Ice Hard is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2019 by Tracy Goodwin
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9781984800381
Cover design: Makeready Designs
Cover photograph: © 4x6/iStock
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Nick
Chapter 2: Nick
Chapter 3: Camille
Chapter 4: Camille
Chapter 5: Nick
Chapter 6: Nick
Chapter 7: Camille
Chapter 8: Camille
Chapter 9: Nick
Chapter 10: Camille
Chapter 11: Nick
Chapter 12: Camille
Chapter 13: Camille
Chapter 14: Nick
Chapter 15: Camille
Chapter 16: Nick
Chapter 17: Camille
Chapter 18: Nick
Chapter 19: Camille
Chapter 20: Nick
Chapter 21: Nick
Chapter 22: Camille
Chapter 23: Camille
Chapter 24: Camille
Chapter 25: Nick
Epilogue: Nick
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Tracy Goodwin
About the Author
Chapter 1
Nick
“Toast! Toast! Toast!” The chants from my teammates become louder. The same word. On repeat. Until I stand front and center at the bar, beside my best friend and teammate, Christian Chase.
We’ve known each other for most of our lives. Since we were nobodies. Long before we ever went pro. Long before we earned our nicknames (me as the Dominator and him as the Cyclone) for our skills on the ice. Long before we won two cups together. Way before we ever knew of the brand-new expansion team called the New York Nighthawks, let alone joined the franchise—him as center and team captain, me as his unofficial enforcer, a.k.a. his right winger.
We’re still in the thick of our first season with the Nighthawks, and Chris is marrying the woman of his dreams. I don’t blame him for not wanting to wait until our off-season. Serena’s a catch, and Chris is in love like I’ve never seen him before.
“We’re back to where it all began.” I clap Chris on the shoulder, raising my voice an octave above the crowd that’s hooting.
Chris laughs. “Technically, it began at a 7-Eleven, but don’t you dare mention that in your speech.”
I grab my drink from the bar behind me. We’re NHL guys. Some hold bottles of beer while others, like me, drink top-shelf bourbon. I raise my glass. “Quiet, guys! Quiet.”
“Shut up, assholes.” Thor, our resident Marvel movie fanatic and our right defenseman, also known as Theo Ture, stands on a chair, bellowing for the troops to get in line. This Thor doesn’t need an Asgardian hammer. His burly frame, unkempt hair, and long beard make him a force to be reckoned with. He’s also a player with mad skills who quickly moved up to our line of A-list defensemen that causes opposing teams to cower.
“Thanks.” I offer him a smile of approval. “Well, guys. Here we are. At the End Zone…where Chris kissed Serena. That should be the title of a movie, because it sure as hell sounds romantic.”
Damon “the Demon” DeLaurentis, our left winger, blasts the air horn I gave him, and a large banner unfurls from the ceiling with a huge picture of Chris and Serena. Both smiling. Both happier than anyone has a right to be.
“Banner!” Thor roars. He really does Chris Hemsworth better than Chris Hemsworth. That’s what makes him so popular with the ladies. That, along with his uncanny ability to impersonate any actor. Ladies love his Robert Downey Jr., impression, too. Guess the Avengers are hot.
Lucky, also known as Ryan McGee, a fresh-faced second line defenseman and prankster runs through the bar, wrapped in a different banner. This one features my best friend on a magazine cover. It was Lucky’s go-to prank when he first joined the team. Like this didn’t get old the first three times he tied the damned thing to Chris’s SUV. Copies of that magazine cover, lined up in a row with Chris all growly-mad and shirtless, enraged my best friend like nothing else.
“Motherfucker.” Chris scowls. Some things never change. It’s his reaction every time he sees this banner.
“For the record, I knew nothing about this,” I say to Chris, who’s busy glaring at Lucky. “Look at the bright side, bro—at least it’s not attached to your Rover.” I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy. Especially when I throw a bachelor party that the guest of honor requested be tame.
The Vamp, our left defenseman Alexi Vladislav, chases Lucky through the bar, yanking the banner from him as groans erupt all around us. Lucky is butt naked, streaking through the crowd. Covering my eyes with my free hand, I’m haunted by the image of a pale, nude Lucky sprinting past us. An image I’ll never forget, not only because it’s forever seared into my skull, but because I’m sure it will be on YouTube tomorrow. There will probably be a meme or something. Lucky’s not-so-lucky charm will be the gift that keeps on giving.
