Backhand (Gold Hockey)

by Elise Faber

  “Well, it’s not.” Rebecca tapped the report in Sara’s lap. “There’s a copy of a check in here to an actress who looks remarkably like you, one who admitted that it was her in that video.” The publicist made a disgusted sound. “Idiots didn’t even use cash.”

  “I—” Sara shook her head, trying to comprehend everything.

  “And that’s not even considering the bank accounts. Easy to trace today, much harder to do so years ago.”

  “My mother, Sara,” Mike said, almost toneless, except for the current of regret threading through his words. “The accounts went back to my mother.”

  “It wasn’t just the accounts,” Rebecca said gently, taking the files back. “None of the sources could hold up today, not with how pervasive technology is. But a decade ago, they were just strong enough to fool anyone who bothered to look.”

  “And not many people bothered to,” Sara said.

  Rebecca shook her head. “No, unfortunately, they didn’t. Even the IOC only did a slip-shod job of investigating.”

  Sara had the feeling it wouldn’t have mattered if the powers that be at the Olympics had found her not guilty of wrong-doing back then. The public — including her parents and friends — had already lost faith in her.

  The media might have loved her as a champion, but a fallen cheater was a much better story.

  Rebecca slipped the files into her briefcase. “These will be released once you’ve been discharged, if that’s okay with you?”

  “No.” Sara shook her head. Her redemption wouldn’t come from dragging Mike through the mud.

  “Yes.” Mike’s voice was rough, but his eyes were on fire.

  “No,” she snapped. “It’s not me at the expense of you. Think—”

  “She shot you! Ruined your life—”

  “And you didn’t.” Sara felt tears well in her eyes. “You didn’t. Now please come here. I can’t—” her words hitched “—I can’t do this without you.”

  Finally, he came to her, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “It hurts,” she murmured.

  “What hurts, sweetheart?” Fingers stroked down her cheeks, wiped away the moisture.

  “The distance you put between us.”

  Regret clouded his face. “Shit. I’m fucking this up again, aren’t I?”

  She sniffed, but the tension that had been invading her body dissipated. “That seems to be your specialty.”

  Rebecca’s phone buzzed, drawing both of their gazes. “Sorry,” she muttered. “And apparently, my specialty is ruining romantic moments.” Her eyes flicked down to her phone. “Turn the TV to Channel Five.”

  “Why?” Mike asked.

  “You’re the lead story.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  MIKE HELPED SARA maneuver herself from the car. She didn’t complain, but her face was gray.

  “Put on that suit of armor, Stewart!” one of the paparazzi yelled, “And carry your girl inside.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Sara gritted out. “I’m walking into this house on my own two feet.”

  He waved, ignoring them as he carefully wove his arm around her waist and helped Sara up the front stairs. Here there were only two, compared to the three in the garage, and this would bring her closer to the bedroom.

  “Shit,” she muttered taking a halting step. “This fucking hurts.”

  “More or less than ice burn?”

  She paused, considering. “Less, surprisingly.” Then she started slowly forward again.

  Fuck it.

  Moving before she could stop him, Mike wove his arms around her legs and shoulders and lifted her up against his chest. The paparazzi cheered and catcalled.

  “Let me at least get—”

  The front door opened before she finished her sentence.

  Sara sighed. He laughed.

  Brit and Monique squealed from the entryway. “You’re home!”

  “Yup,” Sara said dryly. “And so is everyone else.” A curly head popped out from behind Monique’s legs. Mira was crying. “What is it, honey?” Sara asked.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “Not so hurt anymore.”

  “Then why is Mr. Mike carrying you?” A lip slid out, pouting.

  Sara smiled. “Because he’s stubborn.”

  Mira tilted her head, thinking that over. “My mom says that about my dad a lot.” Brit stifled a giggle. “Dad says he learned from the best.”

  They all laughed… until Sara groaned and said, “Don’t do that. Doesn’t hurt except for laughing.”

