by Elise Faber
For the second time in three years.
And in many ways, it seemed like the end of an era.
Stefan had announced his plans to retire, and Mike seemed like he might follow him. Blane and Max only had one more year on each of their contracts. But Coop would be around.
He’d signed a five-year-multimillion-dollar deal, bolstered by the fact that he’d been on a tear when he’d returned the week after Calle had been discharged from the hospital.
There hadn’t been any hesitation on his part. He’d simply terminated his lease while she was stuck in the hospital bed, moved his stuff into her place, and then had cleared and painted the second bedroom a bubblegum pink by the time she made it home.
He’d even bought a crib.
And changing table.
And if Calle hadn’t already accepted that he was hers, furnishing the nursery so she didn’t have to worry about it, would have cemented the fact. He’d left her with only the fun stuff, and she’d online-shopped her way to a unicorn-themed room.
Hell, it seemed the only thing to go with those bubblegum pink walls.
She smiled, watching from her seat on the bench, her toes barely grazing the ground, but following Dr. Holding’s strict orders to a tee.
She’d been sprung from lockdown for Game Seven and had been ordered to keep her ass in a chair or on the bench whenever she wasn’t actively coaching.
Which had been most of the night.
Because the Gold had destroyed the Rangers.
Absolutely obliterated them.
For her. She knew that it was for her and Coop and the little girl that Max wanted her to name Stanley—so not happening, by the way. But also, for themselves. Because they’d worked their asses off and were gelling at just the perfect time . . . and kismet happened for a second time.
Next season would probably be different.
The roster changes would make another journey here nearly impossible, even if repeating a championship run wasn’t an almost insurmountable task.
But for the here and now, she and her giant, beached-whale-feeling body were going to enjoy the moment.
Brit and Stefan, side-by-side, their arms around each other as Blue circled with the trophy, passing it off and then going right over to Rebecca to steal her camera and kiss her soundly on the lips.
Blane holding his daughter in his arms, Mandy smiling from the hall.
Gabe and Nutritionist-Rebecca standing next to her and looking, rightfully, so damned proud.
Mike standing by the glass, staring at Sara, their bare hands pressed to the glass.
Angie and Brayden, Max’s son, cheering like lunatics in the stands.
And Coop.
Coop skating toward her. She pushed up from the bench, her lips parting to offer her congratulations.
But he wasn’t looking at her.
He was staring over her shoulder at . . . Bernard?
Um, what?
He walked right by her, stopping behind the bench and reaching for something that Bernard pulled out of his pocket.
Then he gently lifted her.
“What—?”
He butt landed her in a chair just inside the ice.
“What—?” She began again.
Coop didn’t answer her, just pushed the chair a few feet away from the bench.
“Couldn’t swing a recliner on the ice, baby.”
“What—?”
Her third what-beginning question was cut off when Coop went down on one knee.
In full view of the cameras, in full view of the team, in full view of the twenty-thousand fans.
She knew the moment the crowd realized what was happening.
The cheers became deafening.
She couldn’t focus on them, or that fact that her ears were ringing.
Because Coop was on his knee with a ring box open on his palm, and his mouth was forming words she couldn’t hear but could discern on his lips even without the on-one-knee-open-box-with-a-glittering-ring situation happening.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” she shouted, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear her, but also knowing that he’d get it anyway.
And he did.
Because his smile went wide, and the chair almost tipped over when he lurched up to kiss her.
And the photograph PR Rebecca caught of the two of them in each other’s arms, laughing and kissing with Coop’s hands on the outside of its frame as he stopped the chair from falling over was her favorite picture ever.
She had it blown up and framed.
It hung on the wall in the living room of their new house.
Right next to the first picture of Coop holding Emma “Stanley” Armstrong in his arms—taken seconds after she’d been born and milliseconds after she’d stolen both of their hearts.
It wasn’t going anywhere either.
Epilogue
Part Two
Liam
He was fucking up.
As usual.
He’d had a particularly bad practice, after a particularly bad game, after a particularly bad series of games, and he knew that his hopes of staying with the San Francisco Gold were quickly becoming slim-to-none.
The name Williamson used to strike fear in the league.
His grandfather, his father, his two older brothers had been forces to be reckoned with.
He . . . was scraping by.
Four teams in four seasons.
