He reached out and grasped the pendant, remembering the little girl who’d given it to him fifteen years ago.
Jupiter, he mouthed to himself.
He’d spent most of his childhood bouncing between group homes and juvenile detention facilities, racking up a rap sheet of petty crimes and misdemeanors. Of all the kids he’d met along the way, Jupiter stood out most clearly in his memory. Which was ironic given that she’d barely talked to him except to babble about astronomy. Other than that she’d mostly kept to herself, as if she were trying to make herself invisible to the world. But he’d always seen her. And she’d seen him, her huge amber eyes watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking.
He still remembered the hug she gave him the day she left. The moment had played over and over in his memory, the sweetness of it lingering like the taste of sugar.
He found himself smiling as he held the pendant, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the glazed surface.
Over the years he’d often wondered what became of Jupiter after she was adopted. Did she get along with her new parents? Did she go to college? Did she have a good life? Was she happy?
He hoped she was much happier than he was.
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned his head to see the brunette step out onto the porch. She’d put on a thick robe and fuzzy slippers while he was sitting in the idling truck. And now she was staring at him, clearly hoping he’d changed his mind about leaving.
Grimacing, he released Jupiter’s pendant and threw the truck into reverse, then backed out of the driveway and rumbled off down the street.
He was doing the chick a favor by not getting involved with her. He wasn’t relationship material. Never had been.
Never would be.
Chapter Three
MEADOW
* * *
That evening when meadow arrived at Gamenetic’s suite at the Pepsi Center, she didn’t know what had her more nervous. The pressure of trying to make a good impression on a prospective employer, or the anticipation of seeing Logan for the first time since they were children.
The company’s suite was filled with members of the management team and their invited guests. Dirk Lange met her at the door with a friendly smile and a firm handshake. Then he took her around the suite and introduced her to everyone. She was relieved to see the others dressed casually. It made her feel more confident about her own chosen outfit—a cropped leather jacket over a V-neck sweater, black skinny jeans and black leather ankle boots.
There was a bar and a buffet table in the corner. She was too nervous to eat, but she didn’t want to offend the management team by declining their hospitality. So she fixed herself a small plate and followed Dirk to a row of plush seats overlooking the arena.
Suspended above center ice was the biggest JumboTron she’d ever seen. Although the game didn’t start for another half hour, the arena was already nearly full. A Zamboni machine cleaned the ice as Drake’s “Big Rings” thumped over the sound system.
Meadow munched on her food while Dirk sat beside her with his ankle resting over his knee, super laid back in khakis and black Vans. He was mid-thirtyish with shaggy brown hair and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Fortunately he smiled a lot, which helped put her at ease. He seemed like he’d be a good boss. She hoped she’d get the chance to find out.
“Thanks for being so flexible about tonight,” he told her. “I know this is a pretty unconventional spot for a second interview.”
Meadow stared at him in mock dismay. “Is that what this is? An interview?”
He laughed, appreciating her humor. “All of us are huge hockey fans. We never miss a home game unless we’re out of town or have to work. Sometimes we bring our laptops and work during intermissions.”
Meadow smiled. “Wow. You are fans.”
“Super fans.” He grinned.
She was tempted to pretend she loved hockey to score some brownie points. But she knew her cover would be blown the minute Dirk started asking her questions. She could count on one hand the number of things she knew about hockey. Before the game, she’d looked up the Rebels’ star players so she would at least know their names and positions. Logan played right wing and was the youngest member of the starting lineup. His stats read like gibberish to her, but he was supposed to be one of the best players in the league. She was super proud of him.
“We’re pretty excited about our chances this year,” Dirk was saying. “We’ve already clinched a playoff berth, but we’re in a tight race with Nashville to win the division and secure home ice advantage.”
Meadow nodded, nibbling on a crab Rangoon.
“Is this your first hockey game?” Dirk asked.
She nodded and smiled, trying not to talk with her mouth full.
“Do you watch hockey?”
Is this a trick question? If I say no, will you hire someone else?
“Um, I’ve seen a few games.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d caught some of Logan’s games on television. She didn’t understand the rules of hockey, but she admired the players’ skill and athleticism on the ice. The way they glided effortlessly across the slippery surface was like high-octane choreography.
One of the other executives wandered over and plopped into the empty chair beside Meadow. She couldn’t remember his name, only that he headed the company’s game development division. He looked like a Silicon Valley tech geek in a T-shirt and jeans with glasses perched on his nose.
He grinned crookedly at her. “Dirk says you went to astronomy summer camp when you were a kid. How’d you end up becoming a social worker?”
Meadow smiled. She was used to the question. “I wanted to help people.”
“Admirable.” He didn’t sound terribly impressed. “I’ve always thought the world could use more astronomers.”
“If it helps,” Dirk humorously interjected, “she belongs to an astronomy club.”
“Really?” Tech Exec gave Meadow an appraising perusal. It was the look some dudebros gave her when they were trying to decide where she rated on the “hot nerd girl” scale.
Dirk intervened, drawing her attention away from his inappropriate colleague. “Logan Brassard grew up in Las Vegas,” he said teasingly. “Ever met him before?”
