Backhand (Gold Hockey)

by Elise Faber

  He’d surprised her with the turn in the conversation. “U-um. No,” she stammered before lifting her chin, straightening her shoulders. “If you want me to know about your past, I figure you’ll tell me.”

  He snorted. Women were confusing as hell.

  “So why did you tell me to Google you?”

  She sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “Because it was easier.”

  “Easier for whom?”

  “For me.”

  He shook his head. “And you don’t want to give me the same courtesy?”

  White teeth pressed into soft pink lips. “No. It’s not that.”

  “Sara.”

  “Okay fine. It’s stupid. I mean part of it is that I didn’t want to hash it all up again. It was easier if you thought the worst and just left me alone.” She took a couple of steps, sat on the edge of a pallet. “But I mean, I know it’s not common knowledge or anything, but everything you read on the Internet isn’t necessarily true…” Her words faltered for a second. “I didn’t want to read something bad about you and ruin this picture in my head, you know?”

  “Ruin something more than the fact that the boy who had been one of your closest friends ignored your emails and calls? That he didn’t make an effort to talk to you for a decade?”

  That he’d been in his own personal hell and unwilling to bring Sara into it.

  She laughed, but it wasn’t a lighthearted one. Hers was broken, fractured slightly at the edges. “Yeah. I guess there’s that.”

  He crossed the room and sank down next to her. “I’m sorry I put all that distance between us. I shouldn’t have.”

  “That’s true.” She sighed. “But I guess what I’m saying is that I kind of understand you needing to.”

  The tension between them softened, and he finally asked the question he’d come to the store in the first place for. “Come to the game tonight?”

  Given her reaction, Mike might have stabbed her with a hot poker. Sara went stiff as a board; her mouth dropped open in horror.

  “I can’t go to a game.” After popping to her feet in signature Jumping-Bean style, she began to pace the room. “It’s — rather, I—”

  “You could sit with the WAGs, not be in front of the cameras at all.”

  She paused, her gaze darting back to him. “WAGs?”

  “Wives and girlfriends. They watch the game from a suite. It’s very private.”

  Her laugh was shrill, slightly hysterical. “Yeah, except that I’d be with the wives and girlfriends. Are you insane? The press would have a field day with this. Cheating Figure Skater Dates Bad Boy Hockey Player. It’s like a fucked-up version of The Cutting Edge.”

  “And how do you know I’m a bad boy? High school, I was squeaky clean.”

  She froze. He pushed to his feet, came directly behind her, the fresh floral scent of her skin drifting up and teasing his senses.

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “Try again.” He pushed her hair to the side, exposing her nape, and unable to resist, pressed a kiss there.

  Sara shuddered, blew out a breath. “Fine. I Googled. But just a little.”

  He chuckled. “God, Sara. You never did make anything easy.”

  She whirled around. “So?” She poked a finger into his chest. “If I’m so difficult, why are you here?”

  Catching her hand, he smiled. “I never said it was a bad thing, Sara girl. Sometimes the best things in life are the hardest.”

  That he knew from personal experience.

  “I understand, Mike, but I still can’t—”

  He kissed her, unable to resist. He’d had his taste, and now he needed more.

  So much more.

  Lips melded, tongues tangled, his dick was harder than he thought physically possible.

  And when he broke away, saw that her expression was glazed, that her blue eyes were blurry with passion, he wanted to take her mouth all over again.

  Except, Mitch hollered from the front of the store. “Two more minutes, Sara. That’s all I’m giving you. God knows I don’t want to stumble upon a naked woman in my storeroom!”

  Sara blinked, desire starting to clear from her expression.

  And Mike didn’t want to let it. He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, leaned in to press a kiss to her jaw. “Come to the game, sweetheart,” he whispered into her ear, reveling in her shiver, in the hitch of breath slipping from her mouth.

  “I-I can’t.” But the refusal was gentle. He could press this; he could get his way.

  Except, he didn’t want to manipulate her into accepting. He wanted her to come because she wanted to.

  “Watch it from my house then,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “I—” Her hands fell slack to her sides. “That’s not a good—”

  “Please, Sara girl?” He gave her the puppy-dog look. The same one that used to work on her as a teenager.

  He took what he’d thought before back. A little manipulation never hurt anyone.

  And just like before, his sad puppy expression worked.

  “I— Dammit, Mike. Not the eyes.” She shut hers. “Okay, fine.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SARA GOT OUT of the Uber and stared in shock at the house in front of her. Just outside of the city, it was tucked into a rare patch of green and surrounded by oak and eucalyptus trees.

  A long walk led up to the house, a twisting row of stairs crawling toward a front door obscured from view of the street.

  And directly in front of her was a large gate.

  She swallowed, pulled her phone from her pocket, and approached the intimidating row of iron.

  The keypad was easy to spot, and she plugged in the code that Mike had sent her. Silently, the gate opened, and she slipped through, waiting until it was completely closed again before she hiked up the staircase.

  Muttering a curse when her body protested as per usual, Sara pushed the pain down and continued up.

