Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  I grumbled about it, and he told me to talk to Amy. Amy told me I was lucky I’d been allowed on the ice at all. So, I shut my mouth, then nearly pulled a muscle grinning so wide when Coach told me today that I’d been cleared for full-time play.

  On Minnesota ice, the energy’s palpable, intense with the hunger to prove ourselves in enemy territory. We scraped by with a 3-2 win two nights ago, but it was messy and scrappy. We didn’t play our game, and tonight’s the night to reclaim our style of play, not to sink to theirs.

  The guys are quiet as we skate around, doing warm-ups, everyone getting into their mindset for the game. When I steal a glance at her again, Frankie’s still nose deep in her phone, muttering to herself. Her hair drops in a sheet of near black down her shoulder and I squeeze my hand inside my glove, feeling the reflexive need to smooth it back.

  It’s a cruel irony that my two most important personal interests are at odds with each other: winning the Stanley Cup and winning Frankie’s heart. The longer the playoffs run, the longer I have to wait to pursue her. Normally I find irony amusing.

  Not this time.

  Someone yells about an incoming puck, jarring me from my thoughts.

  Focus, Ren. Deal with the here and now.

  I catch it and pick up my speed as I skate around, flicking the puck up on my stick, spinning, faking, losing myself to muscle memory.

  The din of voices echoes in the rink, but my hearing narrows to the soothing sounds of smooth, wet ice, the scrape of my skates as I spin and travel backward, my mind quieting, my body centering. Breathing deeply, I soak up that frosty bite in the air, a bursting cool that fills my lungs.

  Pure tranquility.

  Until I look up and lock eyes with Frankie. Her face is tight, strained in a way I haven’t seen before. She looks worried and nervous. Skating her way, I stop near the bench. One hand’s worth of fingers are tangled in her necklace, the other holding her phone, white knuckled by her side.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She swallows as her eyes dance between mine. “Nothing.”

  “Obviously it’s not nothing. You look anxious.”

  Her hand drops from her necklace. “I’d like to formally request you not get beaned in the head tonight. That’s all.”

  I frown, turning only long enough to slap the puck away, returning it to Kris across the ice. Then I spin back around. “I always try not to, Frankie.”

  “Didn’t stop you from getting pancaked to the plexi last time we were here,” she grumbles.

  A small grin pulls at my mouth. “Francesca.” I lean in. “Are you worrying about me?”

  “No.” She wrinkles her nose and flicks her hair behind her shoulder. “And scoot back. You stink like a sweaty hockey player.”

  “I am a sweaty hockey player, Francesca. I’d think you’d be used to the smell by now.”

  She closes her eyes like she’s searching for serenity and coming up short. “I’m just reminding you, it’s in everyone’s interest here that you play it safe.”

  My stomach tightens with a surge of nervous happiness. Frankie cares enough about me to be worried I’m going to get hurt. Enough to scowl at me from across the ice and offhandedly warn me to take it easy.

  Kris sends the puck back my way. I flick it up onto my stick and juggle it. “Don’t worry, älskade. I’ll be careful.”

  Her frown deepens. “Of course you speak one of the few European languages I have no familiarity with. That word at yoga. Now this. I don’t like this recent development of second-language use, Søren.”

  “Hm.” Smacking the puck toward François who was not remotely anticipating my shot on him, I earn one of his colorful French oaths. “This coming from the woman who was talking smack in Italian behind my back during yoga with Fabi. Pretty hypocritical.”

  “That—” She huffs. “Fine. Fair. But just so you know, I can still look up what you said.”

  I grin and start to skate away. “Good luck. Swedish is not phonetic.”

  Before she can give me further hell about it, I circle the net, power across the ice, and let my mind settle. But my heart won’t stop galloping at breakneck speed.

  * * *

  Third period, tied 1-1. Thanks to a few games off, my legs are still fresh, my lungs easily pulling air. I crouch low for face-off and win the puck, passing it to Rob and soaring up the ice into the attacking zone. I’ve had my eye on Number 27, the one who hit me late and dirty into the boards last time we were here. When I played the other night, he and I only had one shift that overlapped because I played so little, but tonight’s another matter.

