by Elise Faber
“But I like giving—”
“Finish that fucking sentence, and you die,” Mike gritted out.
Max chuckled but turned around and flopped back down into his seat, iPad already at the ready, figurines spilling into the space next to him.
Mike glanced at Blane, who was almost preternaturally still. “You good?”
A flash of pain crossed his face, the same hurt that always seemed on the periphery of his expression whenever he saw Brit with Stefan. The man held a flame for Brit, and while she loved him — they’d grown up playing together — it had never been more than a sister’s love.
Fuck, he sounded like Oprah.
Blane’s face cleared. “Yup. Just thinking about the next game. We’ve got to get more traffic in front of the net if we’re going to score. Their goaltending is too strong otherwise.”
They chatted for a few minutes about the upcoming games and the adjustments Coach wanted them to make, both defensively and offensively, then each plugged in their headphones and tuned out for the rest of the hour-long flight.
When they landed, Blane slipped off the plane ahead of the rest of them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SARA AND PASCAL pulled up to Monique’s house about thirty minutes before puck drop. It had taken forever to shake their tail, but she hadn’t wanted to lead the paparazzi to Spence and Monique’s home.
None of them needed that chaos.
The house was quaint, in an older part of the city, but nicely kept up. It had Victorian details — ornate trim, a pitched roof, was painted in a deep green with bright white accents — and a neat, flower-filled yard.
The sight was homey, and with the sun drifting toward the horizon, she pulled out her phone and snapped a few pictures. She’d have to ask Monique if she could draw it.
“I’ll be around,” Pascal said after she’d stowed her cell. “Text if you need anything.” And then he disappeared into the shadows.
Literally walked into the darkness and vanished from view.
“That’s super creepy.”
His soft laugh trailed her up to the door.
She hesitated before pressing the bell, suddenly nervous. Like she was a teenager on a date for the first time and—
The knob turned, the panel swung open, and Mirabel wrapped her arms tight around her waist.
“Wow,” the girl said. “I forgot how little you are.” Small hands measured their heights, passing from the top of her head to Sara’s shoulder. Yes, pathetically, the seven-year-old was almost as big as she.
“You’re tall for your age,” Monique said. “Comes from a giraffe of a mother and a hockey-player dad.”
Mirabel nodded vigorously. “My dad is sixty-six.”
Sara grinned. “Wow, he looks good for his age.”
“Come in. Come in,” Monique said. “Six feet six isn’t anything too special amongst athletes, but add in my crazy genes—” She patted her hips, gestured to the ridiculously long legs holding her up.
“You’re beautiful,” Sara said, following them into the house. “I always wanted to be taller.”
“We’re all beautiful in our own ways,” Mirabel said.
“That’s right,” Monique replied, ruffling her hair. “Why don’t you go wash up? Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Can I show Sara my room first?”
Monique’s eyes flicked over to Sara’s. She shrugged. Looking at little girls’ rooms wasn’t something she was in the habit of, but if Mirabel wanted to show her…
“Okay.”
“Yay! Come on!” She grabbed Sara’s hand and started dragging her down the hall.
“Slowly!” Monique said. “Show her slowly.”
Mirabel’s feet decreased their speed. Slightly.
Sara was led past two closed doors and through an open one into a… pink-splosion.
Pink carpet. Pink walls. Pink curtains and bed coverings. The only thing that wasn’t pink was the sparkling silver rhinestones bedazzling the edge of everything.
“Do you like it?”
She blinked, eyes trying to adjust to the visual onslaught. “It’s very pretty.”
“I love pink!” Mirabel yelled, jumping in a circle and doing a little dance in the middle of her fuchsia area rug.
“I can tell,” Sara deadpanned, walking toward a collection of stuffed animals. The only non-pink toy in the whole place was a plush Gold skater. It wore a face-mask, goalie pads, and a jersey with… Brit’s number?
“Don’t tell Dad,” Mirabel whispered. “But Brit’s my favorite Gold player.”
Sara laughed loudly. “You’re the best, kiddo.”
“I know.” Mirabel bent to pull a book off her shelf. It had — no surprise — a pink cover.
“Yeah?” Sara took the book when Mirabel pressed it into her hand.
“That’s what my dad says.” A pause. “You can call me Mira,” she said. “All my friends do.”
She tugged one of Mirabel’s — Mira’s — curls. “Thanks, Mira. You can call me… Sara.” When the little girl giggled, she shrugged. “My name is pretty short already.”
“True.” Mira opened the book, turning pages until she stopped on a chapter. “Can you read this to me?”
Sara smiled. “Just so happens that I love to read.”
“Me too!”
She read aloud to Mira until someone cleared her throat from the doorway. Turning her head, she saw Monique watching them, a relaxed smile on her face. “Dinner’s ready, and the boys are almost on TV. Wash up, sweetheart.”
“Okay!” Mira jumped to her feet, grabbed the Gold plush. She sprinted out the door and into a nearby bathroom. Bottles clattered, water splashed, the toilet flushed.
The girl seemed to have one speed.
“Did I keep her too long?” Sara asked.
Monique was studying her, expression unfathomable.
