Skating on Thin Ice: The Men of WarHawks- Book 1

by Biggar, Jacquie

  “You need to get out of the playbooks and watch the news, Coach.” Donaldson’s smile was grim as though he knew something, but no, that wasn’t possible. Was it?

  “There’s a two day break in the storm front, so I’m going up tomorrow to bring Sam home,” Doc said, and shot a reprimanding glance to the defenseman who shrugged and turned away to rummage in his locker for a shirt.

  A growl crawled its way up Dan’s throat and threatened to erupt into a full-blown snarl. Did he have to handle everything himself? This is the last time. He didn’t care if the mob took out his other knee, he wasn’t doing this shit again.

  He forced a hey-good-buddy grin and threw an arm over Doc’s shoulders. “We don’t need to fly out until Friday, I’ll come with you, check out this mansion in the hills Samson keeps bragging about.” He shot a shark’s smile at Donaldson. “You boys can spend the time practicing—you need it.”

  Thomas nodded, his expression uncertain. “Sure, if you can spare the time. It’s a fair drive from here, you sure you can handle it?” He glanced meaningfully at Coach’s knee.

  Dan dropped his arm from his friend’s shoulder and bit back the retort on his lips. “I want to get a look at Wanowski myself, make sure he’s ready to play. I can’t afford to have an injured man on the ice, and I don’t put it past The Hammer to trick his way into a game. The guy has no boundaries.”

  “That’s because he’s a team player,” Donaldson retorted. “He knows how important this is—to all of us.”

  Coach snorted and then bore the wrath of their glares. They had no idea.

  16

  By the time Sam showered, blow-dried her hair, dressed in blue jeans and a cream turtleneck sweater, and added make-up to cover blotchy skin, she figured the bozo she’d just made love with would have had the sense to leave her room.

  And she was right.

  Instead of the relief she should feel, all she noticed was the void he left. Mac had filled every nook and cranny with his forceful personality; he was a hard man to ignore.

  Drawn to the bed where they’d lain together, she cuddled the downy pillow to her chest and buried her nose in the indent created by his head. It brought back every heated moment. His husky voice, her fingers combing through thick brown hair, the feel of his lips on her breast. Impossible to deny the lust he’d drawn from her without effort. And if he walked through that door right now, she’d do it all again, too. He was her kryptonite, but they lived in different worlds.

  It could never work.

  She reluctantly replaced the pillow on the bed and straightened the covers over rumpled sheets. Her career, home and family meant everything, while Mac traveled extensively and barely mentioned anything personal. Then again, if she managed to somehow land the hockey therapist contract, she’d have to follow the team from game to game as well. It was something to consider before accepting the position. After her dad’s sudden death, Mom had floundered for a long time, then turned overprotective. Sam winced. She should have called while she had reception. Hopefully, Uncle Thomas had thought to reassure her mother. He’d been a godsend these past few months since the accident. She couldn’t have managed without him. None of them could have. Her father had been a hard worker, but, like too many, hadn’t planned for his death and left his family in financial ruin. If not for Uncle Thomas, Mom would have had to sell her home, Kevin couldn’t have continued in college and she would have given up her degree. They owed everything to Mom’s brother.

  She lifted the overturned suitcase that had fallen off the end of the bed earlier when she and Mac… Just thinking about the things she’d done with the hockey player warmed Sam’s cheeks and made her heart skip. She’d had boyfriends before, but none so flagrantly… male. He reminded her of a lion; proud, strong, arrogant—sensual. No wonder they called him The Hammer, he’d certainly pounded her sensible nature into the bed sheets. She grinned foolishly.

  A crash, followed by some creative swearing sent her sprinting for the door, pulse thundering in her chest. She took the stairs too fast and tripped, but caught the banister in time to save her fall. Slowing long enough to catch her breath, Sam hurried down the dark hall to the only room with a light—the kitchen.

