by Lane, Stacy
“Stop,” she snaps. “You’ll be fine. There’s three of us going up there together.”
“Not your idea?” Chelsea asks.
“No, it was,” I say squeamishly.
“She wanted to be more spontaneous,” Taytum adds in a dry tone.
“Do you want to back out?” Chelsea asks out of politeness, but I can see the disappointment in the possibility.
I shake my head with defiance. “I’m doing this. But if I run off the stage don’t stop me because I’m likely about to vomit.”
“Don’t look at the crowd,” Taytum says, wrapping her hand around mine. “Turn your body toward us so you can’t see them and just have fun. You’ll never see these people again. It doesn’t matter what they think or say to you. Besides, you have a fantastic voice so if anyone says anything it’ll be a compliment.”
I nod. Then keep nodding.
Taytum grabs onto my head with both hands.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
Two minutes later, we’re on stage and our song is starting. I’ve always done the John Travolta parts, so that means I’m starting the song off. I do what Taytum suggested and turn my body toward her and Chelsea. It helps, but the catchy beat of the song does more for me. I forget we’re in a bar with a ton of random people I don’t know. Instead, I’m back in the dorm rooms Taytum and I shared, watching Grease and jumping to our feet every time our favorite scenes came on.
By the second verse, my nerves are no longer. Taytum and I do the back and forth motion with our upper bodies as we sing. Chelsea takes one of Sandy’s parts and I sing with her. The song was over all too soon.
The crowd cheers. My chest heaves with breathlessness. My face hurts from smiling so hard. All of it felt so amazing. When I try to pull a hermit again, I needed to remember the feelings of this moment right here.
A single, loud voice booms above all others. Towering over everyone in the bar, a beast of a man stands in the roped off section.
“Whoohoo! Yeah, baby!” he bellows, clapping and fisting the air.
Every set of eyes are on the giant making a rowdy scene, but mine fall to the bearded man wearing a red ball cap beside him. He faces the stage, eyes indistinguishable from the distance, but I feel like they are on me.
Then again, assuming the big guy is Chelsea’s husband with the way he’s calling out her name, that’s not likely. He’s looking our way in support of Chelsea.
But as my skin tingles with an indistinct weight running down my body that has nothing to do with exertion from the performance, I can’t help but wonder…
I’m staring at a stranger, gauging what his gaze could be on, and realizing I’m an idiot. I most likely look like one up here in front of everybody, frozen and staring off into the distance.
Chelsea is waving and blowing kisses to her hubby, and Taytum is…immobile.
I shake her arm, concerned. She jolts and turns straight to Chelsea.
“Your husband is Victor Mathias?” she asks with exhilarated shock.
“Yeah,” Chelsea drags out. “I don’t typically like to lead with that. Never know where the conversation may go. But you ladies are awesome. I really like you both, and thank you so much for letting me sing with you.”
Taytum’s head bobs from Chelsea, out toward the crowd, and back again.
“Of course,” I reply, oblivious to what has Taytum so stunned, but knowing the silence needs to be filled. “This was a lot of fun. Maybe we’ll get another song in before the night is over with.”
“Oh my God, we should!”
“Yeah,” Taytum nods, in a daze. “With Chelsea Matthias.”
“Why are you saying her name like that?” I shoot my best friend a strange look.
Chelsea smiles like she already knows why. “Wanna meet him? I take it you’re fans.”
“Yes.” Taytum jumps up and down.
“I’m missing something here,” I mumble, eyes going back and forth between them.
Chelsea’s brows creased.
“She doesn’t watch hockey. Tonight was her first game.” Taytum states with an explanation.
“Ever?”
“Why is that so shocking to people?” I say to myself.
“Victor Mathias, Chelsea’s husband, is the new defenseman the Fury acquired this year.”
“Ladies,” the DJ calls out. We turn to him, the same expression on all three of our faces. “Can you step down, please?”
