Game On (Hometown Players Book 6)

by Victoria Denault

  “I am not—”

  “I know. We all know,” Avery cuts me off with his reassuring words. “Stephanie called Sebastian as soon as she saw it and he knows it’s not true. But I would call him anyway, before the game.”

  “I will. I fucking hate social media.”

  “We all do, buddy,” Avery says with a sigh. “Hang in there and have a great game tonight. Just watch Seb’s left hook. It’s killer.”

  Avery hangs up with a chuckle. Ugh. I never thought hanging out with Shayne would result in this.

  I throw off the covers and grab a pair of sweats out of my suitcase and pull them on with one hand while I dial Seb’s number with the other. He answers on the second ring.

  “I am going to rip your head off and shove it down your throat you son of a bitch,” he hisses. My chest constricts as my heart falls to the floor. But before I can make words come out of my mouth, he starts laughing maniacally. “I’m kidding, Rue!”

  “Mon Dieu, tabernac,” I swear in French. “Not funny, dude. Not fucking funny!”

  “Really? Because I can’t stop laughing,” he responds.

  “I would never, ever touch Shayne. Not like that. I need you to know that,” I reply, dead serious even though he’s still laughing.

  “Of course I know that. You don’t need to worry,” Sebastian replies as he finally stops laughing. “The girl who first posted has been stalking Shay’s classes for weeks asking about me and other hockey players. She’s a wannabe bunny and Shay’s finally got a reason to ban her from the gym. I gotta go. We have a morning skate. And then I want to hit the gym and practice some boxing so I can knock you out like I did Westwood.”

  “Still not funny!” I bark but he’s laughing anyway.

  I say good-bye, hang up and throw on a hoodie to head to the breakfast room. I Google my name and Shayne’s and the picture pops up from several different sources, including the infamous puck bunny site called the Warren. I click on it and my anger grows. It was taken as we walked to the changing rooms and she gave me that side hug. I’m looking down at her and she’s got her head kind of turned and it looks like we’re about to kiss. It was a millisecond in time that is totally misleading. Fuck.

  As soon as I walk into our meal room, the snickering starts. I glance around. “It’s all bullshit.”

  “What else are you going to say?” a rookie asks and I flip him the bird as he shovels oatmeal into his mouth.

  Jordan, Luc and Devin are all sitting at a table near the buffet and I grab some oatmeal and berries and a blueberry muffin before joining them. “It didn’t fucking happen.”

  “We know,” Jordan says and Luc and Devin both nod.

  “But there would be no picture to explain if you’d just stayed in like I suggested,” Devin mutters.

  “You’re right. I fucked up.” I scoop some oatmeal into my mouth and then almost choke as Coach walks in.

  “Morning, boys,” he says in his usual gruff tone. His eyes scan the room and make contact with my own but he keeps moving toward the buffet, grabbing a coffee and taking his time as he pours cream and stirs it. I force myself to look innocent and shovel another spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth. I try not to look at him as he leaves the buffet but I have no choice when he stops beside our table.

  “Everyone get a good night’s sleep last night?” he questions and Jordan and Luc nod while Devin gives him a verbal “‘yes.” He turns his eyes on me.

  “Slept great. Ready to go.” I try to smile but I’m certain it looks far from natural.

  “Oh it doesn’t matter,” he says calmly. “You’re a healthy scratch tonight.”

  He turns and exits the room, leaving me stunned. “Healthy scratch” means the coach is choosing not to play me even though I’m not injured. I open my mouth but stop myself from speaking because I can’t challenge him—it would make things worse—and he’s gone anyway. I look around the table and am met with looks of sympathy. Devin says, “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Don’t. You’re right. I did this. You said he’d be pissed and he is.” I push aside my half-eaten oatmeal and stand up, grabbing the muffin. “I won’t give him a reason to punish me again.”

