miracle. They need Betty Ford.”
Z?
I didn’t know where the unexpected nickname came from; it just fell from my lips. Being around Mackenzie was easy. Too easy.
“Do I need to spell this out, Jake?” she asked.
I folded my arms, amused. “I guess you do.”
She rested her arms on the table and leaned forward like she meant business. “When they see that you’re still in form—hell, they’ll fall all over themselves to make an offer.”
She sat back in her seat and looked smug, her eyes bright and her smile beaming.
I stared at her for a moment. Wait. That was it? That was her grand argument?
My God, this woman was adorable.
I decided to play along. “And how do you know I am in form?”
“You’re good, Jake. I’ve seen you play. That doesn’t just go away overnight.”
It was a cheesy response but when my eyes met hers and I saw the sincerity there my face softened and an unexpected
warmth spread through me. I sat back, unable to take my eyes off her.
Thankfully her cell beeped, breaking the spell.
When she reached into her jacket for her phone something fell out of her pocket and slapped to the floor. She quickly reached for it but I beat her to it.
Laughter rippled through me as I held up a mini-version of Hockey For Dummies.
“Really? This belongs to you?” I laughed. “My agent?”
“I grew up in New Orleans,” she replied defensively.
“And?”
“Hockey wasn’t a big deal in my house.”
I chuckled and opened the book up to a random page. Amused, I started to read. “Saucer Shot. Occurs when the puck is passed from one player to the other in such a manner it resembles a flying saucer.” I looked at her over the top of the book. “Jesus Christ! Really?”
She snatched it away from me. “So I don’t know that much about hockey!”
“This coming from someone who wants to be my agent.”
She sat up straight and gave me a big grin making me instantly suspicious.
“What?” I asked.
“You called me your agent.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Nuh-huh.” I shook my head. “I said, and I quote, ‘someone who wants to be my agent’ unquote.”
“Not just now.” Her grin was from ear to ear. “But before, when you asked—and I quote—‘this belongs to you? My agent?’”
I peeled back the minutes and damnit, she was right. So I quickly changed the subject.
“So tell me, Z . . . did you learn anything from your mini-me encyclopedia of hockey?” I asked, adoring the way her cheeks had turned a soft shade of pink.
“Sure,” she said, returning the book to the inner breast pocket of her jacket. “Page one: hockey players called Jake Pennington can be jerks and should be handled with caution.”
“Awwwwww, c’mon, Z . . . I’m just teasing you.”
She raised her chin. “Why do you keep calling me Z?”
“I guess I’m lazy.” I shrugged. “Or do you prefer, Mack? Instead of Z?”
“I suppose Mackenzie is out of the question?”
“It’s a long name. I could run out of breath before I reach the end of it.”
She scoffed. “Because Pennington is so much shorter.”
I grinned. Because for the first time in months I was actually enjoying myself.
“This could work, Jake.” She held my gaze as she spoke. “You and The Fury—it’s a good fit.”
“Oh, yeah, and what makes you so sure?”
She thought for a moment. “I have a degree on my wall that says so.”
I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers behind my head. “A college degree does not a sports agent make.”
“No. But three years in law school is a pretty good start, don’t you think?”
“You’re a lawyer?” I don’t know why I was surprised. Considering her ability for talking.
“If I want to be.”
“So why aren’t you?”
“Because I want to do this.”
“You want to babysit a washed-up hockey player?”
Sadness rippled across her face. “You’re not washed up, Jake. You just need to find your way back.” Again, she pointed to the newspaper headline. “And this is your way back.”
I looked away. I didn’t like the way her beautiful eyes filled with empathy. Or the way I noticed the sweet beauty of her face as she looked at me, as if she could somehow understand the pain that coursed through my heart on a daily basis. Because the thought that this beauty could understand even the smallest amount of my pain made me unhappy.
“You may be right, Mackenzie. But at the end of the day, I just don’t want to play hockey again.” I stood up and collected the plates from the table and took them to the sink.
Sensing I was done talking about it, Mackenzie rose from her chair and joined me in the kitchen. The mood had plummeted.
“When do you leave for Canada?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
She studied a fleck of granite on the bench top before raising her head to look at me. “Are you coming back?”
I shook my head. “I’m done, Z.”
She nodded and for a moment I saw the look of defeat wash over her face. And damn, why did that make me feel like I was breaking up with her?
But one blink and that look was gone.
“Thanks for dinner, Jake,” she said. Her voice was soft and for a moment I wanted to tell her to stay. That she didn’t need to leave. That we could open another bottle of wine and talk some more.
