Seduced by the Game

by editor Lisa Hollett

  I touched my fingertips to the spot on my forehead where he’d kissed me, leaning back against the door and sighing.

  There was no way to know what life was going to throw at me next. Whatever it was, I was going to embrace it. Anything less was cheating myself.

  # # #

  TAKING A SHOT is book 2.5 in Catherine Gayle’s PORTLAND STORM series. If you enjoyed it, you can find more about the Portland Storm players in the first two books, BREAKAWAY and ON THE FLY. The next installment in this series will be available in June, 2014.

  BREAKAWAY:

  She’s reaching for a breakaway pass.

  Dana Campbell has spent the past seven years in self-imposed isolation for a crime she didn’t commit. The danger is well in the past, but her panic attacks make it impossible to have a normal, healthy relationship with a man. Even her counselor has given up on her. She has to find someone she trusts to help her fight through the panic, or her seven-year ordeal will become a lifetime sentence. There’s only one man she feels safe enough to ask.

  He got caught with his head down.

  As the captain of professional hockey’s once elite but now fading Portland Storm, Eric Zellinger knows a thing or two about keeping his focus on the job. Questions are flying about his ability to lead the team back to the playoffs. If they don’t make it, he might be shipped out of town. It’s the worst time possible for his best friend’s kid sister to divide his focus. How can he give her what she needs without jeopardizing both the Storm’s playoff hopes and his future with the team?

  It’s her only chance, but it’s his last shot.

  ON THE FLY:

  Injury after injury has put Brenden Campbell’s professional hockey career on hold for years. Now he’s playing for the Portland Storm and determined to make it stick. Few things in life drive him more than being told he can’t have something he wants, and what he wants most is to prove he belongs. Brenden also wants Rachel Shaw, the cute, little redhead who just got hired as the general manager’s new assistant. But then she went and made herself off-limits, telling him: “I don’t date.” Those three words pretty much guarantee that he’ll do everything he can to change her mind.

  Rachel is changing things up on the fly for her family, moving them somewhere she can be the kind of mom her kids deserve. Allowing anyone else to be in their lives is out of the question, at least until her instincts get back on track. How else can she be sure who to steer the kids clear of? Right now she trusts no one, including herself, and especially not a man like Brenden Campbell. He’s way too handsome and a little bit cocky. Falling for a guy like him is a mistake she can’t afford to make twice.

  * * * *

  Catherine Gayle is a bestselling author of Regency-set historical romance and contemporary hockey romance with a New Adult feel. She’s a transplanted Texan living in North Carolina with two extremely spoiled felines. In her spare time, she watches way too much hockey and reality TV, plans fun things to do for the Nephew Monster’s next visit, and performs experiments in the kitchen which are rarely toxic.

  If you enjoyed this book and want to know when more like it will be available, be sure to sign up for Catherine’s mailing list. You can find out more on her website, her blog, at Red Door Reads, at Hockey Romance, at Facebook, on Twitter, and at Goodreads. If you want to see some of her cats’ antics and possibly the occasional video update from Catherine, visit her YouTube account.

  A Valuable Trade

  © Jaymee Jacobs

  “Dallas.” Fuck.

  “We’ll pack up your things and send them along for you. Thank you for your years of dedication, Bryan. Good luck with your new team.” The general manager of the Tornadoes stretches out his hand, which I reluctantly shake. Then I shake my coach’s hand—well, my ex-coach’s hand. I can’t look either of them in the eye.

  As I leave the GM’s office and head for the exit, the threshold from my old life to my new one, I run into a couple of my teammates. My former teammates now. They express their regrets regarding my trade and say they’re sorry to see me go. That they’ll miss me. But it’s not like that matters.

  Soon after my conversation with my old GM, I get a call from my new GM of the Dallas Comets. He’s excited to bring me on board and talks a lot about how I’m going to fit in with their team and help them make the play-offs. He lets me know that they’re going to take care of everything for me and help arrange my move; that way, I only have to focus on my play.