It cleared at her question. “No. She would have gladly kept you here reading to her until she, or you, passed out from exhaustion.” A hesitation. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
Sara laughed uncomfortably. “I’m not too complicated.”
Monique shook her head. “Exceptionally talented. Nice. Gorgeous. How did you get mixed up in that scandal? No,” she added when Sara sucked in a breath. “Don’t answer that. It was more rhetorical than anything. You just seem so nice.”
“Nice people do bad things,” Sara said softly, slipping a bookmark into Mira’s book and setting it on the bed.
“That is one version of the truth.” Monique’s eyes narrowed. “But not yours, is it?”
“No.”
“You know, in my modeling days, I met quite a few interesting people.”
“Yeah?” Sara fussed with the hem of her shirt, pulling it down, smoothing out a few non-existent wrinkles.
“Yeah. One of those is an expert at private investigation. I can make a call, get you in touch—”
The knot in Sara’s stomach loosened. “Thank you,” she said. “But I think I’d like to try and keep the past where it belongs.”
A beat of quiet passed, then Monique murmured a soft, “I understand.” She tilted her head toward the hall, voice raising and growing decidedly chipper. “Now let’s go eat. Spence has the start tonight, and I want to watch my man skate.”
“Brit’s not playing?” Mira asked as she ran out of the bathroom. “Aw, man!”
“Don’t tell her father she said that, okay?” Monique said, though her eyes were filled with laughter.
“Deal.” She took a breath, wanting to force out the tension that had invaded from the seriousness of the last few minutes. “Does Spence know that Brit is her favorite?” She nodded at the plush toy that Mira held.
“Oh yeah.”
Sara and Monique both burst into giggles. They were still laughing when they sat down with bowls of rice, chicken, and veggies at the coffee table in front of the TV.
“It’s not fancy,” Monique said, passing her a fork and napkin, “but it’s kind of a tradition.�
�
“I think it’s perfect.”
As was the rest of the night. Mira cheered for the team between bites of food, coaxed Sara to read a few more chapters during intermission — a clear ploy to get out of doing the dishes that both she and her mom knew and ignored — and conked out halfway through the third period.
While Monique carried her daughter to her room, Sara washed up the rest of the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher.
“You’re not driving, right?”
“No, Pascal is.” She frowned. Out of sight, out of mind. She’d forgotten about the bodyguard hiding in the shadows. “He’s around… somewhere.”
“The security guy?”
Sara nodded. “He’s really good at his job.” Her lips twitched. “Almost too—”
“Good,” Monique finished with her. “Yeah, I’m friends with the wife of his normal client.”
“You’re friends with Devon Scott’s wife?” she asked then winced, because the question had almost been a shriek.
Monique smirked. “Yes. Becca is super cool.”
“Sorry, I’m a little star-struck. Mike mentioned that he used to play for the team, but he’s just— Those abs—”
“Gorgeous,” Monique agreed. “One perk of being a hockey wife is the hot scenery.”
They both broke down into giggles again.
When they finally got themselves under control, Monique asked, “How about a glass of wine?”
“Wine is everything,” Sara said.
“Dork.” Monique pulled out a corkscrew and a bottle of chardonnay.
“True story.”
Laughing, she nodded at the screen. “Go on and sit. Your guy is on TV. Better enjoy him.”
“You too,” Sara teased. “Your guy is playing his ass off.”
“Brit needed the break with so many games on the schedule. She’ll be back on it tomorrow.” Monique shrugged and poured two glasses. “Such is the life of a backup. Always the bridesmaid.”
“Is it really bad?” Sara took the wine over to the coffee table.
“No. I mean, he wants to play, but he also knows his role for the team. His is as important as anyone’s.”
Sara nodded. Sometimes it wasn’t the most well-known player who made the biggest difference.
“Just like I know where to hide my brownie stash so that little — and big — fingers won’t find them.” Monique held up a plate filled with gooey black squares.
Sara lifted her wine glass in a toast. “You’re a genius.”
“Hell yeah, I am,” Monique said, shoving a brownie in her mouth and setting the plate on the table.
There might have only been eight minutes left in the period, but she and Monique still managed to pack away that plate of chocolate as well as the entire bottle of wine. And when the game ended — in an overtime win, yes! — they were pleasantly tipsy.
“Let’s do this again, sometime,” Monique said, hugging Sara. Her caramel cheeks held the slightest flush, and her breath smelled like wine.
Not that Sara was in any better state. Her face was hot, probably red as a tomato, and her head was pleasantly muddled. Wine was good for her stress. Look at that.
“Definitely,” she said, squeezing back and turning toward the car.
Oh, crap. She should have called Pascal.
Except that he materialized out of thin air, making the two of them squeak with shock. “Stop doing that,” she said.
His lips twitched as he stepped into the light of the porch. “‘I’m very, very sneaky.’”
“Did you really just quote an Adam Sandler movie to me?”
He didn’t answer, just turned to Monique and said, “Lock up. I’ll escort Ms. Jetty home.”
Monique rose on tiptoe to lock eyes with Sara and said, mock whisper, “He did quote Adam Sandler.”
“I knew it! The line was from—”
“Mr. Deeds.”
