The Crease: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance

by Colleen Charles

  Yeah, right. As sincere as any hockey jock can be. Which wasn’t saying much. A spoiled rotten brat just like all the rest. But then, Cole Fiorino seemed to have some old-fashioned family values. When a girl grew up without a loving family, those type of values became more and more appealing. Cole was gradually winning over her boss, and Eloise Robertson was a tough nut to crack. Maybe hockey players didn’t all deserve to be painted black with the same man-whore label.

  “Not at all,” she answered. “I’m just not sure what movies or concerts will be available at the same time you are. Or if I’ll be.”

  It never hurt to scatter a little hard-to-get dust over a guy. Shredder lifted his chin and threw her a sly look, as if to say “I know your game, lady.” Kylie’s insides burned a little. She never played games – she’d never had the time. Life was too short and harsh to be taken lightly and not say what you really meant. Kylie’d cornered the market on being true to herself. Because she could only rely on herself. She’d learned that the hard way.

  “But when you have the time, feel free to give me a call. You can reach me at the front office. I know the keypad on your phone is tiny, but I’m sure your big butterfingers will eventually hit the right buttons.”

  Shit! What did I just say? I’m turning into this mean girl with a razor sharp tongue, and that’s not me. Not at all. God, nothing’s coming out right in front of this guy. What’s the matter with me?

  “Oh, believe me. I know all the right buttons to push. Give a guy a chance,” he said, winking. “And maybe you’ll find out it’s true.”

  She’d walked into that one. Mercifully, she felt a tap on her arm as someone passed the karaoke song list to her.

  “You gonna do a song?” Shredder asked, eyes bright with anticipation.

  Yeah. Avid curiosity around the strength of her vocal chords. Kylie wondered if the man had been sent to this establishment just to vex her. The evening out with friends that she’d so looked forward to all day was not going as planned. She needed more beer or maybe something stronger.

  Kylie flipped through the first few pages of the song list, but her eyes didn’t register anything but the blur of the black type. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest; only having received Eloise’s invitation that afternoon. The distraction proved significant, giving her a chance to gather her thoughts and words together before prolonging the awkward conversation with Shredder.

  “I will if you will,” she said, tossing out a soft challenge.

  Shredder pursed his lips and waggled his pronounced eyebrows. The gesture made funny bulldog wrinkles appear on his forehead.

  “Ooh, the gauntlet has been thrown,” he said, rising to the bait. “I’ll make you a deal. Whoever garners louder applause gets to name the time, place, and event for our first date. No backing out.”

  Kylie looked up. Any guy who would willingly sing in front of a bar full of people just to impress a girl like her truly had some substance. He deserved closer inspection. And if she won, she could name some outrageous date location so he’d get scared and go away. But in the meantime, she could have some flirty fun with a hot hockey player.

  “You’re on under one other condition. We get to choose each other’s songs.”

  The tip of her tongue peeked out to wet her lips.

  How do you like them apples, baldy?

  Shredder looked at her with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  “I accept your challenge, milady. Pick one for me. Make it good.”

  “Okay,” she said, flipping more pages. “This one.” She pointed, stabbing her finger into the bold type. Shredder leaned in to have a look. His proximity caused her heart to hammer against her chest wall and tingles spread to her nether regions. Christ. This just didn’t happen to Kylie Rose and certainly not in public. She’d never had a man affect her this way before. The scent of his cologne unfurled beneath her nostrils. Heavenly. And manly. This goalie had class. If the fragrance were music, it would be the Barry White Orchestra in concert. However, her finger pointed at something else entirely.

  “Def Leppard?” Shredder exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. “Pour Some Sugar On Me? Hmm…sounds like an invitation. Is your song choice an invitation, Kylie?”

  Her mouth nearly watered at the thought. “Got a problem with that, hands-of-stone?”

  “Nope. But just remember, you asked for it.” He reached for the list in her hands and took it from her. “Now you.”