  I don’t want to go, but I don’t really have a choice. So I head home to my girlfriend Corinne to break the news to her. Somehow, though, she already knows. As soon as I walk through the door, she stands and asks, “Is it true? Are they sending you to Dallas?”

  My shoulders fall. “Yeah. Just got the news.”

  “How can they do that? How can the Tornadoes just give you away?”

  “It’s the business side of hockey,” I explain to her. “The Tornadoes needed a forward, and the Comets needed a defenseman. Unfortunately, I’m the guy caught in the middle.”

  Corinne frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t be selfish, Bry. You’re not the only one involved in this. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Come with me, of course. I’m flying out tonight.”

  “I can’t! I have to pack everything up, arrange to move it all, get this place listed...” Her voice fades out as she thinks about all the things that need to be done.

  “The Comets’ll take care of all that. Cory, baby,” I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her body into mine. I need the comfort more than ever now. “I just need you with me. Please come with me to Dallas.”

  She takes a deep breath; I feel her body expand and then shrink back down. “I think I should stay, though. Oversee everything. And then I’ll follow you down.”

  It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean I like it. I’m getting traded, and I could use the familiarity of a friendly face to keep me company in a new place. But what else am I supposed to say? I’m saddened that she won’t be joining me on my flight. “Okay.”

  “Texas,” she spits out. “I can’t believe we’re going to Texas. Why couldn’t they have traded you to New York? I’ve always wanted to live there.”

  I wish I had an answer for her—or yet, a better locale to take her to. Dallas is a great sports town in general but not necessarily a great market for hockey. Corinne doesn’t sound very pleased with it either. She and I met our freshman year at the University of North Dakota, where I had been playing with the Fighting Sioux. Once I went pro and started playing for the Tornadoes, she kept up with her studies and graduated with great grades. She wanted to move to New York to start her career, but I persuaded her to come with me to Raleigh by telling her that long-distance relationships don’t work. I don’t think she ever really adjusted to North Carolina.

  Because of a freak snowstorm in Raleigh that lays down more snow than anyone expected, I’m stuck here until the following morning. I know I won’t have a chance to make it to the morning skate before the game they’re playing tonight, so I’ll have to play without getting a practice under my belt. It’s bad enough getting traded...but how am I supposed to make a good first impression when I have no practice and no chance to learn the new systems?

  The flight feels both too short and too long. I want it to be over, but I want it to never end, either. But I can’t have it both ways. When I get off the plane and pick up my bag, I keep my head down and head toward the taxi stand. As I navigate through the crowd, though, I see my name scrawled on a poster board and tentatively head toward the holder of the sign. It’s got to be a joke, though. The person picking me up is a caricature of a Texan. She’s wearing dark jeans with a hole in the knee, a clingy white tank top, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. Or is it a cowgirl hat? Is there a difference?

  “Hi, Bryan, I’m Georgiana Pierson. I’m from the Comets. Welcome to Dallas! We’re so excited to have you.” She has a southern drawl, but it’s anything but slow. The smile on her face is wid
e and genuine. She extends a well-manicured hand. I expect a weak handshake, but she surprises me with a firm grip and vigorous pump. “We’ve got housing set up for you, and I’m going to help you get settled in before tonight’s game. If you need anything as you get acclimated here—and I do mean anything—then I’m your girl. Let me help you with your bag.”

  I’m kind of overwhelmed by her. She talks fast and moves even faster; before I can tell her that I’m more than capable of handling my own stuff, she takes the duffel bag of mine and hoists it over her shoulder. The sight is reminiscent of something out of a rodeo, the way she manhandles it. She’s solidly built, but not in a masculine kind of way. No, she’s all woman, with curves and dark brown curly hair that spills out of her hat almost like a wig. Her brown eyes smile just like her mouth. It’s kind of catching, except I don’t feel like smiling. As we head for the door, I wonder if she’s picking me up from the airport on a horse.