Right. We’re still on the stage.
Stepping off behind Taytum and Chelsea, I glance one more time out toward the back of the bar. The bearded wonder is no longer there.
The three of us cut across the floor through the cluster of people. Her husband meets her outside the private section of booths, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around in a twirl.
“You were awesome, baby! You ladies, as well. Thanks for letting my girl sing with you.”
Taytum nods like a bobblehead, face frozen in a creepy smile.
“Taytum’s a big fan,” Chelsea says to her husband, falling under his massive arm.
“Big. Like you,” she adds, robotically.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I try not to laugh.
“Wanna join us? We have this whole section.” Chelsea waves an arm in a circle.
I follow the direction of her hand. The men are huge, the women on their arms are classy-ish—as in, I’m doing my best to be nice and not use a particular S word. Everyone outside the rope is watching their every move.
Clearly, I’ve been dropped into my worst nightmare. And there is no way Taytum will turn down an offer to hang with these people.
“Sourpuss?”
Turning my head in the direction of that voice, I’m met with a recognizable grin heading our way.
“Earl,” I smile with genuine happiness.
“That was you up there! My eyes are so bad these days I thought they were messing with me.”
“You following me, Earl?” I tease when he stops in front of me.
“What can I say?” He shrugs. “You made quite the impression on me.”
“So the way to your heart is to talk hockey.”
Earl wags a finger at me. “Three decades of marriage and the wife has never figured that out. But you got it in under three hours. No, I’m here having a beer with my sons. I was on my way out, actually.”
His son. Number twenty-five.
Taytum elbows me.
I ignore it, knowing she’s still mad I didn’t take his offer after the game.
“Well, my night just got a little better seeing you one more time.”
“Don’t go getting sweet on me, Jo. You know I like the sourness better.”
Taytum elbows me again, harder this second time.
“Ow,” I wince, rubbing my ribs and glaring at her.
Why does she keep doing that?
A sultry, masculine voice joins our group, and like a fire alarm going off, I’m drawn to the sound.
“Dad, should I be worried you’re trying to trade Mom in for another woman?”
With a slow turn of my head, I follow the deep timbre.
Tall. Bearded. Tattooed.
It’s him.
Gray eyes scan up and down my person. The same tingling weight I experienced moments ago returns. Heavy, and yet I crave the pull instead of wanting to push it away before it crushes me.
Earl tuts. “Shoot, no. I was trying to set her up with you.”
“Is that so,” his son flashes a cocky smirk.
“But she turned it down. Said you weren’t her type.” Earl’s response has his son’s head snapping back like those words were spoken in a dialect no one has ever heard of. “And yet here we are anyway. I think it’s fate. Jo, this is my son Brooks Labelle. Brooks, meet Jo.”
I blink away from Earl’s satisfied humor and stare up at Brooks.
Labelle.
Number twenty-five.
THREE
Brooks
My teammates and I slipped inside the bar through a pri
vate entrance.
When my brothers and I opened the place earlier this year it was Cam’s idea to give us a private door that opened into a private seating area. A little something to keep the fans at arm’s length. Otherwise, we’d never get to enjoy a beer after the game in peace.
Don’t get me wrong, I love our fans, but I’m a human being like the rest of them. After a win, and definitely after a loss, I like to relax and chill with the guys and a cold drink. Selfies interrupt that.
Amber attached herself to my arm the moment I hit the arena parking lot. We’ve hooked up before. She’s not a clinger beyond one night. Well, until it’s another night to cling to, but by the next morning she’s gone.
I deposited her at a booth, then walked to the edge of the bar in our section. Cam tended the other end, flirting and enthralling the three women on the other side. It’s a Labelle gift. Dad is the master, and we learned every bit of it from him.
Vic and his wife arrived right before I did. Chelsea was at the DJ booth, in line for karaoke.
“She’s gonna do it, huh?” I ask Vic, who leans an elbow on the bar top beside me.
