Kit: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  “It’s Kit,” I say, grinning in hopes of putting her at ease.

  She’s pretty. Even her dark gray turtleneck sweater, black pants, snow boots and black-rimmed glasses can’t hide it. Molly is completely covered, other than her hands and her face, her skin a creamy ivory with a light blush on her cheeks from the cold outside. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and if she’s wearing makeup, I can’t tell, but her bright blue eyes stand out all on their own.

  Molly shrugs off her coat, opens her notebook and takes out a pen just as a waitress approaches our table at a little deli not far from the Carson Center, the arena my team plays at. She orders hot tea and I order iced tea.

  “Today I’d like to just focus on your childhood and family,” she says. “I have an hour and a half until I have to leave for another interview. Will that work for you?”

  “Sure, yeah. But honestly, I think you could cover my entire life in an hour and a half. I’m not all that exciting.”

  She sets the pen down on her notebook. “I’d like to conduct several interviews with you, and also go to a couple games and practices and shadow you a few days.”

  I hike my brows up in surprise. This doesn’t sound like the “softball” interview Mira told me it would be.

  “Okay,” I say, shrugging. “If you want to do all that, it’s fine with me. I can get you some good game seats if you want.”

  Molly frowns. “No, I’m getting press credentials through the Gazette. I don’t want you to do anything extra for me, just participate in the interviews.”

  It’s all I can do not to tell her to relax. From the set of her shoulders to the stern look in her eyes, Molly Lynch is the very definition of rigid. Maybe she’s just nervous? She told me when she called to set up the interview that she normally doesn’t cover sports.

  “If you need me to explain anything about hockey, I’d be happy to,” I offer. “I never get tired of talking about it.”

  The waitress returns with our drinks, and Molly wraps her palms around her mug to take a sip.

  “I’ll ask any questions about hockey that come up, but this story is going to be about you, so I want to keep most of the focus there.” She picks up her pen again. “Let’s start with your hometown of Orville, Iowa. Tell me more about it.”

  “It was a great place to grow up. Not too big, not too small. But it still had a small-town feel. I played hockey, but I also played baseball, basketball, football and ran track. My dad co-owned a sporting goods store, so he knew all the coaches and was able to buy the equipment at cost.”

  “And you have a brother and a sister, right?” Molly asks, and I wonder how she already knows that when this is our first interview.

  “Yeah, Lance is older than me. Let’s see, I’m twenty-eight and he’s four years older so he’s thirty-two now; his birthday is in March. And my sister Sara is the baby of the family. She’s twenty-five.”

  “Were you guys close growing up?”

  I take a drink of my iced tea, memories of me and my brother flooding my mind.

  “We were,” I say, mentally resetting myself. “But when Lance was twelve, he was diagnosed with leukemia. That was a hard time for our entire family. My mom took him to Iowa City for treatment, and it ravaged him.” I sigh softly as I remember my shock upon seeing what cancer had done to my older brother’s body, making him a shell of his former self. “They had to use really aggressive treatments and it took a long time, but he beat it.”

  Molly’s expression softens, and I get a glimpse of what she’s like with her guard down. “That must have been scary for you and your sister.”

  I nod. “It was rough. I didn’t understand everything but I knew my brother was really sick. I look back now as an adult and think how hard it must’ve been for my parents. Mom was focused entirely on Lance, and Dad was trying to keep up with the store, take care of me and Sara when Mom and Lance were in Iowa City, and be there for them as much as he could.” I meet Molly’s eyes across the table. “It was tough, but Lance survived, so we’re the lucky ones. I volunteer at a children’s hospital because my family has been there, you know?”

  “Do you think that experience made you and your sister closer?”

  Just thinking about my little sister makes me break out in a huge smile. “I think so. I tried to help our dad take care of her when our mom was gone. She sat through every hockey practice and game. She was my biggest cheerleader.”

  “You said she’s twenty-five now; are you guys still close?”