  “And walking,” Mike muttered.

  “And talking,” Monique said.

  “And breathing,” Brit added.

  “And… playing Legos!” Mira chirped.

  They stopped and looked at her, confused. The little girl shrugged. “When I tried to go into my mom’s room last night, she said I couldn’t because she and dad were playing Legos.” There that lip went again. “I wanted to play Legos.”

  “When you’re older,” Sara deadpanned after they had all unsuccessfully hidden their laughter. “Now, not to ruin the party, but I’m sure Mr. Mike’s arms are tired, and I’m done with the damsel-in-distress act.”

  Monique and Mira shepherded them upstairs, Brit trailing behind. They got her settled in the bed, covered in blankets and Netflix-cued-up with The Crown.

  Gentle hugs followed, and Mike walked the girls down. Brit hesitated in the threshold after Monique had walked off with Mira.

  “Pascal gave this to Rebecca to give to—” She shook her head and set Sara’s engagement ring into the palm of his hand. “They took it off for surgery and wanted to keep it safe, I guess.”

  Mike held up the ring, watching the emeralds glitter in the afternoon light. “If I was a better man, I’d leave her to her life. Let her start over.”

  “If you were a coward, maybe,” Brit said. “You guys have history… some really shitty pieces of it. But there are also the good times, and I think that if you can get past the guilt, you’ll realize those outweigh all the bad.”

  He thought of those mornings with Sara years ago, punctuated with laughter and private jokes. He thought of her in his bed, feeling the soft, warm weight of her body against his. Her smile. Her scent. Her kind soul and kick-ass attitude.

  There just wasn’t any way that he could live without her.

  She made his life complete.

  Brit clapped him on the shoulder. “And know that she’s thinking of those good times too. That she doesn’t blame you for your mom. That she’s more worried about how you were hurt from it all.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  A shrug. “That’s love. You put the other person’s feelings first,” Brit said. “So don’t bother martyring yourself when it will only piss off your woman.”

  He snorted.

  “You know it’s true.”

  Shaking his head, he waved at Brit as she headed for her car, then turned to close the door.

  “Play Miley for her. Girls dig Miley.”

  “Terrible taste in music,” he called.

  “I’m still faster.”

  Mike closed the door and bounded up the stairs. Sara was in his bed, color returning to her cheeks as she sipped from a water bottle.

  “Don’t play me Brit’s music, okay?”

  He blinked. She pointed… at the open window.

  “You heard?”

  “Yup.” She patted the bed next to her. “Brit gives pretty solid advice. Music excluded.”

  Mike crossed the room and carefully slid onto the mattress next to her. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with my mom.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I want her to go to jail.” He tucked the blankets more securely around her. “She needs to pay somehow.”

  One-half of Sara’s mouth curved. “I’m not opposed to the jail scenario. But I’m not going to worry about it. We’ve got good lawyers. I’m going to let them fight that battle for me.”

  She sighed when he
nodded.

  “What?”

  “You haven’t kissed me.” His face scrunched up, she elaborated. “Since the… incident, you haven’t kissed me.”

  He thought, and well… damn, he hadn’t kissed her. Not more than a peck on the forehead at least. He waggled his brows. “Think I should remedy that?”

  A smirk. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe means yes.”

  “In this case—” One of her hands slid to the back of his head and tugged him close. “Maybe means yes.”

  Then his lips were on hers, and nothing else mattered. Not his mom. Not the press. Not the team.

  Just him and her.

  “I love you,” he said and held up the ring. “Will you marry me… again, I guess?”

  “I will marry you so hard you won’t know what hit you.”

  He grinned and slipped the band on her finger. “Bring it. I can take whatever you dish out, Sara girl.”

  EPILOGUE

  Six Months Later

  “AGAIN,” SARA SAID, “but this time bend your knee more on the landing.”

  She watched as Mira skated away and then back toward her, launching herself into a Salchow. The girl wobbled but stayed on her feet.

