by Avery Flynn
Everyone in the arena was cheering. It was exhilarating. Fallon had never felt anything like it. She turned and high fived the stranger sitting next to them before she and Tess did a standing, jumping hug thing that seemed like the appropriate way to express their excitement.
Her heart was still pounding in her chest when one of the Knights’ broadcasters went down to the ice near the Knights’ tunnel to announce the three stars of the game. By the time she called Zach Blackburn’s name, Fallon figured she and most of the fans would be hoarse in the morning.
He came back out on the ice without his helmet on, sweat making his face flush and his hair flop down in front of one eye. He shoved it out of his face, his gaze more on the ice under his skates than the reporter holding the mic.
“Tonight we saw a different Zach Blackburn,” the reporter said.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I’m hoping you see more of him.”
“Don’t suppose any of it has to do with your Lady Luck who was spotted in the stands tonight?”
Zach’s head snapped up, and he looked right at Fallon. A whole flock of unwanted and wildly inappropriate butterflies took off in her stomach. It had to be the effect of drinking a beer this close to the ice. There really was no other explanation.
“No comment,” he said in a tone that did not allow for follow-up questions.
The reporter’s smile faltered only for a moment. “With the plays that you made tonight, no need for one. Thanks, Zach.”
There was no missing the chatter about Lady Luck going on behind her, but even the weirdness of having strangers talk about her as if she really did add any smidge of luck wasn’t enough to dim the high of this moment. If Zach could play like that for the rest of the season, the playoffs weren’t just a dream. The Ice Knights could go all the way. Could tonight get any better? The answer to that was an all caps NO.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she said to Tess. “Getting out of the parking lot is going to take forever.”
Together they hustled up the stairs and out onto the crowded concourse.
“Hey there, Lady Luck,” a man hollered, reaching out and grabbing her by the shoulder and jerking her around. “How about you give me some of that good stuff?”
The man was probably five-ten, two hundred pounds, and judging by how glassy his eyes were had imbibed more than a few beers. Everything in her body went cold as she assessed the situation. People streamed by them, too much in a hurry to beat the post-game traffic to notice what was going on. The guy’s fingers were eating into her shoulder, his grip harder than his slightly weaving stance promised. This wasn’t her first time having to deal with a handsy drunk, but normally there were at least a few orderlies around for help. God love Tess, but the woman wasn’t exactly Black Widow.
“Let go of me.” She shook the man’s hand from her shoulder.
“Why you gotta be like that,” he said, taking another step into her personal bubble, the nearly full beer in his hand wobbling, the liquid sloshing toward her and landing on her sweatshirt, soaking it. “I’m just being friendly. I bet your friend here is a little nicer.” He swayed a bit as he pivoted toward Tess. “I bet you’re lucky, too, honey. Tell me, if I rub you right will some of that luck of yours come off on me?”
Fallon didn’t think. She didn’t consider. She just went with her instincts and slammed her fist into the guy’s nose.
…
What in the hell had he gotten her into?
Zach, hair still damp from his post-game shower, had slipped on his joggers and grabbed his hoodie the second one of the reporters dropped the news about Lady Luck punching out some asshole who’d grabbed her and threatened her. However, Zach hadn’t bothered to throw the hoodie on before rushing out of the locker room. Instead, he’d stayed half naked as he made a beeline to the arena security office, zipping around the slow walkers and ignoring the curious looks of the Ice Knights’ front office staff. He’d made it to the office in time to see Fallon sitting on a desk in the middle of the room, her sweatshirt a wet pile next to her, arguing with a guard about who had the best skate skills in hockey history.
“If you don’t think the Jamil O’Rourke of last season couldn’t skate rings around Kellogg, then you really need to go back and watch the tape,” she said, giving the guard a you-know-it’s-true smirk. “The man skates like a god.”
Pulse pounding in his ears, Zach marched into the room and did a quick scan of Fallon from head to toe. Her long brown hair was out of the braid she’d had it in the other night. It fell down past her shoulders without a curl or a flip or a decorative highlight and didn’t look like any of it had been yanked out. Her makeup-free face didn’t show any sign of cuts or bruises or a swollen lip. Skimming over the Ice Knights tank top that did not bear his number, he didn’t notice any tears or bloodstains.
She didn’t look hurt. She looked good—more than good with that ornery something glinting in her eye that kind of reminded him of the look on his own face when he saw himself on the JumboTron while he sat in the penalty box. Unlike him, though, she wasn’t paid to take exception to when others got roughed up. She was a nurse for Christsake, one he’d pushed into coming tonight. He should have thought about the possible negative fan repercussions. He’d put her up to this, got her into something where she wasn’t aware of all the facts, just like his parents had done to him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, clutching his hoodie tight in his grasp.
She looked up at him like he’d grown a second head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You punched a guy.”
“I’m a nurse. I can positively swear that I’ll live.”
That got a quiet chuckle from the security guard sitting in the folding chair next to the desk. Zach—who wasn’t laughing because what Fallon had said wasn’t funny—glared at the older man before turning his attention back to the woman who was going to give him a heart attack before he was thirty.