  Mac stood shirtless, in a pair of jeans, near the center island, his gaze on the shattered picture frame lying dangerously close to bare feet. His lips twisted in an ugly grimace. “Three years later and I’m still hurting her. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “Mac… don’t move. You’ll cut yourself.” She reached for the broom, empathy squeezing her heart.

  “It was my fault,” he said as though she hadn’t spoken a word. “I was supposed to be driving her to our first prenatal ultrasound. Instead, I blew her off to get in an extra hour of practice—ironic, huh? Now I have nothing but time.”

  He bent and picked up the ruined frame, ignoring the shards of glass ready to rip his skin to shreds. “She didn’t deserve to die that way. Neither one of them. It was a girl, you know—the baby.” He glanced up at Sam, a wealth of pain shimmering in stormy gray eyes. “We were supposed to find out together—not like that. Never like that.” He cradled the picture to his chest, shoulders hunched over the frame.

  Sam set aside the broom to embrace the broad back that seemed so solid but hid a broken heart. Tears he wouldn’t release slid down her chin and dampened his skin. It had been hard to lose her father, she couldn’t imagine what he was going through. He’d probably bottled it all up inside until now. He had to understand it wasn’t his fault, the accident probably would have happened whether he was there or not—panic flared—and then they would never have met.

  Worried he’d cut himself if she didn’t get the glass cleared away, Sam brushed the tears from her cheeks and carried on with the job of sweeping the shards into a dustpan. Once she had it picked up, she hurried to the den, flicked on the light and located the slippers she’d remembered near the sofa the night before. Cleo lay curled into the corner of the couch and peeked sleepily up at her before tucking her head back into her chest. Good. It was best if she stayed out of the kitchen until Sam had a chance to damp mop. It was pitch black outside beyond the still-open drapes. It gave her an eerie feeling, as though someone was staring in at her, so she took a moment to snap the curtains closed before racing back to Mac.

  He’d risen and placed the photo on the island. He turned when she burst into the room and she gasped. The haggard look was bad enough, but he’d nicked his chest from the broken glass and had little rivulets of blood staining his skin.

  “You’re hurt.” Sam went to the sink and dampened a cloth she found in a nearby drawer, then strode around the island and carefully cleaned the scratches. She grimaced at the particles embedded in the wounds. “These cuts need to be washed. I’m worried about infection.” She felt Mac’s gaze on her face and glanced up to see a strange look in his eyes. “What?” she muttered, suddenly uncomfortable in her own skin.

  “Why do you care?” he asked, his head tipped to the side as though he was trying to figure her out. “Half the time I’m a rude bastard around you and yet you’re still here, helping me.”

  “Only half?” she joked.

  He covered her hand with his, holding it over his heart. “I’m serious, Sam. You can do better. Don’t get hooked on me, I’m not worth it.”

  She pushed away, embarrassed, and returned to the sink to rinse the cloth. She laughed over the noise of running water. “You aren’t that irresistible, Wanowski. Get over yourself.” A stray glass sliver neatly sliced her palm—sort of like he’d just done to her heart—and she squeezed her fingers over it, hiding the cut until she could tend to it alone. She didn’t think she could handle his touch right now.

  The weight of his words hovered between them like an oppressive blanket until she was ready to scream, “Leave already, just go.” But of course, she didn’t, because that would mean she cared, and they both knew that would be a mistake.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his reflection in the window drip
ping regret.

  “Sure. I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” Don’t talk, please… just go. Her throat was knotted so tight she could barely breathe, never mind act as though everything was fine.

  Fine.

  That was some word choice; as though they were talking about the weather or the price of gas.

  “Nice day today.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Did you notice gas dropped a penny?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’m sorry for ripping your heart out.”

  “Sure, I’m fine.”

  After Mac’s reflection shuffled out of the kitchen, Sam stared at the blood blending with the cool water in the palm of her hand and wondered if she’d ever be fine again.