“Terrible movie,” Sara said.
“Horrible,” agreed Monique. “But I still loved it.”
“Me too!”
And cue more giggles. With a sigh, Pascal gently pushed Monique back across the threshold and closed the front door. “Lock up,” he said loudly.
The deadbolt slid into place. “Movie marathon. Your house. Thursday.” Her voice was muffled.
“Deal,” Sara said, talking with enough volume to be heard through the wood. “But what about Mira?”
They could always bring her.
“She gave you the go-ahead for the nickname? Dang girl. I don’t even have that right.”
They both snickered, and Pascal cleared his throat. With emphasis.
“Mirabel is at her grandma’s that night.”
“Then it’s a date.”
“Great,” muttered Pascal.
“Night, Sara!”
“Night,” she called and turned for the car.
Pascal beat her there, opening the door and making sure she was buckled in before he closed it. They were almost home before she came out of her pleasant, muddled, wine-chocolate fog to say, “Thank you. For bringing me.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“Except it’s something to me.”
His eyes flicked to hers for a second then back to the road. “I understand.” A pause. “And I’m happy you have a friend.”
They drove the rest of the way home in silence. They slid through the gate almost unobstructed — definitely less paparazzi — and he walked her to the door, making her wait in the entry while he did a sweep of the house.
Once he’d gone, she changed into her pajamas and fell into bed.
It felt like only seconds had passed before hands were shaking her awake. “Mike?” she asked, bleary-eyed.
“No,” a female voice said. “I’m not Mike.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
FINALLY, THE GOLD had won two games in a row. Mike and the rest of the team breathed a sigh of relief. They’d been ahead by a goal early in the game, but had given up the lead late in the second.
It had been a clusterfuck of epic proportions, that second period. The only good part had been the team rebounding.
First Blue had tied the game, and then Blane had gotten the overtime winner.
And finally, they were back on track again.
He sent a text to Sara, an ooey, gooey message that the guys would give him crap for. She wouldn’t get it until the morning, but he wanted the first thing she saw when she woke up to be him. Or, well, his thoughts of her.
Whipped, and he didn’t give a damn.
Slipping on his suit jacket, he followed Brit and Stefan out of the locker room and through the maze-like hallways beneath the arena. They stepped out into the parking lot and boarded the bus, the drone from the paparazzi basically nonexistent here in Southern California.
The celebrities watching the game had been way more interesting than mere athletes.
Plus, Sara was at home and not the arena, so the buzz around the team had dropped significantly.
Which was the singular good thing about being away from her.
Maybe the lack of a photo op would make for more peace when he got back.
The drive to the hotel in Anaheim was just over an hour, where their next game was, and he all but collapsed into his bed. He almost preferred the old days of roommates, compared to the empty hotel room without Sara.
Then he remembered how loudly Blane snored.
Empty was definitely better.
He tossed his suit over a chair to deal with in the morning and collapsed into the king-size bed.
And even though he missed Sara with a palpable ache, exhaustion dragged him under almost the moment his head hit the pillow.
MIKE WAS SO deeply asleep that it took him a bit to realize the pounding was someone knocking at his door.
He rolled out of bed, wincing at the bright red numbers on the clock.
Five past five.
The knocking started again, and he hurried to the peephole. Coach was on the othe
r side.
And he was in his underwear. Great.
Well, nothing to be done about it. He opened the door.
Coach Bernard’s eyes were wild. “Coach, what’s wrong?”
“Pants and shirt on. Grab your stuff. You need to go.”
Mike moved, grabbing his slacks and undershirt off the chair, stuffing the rest of his suit into his bag. Fuck wrinkles.
“What is it?”
“A plane is waiting,” Coach said, pulling open the door. “Normal circumstances don’t apply to this.”
It had to be Sara. Mike knew that. The knot in his gut knew, the ice pouring through his veins knew.
“Is she—?”
Devon Scott came around the corner then. “Come on, Stewart. Let’s move. I’ll explain on the way.”
His former teammate didn’t lead Mike to the elevator, instead pushed through the stairwell and pounded down the stairs. The lobby was quiet as they sped through to a waiting car. Once inside, he whipped toward Devon.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Sara is….”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
SO MUCH FOR her gilded prison.
Turned out all the security in the world didn’t mean much when a person disregarded the law.
“You’re trespassing,” Sara murmured.
The woman who stood at the end of the bed looked crazy: ratty blond hair was yanked into a haphazard ponytail, thick black liner was smudged around her eyes, her clothes were stained and torn.
“Get up.”
Not happening. Sara reached for her phone. Pascal had put his number on speed dial. She just needed to—
“Stop.” The order was accompanied by a gun pointed in her direction.
Sara froze.
The woman smiled, revealing as many missing teeth as some of the guys on the Gold. “Ah, so you aren’t entirely stupid. Now get up.”
She slipped from the bed.
“Put on shoes.”
She put on her shoes.
“Walk downstairs.”
It wasn’t like Sara could disobey, not with a gun pointed at her back.
“What do you want from me?” she asked as they descended. Could she delay long enough to get help? There was supposed to be a guard on duty at all times.