  “We talk often, yeah. She’s finishing up law school at the University of Chicago, so we meet up for dinner when our schedules allow it.”

  Molly writes as I talk, her letters neat and her words lined up perfectly. Even her nails are orderly, short and painted pale pink.

  “And your brother?” she asks.

  “Lance runs an investment firm in Houston. He’s doing great. Married with three kids.”

  “I spoke with Andrew McCall, one of your youth hockey teammates,” Molly says, and I laugh in response.

  “Handy Andy. That guy’s a character. We played together from the time we were little through the end of high school.”

  “He said you’ve never liked the spotlight. That you’re more likely to give a teammate an assist and let them have the glory than to seek it for yourself.”

  I shrug. “That’s what it means to be part of a team.”

  “Andrew said you didn’t care for the attention of college scouts, though. That you tried to get them to notice your teammates instead.”

  “That was a long time ago. Andy may have a foggy recollection.”

  Molly takes a quick sip of her tea. “Is he wrong, though? Do you like attention?”

  I sigh softly. “I play hockey in front of thousands of people. If that’s not attention, I don’t know what is.”

  “But do you like it?”

  Somehow, she’s managing to press me without sounding aggressive or confrontational. It makes it hard for me to push back, which is what instinct tells me to do.

  “I’ve been with the Blaze for six years now, so I’d say it’s working for me.”

  “Andrew said he thinks hockey helped you cope when your brother was ill. Do you think so?”

  I lean back in my seat, scrubbing a hand down my face.

  “Look, I don’t do many interviews. But this feels like a bait and switch. Why did you ask me about my brother if you already knew he’d been sick? And why did you call my former teammate? I feel like I’m being investigated here.”

  “I understand.” Molly sets her pen down on her notebook. “I am an investigative reporter, so it’s my natural tendency to interview people this way.”

  “I was told this would be a quick, easy interview. Softball questions.”

  Molly furrows her brow. “You think these questions are difficult?”

  I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. No. It’s just not what I was expecting.”

  “If you’d rather not do it—”

  I interject before I can stop myself. “I didn’t say that. But if you already know something, can you not ask me about it like you don’t know? It feels like a game of ‘gotcha,’ where you’re trying to catch me in a lie or something. If I say I don’t mind attention, then that’s what I mean. I’d know the answer to that better than Andy McCall, who hasn’t even seen me in years.”

  Molly is quiet for a few seconds, and a wave of guilt washes over me. I’m being defensive and rude to her, and right now I feel like shit.

  “Look,” I say softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t get asked about my brother’s illness much. A lot of people don’t even know about it.”

  “Would you rather not discuss it?”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine, I just…didn’t know what to expect.”

  Molly’s expression softens. “I should have told you up front that I don’t like doing softball interviews. Journalism teaches you that everyone has a story. Everyone has experiences that ar
e unique. In every story I write, I try to dig deep and find out what I can tell the world that might reach someone. I don’t think there’s anything more powerful than words.”

  Now I feel even more like shit. I offer her a half smile. “And you think maybe what I went through with my brother’s illness could reach someone.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet if that’s the part of your story I want to tell. But I sincerely apologize for not preparing you better for what to expect. I tend to get lost in my own head sometimes and forget…the people around me.” Her cheeks turn pink and she looks down at the table.

  “Can we start over?” I ask. “Tomorrow, over lunch?”

  “Sure.” Molly looks up and gives me a grateful smile. “Let me check my schedule.”

  She opens an app on her phone and I see a tightly packed, color-coded calendar. “I could do a late lunch, at 1:15?”

  “As long as we get an appetizer, because I turn into a pissed-off grizzly bear when I’m hungry.”

  “Do you want to try for another day?” she asks, her forehead scrunching up with concern.

  “No, tomorrow’s good. I was teasing. I promise not to bite your head off.”

  Molly reaches into her purse and takes out cash to pay our bill.

  “No, let me,” I say, going for my wallet.