  He’s up my ass. Constantly.

  So far, I’ve been able to stay clear of his dirtiest attempts, which seems to infuriate him. He’s not the first defender to be perturbed by my agility on ice, given my size. He’s also not the first defender to target me like his sole mission is brutalizing my body. Every team we play, I’m a target. I’m our leading scorer, and I’m good at avoiding scrapes, winning the puck, catalyzing offense. I defy physics, and it shocks and then quickly pisses off my opponents.

  To be fair, it shocked me at first, too. But now I understand it’s my strength, this intuition I have, the way I sense incoming hits and slip away, my body’s ability to hold peripheral awareness of so much, then sneak myself and the puck right where we need to go. I couldn’t explain how I do it if I wanted to—it’s just something my brain-body connection implicitly knows.

  That said, while I’m adept at dodging disasters, evading and putting up with Number 27 is getting old. Countless hooks, pokes, and slashes, slapping his stick into my skates, hoping to trip me. He’s tried and missed smashing me into the boards more times than I can count. And unlike past times when I’ve weathered his and other defenders’ abuse with stoic detachment, simmering frustration has been building to an angry boil inside me. I don’t know why what I typically ignored and let roll off my back is irking me so relentlessly tonight. Why my hands itch to do damage, my fists twitch to draw blood. All I know is, they do.

  Maybe you’re hitting your limit, Bergman. We all have them.

  Fair point, subconscious. I’ve spent three years in this league being squeaky clean. Backing away from fights, playing a fair game, never taking the bait. I do every PR stunt they ask of me, show up for every magazine cover and interview the league wants. And the whole time I’ve smiled, kept myself out of trouble, and not asked for a damn thing except a beautiful game to play and my peaceful home to rest in when I’m not.

  But most of all I’ve waited. And waited. And waited for Frankie. And now I’ve had to survive living with her, seeing shower water dripping down her chest, watching her eat my omelets with sleepy eyes and gorgeous bedhead, sharing sunsets on the beach with her and her fluffy dog that I miss already. And I still can’t have her. I can’t tell Frankie what she means to me or touch her how I’m dying to.

  I feel like Mom’s pressure cooker the time she forgot about her rice and the lid exploded, showering the room. A mess of suppressed, unmet need, blowing its top.

  As 27 knocks my skates again, I spin, slam a shoulder into him and barrel on with the puck toward the goal. My entire focus narrows on the net. I fly up the ice, deking, weaving, knowing my footwork’s faster than the defender can keep up with, knowing this goal is mine.

  I dump it off to Tyler, speeding past the Wild’s last man back and pick up the puck when Tyler fakes and flicks it to me. As I bear down on the goalie, the puck glued to my stick, then pull back to shoot, my foot gives from under me thanks to Number 27’s stick, which hooks my skate and trips me.

  I’m falling, heading straight for a face plant, but somehow, I still manage to get my shot off. My gaze follows the puck waffling through the air, dipping low. Just as I crash to the ice, it sneaks past the goalie’s pads and lands with a thwack, safe inside the net.

  Goooooaaaaallll!

  “You lucky bastard!” Tyler yells, hoisting me up. “Three minutes left, and you pulled that off!”
<
br />   Rob’s lit up with pride, smacking my helmet and bumping my chest like always. “That was amazing.”

  When I skate by, 27 shoves me. I freeze, hold his eyes, then begin to skate past, but he puts up his arm again and shoves me once more.

  “That’s it,” Tyler snaps, yanking off a glove. “He’s so fucking overdue—”

  Rob stills Tyler’s hand. “Ren can fight his own battles. And if he doesn’t want to, they’re not yours.”

  Number 27 spits out his mouth guard, and grins nastily, revealing four missing teeth. “He’s too pussy to fight his own battles. Is he your bitch, Johnson? Gotta protect your—”

  Tyler launches at him, but I manage to get in between them. “He’s not worth it,” I tell Tyler, shoving his glove into his stomach and spinning him away. “Get out of here. Cool off.”

