“That’s the plan,” Olivier says.
We have to push several tables together to seat our whole group. Olivier and I are sitting with Anton and Mia Petrov, Luca and Abby Campbell, Victor and Lindy Lane, Knox and Reese Deveraux, Erik and Allie Zimmerman, Jonah and Rey West, and Kit Carter and his girlfriend, Molly Lynch. Olivier orders shots for the group, and when they come, Anton stands to deliver a toast.
“Welcome back, Olivier,” he says. “We couldn’t ask for a better owner and we’re happy you found your person in Daphne, however dramatic the first meeting was.”
Everyone laughs and I look around at all the faces, each one warm and smiling. The Chicago Blaze organization is very much like a family, one it feels good to be a part of.
“Cheers,” Anton says, and everyone taps their glasses and throws back their shots.
The alcohol burns going down, and I close my eyes and shake my head to clear away the sensation. When I open my eyes again, Olivier is looking at me.
He leans in and says, “I love you, Daph.”
“I love you, too,” I say, kissing him.
“Will you still love me when I’m old and gray?”
I arch my brows. “You mean next year?”
“You’re quite funny, Miss Barrington.”
“I’ll still love you then,” I promise. “Maybe even more, because you’ll make quite the silver fox.”
Groans sound around the table and I look up to see the waitress delivering not just one more round of shots, but two.
“We lost tonight,” Anton reminds the group. “We’re celebrating and drowning our sorrows.”
Shots are passed out again, and this time it’s Olivier who raises his glass first.
“To a team I couldn’t be prouder of,” he says, looking around at his players. “Win or lose.”
We all drink to that.
Epilogue
Olivier
8 months later
Daphne’s freshly showered when she walks into the living room dressed in shorts and a well-worn T-shirt that says “Fuck Gender Roles.” She sits down beside me on the couch and grabs a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box on the coffee table.
“Did I miss the puck drop?” she asks, taking a bite.
“Nope, you’re right on time.”
The light scents of her body wash and shampoo have become my favorite smells. They have a tropical, coconut scent that makes me think of our trip to Fiji last summer. We left the world behind for a week and rented a secluded beach house with Giselle. There’s a canvas picture of the three of us from that trip hanging in the living room, and a smaller one on my desk at work that Daphne put in a frame.
Daphne and Giselle get along better than I could have dreamed they would. Giselle volunteers at Annie’s Kitchen with Daphne and Daphne never misses her band performances.
“So this is…” Daphne furrows her brow as she looks at the TV screen. “Don’t tell me, I know this…it’s Dallas and…Tampa Bay?”
“Yes.”
She smiles, looking pleased. During the offseason, we watched a few classic hockey games and I explained the game to her. Though she’s still learning, she’s got a basic understanding of the rules and positions now.
“This game should be pretty intense,” I tell her.
“Why?”
“Well, gossip travels fast in hockey, and there’s a guy on the Dallas team who has it out for a guy on Tampa Bay’s team because of something that happened off the ice, and this is the first time these two teams have played since it happened.”
Daphne grabs another slice of pizza and sits back, tucking her feet beneath her legs. “So what happened?”
I help myself to another slice of pizza as I explain.
“So Maverick Hagen is a forward for Dallas. He was engaged to a woman, and she cheated on him with Hunter Paul, a forward for Tampa Bay. Maverick and Hunter were good friends, and Maverick came home from a road trip and found Hunter screwing his fiancée on their kitchen island.”
“Oh God, how awful.”
She shakes her head, probably remembering how it felt to find Aiden cheating on her. If I ever meet that douchebag, I won’t be polite.
“In hockey, other players’ wives and girlfriends are off limits,” I say. “It’s an unwritten rule. The hockey world is actually a pretty small community in the scheme of things. You just don’t go there. But Hunter went there, and everyone knows Maverick’s ready to kill him over it.”
“Is that…” Daphne looks at the screen, her mouth dropping open in shock. “Is that him?”
“Yeah.”
We both freeze as we watch the scene unfolding right after the ref drops the puck. Hagen descends on Paul like a demon, jabbing and punching, and the other players from both teams stay back, knowing this was coming and that it needs to happen.
Gloves fly. Hagen gets in a few good punches before Paul shoves him to the ice. The refs break it up and send them to their respective penalty boxes.
Daphne snuggles in close. “It’s wrong to be entertained by violence, but here I am watching it anyway.”
“It’s part of the game.”
“You’ve mentioned that a time or two.”
With a laugh, I wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her head. The physical therapy I had to do for my broken shoulder was intense, but worth it. My shoulder is fully healed and I’ve rebuilt the strength I lost.
“You know, we wouldn’t be able to have these evenings alone watching hockey if we decided to have more kids,” Daphne says, pulling away to meet my gaze.
“We’ll still do it; it would just be different. I want our kids to grow up loving hockey as much as I do.”
We’ve been talking a lot recently about our future. Daphne wants kids, and she was concerned that at age forty-two, with a seventeen-year-old daughter leaving for college soon, that I wouldn’t.
I do, though. Being a father is the hardest, most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I want to have more kids with Daphne, and I want it soon.