  Shredder made a show of perusing the lengthy list, moistening his thumb with each page turn in stuffy librarian fashion. Kylie drummed her pink-glazed nails on the bar top. After several minutes, she caved.

  “Well?” she asked with a sniff and upturn of her delicate nose. “In my lifetime, if you please.”

  He threw her a triumphant smile. Kylie squirmed under the radiance of it. All she could imagine was the two of them alone, in bed. She was straddling his naked hips, and he smiled up at her from the plush bed linens. Just like he was doing right now. She shook her head to eradicate the image. He pointed and showed her his selection, Chasing Pavements by Adele. Oh, Jesus. She had a feeling this man wasn’t going to make anything easy for her.

  Ever.

  If he didn’t stop right now, he’d be chasing pavements between this bar and her sneakered foot up his ass.

  “No problem,” she said, hiding her fear. Tamping it down somewhere in the vicinity of her toes right along with her inappropriate yearning to lean in and kiss his full lips even though she equally wanted to slap his smug face. “You better free up that schedule since I’ll be picking the date.”

  Shredder passed the list on to the next person. “Confident, are we?” he mocked, then locked his luscious brown gaze upon her. “I like that.”

  Chapter Two

  “When are you coming home, Sheldon?” Natasha Politski asked in her heavy accent. “The Foundation Cotillion is only a month away, and you haven’t confirmed your attendance. You’re being a bad son. Mama knows best, my boy. Show some respect.”

  Sheldon “Shredder” Politski mopped his neck with a towel in his right hand while holding the phone with his left. While the motion was not athletic in any way, Goalies were notoriously ambidextrous. They had to be if they expected any kind of success at the position they loved. And Shredder loved being a goalie. Sometimes he wondered if he loved it more than his own family. Sweat ran in rivulets down his face and chest as he dismounted the spin bike at the Riot’s gym.

  “Mom, you have my schedule. We’re playoff bound, so there’s no way I can make it back for the Cotillion. Honestly, you don’t need me there anyway. I’d cramp the style of all your fellow doctorate holders and stuffed-shirt CEO benefactors.”

  “But, son, we can’t possibly go forward if you aren’t there.” He closed his eyes against the guilt lacing each of her words.

  “Mom, the event has been running almost since before I was born; surely it can continue without me. And…you know how much I love and respect you. This is my career we’re talking about and just because it’s for the Rochester Riot, doesn’t make it any less important.”

  Stony silence from the other end served to amplify Shredder’s labored breathing into the audio void. He knew instinctively that Natasha was not pleased. Sometimes he wondered what was worse, getting his ears blistered or a knife laced with censure to his heart.

  “You know I hoped this event would be more than a fundraiser,” she said after a pause so long he’d thought she’d hung up on him.

  Shredder winced. He knew where she was going with this, his hopes to avoid the subject sliced off. Kind of like his balls where his mother was concerned.

  “I know. But I have my own career to worry about. It’s important to me, Mom.”

  “I understand, darling. We have never discouraged you from your sport; your father and I have supported it all your life. The best schools, the best coaches, the best clinics and doctors. It wasn’t cheap. But it is temporary. How long do you expect that career to last? Espec
ially with your past health history. Your life after hockey may start sooner than you think.”

  Shredder exhaled in anger. Best doctors, maybe. But they’d missed the mark on the coaches. He course-corrected his thoughts to focus on the more immediate matter his mother was haranguing him about.

  “Then why not let me enjoy it now, work at it to the exclusion of all else? When and if I have to retire, I will be at the Politski Foundation’s disposal. If my career is to be as short as you estimate, isn’t that enough?”

  “It’s more than that, Sheldon. Ariana was hoping to announce your engagement at the Cotillion. She will be so very disappointed if you won’t be there with her.”

  That did it. Shredder tossed the now-sodden gym towel into the basket and stalked into the dressing room out of earshot of the other players in the workout space. If his teammates got wind of some fake engagement, he’d never hear the end of it. He thrived on being a badass. Hell, his success as a goalie depended on intimidating the competition. His mother’s theatrics could seriously affect his street cred.