“Yep. She’s only been talking about it for weeks. Finally got tired of asking me to join her, and went up there on her own.”
I stand at six foot four, and Vic is an extra four inches over me. Doesn’t seem like much when you’re already taller than average, but my newest teammate is big everywhere. Especially his head. It’s the size of a watermelon.
Nate hands me a beer and I take a pull. Chelsea comes bounding over with an excited bounce in her step, the movement ricocheting to her shoulder-length, ringlet curls.
“I was talking to these two women in line and they’re going to let me sing with them!” she hops up and down with a big smile on her face.
“That’s great, baby.” Vic wraps an arm around her shoulders. “What are you going to sing?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
He hands off her drink. She can’t stop smiling.
Chelsea’s had a hard time adjusting to the new town, according to Vic. He got traded from Vancouver to Tampa in July, from a team he was drafted with, and a town he met his wife in. She left her whole life behind for his career, willingly and with great support.
Our team is young. We have some veterans who are married or are in serious relationships, but they have families. Chelsea loves hanging with them and their kids, but with no children of her own, I guess she feels out of place.
“Who are these ladies?” I ask.
“No.”
“Huh?” My forehead dips with confusion.
“I said no, Brooks. These women are nice and normal and the first ones who haven’t snubbed me in some way since moving down here. If you hook up with them, you’ll ruin my chance with them.”
“That sounds kinky. Are you trying to spice up married life and add a third party?”
Vic lifts his brows, purses his lips, and slides a glance down at his wife.
“Gross,” she snarls.
Vic’s face settles back into place, shaking his head as if he agreed with her entirely.
“Stay away from them,” she warns. “Better yet. Where is your flavor of the night? Go schmooze her.”
“Shit.” I tap the counter with my knuckles, grabbing Nate’s attention and ordering any frilly drink he can whisk together in under twenty seconds. “I forgot about Amber.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes. By the time I take the pink tinted drink over to Amber, I hear the DJ calling out Chelsea’s name along with two others.
Standing beside Vic with a clear view of the small stage, I watch Chelsea climb the platform with two other blondes. One is a dark blonde with a short haircut, and the other, wearing black framed glasses, has her long, golden hair tied back in a ponytail.
Chelsea’s been chomping at the bit to get someone up there at the mic with her. I should be watching her, but I can’t take my eyes off the woman on the end. The one with the ponytail.
She holds herself stiff, a little standoffish as she gives the crowd her profile. Her body is long and slim, her legs toned and stretching her tight jeans with lean muscle. She’s dressed simple and boring almost, compared to the usual type that catches my eye, but something about her snared me like a land mine.
The song started, an old familiar tune from Grease. Then she sang.
“I got chiiiillls, they’re multiplying.”
This is bullshit. I can’t look away. I want to look away, but I’m stuck on her every last word.
She loosens as the song carries on. Adding dance moves that bring a reluctant smile to my face.
Who is this damn woman?
Hopefully, I won’t ever find out.
By the end, the entire bar is in an uproar to battle the sounds at one of our home games.
She turns her face toward the crowd, and my grin widens. Not my type at all. I’m safe.
“I came here to have a drink with my son. Not whats-her-name,” my dad’s voice enters from my left, squinting at the stage.
“Amber,” I reply. “And I didn’t make you sit with her.”
“I’ve seen you with her before. Thought maybe if you were with her more than once then she must mean something special. After the conversation I just had with her… I’m praying she’s not the one.”
I laugh, smacking a hand down on his shoulder with a firm grip. “Dad, there is no one, except for one night.”
“I used to wonder where your mom and I went wrong with you boys not bringing any nice girls home. But we can’t be at fault just because we made such good looking men. That shits gone straight to your head!”
“C’mon. Let’s get a fresh cold one.”
Nate hands us new beers. Dad looks over his shoulder as I catch Vic’s booming voice cheering on Chelsea.