  As I make my way to my room, I can’t help but blame Brie for this a little bit. She got me angry and caused me to not want to be alone. This woman isn’t good for me. I contemplate finding a new charity to volunteer at, but decide I’m going to stay at this one and just try my best to annoy the crap out of her the way she annoys me. As infantile as it may be, that’ll bring me some satisfaction.

  Chapter 4

  Brie

  Well the kids love him, I tell myself as I watch Alex take questions after his talk on his health and fitness routine. It was actually a fantastic workshop. I’ve had a lot of experts come in and give presentations on stuff like this before. And they were good but most forget that these kids are on their own and the money they have to spend on anything isn’t a lot. Alex realizes that and he’s made a point of referencing cost-efficient ways to eat healthy when he talks about food and all the exercise stuff he references doesn’t need a fancy gym membership. He’s also, I hate to admit, really funny, adding just the right amount of jokes and silly references to keep it interesting.

  The talk wraps up and the kids leave, every single one of them stopping to thank him personally. He also brought them all Barons hats that he had the entire team sign. “If you’re not a fan, sell them on eBay. I won’t be offended.”

  I laugh at that and his eyes find mine. I cover my mouth and force myself to stop. After the last kid leaves, he walks over to me. “You liked my talk.”

  “I like that they liked your talk,” I reply and give him a small, polite smile. “And it’s very sweet of you to give out the hats.”

  “I was going to ask if I could start a running club for the kids,” he says and rakes a hand through his thick brown hair, sending it every which way, yet somehow it still looks perfect.

  “Sure. But that would be a really big commitment.” I am a little stunned he would volunteer that. We’ve had one athlete volunteer here since we opened—a baseball player. He came twice, promised a whole bunch of things, got the kids excited and then never came back. I should have known his motives were self-promotion and not helping the kids when he showed up with a photographer. I don’t want to be that naïve again. Although I have to admit Alex seems a lot more dedicated about this than the baseball player did. And since he flat out, and rather hostilely, refused to let me mention his name for the fund-raiser, he’s clearly not here for the publicity.

  He shrugs his broad, strong shoulders. “We’d meet once a week. And I’d have to probably change the day around every now and then because of road trips, but if that’s okay I’d love to do it.”

  “That would be fantastic.”

  “Great. Oh and one of the girls…Mary Hope.” He says her name without the H like most French Canadians, so it comes out “Ope” and it makes me smile. I don’t remember much about my years living in Quebec but somehow that accent feels like home and soothes me. “She said you used to have yoga classes but the instructor quit.”

  I nod. “Yeah, she moved upstate to start her own studio. I’m going to try and find a new one this week but it’s not easy finding people that will work for free.”

  “I have a friend in Seattle who teaches yoga. She goes to national conferences all the time and she might know someone local willing to help,” he tells me and I can’t help but think of the stuff I saw online about him in Seattle at a gym getting cozy with a fitness instructor that dates another hockey player. “Would you like me to call Shay and ask?”

  “You were just in Seattle weren’t you?” I ask casually.

  He smiles that damn cocky, lopsided grin again. I wonder why the right side of his face doesn’t lift up like his left. A puck to the face maybe or a stick? “You’ve been following my schedule? I thought you didn’t watch hockey.”

  “I don’t,” I counter. “But you made the paper for st
uff other than hockey on that trip.”

  His smile fades and his shoulders seem to tense. He swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple bob under what has to be two-day-old growth at least. He’s almost sporting a beard…I’ve never kissed a man with a beard. Not that I want to kiss him. It’s just an observation. He clears his throat and my eyes pop back up to his face. “I should have known you followed gossip sites.”

  I’m about to argue that I don’t, but Len sent it to me when she found the article because she does, in fact, follow gossip sites. But before I can open my mouth Selena pops in, her arms loaded with boxes. Alex immediately darts to her to take them from her. “We got that donation of art supplies from the place in Queens.”

  “Fantastic!” I nod. “Thanks, Selena. I’ll put them away.”