“You could have gotten hurt.” The words came out slow because he was trying like hell to use that whole mindfulness thing the team’s yoga instructor was always going on about to use when the stress seemed overwhelming. He really needed that deep well of calm right now because it felt like he was about to come out of his skin. “That guy could have punched you back.”
Fallon rolled her eyes at him. “The asshole did take a swing.”
His vision dimmed a little around the edges, and he curled his hands into fists. “Tell. Me. Where. He. Is.”
“On his way to the police station to sober up in the drunk tank.” The guard, who was looking at Zach like he was a guy walking a tightrope over a bonfire, stood up from his chair, walked over to the water cooler, and filled one of those paper triangle cups, handing it to Zach.
He downed it in one gulp, the coolness of it sharp in comparison to the heat sizzling through him as he kept his attention locked on Fallon. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
That, and the fact that the cops had already yanked the dickbag from the building, did more for slowing his breathing and his heart rate than anything else.
“Did he scare you?” he asked.
Fallon scoffed. “Not in the slightest.”
She was lying. It was as plain as the way her gaze dropped just the slightest bit and zinged to the left in the breath before she responded. The woman knew he made his living reading just those kinds of signals, didn’t she? The ability to read an opponent like that was the difference between a brief stint in the minors and a career in the big time.
Zach turned to the security guard, Ed going by his name tag. “Can we have a second?”
“Sure.” Ed nodded at him before turning to Fallon and grinning. “It seems I have some video to go watch anyway.”
“Finally,” she said with a chuckle. “A man who can admit when he’s wrong.”
“I’m more rare than a butterfly in February.” Ed gave Fallon a good-natured wink and walked out the door, shutting it behind him.
Th
at left him and Fallon in the small office together. He walked over to the desk she sat on and handed her his hoodie. She looked down at the dark blue material with his name written on it in silver thread like it was an exotic object that she’d never seen in real life before.
“Put it on,” he said, his tone tight because he didn’t understand why it mattered so much at that moment.
She shook her head. “I’m okay. I’m just letting mine dry out a little”
“Please.” The single word was out before he knew what would come after. Lucky for him, he was quick on his feet. “You can pull up the hood and it’ll help hide your face a bit when you have to walk through the crowd. The press have already caught wind of everything. Ed can walk with you to the players’ entrance.”
“Why would I go that way? The car is parked in the east lot.” Always with the questions, but she pulled the hoodie over her head anyway. It nearly engulfed her.
“I’ll take you home.”
One eyebrow went up. “You don’t have a car.”
Fuck. That’s right. You’re broke, Blackburn. Remember?
“How did you get here?” Maybe he could go with her. Make sure she got home safe. Watch until she was safe behind her locked front door.
“My friend Tess.”
She was the hot and cold friend of Lucy’s—either totally silent, which was most of the time, or going on and on about some random topic. “Where’s she?”
“Went to get hot cocoa.”
He stepped closer, reached out, and pulled one of the hoodie strings free that had gotten caught underneath when Fallon had pulled it on. “Why?”
“Didn’t you know?” Her gaze softened and dipped down to his chest. “Chocolate cures everything.” The words came out a little shaky. “She’ll be back any second.”
He took another step closer. “I didn’t mean for this to happen to you.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
His gaze dropped down to her mouth. He didn’t mean for it to, but it happened. All of a sudden it hit him. He was standing between Fallon’s legs as she sat on the desk. His palms were pressed against the dinged-up metal surface on either side of her hips, so close that he’d barely have to move to rub the knuckle of his thumb against the denim of her jeans. Their faces had somehow gotten closer and closer during their exchange, and now his mouth was only inches from hers.
She reached up, the tip of her finger tracing across his collarbone, almost hesitant as if she didn’t want to touch his bare chest but couldn’t help herself. “You have a contusion.”
“Part of the job.” One that he’d feel even more in the morning.
She dropped her hand to her lap, clasping it in the other with a white-knuckled grip as if she didn’t trust what she’d do if she didn’t hold on so damn tight. “Do you like it?”
“Getting banged up?” Maybe if it meant she’d be the one applying the bandages.
“Your job.”
“I used to love it.” More than running at full blast in the winter morning air, more than staying up for a full night of sex, more than breathing.
“And now?” Fallon looked at him as if she really wanted to know, not because it could move her closer to some goal, but because she just wanted to know.
Zach had no idea how to answer. People didn’t ask him these kinds of questions. They just assumed—and he let them. But not Fallon.
As if she realized there was more to this than just another question, she reached out again, placing her palm over his heart. A soft pink flush colored her cheeks as she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth.
The room went still around them, caught on the edge of something else, something more.
A hot hunger burned its way up his body as the urge to kiss her moved from being a hint of an idea to a full-fledged want. It was fueled by the post-game adrenaline rush he always got and the added oomph of worrying about her. That’s all it could be. Still, he couldn’t stop imagining the taste of the Chapstick on her full lips, the heat of her body pressed up against his, and the silky smoothness of her hair beneath his fingers. Her hand slid upward, curving around the back of his neck as her eyelids lowered.
The office door banged open.