Shitty stats.
And somehow, he’d gotten picked up off waivers by the Gold, reigning league champions, who were in the midst of a rebuilding season after losing some of their big stars.
He was expected to fill a hole.
But how in the fuck was he, the smallest and least scary of the Williamsons supposed to fill a hole when he’d barely earned a roster spot?
Fuck.
He put his head down, tugged the collar of his jacket up.
He should just call it already, put the league behind him and find a new career. Math had been his strong suit—maybe he should go back and be an accountant. He could run his brothers’ multimillion-dollar fortunes, help them eek out a few more dollars and—
“Watch out!”
The warning came a second too late.
He’d already stepped off the curb, already put himself into the range of the car that was blowing through the red light, tearing through the intersection, not giving a shit that there were pedestrians walking—
Well, of all the ways to go, at least this would be quick.
But just as the car came within an inch of him, Liam found himself jerked back onto the curb, his one-hundred-and-eighty-pound frame becoming unwieldy and clumsy.
Kind of like on the ice over the last few years.
That was the last thought before he found himself sprawled, ass first onto the San Franciscan sidewalk.
Gross.
“What the fuck?” a female voice snapped.
The same female voice that had warned him.
“Do you have a fucking death wish?” she yelled, foot tapping, arms crossed, and seeming way too small to have been able to have hauled his ass back onto the curb.
Liam thought that he just might, if it meant that he got to be rescued by a woman who looked like this one. He opened his mouth to reply.
But apparently didn’t work fast enough.
Because the woman, the beautiful, curvy female made a disgusted noise and strode away from him.
He watched her go, watched that gorgeous ass stride down the sidewalk and stop outside a storefront. By the time he pushed to his feet, she’d pulled out her keys and unlocked the door, disappearing inside.
Liam glanced at the sign overhead.
Golden Gate Martial Arts.
He thought of the swaying hips as she’d stomped away. He thought of the fiery words she’d snapped at him. He thought of the pretty brown eyes and lush lips incongruously paired with enough strength to pull him back.
And suddenly, he thought that
, hockey or not, he might just want to stay in San Francisco after all.
Centered
Gold Hockey #9 Coming September 14th, 2020
Preorder your copy at www.books2read.com/Centered
Gold Hockey Series
Blocked
Backhand
Boarding
Benched
Breakaway
Breakout
Checked
Coasting
Centered
Gold Hockey
Did you miss any of the Gold Hockey books?
Find information about the full series here.
Or keep reading for a sneak peek into each of the books below!
Blocked
Gold Hockey Book #1
Get your copy at books2read.com/Blocked
Brit
The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?”
The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?”
The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink.
Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind.
And she meant way down.
Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed.
But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted.
Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive?
Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people.
Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and have an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy.
She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations.
So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.”
–Blocked, books2read.com/Blocked
Backhand
Gold Hockey Book #2
Get your copy at books2read.com/Backhand
Sara
“Sorry I messed up your sketch,” he rumbled.
She nibbled on the side of her mouth, biting back a smile. “Sorry I stole your hand for so long.”
He shrugged. “My mom’s an artist. I get it.”
Well, there went her battle with the smile. Her lips twitched and her teeth came out of hiding. If there was one thing that Sara had, it was her smile. It had been her trademark in her competition days.
Which were long over.
Her mouth flattened out, the grin slipping away. Time to go, time to forget, to move on, to rebuild. “Thanks,” she said and extended a hand.
Then winced and dropped it when her ribs cried out in protest.
“You okay?” he asked, head tilting, eyes studying her.
“Fine.” And out popped her new smile. The fake one. Careful of her aching side, she shrugged into her backpack. “I’ve got to go.” She turned, ponytail flapping through the hair to land on her opposite shoulder.
“That—” He touched her arm. “Wait. I know I know you.”
She froze. That was the second time he’d said that, and now they were getting into dangerous territory. Recognition meant . . . no. She couldn’t.
There had been a time when everyone had known her. Her face on Wheaties boxes, her smile promoting toothpaste and credit cards alike.
That wasn’t her life any longer.
“Thanks again. Bye.” She started to hurry away.
“Wait.” A hand dropped on to her shoulder, thwarting her escape, and she hissed in pain.