  “Work reimburses me for expenses.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.”

  “No, I can’t let you buy me anything since you’re a source.”

  I arch a brow at her, amused? “You think two whole dollars worth of tea is going to corrupt you and make you tell the world I’m the greatest guy ever?”

  She smiles. “I like to think it would take at least five to buy your way into my good graces. But anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a rule follower. The Gazette doesn’t allow me to accept gifts, so I don’t.”

  Begrudgingly, I put my wallet away. Molly leaves the cash on the table and stands up, pulling on a thick, orange knit stocking cap.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” I say, standing up and buttoning my wool coat.

  “I don’t have a car. I walked. But thanks.”

  I narrow my eyes in question. “You walked from where?”

  “The Gazette building. It’s a lot easier for me to get around the city on foot. It’s actually faster.”

  I follow her to the door of the deli.

  “I’ll give you a ride, Molly. It’s freezing out.”

  A gust of freezing cold wind confirms that as she pushes open the deli’s front door.

  “I’m good,” she says to me over her shoulder. “I’m used to it.”

  She tucks her notebook into her bag and puts on black mittens.

  “Can’t I just give you a ride?” I offer again.

  “No, I’m walking.” She turns around so she’s facing me and asks, “Where are we meeting tomorrow?”

  Someplace really close to the Gazette building. I can’t believe she won’t even let me give her a ride back to her office. Makes me wonder if she has a jealous boyfriend or something.

  “I’ll text you about it later,” I say.

  She nods and turns around, pulling her hood up and hitching her bag over her shoulder. Her hood is trimmed with brown fur and her snow boots are, too, the boots so tall they almost reach her knees.

  Molly’s a city girl, all right. She’s also practical, focused and not the least bit attracted to me. She’s nothing like the glammed-up puck bunnies I’m used to being around. I imagined her writing a story about what an affable guy I am, but between my defensiveness and her tough as nails approach, it’s looking unlikely.

  If I’m reading her right, Molly Lynch is uncharmable.

  Or maybe I’ll just have to up my game.

  Chapter Five

  Molly

  * * *

  I spot Kit in the doorway of the sandwich shop we’re meeting at for lunch. He pretty much blocks the entire entrance, both with his height and his broad shoulders. He pulls a black beanie off his head and runs a hand over his hair, scanning the booths for me, and a couple of women nearby give him long, appreciative looks.

  I understand why. His light brown hair is shoulder-length, and it has a little wave to it. With his short beard and handsome face, he looks like…I can’t even put it into words.

  A gentleman Viking.

  Yes, that’s it. Kit is all man, but his dark brown eyes are warm and his perfect white smile is very refined. Of course, I’m not thinking these things because I’m attracted to him, but because as a journalist, it’s my job to observe everything about him.

  He spots me and grins, sticking the beanie in his coat pocket as he heads my way. One of the women still ogling him follows his line of vision and then gives me a dirty look.

  He glances at his watch, probably making sure he isn’t late. And he’s not—he’s actually five minutes early. But I was ten minutes early.

  “Hey,” he says, sliding into the other side of the booth, “I hope I didn’t leave you waiting long.”

  My heart thumps erratically for some reason. I clear my throat and note the date and time of our interview at the top of the fresh notebook page in front of me.

  “No, I was early.”

  “How’s it going?” Kit takes a menu and opens it.

  “Fine. I thought we’d finish with your childhood today and also cover college.”

  When I look up from my notebook, Kit’s giving me a crooked smile.

  “I meant how are you, Molly? How’s your day going?”

  My heart does the irregular pounding thing again, and this time I’m pretty sure it’s because of the way his deep voice sounds saying my name.

  “It’s good. Fine. I’m good. I just finished a long staff meeting.”

  “I’m guessing your staff meetings are a little different than mine,” he says, sounding amused.

  I’m trying to think of a witty comeback, but I’ve got nothing. Small talk has always been hard for me, probably because I have so little to chit chat about.

