Good Guy

by Kate Meader

  “I heard. How is he?” All concern, he cocked his head, topped with black, wavy, gel-stiff hair, like Ross’s from Friends.

  “Getting the care he needs.”

  “Good, good.”

  “So, what are you doing here?” Presumptuous, perhaps, but Jordan was currently in the presence of press box type number three: the big shot. Given their colorful off-ice antics that filled the gossip pages, the Rebels were a top draw, but Coby Dawson was far too huge a deal to be hanging with the local newsies at an opening season game. Plus ESPN and hockey weren’t exactly best buds.

  “The Rebels have an interesting crew this year. Could do big things.”

  “They did big things three seasons ago when they went all the way after the Chase sisters took over.” They’d had a couple of good seasons since but nowhere near the heights they’d scaled that first go out with Harper and her sisters at the helm.

  Then it hit her like a puck to the temple. “You’re here for Hunt.”

  “He’s a good story.”

  He was. More important, he was her story. She should have called Levi before the game to lock it down.

  Hey, Levi, you were in my dead husband’s unit and stood up with him when he married, and even though you have an active dislike of me, you were there for me when he died and that makes us sort of besties. Also there was that time we almost—okay, let’s not talk about that. Want to give me an interview?

  So Mac claimed Harper would prefer to keep the story local, but what if Dawson made a better case? Hell, if Jordan was in Harper Chase’s very high heels, she’d be shopping that profile to a national network, like ESP-fucking-N.

  “Dressed list is up,” Krugman said.

  With a self-assured smile, Coby walked to the viewing bench, took a seat to the left of Jordan/Jack’s spot, and set up his laptop, a brand new Macbook Pro.

  The players swarmed onto the ice, starting with Erik Jorgenson, the Rebels’ goalie. Then Vadim Petrov, the left-winger and captain, arrived in a dramatic flourish, followed by right-winger Ford Callaghan, and D-men Cade Burnett and Theo Kershaw. Finally—and no doubt deliberately—in skated the man himself, Levi Hunt. That he was even on the twenty-player dressed list was a surprise and demonstrated either supreme confidence or utter desperation on the part of the home team.

  The photo on the jumbotron showed an unsmiling Levi, not a trace of softness in his granite features. Short, military-style dark brown hair teased hints of red; crystalline blue eyes saw everything and revealed nothing; that square jaw wouldn’t look out of place in a Superman comic. Jordan had already studied his profile on the Rebels’ website—added only yesterday—and knew his specs inside out. Nothing compared to seeing him projected on that screen or watching as the man put blade to ice and made his debut.

  Her heart flipped in her chest, not at the sight of all two hundred pounds and six feet three inches of Hunt, but at his jersey number: 51. It had to be a homage to his unit, 5th Special Forces, 1st Special Forces Regiment.

  Josh’s unit.

  “Putting him on the second line,” Dawson murmured. “Interesting.”

  Agreed. Like most of the NHL press, she’d assumed that he’d be relegated to the third, if any line at all, to give him a chance to get his bearings. That was a lot of pressure to put on a rookie, but then the Rebels never did anything by halves.

  * * *

  The lights were so fucking bright.

  Levi had attended professional hockey games and he’d skated this rink during a preseason warm-up. He just hadn’t expected the arena to be so in-your-face. Lights, noise, the contorted faces behind the plexi, who looked like they were preemptively pissed instead of fans thrilled to be here cheering on their team. Good thing he didn’t suffer from PTSD because a professional hockey game would be trigger-central.

  The Rebels had their work cut out for them: the New Orleans Cajuns were current holders of the Cup, and had looked hot and hungry for more glory in the preseason match-ups. When Coach told him earlier that he was dressing for tonight’s game, Levi had almost blurted out “are you sure?” True, he’d felt good in practice, but playing in the opening season game was bananas. He’d made it clear to Dante and Harper that his PR cooperation couldn’t be bought, so he had high hopes that Coach was making this call without interference. No one skates on NHL ice if he doesn’t deserve to be there, right?

  So he was thrilled. And he was fucking terrified.