  “I never asked Ari to marry me, Mother. There’s no engagement to announce. And there never will be.”

  “Why on earth not?” Natasha retorted, impatient. “You’re not getting any younger, Sheldon. It’s time you settled down. You really must cultivate an appropriate circle of friends and associates. We worry about your personal lifestyle. We see all those shameless girls in the hockey arenas, flashing their naked bosoms to the television cameras.”

  He groaned as she said “bosoms” and slapped a hand over his eyes. “Moth–”

  She bulldozed right over him. “Why…your father almost had a coronary attack. Harlots all of them. Camp followers, we called them once upon a time, but they are all low-bred tramps. Don’t let yourself be distracted by a pretty face with no other substance than her physical form. They’d all jump at a chance to marry a hockey player, any hockey player. They don’t care about your personality. Your substance. Your family values.”

  “Mom, I’m–” He might as well have been speaking to a wall because she didn’t even pause…

  “And once they understand your true financial wealth, they’ll never let you go. Ruin you to within your last dime. Gold diggers, that’s another name for them. Please, Sheldon. If you become engaged to Ariana, you’ll be protected from all that. Trust me.”

  “I think I can protect myself. Thanks but no thanks, Mom. I don’t need you or anyone else doing it for me.” The air in the dressing room felt muggy from a combination of shower spray and men’s lingering body heat. Shredder’s eyes misted in the close atmosphere. At least he hoped that was the reason. Marry Ari because he’d been told to? Screw the rest of his life? Fuck that. “I have to go. I’ll call you later, Mom.”

  Without waiting for her acknowledgment, he disconnected and tossed his phone into the gym bag in his locker, proceeding to peel off his sweat-stained workout clothes. He felt horrible hanging up on his own mother, something he was raised never to do to anyone. Manners and decorum reigned supreme in the Politski household, as well as duty to the family name and their philanthropic interests, in that order.

  He scoffed in both disdain and self-pity. His life in hockey seemed almost an aside to the greater good. They supported it, like his mother said, but neither of his parents knew the true depth of his commitment to the game nor the agonies he suffered in the pursuit of it. Blood. Sweat. Tears. Mostly tears. They tolerated it, more or less, with the belief that he’d eventually grow up and take his place in the family’s business dynasty. They knew nothing.

  Hell would be frostier than a polar bear’s ass crack before that happened.

  Shredder had goals for his life, and they didn’t include constantly being roped to the horns of the family expectations. After hockey, he wanted to coach. For free. To use his vast financial resources for causes important to him and not just to his parents. To impart his skill and knowledge to underprivileged kids that would never have a chance to work with someone like him under different circumstances.

  Though the outer locker room was empty, a frisson of nervousness still coursed through him as he stood there naked. Even after fifteen years, he couldn’t shake the fear of being watched, assessed, judged. He could hear the drumming of water in the adjacent shower room as it hit the tiled floor. Someone was there.

  He shook off the nagging sensation and headed for the shower. To his relief, his friend and roommate Cole Fiorino lathered up under a nearby rain head. Since Cole had been drafted his workload had decreased. When Fiorino was on the ice, he tended to dominate the puck and keep the opposing team from getting quality shots on goal. He felt his body de-tense.

  “Hey, Cole,” he said, turning on the taps and stepping under the soothing spray.

  “Hey, Shred,” Cole mumbled from behind a stream of suds.

  “Good road trip,” Shredder said. “It’s such a load off my mind that we clinched a playoff spot early. Can’t believe post-season’s in a week? It’s always a lot of road games, but I’m pumped. I’m ready.”

  Cole swiped the water and foam away from his face as he rinsed. “Yup. We’re gonna kill it. And you gave me some good advice, my friend.”

  “I did?” Shredder queried, soaping up. “About what?”

  “About Eloise,” Cole answered.

  “Ha. All I remember was you showing up with a black eye after we got back from the Wild game. I sure as hell didn’t advise that. What happened? She hit you with her designer purse? The one with a brick inside it.”