  Six years since the accident and her bones still ached.

  But she was walking, running, jogging, drawing. Things the doctors had never expected her to do, so really life was looking up.

  The daily pain was manageable. God knew she’d done it enough in her competing days — pushing through hurts, ignoring injuries, continuing on when it felt as though she couldn’t do one more jump.

  But that was different than the emotional pain. That hadn’t been as easy to compartmentalize. It bled into everything, crept back in at the most inopportune moments.

  So she focused on the physical. The physical she could deal with. The physical she could do something about.

  With a wince, she climbed the twenty or so steps leading up.

  Another keypad was by the front door, and she put in the next code from Mike’s text message and waited, listening to the whir of the lock as it rotated and clicked open.

  The knob was oil-rubbed bronze, dark brown and beautifully crafted, but it was nothing compared to the inside of the house.

  “Holy mother of God,” she murmured as she stepped inside.

  For a minute, she just stared at the huge space in shock. Then the alarm gave an ominous beep, spurring her into action.

  She closed and locked the front door before locating the alarm panel and inputting another code.

  “It’s like Fort Knox getting in here.”

  But she supposed there were perks to not having to carry keys or wrestle with a deadbolt, like her apartment.

  Half her morning workout was trying to get the damn thing open after she’d returned home from her run.

  Mike had told her to make herself comfortable, given her carte blanche to explore… except, where to start?

  The entry was huge, with vaulted ceilings and a spiral staircase. She could spy a kitchen behind the stairs with a sunken great room and a wall of windows beside it. On her right was the only wall she could see on the first story. A pair of double doors broke up the expanse of white, and when she crept forward t
o peek inside, Sara saw it was an office.

  She meandered forward, slipping off her sneakers and tucking them near a side table, lest she track dirt across the pristine marble floors. Since the upstairs — hello, bedrooms — seemed too intimate, she bypassed the stairs and went into the kitchen.

  A vase smack dab in the center of the huge island held flowers.

  Her breath hitched, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Daisies.

  He’d remembered her favorite flower.

  Sniffing, she walked forward to touch one of the silky soft petals and spotted the note.

  Don’t be shy, Jumping Bean. Snoop away. Eat all the good snacks in the fridge. And when you find a room you’re comfortable in, make sure it’s got a TV. We’re on channel 723.

  —Hot Shot

  A giant grin.

  Her cheeks were actually aching from smiling so hard.

  She traced a hand over the stone countertop. It didn’t look like marble or granite, more man-made, like Corian. But it was a pretty gray and the cabinets were a bright white.

  Little dots of color — of bright-yellow and pale-blue — were sprinkled throughout. A cookie jar here, a decorative plate there. The look wasn’t masculine or something that she would have associated with Mike’s personality. She suspected he’d hired a designer.

  But the space was homey, somehow warm despite the white and all the stone, and Sara found that she liked it a lot.

  She could almost imagine cooking a meal with him, laughing and jockeying for position around the stove. Or maybe sneaking down for a midnight snack, eating ice cream straight out of the container while perched on that gray countertop.

  And… Ms. Crazy Cakes was making a resurgence.

  Friends. Friends reestablishing an old relationship. That’s all she and Mike were.

  Friends who kissed with enough passion to out-flame a match to kerosene.

  Aw crap.

  But so what if she preferred his kitchen to the crappy one in her apartment? Anyone would.

  “Idiot,” she muttered, snatching her hand back from the countertop as though it had possessed the offensive thoughts and not her own brain. “Chocolate. I definitely need chocolate for this.”

  Glancing around, it took her a minute to find the freezer. A built-in panel disguised the drawer from view.

  Thankfully, ice cream was inside.

  Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately — at this point she was beyond confused — there was a note on one of the lids.

  On the pint of Phish Food.

  No. I didn’t get lucky with the daisies. I remember all your favorites… and how I used to be one.

  —H.S.

  Sara blew out a breath, swallowed down the tightness that had appeared from Mike’s thoughtfulness. But sweet baby Jesus, the man was killing her.

  Especially when she saw the P.S. on the back of his note.

  Spoons are in the drawer behind you. ☺

  “Give me a break, Mike,” she muttered, not that it stopped her from opening said drawer and pulling out one.

  After leaving the ice cream on the counter to get nice and soft, Sara went out the door in the great room and stepped onto a huge deck. Immediately her heart skipped a beat.

  The view was absolutely beautiful.

  The city was in the background, rooftops undulating over rolling hills, a red snake-light chain of brake lights visible in the waning sunshine. The deep-blue, almost-black of the bay encircling the chaos.

  Her fingers itched to sketch the scene. To capture it exactly as she was watching it now.

  But she hadn’t brought her sketchbook.

  Rookie mistake, Jetty.

  Staring intently, she tried to commit the sight to memory to draw later. She did it even knowing that she would fail miserably.

  She did it because her heart wouldn’t let her do anything else.

  Finally, Sara forced herself to turn away from the sight, and that’s when she spotted it.

  The sketchbook.