  * * *

  Mac castigated himself all the way upstairs and into his cold, lonely room. He was a first-class idiot for hurting Sam the way he had. He’d known she wasn’t a casual hook-up when they met, and yet he’d still taken her to bed. If only she didn’t tempt him with those baby-blue eyes or luscious pink lips. He could still feel her silky blond hair pooling at his waist as she… shit, he needed to quit thinking about her or he’d be banging on her bedroom door and that would lead to complications he couldn’t handle right now.

  His priority had to be to his team.

  Restless, he wandered over to the heavy oak dresser—part of a suite that gave the room a chalet feeling—and noticed his cell phone. Maybe if Sam’s had service, his would too. Sure enough, he powered the high-tech gadget up and found a long list of incoming calls he’d missed, a good number of them from the coach, and a few texts from Samson.

  How’s cabin life?

  I hear the new therapist is hot. Go, man, show her your hammer, lol

  Mac frowned. The jackass. The next text raised his brows.

  Coach is on the warpath. Stay out of his way. He’s got it out for you.

  Now what? He’d pushed himself past his limits during PT so he could get back to the game, what more did the guy want? He scrubbed a hand down his chest and winced as the cuts registered. Sam. The sooner they could get back to town and reality the better. He was in danger of believing the second chance fantasy, and that would be a mistake. He’d only break her heart.

  He dialed the coach and waited.

  “About time. You forget you’re still employed, Wanowski? That could change.” Harris’s rusty voice grated in Mac’s ear. He walked over to the bed and sat, abstractedly noticing it had been made sometime during the day. Sam again. Her touch was everywhere.

  “It’s not like I’m holidaying, Coach. You sent me here, remember?” Five years and Mac could count on one hand how many times he’d seen Coach Harris smile, and never at him. But the man knew how to take a team to the top—that was about his only saving grace.

  “Yeah, yeah, can the excuses. Doc tells me he drove Samantha Walters up there to be your therapist. I don’t know what the hell Thomas was thinking, leaving her alone with the likes of you. You’d better have been treating her with respect, Sam’s special.”

  Mac stiffened. “I haven’t taken to eating little girls for breakfast, yet,” he said. “She’s not my type. Don’t worry about it.”

  He caught a soft gasp and looked up just as the bedroom door slid shut on a whisper. Sam. He’d forgotten to close the door earlier and now he’d done the one thing he’d swore he never would—he’d hurt her.

  He started to rise and go after her, then sighed and sank back down. Maybe this was for the best. They never would have worked anyway. Too bad his heart didn’t agree.

  He lifted the phone to his ear. “Come get us. I’m ready to play hockey.”

  17

  Sam couldn’t sleep after overhearing Mac on the phone. At first, she’d been incredibly hurt but a little snuggle-time on the sofa with Cleo helped her come to the realization Mac was trying to protect her. He liked to think he was the big, tough hockey player, but inside, he had a marshmallow heart. She’d seen the evidence of that herself last night with his wife’s photo. And what about the cat? How many guys kept their wife’s pet long after she was gone? Maybe he wasn’t ready for a relationship yet—she could understand that—but there had to be a way to convince him to give love another chance, even if it turned out not to be with her. Though the thought of Mac with another woman was a stab to the heart.

  She curled her toes into the cushions and lightly massaged Cleo’s soft belly, smiling at how the resultant purr sounded like a car not firing on all cylinders. Crazy how fast she’d come to care for a man she’d met for the first time barely two weeks ago. The cabin in the woods had become a haven—their place. She might not get another chance; when they returned to the city life would resume its frenetic pace. They each had obligations that would be like a wedge driving them apart. Did she really want to waste this night?

  Cleo’s ears perked and she lifted her head to stare at the doorway. Sam’s pulse took flight, zinging through her veins at rocket speed. Mac leaned against the doorframe, still wearing those faded blue jeans, except now the button was undone, as though he’d been getting ready for bed. Her breath hitched and she placed a hand to her throat. He could pose for a GQ magazine cover, he was that gorgeous.