  “Hunt, you’re in!” Coach Calhoun yelled.

  Petrov came off and patted Levi’s arm clumsily with his gloved hand. “Good luck, New Guy.”

  Thanks for the reminder, Cap. Levi skated on, surprised his legs didn’t wobble, but then he was known for having ice water in his veins. He’d stared down terrorists, defused bombs, woken to the barrel of a revolver against his temple more than once. Nothing bothered him except … shit. His stomach lurched, and Levi wondered for the briefest moment if Jorgenson’s welcome meal was back for revenge.

  The center’s role in the game is to cover more ice than anyone. Good centers act as traffic control, can turn offense into defense at the drop of a puck, and make opportunities for the wingers to score. Great centers manage the game on the ice. With Ford Callaghan on his right and Travis Perez on his left, Levi was part of a line that should be rock-solid.

  Slashing his stick against the opposing center’s, he won his first face-off and whipped it right to Callaghan. No time to celebrate his first completed pass because it was back to center, left, center, left, dump in the blue zone.

  Fast, so fucking fast.

  Checked against the plexi by Hansen, the Cajuns’ humungous D-man, Levi took a second to catch his breath, and that was all the time New Orleans needed. The buzzer sounded, the lights flashed like police sirens, and the crowd expelled a collective groan.

  Score one for the visitors.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Levi inhaled a breath, then another. The oxygen likely sensed the stink of failure and made no effort to enter his lungs.

  He’d played like shit. No wonder Coach had pulled him after that first clusterfuck of a play, acting like he’d never skated in his life. He yanked his sweatpants on, then a long-sleeved T.

  “Hey, calm down, Hunt. You wanna rip those nice clothes?”

  Levi frowned at Kershaw who was grinning like they hadn’t just played the worst opening season game in five years. They didn’t, Hunt. You did.

  “Just want to get out of here.”

  “Look, nobody played well out there. This isn’t on you. Sometimes first games are like that. Everyone’s rusty.”

  Theo was about the only one who’d had a semi-decent game. That last goal had slipped by Burnett but Kershaw had been solid during every shift he was on. Only when he wasn’t on the ice, the Rebels defense was Swiss cheese, hence the 4-1 loss.

  “Coach shouldn’t have put me on so soon. I’m not ready.”

  “That’s the spirit, Wee-wee.”

  “Wee-wee?”

  “Yeah, like ‘yes’ in French.”

  Levi shook his head, hoping that would activate a Kershaw translator in his tired-ass brain. “Come again?”

  “Yes in French, as in the French who wear berets, as in the Green Berets.” He held his palms up. “Don’t worry, we’ll work on it.”

  What Levi really needed to do was head to the practice facility to work on his game. He’d pull all-nighters the entire season if he had to because that bumbling excuse for a performance was not going to cut it.

  “Here come the vultures,” Petrov muttered. He walked over to Levi, with a slight limp because his knee was acting up. If Levi didn’t know better, he’d think that Vadim was shielding him from the new arrivals—the media. “Just answer their questions without being too down on yourself, Hunt. They will get bored and move on.”

  “Sure, Cap.”

  Any hope that the press might be uninterested was dashed to the tape-strewn floor when they made an immediate beeline for Levi.


  “Hey, Levi, tough game out there,” someone called out.

  Keep your cool. They’re just doing their job. Plate up the usual bromides about early days and getting my ice legs under me and … fuck.

  Jordan Cooke.

  Jordan Cooke was here. In the Rebels locker room.

  He blinked.

  Still here.

  She looked good. Damned good. Fair and freckled, with the red hair of her Irish ancestors to match. A heart-shaped face, a storybook character’s peacock blue eyes, that slightly crooked, smart-tart mouth … she hadn’t aged a day in five years. Her suit was the typical uniform of the women reporters, professional but also body-hugging. If he were to trail his eyes down, he’d no doubt find shapely legs tapering to hot-as-hell heels.

  What was she doing here?