I’m having an engagement ring made for her, and planning a weekend at a cabin for just the two of us so I can propose.
“I’m terrified and excited at the same time about having kids,” she says. “My mother isn’t exactly nurturing.”
“Hey, you’re nothing like your mother, babe,” I assure her.
“But what if I overcompensate, and make our kids too soft?”
“Don’t overthink it.”
She smiles. “Didn’t you say overthinking is like a part-time job for me?”
“Oh, it definitely is.”
She leans in and I kiss her, trying to remember what time Giselle is supposed to be home. Daphne and I have found that practice makes perfect when it comes to sex. The longer we’re together, the better it gets. She knows every inch of me now, and I hope she feels the same way about me.
“We have maybe twenty minutes,” she says, reading my mind.
“Hagen is at it again,” the announcer on the TV says. “He’s only got one thing on his mind tonight.”
Daphne and I turn to look at the TV screen again. Maverick Hagen sprints out of the penalty box towards Hunter Paul, and when he hits him, they both fall to the ground. They’re nothing but a tangle of fists and hockey gear. I’m pulling for Hagen, because Paul had it coming.
And Hagen’s getting the better of it, landing more punches and getting back on his feet first. As soon as he does, though, another Tampa Bay player shoves him back down and starts punching him.
“Bullshit,” I mutter, because this fight was between two men and no one else.
I get a look at the back of the sweater and see that it was Gil McCoy who butted in.
“Tom, this isn’t good,” one of the announcers says.
The refs are pulling McCoy off of Hagen, and Hagen is motionless. His leg is bent at an unnatural angle and blood is pooled beneath it.
“Holy shit,” I say, not knowing if Hagen is even still alive.
The arena is
eerily quiet. Trainers from both teams are running onto the ice when the network cuts away to commercial. They don’t want viewers seeing a gruesome injury up close.
“Will he be okay?” Daphne asks me.
“I don’t know.”
“He wasn’t moving. And there was so much blood.”
“I think Hagen must have gotten pushed into Hunter Paul’s skate blade. Those things are very sharp.”
Daphne covers her mouth with her hand, looking horrified.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” I tell her. “That’s not the way fighting in hockey is supposed to work. McCoy had no business getting into the middle of it.”
“What if his family is watching?”
I put an arm around her. “That’s a hard thing to see, for sure.”
“I’m not in the mood anymore.”
“No, my either.”
We clean up our dishes from dinner, going back to the game as soon as the commercial ends. They don’t show the ice, probably because it’s still being cleaned up. One of the announcers says the rest of the game is cancelled and will be rescheduled.
“Maverick Hagen is seriously injured, but stable,” the announcer says. “He’s being taken to a hospital for treatment. We’ll provide an update as soon as we have more information.”
My shoulders sink with relief. I’ve met Maverick Hagen, and he’s a good guy. He’s the most talented player on his team, and he’s not that old. It’s sobering to think he may never play again.
“At least he’s stable,” Daphne says.
My phone dings from the other room, and Daphne gives me a little smile.
“Time for some hockey gossip?” she quips.
“Probably.”
“Go,” she says, waving a hand. “I’m going to read in bed.”
She never moved out after helping me while I recovered from my injury. I’m glad it worked out that way, because I have a feeling it would’ve taken me forever to convince her to permanently move in.
Daphne just fits. In our home, in my life, and in Giselle’s life. The three of us are a team now, and I can’t wait to add more players to it when we have more kids.
“Hey, I’m home,” Giselle calls as she walks into the apartment. “Please tell me there’s food here. I’m starving.”
I’m just picking up my phone when she walks into the kitchen.
“There’s pizza in the fridge,” I say. “How was your day?”
She sighs. “Good, but long. And now I have a ton of homework to do.”
Taking the pizza box and a bottle of water from the fridge, she waves and heads upstairs.
I exchange several texts about Maverick Hagen’s injury with Anton, Knox and a friend who owns a share of the St. Louis NHL team. Everyone is shocked by what happened, and about what it means for Hagen’s career.
By the time I put my phone down for the night and walk into our bedroom, Daphne is asleep, still wearing her reading glasses. I gently take them off and put them on the nightstand, then pick up the paperback she has lying open on her stomach and insert a bookmark. I know this drill—I do it a couple nights a week. Daphne loves to read, but she usually doesn’t get to bed until she’s too exhausted to get in more than a few minutes.
I switch off the lights, take off my clothes and climb into bed beside her. She moans softly and snuggles against me, her damp hair cold on my chest.
It looks like sex will have to wait until tomorrow. That’s okay by me. I’m so damn happy Daphne and I have a tomorrow, and hopefully many more tomorrows after that.
She’s the woman of my dreams. The one I never thought I’d actually ever find. However many more days life grants me, I want to spend every one of them with her.
Afterword
Thank you for being part of my Chicago Blaze series. This series marked a return to hockey romance for me, and it has meant a great deal to me both personally and professionally. Some of the Blaze players will appear in my next hockey romance series, Sin City Saints. The first book in the series, Maverick, releases Aug. 24, 2021. Keep reading for a sneak peek at the first chapter.
