by Elise Faber
“Gonna give me some decent passes, old man?”
Max’s lips twitched. “You gonna get open? Move those teenaged legs for a change?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
Ah. Hockey.
He and Blue shared a grin before Max rotated back around and sucked in a breath.
Game time, motherfuckers.
Channeling his little slice of Samuel L as he left the locker room always pumped him up.
Then again, hockey was the land of F-bombs, so he wasn’t sure he could call it channeling the famous Mr. Samuel L Jackson.
Regardless, Max was jazzed as he strode down the tunnel that led to the arena.
The crowds screamed as they headed for the bench—Max wasn’t starting that night, and only the five players who’d be on the ice for puck drop stood at the blue line, gazes on the flags as they listened to the National Anthem.
He was Canadian born, so it wasn’t quite the same as listening to “O Canada”—which was only sung when they played teams from the Frozen North—but it was still pretty awesome. Especially when the crowd got ramped up during the chorus and screamed so loudly at the end that his ears rang.
So. Fucking. Amazing.
Somehow, this was his life.
Somehow, he got to do his favorite thing for a living.
And he never ever forgot that he was one of the lucky ones. Yes, he worked hard. Yes, he busted his ass before and during the season. Hell yes, he played through injuries and colds and sore muscles.
But he got to play hockey.
And, Brayden aside, that was the best gift in his life.
Once the middle-aged man finished with the anthem and the crew rolled up the carpet, Max and the rest of the players who weren’t starting settled into place on the bench. There was an order, a rotation that made it easier for the players to swap positions, since hockey changes were typically on the fly. Those going on next sat closer to the doors, defense on the side closer to their goal and forwards on the other.
The ref blew his whistle and the centers squared off then . . . puck drop.
Both teams exploded into motion.
Blue won the puck back to their captain, Stefan—who also happened to be Brit’s fiancé. They were sickeningly happy and way too lovey-dovey, especially considering they’d now been together a couple of years.
Wasn’t that shit supposed to calm down after a while?
It certainly had been that way with him and his ex.
But also, Suzanne was a mega bitch, so . . . details.
Gold-induced happy endings or not—because the team had a hell of a track record, first with Brit and Stefan, then with his other teammates, Mike and Blane finding love—it was time to focus on the game.
Not on his ex. Not on all the shit that should have been.
This was time for self-discipline and for keeping the cylindrical black thingy out of their goal and strictly in the Canucks’.
They managed to get the puck into the offensive end, setting up and getting a shot on net before the Canucks’ goalie covered the puck and the ref blew the whistle.
Then it was Max’s turn to play.
He jumped onto the ice and lined up for the face-off. His mind worked in short staccato thoughts. Make a pass. Shoot. Deflected wide. Skate back to protect Brit and their net. Thirty-ish seconds passed before he hopped off the ice for a change.
The game continued that way.
Back and forth, hustling like a lunatic, hitting the other players, avoiding getting creamed himself for the most part, and by the time it was over, they’d managed to score two goals and the Canucks only one.
Yes.
Only fifty-eight more games to go in the season.
He snorted, wiping sweat from his brows as he completed a post-game interview before showering and heading to the PT suite to cool down and stretch.
Max was later than his normal time, so the facility was pretty much empty, and he had all the intentions of getting what he needed to get done and then GTFO-ing out. At least until he saw Mandy, their sports medicine guru and basically the reason the team was any form of healthy during the season, stow her supplies, pull her phone out of her pocket, and tap on the screen a few times.
He’d just started to turn toward the weight room when he saw her face fall.
Aw shit.
He glanced around for Blane before remembering his teammate had been pulled into Bernard’s—their coach’s—office.
Max might have still headed to cool down, to leave her to her privacy and not intrude, if he hadn’t seen Mandy reach up and surreptitiously wipe one eye.
Fuck. She was family and she was sad and—
She was crying.
And he wasn’t the type of guy who could leave a crying woman without at least making sure that she was all right. Sorry. He knew it was probably sexist, and nosy, but . . . Max just couldn’t leave her.
“Hey,” he murmured, crossing over to Mandy and snagging her arm. “Do you have a second?”
She sniffed, but her expression warmed. “Of course, Max. What’s hurting?”
He tilted his head in the direction of her office. “Can we—?”
“Oh.” Wide brown eyes. “Sure.” She led the way, closing the door behind him, before turning her concerned gaze back to him. “Is everything okay? Is Brayden—?”
His heart squeezed in his chest, because, fuck, she was the best.
Mandy’s job was the players’ bodies, to keep them healthy and producing on the ice, but she knew they couldn’t play to their full potential if their lives outside of the team had gone to shit. So, she’d also made it her priority to understand each detail of their lives away the rink, physical, family, or otherwise.
She’d even kept an eye on Brayden once when Max had promised to bring his son to a game and Anna, who’d planned on supervising, had fallen sick.
So yeah, he couldn’t just breeze by and continue on with his night.
“We’re fine,” he said. “I’m more worried about you and why you’re crying.”