  “Hey,” he said, the low timbre of his voice tightening her nipples. “What are you doing down here?”

  Cleo expressed her disapproval by digging in her claws and hopping down to glide from the room, nose in the air.

  “Ow,” Sam muttered and rubbed at her leg. “That cat has a temper.”

  Mac chuckled and straightened to stroll to the club chair across from her. “Mind if I join you?”

  Did she? Now that he was here, all her earlier bravado faded, and the insecurities rolled in. “Are you sure you want to? I thought we said everything that needed to be said—or you did, anyway.”

  He hesitated, but eventually sank into the deep chair with a sigh. “Sam, I don’t want it to end like this. I care about you—” she snorted, “—and hope we can remain friends.”

  Friends. Ouch. He’d just sounded the death knell on her plans to woo him until dawn’s early light.

  “Do you say that to all the girls?” she asked and didn’t much care if it sounded waspish. “I’m curious how many buy that line.” On the outside she looked cool and calm—she hoped—while inside her dreams shattered like the glass from the picture frame.

  Mac’s brow rose and his lips quirked into a near smile—the jerk. “All my girls, huh?” He leaned forward and unclenched her fist so that he could inspect the cut on her palm. “Why didn’t you tell me you cut yourself?”

  Sam jerked. The sensation of his calloused fingertip tracing a line on her skin created exquisite chills to skate up and down her spine. “It’s nothing. Can I have my hand back, please?” Before she embarrassed herself by moaning.

  Mac glanced up, the concerned expression in his eyes morphing into something much more predatory. “Are you sure?” he murmured, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about her fingers. He lifted her hand, his lips whispering a kiss across her palm. “We’re good together, Sam.”

  Yes, they were. But, what about when tomorrow arrived? She didn’t do casual hookups, and it was beginning to sound as though that’s all Mac was interested in.

  She was tempted though. So tempted.

  That kind of thinking led to heartbreak.

  Regretfully, she disengaged her hand from his and folded hers onto her lap, fingers closing over her palm to hold the warmth from his mouth. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We had fun—let’s leave it like that, okay?”

  Mac’s eyes narrowed, and for one breath-stealing moment she thought he was going to fight for her, but then he shrugged and settled into the chair, the hands she wanted all over her body curled over the armrests.

  “Who are you trying to convince?” he asked. “You’re damn good at sending out mixed messages.”

  “Me?” she squeaked. Outrage took care of any lingering regrets. “You’re the
one coming on to me after telling whoever it was on the phone that, and I quote, “she’s not my type.” You could have fooled me, or do you bed every female you meet, type or no type?” Unable to sit that close to him for another second without doing something drastic, like clouting him over the head with the lamp, Sam rose and strode across the room to the bay window. She swept the curtain aside and stared out at the pitch-dark night. She was a masochist. What other explanation could there be for continually falling under this man’s spell?

  She sensed Mac before his hands gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him.

  “What do you say to starting over?” He tipped her chin up so he could see her eyes. “We seem to have gotten off on a wrong foot tonight. What do you say, friends?”

  Sam lowered her gaze to his chest and stared at the scratches—evidence of his fidelity. They may have made love, but his heart remained loyal to his wife. It was over. She couldn’t compete with a ghost.

  “Sure. Friends.”

  18

  Dan kept one eye on the snow-covered road and the other on Doc sitting uncharacteristically silent in the passenger seat. They were both under a pile of stress at work, but this seemed different. More ominous.

  “Okay, spit it out,” he said, tired of his own company. “What’s wrong?” He frowned at the dark line of clouds building on the horizon and stepped a bit harder on the gas pedal. The snowbanks were window high on either side of his SUV, closing them in on the narrow country road. He hated winter driving, but Thomas thought his vehicle wouldn’t make it so here he was, ploughing through bloody drifts for a hockey player he couldn’t stand. Ain’t life grand.