  “Need help?” She smiles at Alex.

  “I can help,” Alex volunteers immediately so Selena simply nods and disappears.

  Our eyes meet and he still looks a little pissed about our earlier conversation. “Follow me.” I march over to the walk-in closet in the corner. “I don’t read gossip sites but I happened to see the picture.”

  “Shayne is my friend’s fiancée. It wasn’t what it looked like,” he replies tersely. “Not that I expect you to believe that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” I reply. “What you do with your personal life isn’t my business as long as you act professional here.”

  “So do you want me to help find a new yoga instructor?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll take all the help I can get,” I admit as I open the closet door and step in, reaching up for the string attached to the light bulb. “I just have to find some space for the box.”

  I glance back at him. Alex has his head dipped, his eyes roaming over the contents of the box, which is probably paints, brushes and charcoal pencils. He walks up casually, but as soon as he sees me in the closet he stops, bends down and puts the box on the ground and turns to leave.

  “I thought you were going to help,” I tell him. “I could use those muscles of yours to move around some of these boxes to make room for the new one.”

  “Sorry. Can’t,” he says gruffly. “Maybe Len or Selena can help you.”

  I’m more than a little pissed off. “Len’s not here today and Selena just left because you said you would help.”

  “I have to get going. I have a team thing,” he says and it’s clear he’s shitty at lying.

  I frown and put my hands on my hips. “When you came in today you said it was a rest day. I know what ‘rest day’ means. It means no game. No practice.”

  Everything about him shifts. He starts to look annoyed—really annoyed, like borderline angry. “Look, I came to give the talk not be a maintenance guy. I’m sorry I have somewhere to be.”

  “Oh. Okay. I get it.” Clearly he’s a lot more like the baseball guy than I thought. He’s only interested in helping with things like talking to the kids who fawn all over him. Or being the hero finding me a yoga instructor. God forbid the guy built like a Greek god actually do five seconds of physical labor. I turn to the shelves piled with boxes and I pick up one. I assume he’s going to leave but when I glance back he’s standing there, just on the other side of the door.

  “You get what?”

  I readjust the box in my arms and fix him with a cold stare. “That you’ll volunteer as long as it means having the kids adore you but you don’t want to do anything that doesn’t involve instant gratification. It’s fine. Now I know and it’s not even shocking to be honest. I’ve had volunteers like you before and I’ve managed.”

  I find an empty spot on the shelves that line the left side of the closet and slide the box onto it. I hear him whisper a French obscenity under his breath, but I ignore him and reach for one of the other boxes on the floor. Why won’t he just go?

  I pick it up. The cardboard is old and it’s heavy. I think it’s some of the summer patio stuff I had Selena box up last week. I scan the shelves again, fully aware that he’s still standing there, staring at me.

  “I thought you had somewhere to be,” I remind him tersely as I spot a place on the top shelf that looks big enough for the box.

  “I’m not the jerk you think I am.” He says it low, and soft, and I can’t help but turn my head to look at him. He looks kind of wounded. And for a brief, intense moment his stormy blue eyes drop and his jaw softens in defeat and I have this wave of déjà vu. But it carries an ominous feeling with it and I suddenly feel as jumpy as he looked earlier.

  “I’m not the spoiled rich kid you clearly think I am either,” I snap back but my words are wobbly, not firm. I turn away from his and start to lift the box, but the top shelf is high and the box is heavy and the higher I lift the more off balance I feel. I push myself up on my tiptoes and the corner of the box hits the edge of the shelf instead of sliding onto it and I realize in a panic-filled second that I’m going to drop it.

  I let out a squeak and then suddenly there’s another set of arms in my face and the box is ripped from me. Everything happens so fast it’s a blur. He steps into the closet, saves the box from landing on my head and then the floor, and shoves it onto a shelf and then disappears—all in the time it took me to blink and steady myself.