“I—”
He caught her hand, gave it a light squeeze, and gentled his voice. “I saw, sweetheart.”
The endearment wasn’t PC, but at least it seemed to get through because Mandy’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m fine. Really,” she hurried to add when he started to protest. “I just—I emailed my sister again and I haven’t heard back and I’m hormonal and emotional and—”
Well, there was a lot to unpack in that statement, starting by asking, “Hormonal?” with one raised brow.
That was a specific word, reserved for only two specific situations.
And considering she hadn’t mentioned cramps or mood swings, he felt safe in assuming exactly what kind of hormonal Mandy meant.
Which was the type that resulted in little people with shared DNA.
Her draw dropped. “Shit. I didn’t mean to say that”—she lifted a finger, jabbing it in his face—“Not. One. Word. I just found out tonight, and I haven’t even told Blane yet.”
He lifted his palms up in surrender. “I’m a vault.”
Her lids narrowed. “Good.”
“So, your sister?”
Max found himself holding his breath, remembering his run-in with Mandy’s sister. He’d told her, of course, had returned the printout of the email Angelica Shallows had inadvertently dropped in the hallway outside this very part of the Gold Mine.
He’d returned the email, but it hadn’t been so easy to get Mandy’s sister out of his brain.
Angelica.
Angel.
Sexy curves, porcelain skin, and warm brown eyes.
His dick had twitched upon first glance, and that hadn’t happened in what felt like years.
But though Angelica Shallows might be beautiful, she’d also been running scared.
She’d apologized for intruding on the moment when Mandy and Blane had gotten engaged, panicked that her surprise appearance had ruined something precio
us. But what she hadn’t realized, and what he hadn’t gotten the chance to communicate was that as Mandy’s sister, Angelica would have been welcomed with open arms.
They loved Mandy, and that meant Angelica had built-in street cred.
Unfortunately, Angelica hadn’t stuck around to discover that.
And Max was stuck with the image of her worried face.
He’d thought about emailing her a dozen times.
Yet he’d resisted. He needed to focus on Brayden and stabilizing their lives, creating routine, and bonding with his son after a tumultuous few years. Not on rescuing or reassuring or hell, getting mixed up with a woman.
Not with his track record.
Mandy sniffed, jarring him from his thoughts enough that Max managed to pull his head out of his ass for half a second. “I emailed her again.” She forced a smile. “I just found out I was pregnant, and I wanted to tell someone, and I thought . . . I guess I was just hoping that she might—” A shrug as she broke off.
“It’s only been a couple of hours.”
She nodded. “I know. So, I also know I’m being ridiculous.”
Max bumped her shoulder with his. “Doesn’t make it any easier though, does it?”
Mandy winced. “No.” Her sigh was legit. “Ugh. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
He slipped an arm around her waist, tugged her in for a hug. “You’re always fine.”
A grin. “Damn right, I am.” Those lips fell. “But Max?”
“Yeah?”
“I’d really hoped this time would be different.”
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “I know.”
She’d just rested her head down on his shoulder when the office door opened, and Blane strode through. He took one look at them and glared, though Max knew him well enough to see he wasn’t really annoyed. That fact was further confirmed by the gentleness of his tone. “Sweetheart? What’s the matter?”
Mandy’s face crumpled, Blane rushed over to take her in his arms, and Max used that quiet moment to slip out from the office.
But once again, Mandy’s sister didn’t slip so easily from his mind.
Six
Angie
Monday morning brought less coding and more managing, namely in the frustrating form of one of her most notorious troublemakers, Bailey.
Bailey was a fifty-something man who’d been with the company for years. And while he was a thorn in Angie’s side, he’d worked at the company since before Heather had bought it and turned InDTech into RoboTech. But though he was experienced and a brilliant engineer, he also didn’t take direction well, had horrible people skills, and frankly, tiptoed along the border of sexual harassment on a daily basis. All of which meant that if he’d been a normal employee Angie had hired, he would have been shit-canned week one.
But she hadn’t hired him, and as an older person, he was a protected class of employee.
Basically, he could come back and sue them for age discrimination if he were let go without just cause.
And, unfortunately, just being an asshole wasn’t just cause.
So, until Bailey did something outright—
She sighed and stopped dancing around the issue. Until he sexually harassed someone . . .
God, that sounded horrible. True, but still horrible.
But until Bailey did something egregious like that, or until he failed to do assignments enough times or didn’t come to work on a regular basis or pulled out a stapler and tried to beat her over the head with it . . . well, the point was he needed to give her something so she could fire him.
Angie had been compiling a record of infractions on him, but none were enough to get him out of her hair.
Until that morning.
When he’d groped an employee under her skirt.
There had been a few incidents like this—one of Angie’s employees feeling something, but not quite sure if it had been an actual grope or just accidental contact. Still, Bailey had always been smart in skating that line, or at least at pretending innocence.
But that morning Heather O’Keith saw the grope happen.
And that was how Angie found herself sitting in Heather’s office, a very intimidating lawyer next to her in the receiving chairs, and her file of Bailey’s incidents in her hand.