  * * * *

  I may not be a hockey player, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t know how hard trades are. When I said goodbye to winger Tim Fletcher, it was like I was losing a brother. I may not be a player on the Comets, but the players have always made me feel like I was a part of the team. Like I was one of them. I care about them, and I try to make sure they’re all taken care of. Sure, it’s a part of my job, but Lord knows I don’t just do it because I’m paid to do it; I do it because I want to. I’m like a mother hen keeping her chicks in check. I’m polite and kind, but I can get feisty and sassy if I need to in order to get things done.

  So when I meet our newest star at the airport, Bryan Comstock, I can immediately tell that he’s wary about this new city and his new team. I can see it in his slumped posture. He’s a big man—or at least that’s what his bio says. He’s six feet tall and 195 pounds, but he looks smaller as he walks toward me. Of course I’m sad to see Tim go, but he’s not under my wing anymore—so my allegiance stays with the Comets. Now, everything in me is telling me to take care of Bryan and help him adjust to Dallas. My maternal side comes out, and I want to fix whatever’s wrong. After all, I’m a problem solver. I make things better.

  Bryan never smiles at me, even though I try my best to make him feel as welcome as he should. We’re all hoping that he’ll lift us out of the slump caused by injuries and fatigue, as well as by a little bit of complacency. As I drive him into the city, I do what I can to break through to him, always by talking about Dallas and the promise of the future of the team as well as his bright potential here—and never talking about the past or Carolina. None of those things matters anymore. I do most of the talking as we cruise down the highway with the windows down; it’s hotter than a goat’s behind in a pepper patch. Before coming to the airport, I had been making sure everything was set up and ready for Bryan’s temporary housing, until he is able to find something of his own, and I am hot, sweaty, and dehydrated from working in this heat.

  I really didn’t know who this guy was before the trade. We played the Tornadoes months ago and won, but I don’t remember much out of that game. Especially Bryan Comstock, who I wouldn’t have recognized if I hadn’t been shown his picture before being sent to the airport by management to pick him up. Physically, there’s not much that makes him stand out. He has brownish hair cropped close to his head, brown eyes, and thin pink lips. He’d be handsome if he smiled, but he doesn’t look like he does much of that.

  Bryan looks stoic but also a little queasy, I think. It had been a big day for him, with getting the news and all. I know that Tim was taken aback, too. It’s hard to start over in a new city alone, but that’s why I’m helping: to ease the transition. When we get to the small townhouse where he’ll be staying—bought by the Comets for instances just like this, conveniently complete with a car in the driveway for him to use—I help him bring his bag inside and give him a brief tour before telling him that directions to the arena are printed out and on the passenger seat of the car.

  “And the keys are on the counter. So you’re all set,” I tell him. “Coach said not to worry about trying to figure out our system yet—we’re just gonna let you play your game, and we’ll see what you’ve got. I know I’m excited to see how it goes.”

  He nods, but he doesn’t look excited. I wish I could make him see that this is going to be good for him. I want to tell him that he’s going to fit in well here. I want to tell him that he’s a top-four defenseman, and that’s where he’ll be put here in Dallas. He was on the third pairing in Carolina, always held back by the bigger names on the Tornadoes’ roster. He wouldn’t have been able to show off his skills like he can here in Dallas. He’ll get more minutes, he’ll get more chances, and he’ll make a bigger splash.

  But I feel like even if I tell him all that, he won’t believe me. So I don’t bother to say those things. Instead, I reach out and touch his arm. I make sure he has my card so he can call if he has any questions about the team’s routine or about Dallas in general, but he doesn’t even glance at it before he shoves it in his pocket and just nods at me. So I then tell him that I’ll see him around the rink and leave him there for the afternoon to get acclimated to his new, albeit temporary, home in Texas.

