Shootout
Sophia Summers
Rebecca Connolly
Heather B. Moore
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Falling for Centerfield Chapter One
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About the Author
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Faceoff
Powerplay
Rebound
Crosscheck
Breakaway
Shootout
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Read all the books in The Swoony Sports Romances
Hitching the Pitcher
Falling for Centerfield
Charming the Shortstop
Snatching the Catcher
Flirting with First
Kissing on Third
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Chapter 1
All those days of elite club hockey had influenced Trane Jones more than he realized. Memories of his days on the ice under the tutelage of Coach Hal Fenwick flashed through his mind as he watched the same venerable man do the same kind of good hearted ice-torture training with a new generation.
“You know what I’m not seeing from you guys tonight? Commitment.” Coach Fenwick barked at the group of young, tired high school students. They looked like they were about to fall over on the ice. “You can leave as soon as you score off Diesel.”
Diesel. Trane had been called that since his high school days. He’d grown into the name, like he’d grown into his six-foot-eight frame and bulk. “No one stops the Diesel” was something he’d heard early on in high school and then when he started playing goalie, it switched to “Nothing gets past the Diesel.”
The guys knew better than to moan, but Trane could see their spirits collapse in a hopeless puddle.
That just wasn’t fair. What was Coach getting at? He’d been so rough on his young team of high schoolers this practice. As Trane looked into their faces, he knew they didn’t have much more to give.
“Hey Coach,” Trane called out.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you let me do the wrap up?”
Coach pointed at him. “After someone scores on you.”
“Got it. We’ll meet you in the locker room for the post wrap.”
Coach grunted. Even though coach was being dismissed by his former student, he seemed to take it well. Professional player for the Detroit Comets now, Trane came back to Northbrook as often as he could. Coach was the only father figure he wanted in his life, and he enjoyed working with the select hockey teams Coach Fenway was training.
As soon as Coach was out of sight, there was a collective release of breath all over the ice.
Trane smiled at them. “You listen to coach, especially when he’s got an itch about something. It means you have something to learn. Just cause I’m smiling, doesn’t mean it’s going to be any easier to score,”
“Dude, no one scores on you,” a small, freckled kid piped up.
“Well, talk to each other,” Trane said. “I can tell you one thing, it’s going to take more than just one of you, that’s for sure.”
They huddled, and Trane liked seeing the teamwork. Maybe they’d figure it out. They did some kind of cheer and then spread out over the ice. At first Trane couldn’t see the puck. His eyes skirted from player to player, but it wasn’t on the ice. What were they up to?
Then the small kid, riding the back of their big guy, came at him, the biscuit cradled in front of him with his stick.
He had to give it to them. Good strategy hiding the little guy behind someone else. Trane loosened up, bending his knees, getting ready for whatever tricks they had.
This team was actually pretty good. There was no place better in the Chicago area for training up hockey players. Trane had been trained there. All his best friends had trained with him, and each one of them had gone pro.
He had been the scholarship kid, so he felt a responsibility to give back. Whenever he returned to Northbrook, a memory or two he thought he’d forgotten came back. Today he was thinking about his first attempts as goalie. He’d been playing defender and spent a lot of time trying to get between the puck and the basket. He’d grown about four inches that year and filled out quite a bit. So, Coach put him in the box.
Trane had been terrible at first. It was awkward. He thought his knees would separate from his legs. And every time one of the guys scored off him, he got angry. Not a little angry—furious.
One time, Rocco got one past him, and Trane’s fury rose so fast, he saw red. He couldn’t think straight. He threw his stick and tore after his friend like he wanted him dead. Rocco’s wide, startled eyes seared his brain. Rocco, his friend. One of two guys he told stuff to. And he’d wanted to tear the guys arms off.
The other guys on the club team had circled up and held him back until he came to his senses. Declan had shouted, “Dude. You’re not your dad.”
Trane remembered the next moment clearly. His arms had dropped, his head hung, and he could hardly make his skates carry him from the rink. He hadn’t returned for another week.
Like his dad. He was like his dad.
He was a walking time bomb, ready to kill anyone who ticked him off. He had slammed his fist into and through the wall outside the locker room. He vowed to never lose his temper again. Trane still burned with shame at his earlier days on the Northbrook team.