“What kind of grown man is named Bailey, anyway?” asked the lawyer, whom Heather had introduced as Rebecca Darden. She flipped through the pages as she spoke, and considering that her next sentence trailed quite rapidly after the first, there wasn’t time, opportunity, or expectation for Angie to reply. “This is quite good.” She glanced up and nodded approvingly at Angie. “Pair this with Heather’s eyewitness account and the police report, and you should be able to get rid of him without issue.”
“A severance?” Heather asked. “I hate to ask it since clearly, he’s a scumbag, but that might be cheaper considering how expensive you are, Bec.”
Bec sighed. “It’s probably the least messy option.” A shrug. “And cheaper. I can draft up a release so that he can’t sue you or Angelica or the company in the future.”
Angie’s heart stopped for a second.
One because she hadn’t even considered there was a risk of Bailey taking legal action against her. She certainly didn’t have the connections that Heather did—no famous lawyer friends—and Angie, while she knew the company would protect her, knew Bailey was just vindictive enough to sue her, if only to make her life miserable.
Two, she was all too aware of the binding legal document, of the release she’d signed at eighteen.
A contract that prohibited her from making contact with Mandy.
One that stated, if she did contact Mandy or Mandy’s mother, she would forfeit both hers and her own mother’s inheritance.
Of course, her old man was dead now, her mother gone as well, so that threat held little power. Plus, she’d never even spent the money from her dad. It had always felt icky to her, layered with lies and deceit and way too fucking much manipulation.
So, for the hundredth time in the past six months, she went around and around and around.
Could she chance it?
Maybe?
But what if she ruined Mandy’s life? Brought drama and unease and—
No. That wasn’t it either. Or not all of it, anyway.
Because the real piece of this fucked up puzzle, the major thing that was holding Angie back was . . .
What if she got hurt?
What if she opened her heart and let Mandy in and then got hurt?
Yeah.
That.
Angie sighed internally. She was a chicken. A giant, pathetic chicken.
Bec stood, grabbing her bag and jarring Angie out of her reverie. She nodded at Heather. “Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll have something airtight for you.” She shook Angie’s hand. “Good job being meticulous. This wouldn’t have been as easy if you hadn’t been.”
The door closed quietly behind her.
Angie pushed to her feet. “I’m going to check on Kristin”—the woman Bailey had groped and who was still in with the detective from the police department—“make sure she doesn’t need anything.”
“Absolutely,” Heather said. “But I need you to give me another minute of your time.”
Oh, fuck.
Stomach sinking, Angie plunked down into the chair.
“You’re not in trouble.” Heather’s lips twitched. “I’m flying out tomorrow and wanted to check in with you about Kelsey and Sebastian.”
Angie frowned. “Um. They’re both fine. Been a real pleasure to work with, actually.”
Heather nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. Sometimes brother-sister working relationships can be challenging.” A self-deprecating grin, considering she worked with her own brother.
But that wasn’t what she was talking about, was it? Angie struggled to process the undertones of that statement, because she didn’t think Heather was referring to her own brother Jordan, but the fact that Kelsey and Sebast
ian were related.
Her brows pulled tighter. “I-uh . . . what?”
Could they be related? And if so, why had neither of them said anything?
She met her boss’s gaze, the question no doubt written across her face.
Heather inclined her head.
Holy shit. “I had no idea they were brother and sister,” Angie said softly. “They work well together, and I’ve never seen a single squabble over . . . well, I’m an only child”—she ignored the pang in her heart—“so whatever it is that siblings fight over.”
“Hmm,” Heather said before her lips curved. “I swear that half the time Jordan forgets that I’m the boss now. We argue about that more than anything.”
Angie relaxed. “No way. He loves passing along the tough jobs to you.”
“Maybe,” Heather replied. “But regardless, I’m glad that the Scott crew is behaving itself. Let me know if any issues arise that you can’t handle.”
“I’ll try to make it so it’s not police reports and firings.”
Heather’s cell rang. “I’d appreciate that,” she said before answering the call.
Angie excused herself, closing the door quietly behind herself then going to check in on Kristin. The police were still taking her statement, so Angie returned with the requested bottles of water and left them to finish.
She’d just sat down at her desk and was checking her email when the message came through.
Her heart stopped.
Her palms instantly went sweaty.
Her thighs squeezed together.
Because she recognized the name, and the moment she did so, she also remembered every single one of the feelings the man who that particular name belonged to had summoned within her.
Embarrassment. Fear. Then heat. So much heat that she’d turned tail and run.
Angie had never seen a man more beautiful that Max Montgomery.
Yes, she knew his name. Yes, she’d Googled the Gold’s roster after her run-in with Max. Yes, she’d Googled Max after she’d Googled the team.
She was a Googling machine, and the results had. Been. Glorious.
Max was sexy as shit and model gorgeous. Even the little bump on his nose signaling that body part having been broken a time or two was perfectly centered and added to his attraction rather than detracting from it.