  I work, sleep, eat and spend time with Gram and Mr. Darcy. My back and forth efforts at conversation with a pro athlete would be laughable.

  “Hey guys, I’m Serena and I’ll be your server today.” A tall, pretty blond sets rolled napkins full of silverware on our table and then glances between us, doing a double take at Kit.

  “You’re that hockey player,” she says, breaking out in a smile. “Kit, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  Her eyes light up. “One of my sorority sisters used to date you.”

  “Oh, who’s that?” he asks.

  “Lane Hinton.”

  Kit shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Serena shakes her head and laughs. “She was probably exaggerating; I wouldn’t be surprised. But I know she and some friends would hang out with you and some of the other Blaze players at that bar…I think it was called The War Room?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Kit nods. “I haven’t been to that place in a few years.”

  “Yeah, I haven’t seen Lane since we graduated four years ago.” Serena flashes another smile at him. “But anyway, what can I get you to drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  After writing down his order, Serena looks towards me expectantly, no longer glowing like she did when she was looking at Kit.

  “Iced tea, please,” I say.

  “You got it.”

  She turns to leave and I give Kit a pointed look across the table. “Is it always like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Do all women get starry-eyed when they see you?”

  He laughs. “It’s not me they get starry-eyed over. It’s because I play hockey.”

  I’m pretty sure it’s not just because he plays hockey, but since it’s not relevant to my story, I drop it, instead picking up my pen to signify it’s time to start the interview.

  “I’d like to ask two final questions about your brother’s illness, if th
at’s okay,” I say.

  Kit nods. We had a brief text exchange when we set up this interview, and he apologized for his reaction to the question about his brother in the first interview, and I told him again that I should have prepared him better. Still, this feels like walking on eggshells after what happened yesterday.

  “Anything you want to ask is fine,” he assures me.

  Has anyone ever called you a gentleman Viking?

  I silently admonish myself for even thinking of that question. I’ve interviewed senators, renowned scientists, and even an astronaut. None of them have rattled me—I stay focused on the subject at hand. I’ll do the same with Kit.

  “How do you think your brother’s illness affected you?” I ask him.

  “It gave me a deeper appreciation for my family.” Kit unwraps the napkin from around a set of cutlery and sets the fork and spoon on top of the napkin. “It also made me an advocate for increasing public funding into research and treatments for cancer and other diseases.”

  I want to probe deeper. Kit is telling me how his brother’s illness is affecting him today, but I want to know how it felt to the little boy he was. I sense that’s a raw nerve, though, and instinct tells me not to push it.

  “Is it painful to relive those memories?” I ask gently.

  He nods. “Yeah, it is. It affected so many things in our family. I wouldn’t understand it if I hadn’t gone through it. There was a Christmas when Mom and Lance were at the hospital, and the rest of us were home. The month between Thanksgiving and Christmas was always a crazy busy time for Dad at the store.”

  Serena returns with our drinks and asks for our order. Both of us order the special—a turkey club and chips—because we haven’t even looked over our menus.

  I grab the little basket filled with sweetener packets and take out some sugar, tearing it open and pouring it into my tea, then stirring it in with my spoon.

  “So Dad had been working his busiest month of the year at the store,” Kit continues. “Lance was really sick. Mom told us not to come to the hospital for Christmas, though, because Lance was in isolation to protect him from germs. And when Christmas morning came, Sara and I went downstairs and the stockings my mom always filled…they were empty. There were a bunch of sacks from the store with sporting equipment for us. That was what Dad did for gifts, because he didn’t have time to shop. He hadn’t even wrapped them.” Kit’s eyes swirl with emotion, and he looks down at the table, toying with the corner of his napkin. “And the three of us looked at each other…” He takes a long pause, not looking up. “Dad just started crying. Then Sara and I started crying, too. I think for Dad, it was just…everything. The worry about Lance, the stress from balancing it all, and feeling like he’d disappointed us on Christmas. It was hard.”