  I leave the closet and catch a blur of him as he storms out of the room. What the fuck is his issue? I follow him but he’s out the front door before I even get to the hallway. I reach out and catch the door seconds before it closes and call his name but he’s already halfway down the street.

  “What the f—” I catch myself before the rest of that word comes out of my mouth because I will not swear at work in case a kid hears me. We’re always on them to clean up their language. Sighing, I let the door close and turn and head back into the closet.

  Seriously, I do not get that guy.

  An hour later, I’m explaining the whole thing to Victor as we share a cab to my place. Normally I take the subway home but when he meets me after work he never wants to take the subway. In the whole time we’ve been dating, we’ve never taken the subway. I sometimes wonder if he’s ever been on it. As a native New Yorker, I would guess yes but with Victor it’s highly possible he hasn’t.

  “I told you before, he sounds like a self-absorbed athlete,” Victor surmises when I’m done explaining the closet incident. He already knows about the phone argument and the way he showed up late for the orientation. I haven’t, and I won’t, tell him about how he hit on me in Starbucks. “I don’t know why you let it get to you. These men are as superficial as they come. They get fawned all over for skating a straight line. He’s not volunteering to do good, he’s volunteering to look good.”

  He shifts his dark brown eyes down to his phone in his hand and a wisp of his perfectly styled dark hair falls forward. He brushes it off his forehead, annoyed, which is too bad because he looks better when he’s mussed up.

  “But then why won’t he let me use his name on the posters?” I question because I think Victor is probably right, but that one fact goes against our theory.

  Victor pats my knee and I try not to bristle. He does that a lot. It feels condescending, like he’s placating me. I told him that once and he got completely offended and explained it’s a gesture of love and support so now I grin and bear it. “Brie, baby, he’s an adult playing a game for a living. He’s a man-child. Don’t take it personally. And besides you don’t need his name to sell tickets. Half my office is coming and your dad will corral all his rich friends. It’ll be fine.”

  I sigh. “I need the interest in this place to grow. I don’t want it to always be your colleagues, my dad’s friends and my trust fund supporting this place. His name would bring in a different group of potential donors.”

  His hand has left my knee and is now wrapped around his phone as he reads his emails. He’s not paying attention at all. I don’t even need the lackluster “uh-huh” he gives me as a sign.

  I reach up and softly graze my fingers through the back of his hair. “You tuned me
out again.”

  He blinks his dark eyes and lifts them from his phone screen. “I’m sorry. It’s work.”

  “It’s always work,” I whisper.

  “So I should stop paying attention to my work so I can listen to you complain about yours?” he questions and his words are a little clipped but he smiles at me like he’s half kidding. I realize his point, even if I don’t agree with it. I don’t say a word when he refocuses on his phone screen. I turn and look out the window instead. The Upper East Side flies by through the rain splattered window.

  “You can always go into private practice, use that psychology degree you spent all that time, money and effort on,” he says signifying he’s done with his emails and that he was paying more attention than I gave him credit for a minute ago. I turn to look at him. His face holds a tentative expression and his words are gentle. “If this charity project doesn’t work out long-term, I mean. You’ll still be doing a good thing. And you can set your own hours and I can see you more. We can finally talk about the future because we’ll have time to plan it.”

  I can’t believe he’s saying this. Just the thought of closing Daphne’s House makes me sick to my stomach. Literally. I can feel it churning. I put a hand on my belly and take a deep breath. “The House can’t and won’t fail. And your job is a big part of why we’re not spending as much time together too.”

  “Okay relax, I’m not trying to play the blame game here.” He frowns, his wide mouth turning down, and loosens his tie a little. “I’m just saying…right now you help, about what? Twelve kids a year? If you had your own private psychology practice you’d be helping that many a day and making money at it.”

  “But I want to help the ones who can’t afford to pay,” I reply, my voice hard. Victor was so supportive and interested when I told him about what I did for a living when we first met. And he knows about my past, and why this is so important to me.