  I glare over my shoulder at the guy, straighten my helmet, then turn and start to skate away. “Mammering rough-hewn eunuch,” I mutter.

  Rob snorts in hysterical laughter, skating next to me.

  “What did you fucking call me?” 27 yells, shoving me from behind.

  The ref skates in, turning 27 away.

  Tyler howls in laughter as I grab his arm and drag him with me, skating toward the boards to switch for the last shift. All we have to do is keep the lead I just bought us for the next three minutes and avoid a penalty. Then we win the series and advance to the next round of the playoffs.

  Rob skates past me, still struggling to contain his laughter. “Best thing I’ve ever heard on the ice.”

  I grin, spinning my mouth guard around, feeling the relief of another goal and telling off that jerk. I’m almost to the boards when I lock eyes with Frankie, who’s scowling again. Dropping my mouth guard, I give her a bright smile. Suddenly her eyes widen, her hands waving in alarm. I turn to look over my shoulder, and spin deftly, just in time to slip 27’s right hook. Hurtling past me, he flies into the boards and crumples to the ice.

  When I turn back Frankie’s eyes are wide, her mouth open.

  “See,” I tell her, swinging over the boards and onto the bench. “Told you I’d be careful.”

  16

  Frankie

  Playlist: “Lovely,” Billie Eilish, Khalid

  After the game, Ren begged off dinner with the team. Rob implied it was because of a massive headache, but I have a suspicion Ren’s absence has a lot more to do with what happened when 27 launched himself at Ren and ate ice instead of landing a blow.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, but I am. I walk the soft carpeted hallway of the hotel, straight toward Ren’s room. He’s always booked right by me, and it’s maddening. Every time I hear him turn on the shower, opening and shutting his hotel dresser drawers—because Ren’s that guy who unpacks his suitcase tidily for a two-night stay—I have to try not to picture him walking around his room, gloriously naked, with that Viking sledgehammer between his legs, which I’m now shockingly acquainted with after the yoga and shower-towel debacles.

  Knocking softly, I wait. Ren opens the door and squints at me. He’s holding a massive ice pack to his head and looks unsteady on his feet.

  “How was I supposed to know the guy only has one nut?” Ren mutters.

  I shrug. “You couldn’t have known. Just a bad coincidence. Not like he didn’t deserve it, though.”

  Turning, Ren leaves the door open and backtracks to his bed, dropping on it with a groan. “It was just an off-the-cuff Renaissance swear. Just a bunch of old words thrown together.”

  “One of which was eunuch,” I say pointedly.

  Ren lifts his palm like, so what? “I’ve cursed hockey players using worse Shakespeare than that for ten years now, and never once has it created a problem.” Ren sighs, sounding exhausted. “I have to get my frustration off my chest somehow. I don’t fight. I don’t take the bait. I don’t say nasty things about their mother or call them homophobic slurs. Elizabethan oaths are how I hold on to a little shred of dignity.”

  Now that’s something you don’t hear every day. I have the ridiculous urge to squish his cheeks together and kiss Ren breathless for the adorkable things that fall out of that mouth. Instead, I settle for shutting the door behind me and carefully lowering myself to the edge of his bed.

  “Well.” I pat his hand. “I can tell you feel bad about calling a guy with one nut a eunuch, but he’s an asshole guy with one nut. He was coming after you, bullying you, Ren. You just stuck up for yourself, and you didn’t even mean to land such a pointed blow.”

  Ren shifts the ice pack on his forehead and doesn’t say anything.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He pivots his head on the pillow and meets my eyes. “Yes.”

  “What made you decide to play a professional sport that is arguably the most tolerant—celebratory, even—of hostility and aggression, when you’re clearly a nonviolent person?”

  “There’s so much more to the game than that,” he says, almost as if to himself. “I love the beauty of it. Grace and coordination, the team effort of hockey. I just choose not to embrace its most vicious aspects.”