  Cole spurted water as he laughed. “You were too polite to ask at the time. Let’s just say I defended her honor, saved the day and got the girl. So thanks.”

  Shredder let the warm water pound his face and scalp before answering. He racked his brain for the answer but came up empty. Platitudes and flowery words for the ladies had never been his strong suit.

  “You’re welcome, I guess. What the hell did I say?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know the answer. It never hurt to understand women and what made them tick.

  “That you gotta go for what you want and fuck everybody else’s opinion. That differences are what make life interesting.”

  “I said that?”

  “Sure did. Were you that wiped out you don’t remember?”

  Shredder pondered their conversation on the bus to St. Paul that day, dredging up what he could recall of his free advice and why he’d offered it. It seemed so easy to sort out other people’s problems. Why not his own?

  “Oh yeah, I remember now,” he said, mentally backpedaling. “You two are officially an item then?”

  “If I don’t screw anything up from here on out.”

  “Good,” Shredder said. Eloise would be good for Cole. Smart. Talented. Beautiful. Cole had never stooped low enough to date a groupie, and Eloise had ‘mother of a man’s children’ written all over her tailored tweed covered body. “Now I can get some decent sleep and not listen to your hump and grind in the next room with ‘Miss Flavor of the Week.’”

  He teased Cole and then doubled over as his friend swatted him in the gut, the wetness from the shower sharpening the sting.

  “Jealous?” Cole teased. “I never held you back from bringing home a warm pussy on occasion, man. You just never took the opportunity. I’m starting to worry about you, Shred. Don’t you know a little stress relief can improve your game? None of the local Minnesota fur-encased hotties can tempt you?”

  “Fuck off,” Shredder grunted, trying to remain good-natured about the whole thing.

  He was no Cole Fiorino, with Greek God looks and fancy moves but not completely uninitiated in the pussy department. It was just that the prospect of a faceless parade of – he had to say it – gold diggers in his bed held no appeal for him; for more reasons than his roommate would ever know.

  Cole chuckled in triumph. “Oh, right. You aren’t interested in the low-hanging fruit, as I recall.” He turned off the taps and reached for his towel. “You’ve got your own ladder
then? Taking your own advice and going for the ones at the top of the tree? The harder the climb, the sweeter the fruit.” He winked and clucked his tongue. “They are definitely the most delicious. Literally melt across your tongue. You’re a wise man.”

  Shredder didn’t feel so wise. He could never explain to his best friend or anyone else on the team why he didn’t bring girls around to the apartment they shared. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – explain it to anyone, sometimes not even himself. He thought about Ari. There was no denying her exotic looks and lush curves tempted him. Definitely top of the tree, but still bitter-tasting, like biting into a shiny, red apple and hitting the worm.

  But different?

  Not even close. The most different girl he’d ever seen sprang to mind, her pink-dyed hair glowing in the twinkling bar-room lights while she gave not one damn about a few stains on her brand-new jeans. He longed for a life as simple and carefree as hers seemed to be. With a twinge, he recalled he hadn’t heard from her since the karaoke night at Blues & Brews. Guess she wasn’t into bald, big-handed goalies with a voice like a Rod Stewart impersonator.

  He watched Cole’s naked ass strut away from the shower enclosure, rubbing the towel on his head. Fiorino wasn’t the best-hung dude on the roster, but he got his share of women based on looks, talent, and charm alone. Shredder outweighed his roommate both in poundage and inches. He hadn’t heard any complaints about his own physique, yet he had difficulty sharing his body with anyone, and he hated the person who’d made him feel that way all these years.

  He twisted sharply to turn off the taps and flinched as a stab of pain sliced through his lower back. Another reminder of the complexities of being Sheldon “Shredder” Politski. The medical bills his parents had shouldered as he fought his way through goalie camps and tryouts with a congenital spinal condition must have been horrific, but a proverbial drop in the bucket of the Politski fortune. Though it had been in remission for years, his childhood infirmity now seemed to be returning with a vengeance.