“I’ll be damned…” Dad says, trailing off.
I turn my head, but he’s already walking away.
“Sourpuss?” he asks with surprise.
I follow his line of sight.
I’ll be damned…
How does my dad know her?
She’s not as tall as I originally guessed now that she’s off the platform, but she’s taller than the petit women I go for. I turn my whole body, remaining back from the gathering she’s standing in with Chelsea, Vic, and my dad. I thought her to be plain. The clothes hinted at that, but ten feet away I can see she’s nothing of the sort.
My God, her face is stunning. All angles with pronounced cheekbones and a small, straight nose. The glasses framing her eyes only enhance the vibrant green I can make out from way back here.
There is nothing sour about that face.
Moving—prowling—I come up behind my dad.
She winces when her friend elbows her in the side, but never notices my presence.
“Dad,” I say, coming to a stop right in front of her. “Should I be worried you’re trying to trade Mom in for another woman?”
She turns those green eyes my way.
Damn.
“Shoot, no. I was trying to set her up with you,” he replies.
“Is that so,” I say in a slow inquisition.
“But she turned it down.” My chin juts at that implausible notion. “Said you weren’t her type. And yet here we are anyway. I think it’s fate. Jo, this is my son Brooks Labelle. Brooks, meet Jo.”
I love my parents dearly, but just because they were so in love, sickeningly in love, they believed every little coincidence had to do with fate.
I didn’t believe in destiny or love, despite having proof of the real deal between my mom and dad. Love was different in their days. Love is fleeting now. It never works. Never lasts.
“We happen to be in the same bar a mile down from the arena. That’s not fate, Earl,” she says.
So it’s her words that are sour.
I like it.
Chelsea steps closer to our new guests, glaring at me when no one else is looking.
I haven’t flirted once. What’s that
look for?
Turning to them, Chelsea says, “How ‘bout a drink, girls?”
“Yes,” the short-haired blonde smiles.
“Tay, aren’t you forgetting someone?” Jo nudges.
“No,” she replies. The next second her mouth falls open. “Oh! Oh no Nick’s gonna kill me. Is it okay if I go get my boyfriend?”
“Yeah, sure,” Chelsea says.
“Is it just your boyfriend?” I ask. “This is a reserved area.”
“Well we have a couple friends with us, too,” she answers nervously.
“How many is a couple?”
“Couple generally means two,” Jo says with snark.
“Well, in our experience people will say anything to get close to us.”
“If it’s that big of a deal, Nick can take my spot. I could care less about sitting with VIP.”
I lick my lips, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline I get before a game. Sparring with this feisty woman rivals my love for hockey. I’m liking her more and more already.
“It’s not a big deal,” Vic speaks up, staring at me pointedly. He wants his wife to be happy, and if allowing dozens of patrons into our personal seating area will do it, then he’ll wear me down until I concede.
“Awesome. I’ll be right back.” Blonde Bob skips away.
“I’m heading home to the Mrs.” Dad declares. “Jo, I better see you at another game.”
“I don’t know how likely that’ll be, Earl.”
“Chelsea,” he says, getting her attention. “You need friends, right?”
“Er, yes.”
“Great. Jo, Chelsea’s new to town and needs new friends. Chelsea, Jo wants to learn more about hockey, so make sure she goes to more games.”
“I never said I wanted to learn more—”
“And,” Dad goes on, ignoring Jo. “When you go again, I’ll have Brooks set it up so we’re all sitting together.”
“I guess if I’m going to be forced to attend another game, sitting with you, Earl, is the only way I’ll do it.”
“You met at the game?” I ask.
“Her first game ever,” Dad answers. “I refuse for someone to not like our sport, so I’m showing her the ropes.”
“Dad’s the best person to learn from,” Cam says, joining the group. He stops to stand between Dad and Jo. Holding a hand out to her, she shakes it as he finishes with, “Cam Labelle.”