  “Yes! Way to go!”

  Mira hugged her around the waist. “Can I can play with my friends now?”

  “Heck yeah.”

  With a laugh, Sara turned for the boards. Mira had talent but perhaps not the interest or drive for competitive skating. In the meantime, Sara was just teaching her a bit here and there.

  She reached for a tissue, but a hand — a very familiar one — grabbed the box before she got there.

  “You aren’t going to wipe it for me too?” she teased when Mike held it out for her.

  “Shush, you.” He leaned over the boards and kissed her. “Want company?”

  She glanced down, saw he had his skates on. “Isn’t this a little too tame for you?” It was just public skating, no pucks or sticks in sight.

  “You’re about all I can handle.”

  One leg then the other slid over the dasher and onto the ice. Mike laced her fingers with his. “You okay with the verdict?”

  His mom had taken a plea deal — twenty years to life for attempted murder and a variety of other charges the lawyers had filed. Sara would be lying if she said that she was unhappy.

  After what his mother had done to Mike, not to mention the whole shooting her thing, forever would be too soon to see Patricia Stewart again.

  “Yup.”

  “You going to set a date for our wedding any time soon?”

  The running joke between them made her smile. Mike was ready to make things official; she thought since they’d gotten betrothed so quickly that a long engagement wouldn’t hurt.

  “Nope.”

  “I’d like our honeymoon to not be interrupted by training camp,” he grumbled.

  Mira flew past them, laughing like the little lunatic she was.

  “Or we can just start our honeymoon tonight,” she said, seeing Mitch walk into the rink. He nodded at her.

  It was time.

  Mike frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Funny thing is—” she paused when Coach Bernard skated up to them “—I always thought I’d get married at center ice.”

  Mike’s headed flipped back and forth between her and Coach. “No dress?”

  She grinned, ran her free hand down her sweatshirt and leggings. “No dress.” She pointed at a white swirl on her thigh. “This is enough white, don’t you think?”

  Mike nodded, his face grave. “Are you serious right now?”

  Stefan and Brit skated over. Stefan had the rings, Brit a small bouquet of flowers.

  Spence and Monique slowly made their way toward them, Monique wobbling like a baby deer as Spence basically held her up.

  “You owe me a really freaking great party after all this,” Monique grumbled.

  Sara laughed. “Deal.” She nodded at Bernard, who she was only just starting to know. Brit, apparently, had goaded him into getting his officiate paperwork.

  “Ready to start that happily ever after, Hot Shot?”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  FIRST AND FOREMOST, I want to say thank you to you, the readers. Thank you for getting to this point in the book and embracing the characters in my head with such warmth. Hockey has been one of my great loves for many years. Reading is the other. Being able to combine the two makes for some of my happiest moments!

  I couldn’t write anything palatable without my assistant, Sara, and my editors. They fix all of my many errors and keep me in line (#NoNape #NoCurve). They’re always encouraging and supportive, and I’m so thankful to have them along with me on this process. Thanks also to Jill, who always formats the mess of pages into an actual book, and to Jena who never fails to design gorgeous covers (whew, abs and pecs!).

  I wouldn’t be here without my readers, and I so appreciate you! So to that note, please know you can always reach out to me on my website (www.elisefaber.com), my Facebook (www.facebook.com/elisefaberauthor), my fan group (www.facebook.com/groups/fabinators), or my Instagram (@elisefaber). Or if that mess of links is too much for you, feel free to email me at elisefaberauthor@gmail.com.

  For more Gold Hockey, keep turning those pages for a peek at Devon Scott (the Devon Scott!) and Becca’s story in Offsides (#1.5) and Stefan and Brit’s story in Blocked (#1). The Gold Hockey series will continue later this year with Blane and Rebecca’s story, Boarding (#3).

  Love you guys!