He shook his head, pounded his own helmet and shouted, “All right you guys. Get the biscuit where it needs to go so we can go home.”
The guys circled, weaved, and passed, keeping the puck going a million miles an hour. Trane watched it the whole time, his sparrow-like vision zeroing in on it no matter what they did. And then they whipped past him and powered it right at his chest. He caught it. And they moaned in disappointment.
“Why do you look surprised? Why wouldn’t I have caught it? You hit me dead in the
chest.”
“We were trying that new thing Rocco used on you. The Rebound.”
Trane chuckled. “Ah. Well, he’s about twenty times stronger than you. But that was a good idea. I’ll give you points for trying. Look. I’ll leave the box. I’ll start to head in early. You get the puck in there while my back is turned.”
He stepped out and skated toward the locker room. Memories of his early days on Northbrook and thoughts of his dad had drained what energy he had left.
The kids came racing past him and in to their lockers.
Fenwick waved him over toward his office. “Trane, come here.”
Trane shifted the direction of his slow plod and headed toward Coach. “Yes, sir?”
“Shut the door.”
Trane obediently closed the door and plopped down on the chair opposite the coach. It was something he had done countless days and nights all those years ago, growing up with this man. His face was older, more wrinkles lined his forehead and circled his eyes, and his white hair was thick and full. But the same kindly man stared back who always had.
The office was filled with trophies, memorabilia and pictures. Much of it was from Trane's days on the elite team, but a good amount was from years after. Photo after photo of Coach standing next to some kid made Trane smile. To anyone else the place would have begged for a deep clean and a declutter, but it was beautiful to Trane, and more than that, it was home.
“I heard your father showed up.”
Trane sat up. “Rocco or Declan tell you?” He’d sat down with his two best friends a couple months ago, after his dad had shown up out of nowhere to one of his home games.
His dad had sat behind Trane’s goalie box. Trane would have missed him entirely except for the old man’s whistle. Out of nowhere, the man whistled exactly as he had every time he walked in the door at home when he was younger.
And Trane had stiffened. Then ignored him. But he couldn’t forget the moment. They didn’t talk after the game. He hadn’t seen him since. But just the fact that he’d shown up, itched at Trane with a nagging that wouldn’t go away. And now Coach wanted to talk about it.
“Doesn’t matter who told me. What happened?”
“Nothing, I haven’t heard from him since.” Trane wanted to say it didn’t matter. That the man couldn’t affect him anymore, but that wasn’t true. And with Coach, he was always honest.
“You okay?” Coach asked.
“I don’t know.”
“So, what if he wants to be in touch?”
“I don’t. So that’s how it’s going to go.”
Coach seemed relieved by Trane’s response. “Want me to talk to him? See what he wants?” Coach had always volunteered to talk to Trane’s dad. All growing up, Coach had wanted to do much more than talk to the guy. But Trane had always kept them apart. It wasn’t that he worried his dad would say something stupid to Coach, because he knew he might. It had just been Trane’s constant desire to protect people from his dad. No one should have to deal with his dad.
“Nah. I got this. I don’t know why he’d reach out. He hasn’t yet. So we can keep it at that.” Inside, Trane suspected his dad would be back. He knew his visit was only the beginning. But what was it the beginning of?
Trane sighed.
“So, tell me about your season.”
They talked shop for another hour and Trane loved every minute of it.
“And who are you dating?” Coach asked.
Trane snorted. “Not dating.”
“Now, why not, son? That soft side of your life makes everything else worthwhile.”
Trane shrugged. “I don’t think I’m made for a softer side.” He wouldn’t do that to any person.
“Trane. I know you think you’re tough, like a Diesel, right? But you’re one big softie, and don’t think I don’t know it. I saw how you let the guys off tonight. Score off you? You left your posts. You’re the fluffy bunny of this industry and you need to find yourself a good woman who can appreciate that side of you.”
Trane tried to stop his laughter, but it came barreling out anyway. “Did you just call the Diesel a fluffy bunny?”
“I did.”
Trane continued to chuckle, then wiped his eyes. “That stays between us.”
The coach still stared, and Trane knew he required an answer, and he knew what that answer should be.
“Oh fine. I’ll go on a date with a woman.”
Satisfied, the coach leaned back and crossed his arms. “Tell me when you meet a good one.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Trane wasn’t going to let anything progress with any woman. A good one or not.