Before she could respond, a loud cheer went up from the crowd. She turned to watch as the Rebels and Boston Bruins skated onto the ice for pregame warmups.
Her heart did a crazy lurch the moment she spotted Logan. He was number sixty-eight. It gave her a thrill to see him in his black-and-gold jersey with Brassard printed in big gold letters across his back.
As she stared at him on the JumboTron, she had a flashback to the day she’d overheard him arguing with Mr. Tavárez, one of the group home counselors. Logan hadn’t wanted to play hockey, but Mr. T had adamantly insisted. It was the best thing he could have ever done for Logan.
The two teams were skating around the ice, stretching and shooting pucks at the net. Meadow’s gaze followed Logan as he went through the pregame warmups. Although she hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, she could tell something was off about him tonight. He radiated an edgy restlessness that she could feel three levels up from the ice.
The JumboTron zeroed in on Hunter Duchene skating over to Logan. He was number forty-three and had a C on his jersey that identified him as the team captain. He was just as tall and broad as Logan, wavy dark hair showing under his helmet.
He stood in front of Logan, giving him what appeared to be a pep talk. Logan was nodding, but the tight set of his jaw suggested he didn’t like what his captain was saying. He might be all grown up now, but he still had that dark streak of rebelliousness Meadow remembered so well.
She definitely needed to stay away from him. For her own good.
When warmups were over, the two teams went back to their locker rooms to get ready for the game. It wasn’t long before they returned.
Watching the Rebels’ introduction in person was even more exciti
ng than watching it on TV. Meadow grinned as she took it all in—the pounding rock music, the dancing laser beams, the video montage playing on the giant scoreboard. The crowd was in a cheering, clapping, foot-stomping frenzy. When the star players were announced, women screamed like they were at a rock concert. Meadow half expected to see panties tossed onto the ice.
The game started shortly afterward. The Rebels got on the scoreboard first when Viggo Sandström beat two defenders to bury the puck in the back of the net.
The suite’s floor shook as the crowd roared. Dirk and the others slapped high fives and joined the celebratory chants of, “Sandstorm, Sandstorm, Sandstorm!”
Meadow grinned as she slipped out of her jacket, settling in for the long haul.
The action on the ice was thrilling, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Logan. She was mesmerized by his power, agility and quickness—the way he spun and stopped on a dime, switching directions to chase down opponents and take the puck. He was playing super aggressively, pushing and shoving and getting into little skirmishes along the boards. He seemed particularly annoyed with a player named Brad Marchand. They kept jawing back and forth, both clearly spoiling for a fight.
Halfway through the first period, Logan received a high-sticking penalty for whacking a different Boston player with his stick. Pissed off at the call, he got up in the referee’s face and began arguing his case.
Meadow watched anxiously as the team captain skated over to talk some sense into Logan. When Logan ignored him, Hunter grabbed a fistful of his jersey and tried to pull him away. Logan impatiently shook him off and went right back to yelling at the ref. He towered over the poor man, hulking and huge.
After some heated back and forth, the ref decided he’d heard enough and ejected Logan from the game.
Boos erupted from the crowd.
Enraged, Logan cursed at the ref before skating off the ice and stomping down the tunnel to the locker room. The sight of his retreating back touched something deep inside Meadow. It made her want to go to him and hug him. Which was ridiculous.
All around her, people were venting their frustration and displeasure.
“The kid’s mad talented, but he’s a hothead,” someone grumbled.
“He’d better not cost us the Cup this year,” another voice piped up.
Meadow was struck by a fierce urge to defend Logan. So strong was the urge that she almost turned around and snarled at the complainers, “Cut him some slack, will you? If you had the crappy childhood he had, you’d be pissed off, too!”
She figured it wouldn’t be the best way to ingratiate herself with her potential new colleagues. So she kept her mouth shut.
After Logan’s unceremonious exit, the Rebels rallied to regain their rhythm and focus. With less than two minutes left on the clock, the score was tied at 3-3. The game appeared to be headed into overtime when suddenly the Bruins scored on a breakaway to take the lead. The Rebels never recovered.
When the final buzzer sounded, the crowd groaned their disappointment.
As Dirk commiserated with the others, Meadow put on her jacket and picked up her handbag, preparing to leave. She was seriously bummed about the loss, but she felt much worse for Logan than the fans. Because somehow she knew he would blame himself, and that bothered her more than it should have.
Dirk turned to her. “If you’re free after this, Cabe Landrieu—the team owner—is having a meet-and-greet for VIP ticket holders in the executive lounge upstairs. It’s a great opportunity for us to interact with the players and show our support.”
Meadow’s throat went dry. “A meet-and-greet? With the players?”
“Yeah.” Dirk smiled ruefully. “Tonight’s loss might put a damper on the festivities, but it’d be great if you could join us, anyway.”
She smiled weakly. “I’d love to.”
So much for staying away from Logan.
* * *
He was a no-show.
Or at least it was looking that way.