  Lord knows I’ve got my hands full of stuff to do back at the arena, so I leave Bryan and head back home so I can shower and change into appropriate work attire before going back into the office. It’s a lot of work, taking care of my Comets, but I can’t imagine doing anything else.

  * * * *

  It’s a scary thing, walking into a brand new place and trying to be a part of something where you don’t belong. I’m not the biggest guy, so I try to take up more space so I look important, like I should be here. Like I’m worth the upheaval, I guess.

  There are so many introductions that I can’t keep them all straight; it’s not just players and coaches and managers, but equipment managers and trainers and media personnel and...so many people I can’t even remember. I do my best to go with the flow, but I feel like I’m drowning, just a little bit. The whole thing is awkward because I’m not sure what to say to all these people who I’m meeting. I just hope that they don’t think I’m being rude, because I don’t want to come off like that.

  By the end of the introductions and getting my new equipment, I’m more mentally exhausted than anything else. I’ve had to learn names, lines, and pairings, directions, instructions, and more. I have to become a part of the team’s routines and different players’ superstitions. Sometimes I forget that they also lost a player, a friend, and I think that I’ve somehow got to replace him. I hope I don’t let them down.

  I walk out of a meeting with my new head coach when Mark Klingensmith, a UND alum and automatic comrade, asks me how I’m doing.

  “Good,” I tell him with a nod. I don’t tell him how excited I am to just get on the ice. Once I’m in the rink, I know I’ll feel a little better. The one thing that I know I can do is skate. It’s like the one thing that hasn’t changed and never will. It doesn’t matter what colors I’m wearing or what arena I’m in as long as I’ve got blades tied to my feet and a stick in my hand.

  “We’re glad to have you here,” he adds. “Have you met everyone? Did you get a complete tour of the arena?”

  I snort a laugh, not meanly but just because that’s an impossible question to answer. “It’s kinda hard to keep track, but I think I’ve met everyone. And yeah, I got a tour.”

  “All right, well, I guess we can just focus on the game tonight then. But if you do need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll help ya out however I can, and of course there’s always George.”

  “George?” I ask, completely unaware to whom he’s referring.

  Klingensmith nods at me. “Yeah, George. I know if you’ve met anyone here at all, then you’ve met George.” I give him a blank look, and he laughs at me, claps me on the back, and then points down the hallway. “That’s her there.”

  I look down the hall and see Georgiana standing there; she’s the only person I do remember meeting
today. She’s talking to Adam Harris, a winger currently on the IR. She looks different because she’s obviously dressed for work—I’m not exactly sure what she does here, but I know that she works for the Comets somehow. She’s in a skirt, a blouse, and heels, but I recognize her because of her distinct hair and big smile, but that’s all that’s familiar. Maybe I didn’t really see her earlier today because I wasn’t fully paying attention, or maybe it’s because it’s been a hectic day and I kind of hated her for having to usher me into this new life. Now she looks professional, not like the cowgirl I saw at the airport, and also more feminine in the way that I’m used to seeing girls be around Raleigh.

  “That’s George?” I still feel like I’m missing something. I watch the way her curls bounce as she laughs at something Harris says, laughing deeply like she just heard the funniest thing ever. It’s the exact opposite of the way I feel. I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve laughed so freely like that.

  “Yup, that’s her.”

  She sees us looking at her, and she waves at us, pats Harris on the bicep, and makes her way down to us. With every step, her high heel clicks on the floor. She greets us. “Hey, y’all.”

  “Yo, George, how’s it hanging?”

  “Just like yours, Mark,” she chuckles, her eyes sparkling as she looks at him, “shriveled and a little to the left.” Then she turns her attention to me. She sounds more serious when she’s talking to me than how she addressed Klingensmith or the way it looked like she was interacting with Harris. “Hi, Bryan. Good luck tonight against the Monarchs. I’m looking forward to watching you play with Justin.”

  “Thanks, uh, George.” I stumble over the name.