  “And you feel like you stooped to his level tonight.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he says quietly. “I was relieved he didn’t smash my face, again, but I felt awful when I watched him slam into the boards, then fall on the ice. I know he brought it on himself, I understand that in some sense of karmic justice he deserved that, but…”

  Ren sighs heavily, eyes closed. “I don’t know. It was like high school all over again. I felt weirdly vindicated and guilty. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. “Yes. I get why you needed to skip dinner.”

  “Oh, I was coming to dinner. I’m starving. I wasn’t that torn up about it. But then I started this headache.”

  “Have you been getting headaches a lot?”

  He swallows and presses the ice pack harder onto his forehead. “They started a few weeks ago. Amy says it’s what sometimes happens after a couple concussions. So, nice life development.”

  I steal the moment to stare at him. Tousled hair, haphazard waves of russet and gold. Full soft lips half hidden beneath his beard. Stupidly, I lean in and push back a piece of hair stuck to his forehead.

  His eyes drift open, pale as ice and just as capable of freezing me. “Why are you here?” he whispers.

  Voices echo in the hallway, muffled, rooms away from us. I hear myself breathing, rough and rapid. “I’m not sure. I was…I guess I was worried about you.”

  His gaze holds mine, like he’s trying to puzzle me out. I only hope he can’t.

  Scrunching his eyes shut, he tugs the ice pack over them. “Sorry. Light hurts.”

  His free hand fists by his side. I watch his jaw tic. He’s hurting. And as weird or maybe even wrong as it sounds, I feel relieved that I’m not the only one. That Ren might seem like his life is a breeze, but he’s as much a slave to the fallible human body as I am. He knows what it is to hurt, to be debilitated by pain.

  Slowly, carefully, I set my hand on top of his fist. “Relax,” I say quietly. “Tensing up makes pain worse.”

  He sucks in a breath when I slide my hand over his knuckles, gently prying open his grip. I pick up his hand, and start a firm massage, running my thumb along his Mound of Venus, up through the webbings between each finger.

  Ren groans. “God, that feels good.”

  “Good.”

  I tell myself to breathe, even as heat simmers beneath my skin and every hair on my arms stands up. It’s probably reading Sense and Sensibility for book club this month, but what is it that’s so sensual about the simple touching of hands? How can sharing the barest contact feel so intimate?

  After a few minutes, I gently set his hand on the bed. Before I can pull it away, he slides his palm against mine, how our mouths and bodies move in my daydreams. Soft, slow. Hot. Close.

  Our fingers lock, and I don’t know who did it first, only that it happened.

  “‘If I profane with my unworthiest han
d this holy shrine,’” he whispers, eyes still shut, “‘the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’”

  I swallow nervously. “Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Ten points for Slytherin. Ten more if you can tell me what Romeo’s saying.”

  I grin at him. Ren would know what House of Hogwarts I’m in, not that I’m terribly hard to peg. “That Juliet’s hand is a place Romeo feels unworthy of, too pure for him to touch. Which is clearly just a pick-up line, considering he admits he shouldn’t hold her hand and offers to make it up to her by kissing her.”

  Ren’s hand squeezes mine. “And how does Juliet feel about that?”

  Breath leaves me, short and fast. My heart’s pounding, emotion knotting in my throat. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. You have an incredible memory. It’s like you see something once and you can recall it.”

  I don’t exactly have a photographic memory, but I do have a damn good one.

  “You knew that line from Hamlet,” he presses. “Every Shakespeare play about a king.”

  God, he’s such a dork. So kissable.

  But I can’t do it. Not when he’s a virgin for Christ’s sake, someone waiting faithfully for a woman to love and cherish and give everything to. He and I are literally on opposite ends of the spectrum. I have no business kissing him.

  Newsflash: you already have.

  Okay, I have no business kissing him anymore.

  I stare at our hands, tangled together. “‘Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’”

  “Mhm,” he says blearily, his grip slackening in mine. “‘Let lips do what hands do.’” Bringing our hands right over his heart, he knots our fingers tighter, and sighs. “‘They pray.’”

  His breathing steadies. His face grows slack. And I let myself steal the faintest touch of his face. I smooth his beard, whisper my knuckles against his cheek, up to his temple.