For the past hour, Meadow had been circulating around the posh lounge, smiling and making small talk with all the people Dirk introduced her to. She knew this was part of the interview. If she passed the test and got the job, she’d be working with some of these same local business leaders to develop community partnerships. So it was important for her to make a good impression.
But she was distracted by thoughts of Logan. She’d been covertly watching the door, wondering if or when he would show up. She’d watched the team owner arrive, trailed by an entourage of executives and perfectly coiffed wives. She’d watched several players arrive and get mobbed by excited autograph seekers.
Still no sign of Logan.
A burst of laughter drew her attention back to the group she was standing with. Everyone was laughing at a joke Dirk had made.
Meadow smiled and took a sip of her martini. She wasn’t much of a drinker. Not because she was a Goody Two Shoes, but because she couldn’t hold her liquor. One glass was her limit. Plus she didn’t want to risk making a fool of herself while auditioning for a job.
She finished her martini and put the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. Then she excused herself to go to the restroom.
As she threaded her way through the crowd, she saw that Hunter Duchene, Reid Holden, Viggo Sandström and Dmitri Fedorov were still signing autographs and taking pictures with gushing fans. Dirk had promised to introduce her to the star players when the crowds thinned. She didn’t see that happening anytime soon.
She went out the door and was halfway down the corridor when her phone rang. Looking down, she rummaged through her handbag—and walked right into a wall of rock-hard muscle.
She bounced back on impact and probably would have fallen if a pair of huge hands hadn’t caught her arms, keeping her upright.
“Whoa. Easy there.” The voice that rumbled out of that massive chest was deliciously deep and smoky.
“Sorry,” she apologized as her eyes shot up to the man’s face. “I wasn’t watching—” The rest of the words stuck in her throat.
Because the wall of muscle she’d crashed into belonged to none other than Logan “Bruiser” Brassard.
As his gaze locked with hers, everything inside her went completely haywire, and all she could do was stare up at him.
Thick, dark brows slashed over the wickedest bedroom eyes she’d ever seen. Dark as espresso, heavy lidded and rimmed with long black lashes. His high cheekbones looked as if they’d been chiseled out of stone. Several days of beard growth covered his square jaw and framed sinfully full lips, the kind of lips that made a woman’s mind wander where it shouldn’t. His hair was short and black, and his light olive skin hinted at Latin origins.
Good Lord, he was gorgeous.
She watched his eyes slide over her face with lazy appreciation. Then suddenly they widened, recognition flaring in the endless dark depths.
“Jupiter?”
Her heart tripped over itself. No one had called her Jupiter in years. In fact, Logan Brassard was the only person who’d ever called her that.
He stared down at her as if he were seeing a ghost. “Holy shit,” he whispered incredulously. “It is you!”
She smiled shyly at him. “Hey, Lunkhead.”
He blinked, stared some more. Then he surprised her by suddenly picking her up and swinging her around, laughing out loud as he did. The intoxicating sound cascaded over her, snaking between her thighs and kicking her pulse into double time before he set her down, a broad grin splitting his face.
He was even taller than he’d looked on the ice. Six feet four inches of badass in a navy bespoke suit that hugged his enormous shoulders and strong thighs. He was packing some serious muscle inside the sleeves of his suit jacket. She was insanely tempted to grab one of his bulging biceps and give it a good squeeze.
“I’ll be damned.” His dark eyes traveled the length of her, a thorough perusal that made her feel like a million tiny electric shocks were licking at her skin.
&n
bsp; He grinned, flashing beautiful white teeth. “Look at you all grown up and gorgeous.”
She laughed as her heartbeat fluttered. The fluttering was kind of appalling because she knew she wasn’t gorgeous. Pretty? Sure. But not gorgeous.
“Looks like you’ve done some growing up yourself,” she quipped teasingly. “You were always taller than me, Logan, but this is ridiculous.”
He gave a lazy chuckle.
Even in her spike-heeled boots, she only came up to the middle of his chest. His shoulders were so broad they blocked out the light shining from above. The sheer bulk of him made her feel more petite than ever.
It occurred to her that he was still holding her upper arms. She could feel the heat of his big hands through her leather jacket. And he smelled amazing. Shower-fresh with a spicy hint of aftershave or cologne.
He was staring down at her like he still couldn’t believe she was here. “What’re you doing in Denver?”
“Interviewing for a job.”
“Yeah? What do you do?”
“I’m a social worker. Well, I used to be.”
His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“I got laid off six months ago. So I’ve been temping until I find another full-time job.”
“Damn. Sorry to hear that.” His thumbs rubbed her arms, setting off a flurry of tingles that started in her stomach and spiraled down to her toes. “Who are you interviewing with?”
Her reply was interrupted by the sound of approaching male voices. Logan looked over her head. When he saw who was coming down the corridor, a muscle tensed in his jaw.
Before Meadow could turn around, they were joined by three of his teammates. Hunter Duchene, Reid Holden and Viggo Sandström were even hotter up close. And bigger. Much bigger. Next to all of them—Logan included—she felt positively Lilliputian. Like she’d unwittingly wandered into a land inhabited by giants. Brioni-wearing, hockey-playing, sexy-as-sin giants.
Sin Bin Page 4