The guys he let close were plenty of people in his life, and they knew what to expect from him. They knew how to handle his tempers.
Trane hadn’t lost it in years. No matter what the guys threw at him, on the ice or off, he’d kept it together. But no one knew what he felt inside, and that dark rising cloud scared him. Scared him enough that he’d kept everyone else in his life at a distance.
After saying goodbye to Coach, he caught an early flight home and mentally prepared for his next game.
The best part about the coming week? He’d be playing Declan’s team, the Denver Chargers. Declan had transformed his game. He was on top of the world and just might get a puck past Trane. Declan’s teammates were no concern. Trane could block whatever they threw his way. Probably.
Then he thought about what else the coach had said. Date a woman. Was he really going to do it? Now he had to. You never broke your word to the coach. But where would he find one?
He shook his head. The only women he ever saw were crazy fans or the ice girls. And he wasn't about to join a dating app. They didn’t work for pro athletes. The other guys in the Pit managed to date women. He’d have to pay attention.
The Pit. All his best friends from Northbrook, who played under Coach Fenwick, were still best friends and in a text group. Really, they were all he needed in his life. Even if Coach thought otherwise, he had dated girls. He’d even been close to a few, but as soon as he knew things could progress, he’d backed off. He wasn't ready. But he’d humor Coach. Go on one date with a woman. One time. Done.
Chapter 2
Janae Terry stretched with hands high above her head. Her fingers reached toward the sky, and then her arms swooped down to embrace her toes. With her forehead on her knees, she prepared for the day.
Ice Girl.
She closed her eyes. From Broadway to ice girl. She breathed in and out three more times. Be well.
It was a job. She needed the money. Detroit was almost as cool as New York…
After a few more seconds, she gave up. Nope.
She stood, grabbed a hand towel to wipe her face and headed for a shower. Nope. This was not going to be the same.
But she’d faced many not-great days, and she could do this one too. Maybe it would even turn out to be a good day.
After her shower, and very little fuss to get ready for the day, she drove a short distance to her first day on the job. She parked her old beat-up Corolla in the Comets’ hockey arena parking lot, grabbed her duffle and headed toward the door for athletes and ice girls.
She’d only landed a few parts in dance companies on Broadway. It wasn’t like she was a star or anything. She snorted. As evidenced by her current job. True stars didn’t have to leave New York to work as ice girls in Detroit.
Oh stop.
When the door pushed open, she blinked against the change in lighting.
The halls were dark and musty, the walls seemed to be painted cement, and the unpleasant flickering of fluorescents reminded her of her mother’s stays in the hospital.
She turned a corner as a man stepped out of the players’ locker room. The Comets had a game tonight, but this guy was early. And enormous. He didn’t have any pads on and no helmet. But he must have stood at six foot eight, and was as broad as the redwood trees from her childhood visit to the national parks of north
ern California. She wondered if he had all his teeth. He lifted his stick to her so she waved, and then kept walking in the other direction.
Did hockey players have things with ice girls?
Well, she wasn’t doing that. She wasn’t having a thing with anyone for a long, long time.
Her breath came in short and ragged, and she tried again to place her old life behind her. The door to the women’s locker room was her last battle to fight this morning. What lay on the other side? Would these girls be the snippy, jealous, conniving type? Or the sisterhood-of-the-traveling-pants best-friends kind? She could use a friend or two. Maybe she’d find one on this new team.
With that, she pushed open the door.
All conversations stopped. The eyes that checked her out were veiled.
She didn’t suppose any of them had it easy. Everyone worked hard to get where they were. And they looked a little rough. Holes for their multiple piercings were obvious up close, though they’d taken out the rings. Tired eyes stared at her.
But Janae smiled. “And…it’s the new girl.” She shrugged, waiting.
A few of them laughed.
And then the nearest woman, with beautiful corn rows and white teeth, reached for her. “Welcome, you. I’m Tiff.”
After their quick embrace, Janae felt a bit better. “I’m Janae. Janae Terry.”
“So, I’m the team captain and the manager coach.”
Janae raised her eyebrows.
“Yeah. I think they’re combining a few jobs in one there. But now that you’re here, I might get to pass a few off?” She winked. “Let’s introduce you to the team.”
Shootout (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 6) Page 1