  Her preferred brand.

  The cup of pencils.

  She crossed to them, took in the little square of paper tucked under one edge.

  Do it. But don’t forget about the game… or the ice cream.

  Mike, the boy, had been dangerous to her heart, wrapping it around his finger with easy charm and a plethora of kindness.

  Mike, the man, was devastating. He’d cut straight through her armor and transported her back in time.

  God. She just liked him so much.

  And so, with a smile on her face, she picked up a pencil and drew until the sun went down.

  Her ice cream was soup when she finally returned back inside, sketchbook in hand, but she didn’t mind, just used the spoon to fish out the good bits and then drank the leftovers like milk.

  If this was confession time, she might have done that to her ice cream a time or a hundred before, but she’d be the first to tell anyone that it tasted just as good melted.

  She rinsed the spoon, dumped the container, and managed to turn on the TV in the great room just as the puck was getting ready to drop.

  Sara had never been much of a hockey fan.

  The game wasn’t in her heart. She’d always appreciated the starkness of a single skater on the sheet of white, the beauty of using the ice to her advantage, circles and zigzags to cover every inch. Hockey had seemed so chaotic in its place. So many skaters, so much noise, so many blades cutting into pristineness.

  She’d seen her fair share of games growing up.

  But none had been like the ones Mike played now.

  And she found the beauty in it: threading passes through the other teams’ skates, landing them directly on their teammate’s stick, roofing pucks over goalies’ shoulders. Chaos and hits and bursts of color traveling at tremendous speed.

  It was a choreographed routine of eighteen players and two goalies — hopping boards, opening doors, jumping into the play even as the action didn’t stop.

  Sara found that she liked this version of hockey very much.

  Or maybe it was seeing Mike on the ice.

  Maybe he’d changed it for her.

  She snorted. Of course, he’d changed it for her. She was in his house, watching the game on his TV, flowers and sketchbook on the island, and reliving his kisses from earlier in the day.

  He’d changed everything. He wanted something she’d never expected to give.

  Not again.

  Vulnerability was akin to death.

  And yet, Mike didn’t make her feel vulnerable.

  He made her feel cherished.

  The first period ended, and the reporter grabbed Mike for an interview before he headed to the locker room.

  The Gold were down a goal, and she watched as he deflected the pointed questions about Brit’s play and whether or not she should have made the last save. Instead, he took responsibility for the play. He didn’t pass it on to the defense in general either, but shouldered it himself, saying he needed to improve, needed to read the play better, needed to work harder.

  Sara watched in amazement. The respect she felt for this man…

  He’d handled the tough questions with aplomb, barely sweating — or rather he was sweating only in the physical sense, not the mental.

  With a wink to the camera that felt decidedly for her, he headed back to the locker room.

  She picked up the remote, heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

  That old impulsiveness reared its ugly head as she clicked off the TV, stood, and left the room.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MIKE WALKED INTO his darkened house and felt disappointment course through him.

  She’d gone.

  Or, hadn’t come in the first place.

  With a sigh, he closed the door to the garage and locked it then set his keys on the kitchen island.

  Which was when he spotted the sketchbook.

  His heart expanded like a balloon being filled with helium. He strode over to the freezer, saw the p
int of ice cream he’d bought for Sara was gone.

  Like some insane paparazzi, he peeked into the trash, grinning when he found the empty container within.

  And though he probably shouldn’t — his mother hadn’t liked him looking at her drawings — Mike didn’t have the strength to resist looking inside the notebook.

  Sara must not care too much, right? She’d left it on his counter after all.

  Gently, he opened the cover and flipped through the sketches.

  His amazement in Sara grew with each turn of the page.

  He might not know much about art, but it didn’t take a genius to see… well, genius.

  She’d somehow captured both the realism and whimsy of the city, turning the rooftops into scales of a sleeping dragon, traffic into the beast’s tail. Then he turned the sheet over and the next held a perfectly rendered drawing of the Golden Gate Bridge being engulfed by ocean fog.

  No wonder her boss wanted to sell her work. They’d both make a fortune.

  He closed the book and walked to the fridge to pull out a beer. So Sara had come and gone.

  The disappointment for her having gone home was there for sure, though it was tempered by the fact that she had come in the first place.

  Mike wanted to play this carefully, to not push Sara too hard, but at the same time, he needed to push her enough that they actually moved forward. They’d both been hurt, but she’d always been it for him.

  They were right for each other.

  He knew that more now than even when they’d been teenagers, when he’d forced himself to not act on his feelings.

  To not hold her back.

  God, he wished he’d ignored his chivalrous side. If he’d stayed in touch, been there for her—

  No. His drama would have just bled over into her life.

  They needed to move forward.

  Together.

  He grinned, took a swig of beer.

  Now he just needed to convince Sara of that fact.

  And figure out how to deal with the press when the news came out.

  Which it would.

  With a sigh, he finished his beer, rinsed the bottle, and put it in the recycle bin. He flicked the lights and checked the alarm was functioning before crossing to the stairs.