  Dumb question. She was obviously reporting on the game but he had no idea she’d moved up in the world. He’d followed her career and knew she was a regional beat reporter for the Midwest feeder teams. Was she based in Chicago now or maybe New Orleans, here for the Cajuns’ opener?

  His head, where common sense usually reigned, hoped it was NOLA. As for the rest of him …

  Someone shoved a mic under his chin, but the question came from Jordan. “Probably not how you wanted your first game to go, Levi. How are you feeling?”

  The first words she spoke to him in years and she was dragging him? Deep breath. It’s her job to ask the tough questions. His gaze dipped to her press pass on a lanyard around her neck: Chicago SportsNet. Impressive.

  “Well, I’m still getting my ice legs, finding my way. It’s—”

  “Early days?” She hoisted an eyebrow of bullshit.

  Play the game, Ms. Sunshine. I give you the well-worn platitudes and you extract what you need to make your game report.

  Someone else jumped in with a question about how his training here compared to the SEALs.

  “Green Berets,” Levi said at the same time as Jordan. Their shared look felt a little too intimate. And then the imagined intimacy magnified by a hundred when she winked one bright blue eye at him, like it was a grand joke and they’d laugh about it later over tequila.

  After a few more excruciating minutes, the media moved on to interview Kershaw and his super ass. Jordan stayed behind, one hand on her hip.

  “Well, hello there, Sergeant Hunt.” She gave a perfect salute filled with just the right amount of sauce.

  If anything, she should be furious with him for what he’d done when they’d last met, but it seemed Jordan Cooke didn’t hold a grudge. Instead, she was smiling at him, just like the days of old. Back then, it was done to needle him. Every tool in her arsenal of pert and pep was sharpened to earn a reaction.

  Come on, Mount Grump, show us a smile.

  “You’re the last person I expected to see,” he said, feeling her out.

  “I meant to call first, give you a heads up, but I didn’t want to mess with your preparation.”

  Interesting that she assumed she’d get in his head. More interesting that she was probably right.

  “Looks like you’ve moved up the media food chain. Congratulations.”

  “Just standing in for Jack Gillam up in the press box while he’s on medical leave, but yeah, kind of my big break.” Anyone else would be keeping such a telling conclusion close to their chest. Hell, Levi had kept his contract with the Rockford Royals—and the sheer pleasure of being back in the pro-hockey mix—to himself long past the need to for fear he’d jinx it. Jordan had always been a different animal, fine with wearing her heart on her sleeve.

  Which was why he knew exactly what she thought of him.

  “So, I—”

  “Could we—”

  She smiled. He did not. Why was this so hard again?

  Maybe because the last time he’d seen her, he’d just shoved his tongue down her throat about six hours after she’d buried her husband, his closest friend.

  So, yeah.

  “I wondered if we could talk,” she said. “Catch up properly.”

  His pulse picked up the pace. No other woman made him so itchy and hot.

  When he didn’t respond, she stepped in close, her floral and feminine scent curling inside his chest. “Chicago SportsNet wants to do a profile on you.”

  “They do?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Of course. There was no good reason for that pinch behind his breastbone, a feeling he recognized as disappointment, as familiar to him as the terrain of scars on his body. After their last encounter, Jordan would need a damn good reason to want to spend time with him. Not because she wanted to trip down memory lane but because it meant something to her career.

  Good. It put him in his place and the two of them on a professional footing.

  “I’m not doing interviews beyond the post-game stuff.”

  Her lips scrunched up, making her look younger than her twenty-eight years. Last they’d met she was a young widow of twenty-three, mired in the tar of grief, desperate for answers and comfort. And he’d offered it. First in the form of reminiscences about Josh, better known to his Special Forces team as Cookie, the usual stuff about what a prankster he was, an all-around great guy. But as the night had worn on and his unit-mates had left, the tequila had slipped down easier and he’d started listening to this woman. How much she missed her husband. How she wished their last conversation hadn’t been so normal. Banal. That was her biggest regret—that nothing special had singled out their final interaction. She could barely remember what they’d talked about.