But then I remembered the cold truth of what life was like for me now and decided it was pointless. Tomorrow I would leave New York and all the vestiges of my old life would finally fade into oblivion.
She looked at me and something happened between us, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She went to say something but then stopped and she smiled softly. “Enjoy Canada.”
And with that she was gone.
She had put up a compelling argument but at the end of the day she hadn’t convinced me. I was done with hockey.
Yet, for some reason that was beyond my understanding, I didn’t make that final call to Hank.
* * *
Chapter Six
Mackenzie
I wasn’t easily deterred. And I couldn’t afford to be. If I wanted to save face in front of Garrick and my father, then I needed to get Jake back on the ice. And if that meant taking an early flight to Saskatchewan, and enduring an I-might-just-die flight in a shaky Piper Saratoga to Moose Lake while battling snow and sleet . . . then so be it.
After checking into a quaint B&B in town just ten minutes from Moose Lake, I quickly sent off a text message to my father and Garrick before driving out to Jake’s cabin.
When I knocked on his door and he answered it, his eyes immediately narrowed. To say that I was unexpected would be an understatement.
“I think they call this stalking,” he said.
“It’s called business. What sort of agent would I be if I didn’t visit my favorite hockey player?”
“The good kind.” His beautiful eyes glittered across at me. “No phone call? Text?”
“I was afraid your phone would hit on me if I texted you. Or call me names.” Ignoring his obvious displeasure at seeing me, I held up a couple of Quest bars—which I knew were his favorite—and waited for him to invite me in. Christ, it was cold. When the Canadians put on winter they certainly didn’t hold back. “You like Quest bars, right?”
Typically, Jake was determined to be an ass. “Apparently, I prefer bourbon,” he replied sarcastically.
I pulled the bottle of bourbon out from under my arm and held it up triumphantly. “Now are you going to let me in? Or do you really want me to freeze to death on your doorstep.”
“Do I have a choice here?”
“Not really.”
He sighed and with a roll of those piercing eyes he opened the door wider for me to step inside.
The cabin was small but cozy. It was basically one room with an entire house squished into it. In the small kitchenette to the left, red-and-white-checkered curtains hung by a small window overlooking a frozen pond out in back. Across the room—and by across the room I actually mean just a few feet away—a fire crackled in a beautiful riverstone hearth in front of a lumpy couch. Under the only other window in the cabin was a large comfy bed with the quintessential patchwork quilt.
Warmth from the fire engulfed me but my teeth still chattered with the cold.
“This is nice,” I said, noting that Jake had already opened the bottle of bourbon and was pouring some into a glass. He handed it to me but I shook my head, my teeth still chattering.
“You want to talk to me, you drink this,” he said, his eyes hard. It amazed me how something so beautiful as those eyes could hold so much unhappiness.
“It’s a bit earl
y . . .”
The look on his face was a clear indication that there was little room for negotiation.
Fine.
Bully.
I took the glass from him and without hesitation, threw back the bourbon. I waited as it carved a hot path down my throat and spread a delicious warmth across my chest. Annnnnnd, there it was . . . the God-awful aftertaste. Ugh. I screwed my nose up and squeezed my eyes shut. Bourbon tasted like ass. But at least it warmed me up almost immediately.
Jake chuckled. It was the first time I’d even seen a hint of a smile on his face since I’d arrived.
And it was fucking perfect.
“Warmer?” he asked.
It was then I realized that he’d insisted I drink the alcohol more so to get me warm than to get me plastered.
“Thank you.”
He refilled my glass.
“You know, I don’t normally drink alone,” I said.
I watched as he took another glass from the cabinet above a small stove, and added a splash of bourbon, then watched as he tipped his head back and downed the rich, gold liquid. The way his throat worked as he swallowed was mesmerizing. In fact, all of him was. From the broad shoulders and big biceps, right down to the dark beard hiding his handsome face.
Damn. That wasn’t good. In fact it was bad. Noticing how hot my client is just wasn’t an option.
I blamed the cargo pants he wore. They fit every part of him perfectly. And they had those pockets and stuff hanging off them, so he looked like he was part of SWAT or something equally as sexy. He wore a short tee over a long-sleeve tee and his hair was an inky, wild mess that tumbled past his shoulders.
The guy was genetically blessed but was completely and utterly unaware of it.
That, or he just didn’t care.
Going by his demeanor, I didn’t think Jake cared about too much.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Jake raised a dark eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re breaking up with me,” he deadpanned. He sat down on one of the dining chairs and rested an arm on the table in front of him. “It’s okay, I understand, it’s you and not me.”
I chose to ignore his obvious sarcasm.