  Puck Harder,

  —Elise

  BLOCK & TACKLE (Offsides-Gold Hockey #1.5)

  CHAPTER ONE

  IF EVER A time existed for a curse word, this was it.

  Becca was five minutes late. Five entire minutes late, and the little screen on the printer was flashing at her with a paper jam.

  “Becca! Those files need to be on my desk now.”

  Devon Scott. CEO of Prestige Media Group and her boss. Her very demanding boss.

  Hence, curse words. Particularly the four-letter one Becca saved for only very special occasions.

  The one that began with “f” and ended with a perfectly timed and heartfelt “uck.”

  Yeah. The word pretty much summed up her day. No — her week. Heck, if she was already cursing, it might as well sum up her month.

  She yanked the tray from the printer, cleared the jam, and shoved it back in. The printer whirred to life, spitting out pages in a flurry.

  “Becca!”

  “Coming,” she called before dropping her voice and muttering, “Hurry up. Hurry up.”

  “Becca. So help me—”

  The last page dropped into the tray. She snatched it up, fit it into the proper place of the file, and all but sprinted through the doorway of her boss’s office.

  “The printer—” she began.

  Devon’s eyes locked with hers, and Becca shivered. Not for the same reason that most people did when they met Mr. Scott. Not because his cool, businesslike expression was attributed to icicles or frozen seawater.

  She shivered because of chocolate ice cream.

  His eyes conjured thoughts of delicious, rich, melt-on-her-tongue sweetness that made her insides go all squirmy.

  And along came that four-letter word again, blaring across her mind.

  One winged brow arched, dark brown and perfectly formed. It made a crease on Devon’s forehead, a rainbow of little lines leading up, up, up almost to his hairline.

  Which was the precise moment Becca realized she’d said that curse word aloud.

  She clamped a hand over her mouth, smacking herself in the face with the manila cardstock in the process and dropping every single paper she’d so painstakingly fought the printer over.

  This was not happening. Devon didn’t allow mistakes and… she sighed. She really needed this job.

  The phone rang, and Becca lowered the folder, reaching out a hand to grab the receiver.

  Devon beat her t
o it, snatching the phone up and snapping a terse “Hello” into it. But his eyes didn’t leave hers as the conversation went on. They sharpened, holding her in place as effectively as handcuffs—

  And oh God. Now her cheeks were burning.

  Trust her mind to take her straight on a journey to FSOG.

  She bent, hurriedly collecting and ordering the papers before gingerly setting the file on his desk and beginning to back from the room.

  Warm fingers on her wrist stopped her.

  Becca’s eyes flashed down, and she shivered again. Tanned skin against porcelain. Thick, strong fingers dwarfing hers.

  Devon Scott was a former hockey player, and it was easy to see why. He was every inch an athlete.

  Every. Inch.

  Oh good Lord.

  She bit her lip and looked away.

  “I need to go,” Devon said into the phone and hung up, hardly waiting a beat before allowing the receiver to drop.

  It clattered and fell to the floor, but Becca barely noticed.

  Because Devon was walking around the desk, his grip on her wrist tightening when she tried to slip free.

  She always forgot how tall he was. Most of the time Devon was sitting behind his desk when they interacted. But like this — he towered over her, her head having to tilt back so she could look at his face — Becca felt very petite indeed.

  And for a woman who was nearly six feet, that was unusual.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, calloused fingertips running along the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist.

  “Nothing.” She tugged her arm, silently telling him to release her.

  He didn’t.

  In fact, he leaned closer, bringing his face near hers, trailing the scent of pine and spice and man alongside.

  “I said what’s wrong?”

  The question made every part of her body go all tingly. Head to toes — and in between — each part heated and perked to attention.

  Those parts told Becca to grab two fistfuls of Devon’s white button-down and rip. To pop the row of buttons and bury her face in the broad expanse of his chest.

  But she had some pride. And a backbone, for that matter.

  So she lifted her chin and said again, “Nothing.”