  And then the bar was closing and he was offering to drop her off at her parents’ house in Georgetown, just a ten-minute walk away. On the street, she’d said something about staying in touch and he’d agreed, though really he had no intention of doing so. Knew it would be impossible because a line had been crossed, oh, fucking years before, and he needed to stay far away. Any promise would be all wrong.

  But not as wrong as what came next …

  “I’ll be honest, Levi,” Jordan said, yanking him back to the present. “I got this gig because of my connection to you. Because of Josh.”

  At the mention of his friend, annoyance rose up, chased with guilt. Did she really think trotting out his name was going to make Levi fall to his knees and agree to being prodded and probed? Fuck, even if he wanted to do this interview, Jordan would be the last person he’d let in.

  He was tired, annoyed with his game performance, and just a touch pissed that she’d try to play him with their so-called connection. “So what did you have in mind, Ms. Sunshine?”

  She looked surprised to be put on the spot, but more likely at his nickname for her. It had always emerged from his mouth with just a hint of sarcasm.

  “Come on, Jordan. You must have some idea. An interview on your podcast perhaps?”

  Her eyes flashed at his irritability. Good, let her know how this would go down. But of course, in his zeal to piss her off, he’d revealed that he knew of her podcast. May as well have admitted he stalked her every move on the web.

  “That and more. My boss’s idea is to shadow you for the first month of the season, then sit down and interview you at the end of each week. Find out what it’s like for the newest/oldest rookie in the NHL. It would be respectful. Anything you reveal about your military service would be up to you.”

  “That’s behind me. I’m here to play hockey. Hell, I don’t even get why there’s so much media interest.”

  “Then you’re the only one, Levi.” She moved closer, bringing with her sunshine and memories that fairly gutted him. “Listen, I know I’m the last person you probably want to work with—”

  “Why’d you say that?”

  Asking her to explain was a dick move. He knew why she said it but he wanted her to remember it just like he did.

  Her cheeks reddened, and on anyone with her coloring it would be unsightly. Garish, even. But on her, it merely heightened her beauty and made her look young, unsure. She said simply, “I
t was a strange time.”

  Guilt at pushing her panged in his chest. Grade A assholery right there, Hunt.

  “Thing is,” she went on, “I’d rather not use how we know each other to get ahead in my career, but I’ve been given a chance. A chance to make my mark.” Excitement rung through her voice, and hell, he felt every form of conflict known to man. “If we do this, the connection will be part of the story.”

  “Which is what your boss is probably hoping.”

  “But we can control it. We can decide how the narrative is framed.” She gestured between them, inviting him into her confidence, this secret bubble of two. “I also think that Harper might appreciate a woman’s perspective.”

  “Don’t assume that,” a sultry voice offered. Despite those heels, the boss had a stealthy step. Harper offered her hand. “Ms. Cooke, I presume.”

  Jordan shook it. “It’s Jordan, Ms. Chase.”

  Harper studied her. “Mac called about you, said you might be the right person for the job. However, I’m not in the habit of handing out plum interviews with my prime rookie to a reporter purely because she’s a woman.”

  “I’m not looking for special treatment but I think I can offer a dimension to this that you won’t find with any other reporter.”

  “I have to admit your past connection with Levi definitely gives me something to think about.” She didn’t even look at Levi when she said this. He’d been reduced to a commodity worth bartering over.

  Welcome to the NHL.

  The women sized each other up, leaving Levi feeling like a gazelle about to be torn apart by two terrifying lionesses. Likely his opinion would have no bearing on what happened here. Decisions made above his pay grade.

  He could still say no, but after tonight’s performance, his leverage wasn’t quite so strong. He’d need more practice to get another shot, which meant buying time before they cannoned him back to the AHL—or dropped his slow-playing ass altogether.

  Did he want to work with Jordan on an interview? Be forced to spend time with her, to make small talk about Josh, to endure her pity because Levi had never bought in to her happy-sappy cheer like everyone else? Perhaps he could convince Harper to go with a different outlet although in truth, his sanity demanded that this interview should happen when Satan donned skates for his morning commute across the frozen tundra of hell.