Maverick: A Sin City Saints Hockey Romance
Chapter One
Chapter One
Gia
Stormy blue eyes follow my movement as I raise a cup to my lips and sip my club soda, wishing it was colder.
Though I’m down more than $300 after my first hour of blackjack at the MGM Grand, it’s not the game that has my face flushed and the back of my neck covered in a layer of sweat.
I could lose ten times the amount I’ve surrendered to the house tonight and still not be as worked up as Maverick Hagen has me right now. The man staring at me from the other side of the table has me wishing I could drop an ice cube down the front of my top.
The stakes are high tonight, but they’ve got nothing to do with money. Not directly, anyway. Maverick and I sat down at this table an hour and a half ago with $1,000 in chips apiece to settle a bet. First one to run out of chips loses.
And while I’d never admit it, it’s the first time in my life as a professional gambler that I don’t actually want to win.
“Hell yeah!” The player next to me fist pumps to celebrate his win. “I had a feeling about that one!” He turns to face me, his breath reeking of cigar smoke. “That was almost as beautiful as you, hot stuff.”
Maverick’s gaze darkens from the other side of the table as the man leans in close.
“Fuck off,” I say, glaring at him.
His laugh is more like a bellow, spit particles flying from his mouth onto the felt-covered table.
“Feisty.” He waggles his bushy brows. “I like it.”
“Get in my face again and I’ll knock your fat ass out of that chair,” I tell him with a scowl.
He returns my look of disdain as the woman on the other side of me snickers in amusement. I look at the dealer, waiting for the next deal. I’ve got more important things to worry about than a drunken, mouthy tourist.
Actually, tonight, there’s only one thing on my mind. Am I going back to my room alone tonight, or will Maverick be joining me? The two of us have been doing a dance for four months now—our bantering ranging from heated arguments to heated flirting.
Do I want him? Strictly speaking, yes. How could I not? He’s six feet, two inches of muscled sex on skates. I never would’ve thought an ice hockey player could be as sexy as he is, but in the hundred plus days since I met him, I’ve turned into a hot mess. An actual hot mess, my game suffering because of how hot I am for him.
Just the way he sips his whiskey, licking his lips afterward, makes me clench my thighs together. No one has ever undone me with just a look the way he does. And his voice affects me every bit as much, the deep, silky sound of it making me want to toss my poker chips in a trash can and climb him every time we meet in a casino.
Will I live up to his image of me, though? Maverick thinks he and I will be like sexual napalm—an explosive, rare combination that will put all our past partners to shame.
I think he may be overhyping me. Still, there’s a voice in the back of my mind reminding me of all the times he’s told me I’m one of a kind. That I’m not like other women. That I’m fearless and strong. And he’s right on all counts.
“Hey,” the woman next to me says under her breath as she nudges me.
“Oh.”
I snap out of my daydream and look at my cards, then check to the dealer.
“Weak,” the cigar smoking prick next to me mutters.
I just smile. I’ve been in Vegas for nine months now, and I see suckers like him come and go every day. They win some money, think they’re the most lethal combination of smart and lucky to ever grace the strip and end up going home broke because they can’t stop betting out of greed for more.
I’ve never wanted more. At least not for myself. But since Maverick came to town and set his sights on me, I’ve started wondering…what would more be like? What if I gave in and let him take me to bed, his mouth sl
owly roaming over every inch of skin on my body? What if, just once, I let go for a night and trusted him to make the decisions?
I can’t control myself when I’m around you. All I can think about is your perfect round ass and that smart mouth. Let me show you how crazy you make me.
Maverick’s words echo in my mind as I tap the table to hit for another card. I don’t even register what it is, my gaze locked onto Maverick and his fixed on me.
I’ll fuck you the same way I play hockey—all in, with everything I’ve got.
Maverick and I both win the hand, and I feel a flare of frustration. This bet won’t be settled until one of us is out of chips, and if it takes all night and I lose, I don’t want us to both be exhausted before we even make it to bed.
I want him. God, do I want him. If he’s right, and our chemistry is off the charts, it’ll be a night I’ll remember forever. And once we both get this out of our systems, we can turn our focus back where it needs to be.
For him, that’s hockey. His team is making headlines for all the wrong reasons right now. They’re in a bad losing streak and Maverick is feuding with a teammate.
And for me, it’s poker. I’m not winning as much money as I was before Maverick skated into town. And since I didn’t come here for fun, but to make the money I need to bring down my rival, that can’t continue.
If Maverick wins tonight, he’ll screw me all the way into next week and the tension between us will finally be gone. But if I win, this hot, heavy feeling I can’t escape will only get worse.
You’re my fucking fantasy, Gia.
“Ice?” I croak at the waitress who stops at our table for orders. “Can I get a cup of ice and a long island?”
The corners of Maverick’s lips turn up in a smile. He knows I don’t drink alcohol when I’m playing. But that’s poker. Blackjack is a cakewalk, and I need a drink to calm my nerves.
“Bullshit,” the guy next to me mutters when he loses a hand he staked a lot of money on.
Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 15