“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he shifted his grip from her aching shoulder down to her elbow and when she didn’t protest, he exerted gentle pressure until Sara was facing him again. “It’s just that know I know you.”
No. This wasn’t happening.
“You’re Sara Jetty.”
Her body went tense.
Oh God. This was so happening.
“It’s me.” He touched his chest like she didn’t know he was talking about himself, and even as she was finally recognizing the color of his eyes, the familiar curve of his lips and line of his jaw, he said the worst thing ever, “Mike Stewart.”
Oh shit.
—Backhand, books2read.com/Backhand
Boarding
Gold Hockey Book #3
Get your copy at books2read.com/Boarding
Mandy
Hockey players had the best asses.
No pancake bottoms, these men—and women—could fill out a pair of jeans. She wanted to squeeze it, to nibble it, bounce a dime—
Mandy dropped her chin to her chest, losing sight of the Sorting Hat cupcakes she’d been pondering.
Blane with his yummy ass had a unique way of distracting her.
No, it wasn’t even distraction, per se. He had always been able to get under her skin.
And that was very, very bad for her.
“Ugh,” she said, tossing her phone onto her desk and standing, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to sit still now.
Nope, she needed about forty laps in the pool and a good hard fu—
Run, her mind blurted, almost yelling at the mental voice of her inner devil. A good hard run.
Unfortunately, the cajoling tone wasn’t completely drowned out. Some sexy horizontal time with Blane would be more fun—
But the rest of the enticing words were lost as the roar of the crowd suddenly penetrated through the layers of concrete. Her stomach twisted. Mandy could tell, even before her eyes made it to the television, that it wasn’t in celebration of a goal or a good hit either.
This was fury, a collective of outrage.
She was on her feet the moment she saw the prone form lying so still face down on the ice.
Her gut twisted when she spotted the curving line of a numeral two on the back of the player’s jersey.
“Not him,” she said and the words were familiar, a sentiment she had whispered, had prayed a thousand times before. She needed the camera angle to shift, for her to be able to see more clearly who was hurt. “Not him.”
Then Dr. Carter was on the ice and the player moved slightly, rolling away from the camera, giving a full shot of his back and the matching twos adorning his jersey.
Fuck. Not him. Not Blane.
And that was when she saw the pool of blood.
—Boarding, books2read.com/Boarding
Benched
Gold Hockey Book #4
Get your copy at books2read.com/Benched
Max
He started up the car, listening and chiming in at the right places as Brayden talked all things video game.
But his mind was unfortunately stuck on the fact that women were not to be trusted.
He snorted. Brit—the Gold’s goalie and the first female in the NHL—and Mandy—the team’s head trainer—would smack him around for that sentiment, so he silently amended it to: most women were not to be trusted.
There. Better, see?
Somehow, he didn’t think they’d see.
He parked in the school’s lot, walked Brayden in, and received the appropriate amount of scorn from the secretary for being thirty minutes late to school, then bent to hug Brayden.
“I’ll pick you up today,” he said.
Brayden smiled and hugged him tightly. Then he whispered something in his ear that hit Max harder than a two-by-four to the temple.
“If you got me a new mom, we wouldn’t be late for school.”
“Wh-what?” Max stammered.
“Please, Dad? Can you?”
And with that mind fuck of an ask, Brayden gave him one more squeeze and pushed through the door to the playground, calling, “Love you!” over his shoulder.
Then he was gone, and Max was standing in the office of his son’s school struggling to comprehend if he had actually just heard what he’d heard.
A new mom?
Fuck his life.
—Benched, books2read.com/Benched
Breakaway
Gold Hockey Book #5
Get your copy at books2read.com/BreakawayGold
Blue
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Try not to go out and get a fresh bimbo to ride tonight. I hear STIs on are the rise in the city.”
Blue sighed, turned back to face her. “Really?”
She shrugged, smirk teasing the edges of her mouth, drawing his focus to the lushness of her lips. “Just watching out for Max’s teammate.”
He rolled his eyes. “Not hardly.”
“Okay, how about I’m trying to prevent you from spreading STIs to the female populace.”
“I’m clean, and I’m smart,” he told her. “Condoms all the way.”
“Ew.”
Except there was something about the way she said it that made Blue stiffen and take notice. Because . . . he stared into her eyes, watched as the pale blue darkened to royal, saw her lips part, and her suck in a breath.