“Oh my God, there are reporters everywhere.”
Jolted back to reality, Fallon let her hand slip away from him as Zach spun around. Tess stood in the doorway double-fisting hot cocoa. Fucking A. What in the hell had he been thinking? He hadn’t. Again. And that was the problem. Fallon wasn’t just any woman. She was Lady Luck. No one—himself most definitely included—should be fucking with her.
“Oh,” Tess said, face turning blotchy and red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” he said, his voice gruff, as he walked to the door. “Let me know if you change your mind about an escort home.”
“I’ll be okay,” Fallon said.
Of course she would. People like her always would. They stayed aware. They watched out. They were surrounded by family who had weekly lunches together and friends who brought hot cocoa to fix whatever ailed them. And how about you, Blackburn? What do you got?
A Lady Luck who he needed to make sure to protect from the assholes of the world—including himself. The very last thing either of them needed was for him to lose sight of what mattered.
He came back from the brink of career implosion once after everything with his parents blew up in his face—if not in public, thank God. The league didn’t give third chances. This was it for him. He couldn’t forget that.
Chapter Nine
Ice Knights Get A Win, Lady Luck Gets A Knockout
Real talk, ladies. We’ve all been there. Some guy seems to be pretending to be nice, but he’s not. He’s trying to correct us, intimidate us, get us to go along so we’re not seen as being a bitch. It’s bullshit, and last night, Zach Blackburn’s Lady Luck did a solid for all of us and knocked that supposed Mr. Nice Guy the hell out.
Yeah. Yeah. I know, this is a hockey blog and, yes, we are going to talk about the puck, but the above had to get mentioned.
So let’s talk hockey. Last night’s game against the Thunder was one for the books. Everyone came out and did their part, from goalie Chris Quartz, who blocked sixty-three of the sixty-four shots on goal, to forward Alex Christensen, who not only took an ugly hit but scored the game-winning goal. And you know we have to talk about defenseman Zach Blackburn. With Lady Luck in the front row, he had one helluva game, setting up the winning goal and showing the Thunder that our team wouldn’t be disrespected with cheap checks.
So what’s next for the Ice Knights? A short break and then a four-game road trip out west. I doubt I’ll be the only one on the edge of her seat waiting to see what our boys do next.
Comments:
Mr. Knight: I come here for hockey news not to hear about no makeup wearing, he-woman man-haters who punch out people who just want to talk.
Josh C.: He-women? Man haters? No makeup? Really man? WTF.
BringHomeTheCup: No shit. I’m sure LL is really worried about what you think of her lack of makeup.
Josh C.: More like he should be worried about her right hook if he ever makes a dumb-ass statement to her face.
BringHomeTheCup: +1
Mr. Knight: Maybe if “Lady Luck” acted more like a lady, people would treat her like one.
The Biscuit Mistress: Okay people, I just sprayed an extra heavy dose of troll be gone. Mr. Knight has been banned.
BringHomeTheCup: Can you work that magic on the populace in general?
The Biscuit Mistress: I wish.
Chapter Ten
Paint and Sip night was more crowded than usual when Fallon arrived for her weekly girls’ night. People looked at her a little longer than normal, and she swore she caught someone doing a pseudo-selfie with their camera angled to catch Fallon in the shot. Okay, maybe she was being paranoid. She probably was being paranoid.
Still, after everything that had happened since her photo
with Zach at his house had gotten out and the Ice Knights game against the Thunder, it seemed like people looked at her differently—and it was weird.
At least she had her girls here. That helped. It was just her, Gina, and Tess painting under the watchful glare of class leader Larry, who never had a twisted thought he didn’t want to memorialize on canvas. As she sat down in the empty seat between her girls, she glanced over at the example Larry had put up at the front of the room to showcase what they’d be painting. The choice tonight? Zombies breaking through a melting glacier as a skinny polar bear slept nearby.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s bleak even for Larry.”
Gina handed her a plastic cup of cheap white wine. “I made the mistake of getting here a little too early, and he told me all about the climate change documentary that inspired it.”
Fallon loved her friends, but she’d never been more happy to see them than today after the hospital’s Human Resources department head had pulled her over for a little chat when her shift ended. If she’d left when she’d meant to, she would have been the one stuck depression-chatting with Larry, the tortured artist who’d obviously done something bad in a former life to have to teach Paint and Sip classes in Waterbury. All was fair in love and avoiding one-on-one time with Larry.
“So where did the zombies come from?” Tess asked, cocking her head to the side in true Tess fashion.
Gina grinned. “He fell asleep watching The Walking Dead.”
“Yeah,” Fallon said. “That’ll do it.”
That had all three of them giggling loud enough to get the stink eye from Larry, who shushed them from the front of the room as he started the class. Properly silenced, they made it all the way to the point where Larry was showing them how to paint a zombie’s exposed elbow bone before Gina spoke up.
“So how did it go with Human Resources today?” she asked.
Fallon sipped—okay, guzzled—the rest of her wine. Oh yeah. That had been a ton of fun. There was nothing as good as being called onto the carpet at work for something that had absolutely nothing to do with her job performance.