The Vampire laughs and applauds. “Hell, yeah, Lucky.”
“Hell, no, Lucky!” a woman chides, just as she’s shoving me aside. “Lucky won’t be lucky much longer if he doesn’t put on some damn clothes.”
“Sorry, I’ve got him.” Damon the Demon chases Lucky into the men’s room.
The brunette is tall with long legs. Her hair is parted straight down the middle, two braids cascading over her shoulders. She’s hot. And that’s before she turns to face me, dressed in a white blouse which is unbuttoned just enough to show off her black sports bra, a plaid skirt, tights, thigh-high socks, and Mary Janes. Forget just plain hot. This woman is holy fucking scorching!
I can’t decide if she’s going for the “Sister Christian” look or a Britney Spears vibe. She seriously rocks the sexy-schoolgirl thing, and I fight the strong urge to make a play for her at my best friend’s bachelor party. She could be my teacher anytime.
“This is a bachelor party. I get it.” She points to the door. “But read the sign. ‘No shoes, no shirt’…Your Lucky had no underwear on, let alone the rest of it.”
“Understood.” I study the woman who has the guts to boss around burly hockey players. She wears minimal makeup and is a knockout, with high cheekbones, full lips, and an angular chin. Then there are her eyes—a mesmerizing tawny color that draw me in, distracting me.
“You’re staring,” she says, eying me with mock severity and an overemphasized facial expression. “Are you okay? Have you never seen a woman before? Should…should I call for help?”
I laugh. A full-on belly laugh. This usually doesn’t happen with women. The guys, sure. Women, not so much. We’re usually all hot and heavy to start and then have nothing to discuss, and/or nothing in common.
The men’s room door opens, revealing a fully clothed Lucky exiting. Damon mouths
, I’m sorry.
Holding two fingers to her eyes, she points them at Lucky in an I’m-watching-you way. It’s enough to make him turn beet red before she heads back behind the bar.
“Okay, now that we’re all clothed, let’s get back to business.” I study the many faces that comprise our team. This loud, imperfect family of alpha males who are the Nighthawks. Sure, there have been some first-year growing pains, but we’ve overcome them. Together. We united as a team, just like we’re doing today for Chris. Because this is where he met the one. “Here, at this very bar, not too long ago, some of us witnessed a very public first kiss between Chris and Serena.”
Catcalling ensues. I expected it. “Little did we know then that we were witnessing the start of something real. I mean, we’re NHL guys, right? What do we know about romance? Chris didn’t know a fucking thing. He spilled a raspberry Slurpee on Serena just to get her attention.”
Chris rolls his eyes, unable to hide his smile.
“Like I wouldn’t go there? Seriously, dude, I’m your best man. I had to go there.”
The crowd is eating this up. I command a room, and this is one occasion where that comes in handy. When the whoops and shouts die down, I add, “If Chris can snag the woman of his dreams, it gives us all hope. Besides, Serena brings out the best in him.”
“He’s right about that. She does.” Chris smiles at the crowd.
“I don’t have to tell you guys that Chris and I go way back. You already know that. I do have a confession to make, though.” This holds the crowd’s attention. There are some “oh yeahs” mixed in with some mock gasps for good measure. “The truth is, I never thought he’d find a woman who would put up with him or his shit.”
With a shrug, Chris laughs. So does Liam “the Mountain” Clair, our goalie and resident family man. Something tells me he’ll have competition for that title now that Chris and Serena are expecting their first child.
The crowd is with me. All of us are thrilled for our Cyclone, our team captain, our friend. No one more so than me. “You’re my best friend, you’re my family—my brother. Always have been. No one’s happier for you than I am.”
Hanging his head, Chris nods. I’m making him emotional. Hell, I’m getting emotional. Me—the NHL bad boy who’s spontaneous, and who never fails to put on a show for our fans, is overcome with emotion. “You won the lottery when you met Serena. I may be biased, but I mean it when I say that she’s damned lucky to have you by her side. Join me in wishing Chris and Serena the better-than-the-Stanley-Cup kind of happiness. The happily-ever-after kind of happiness. The always-and-forever kind of happiness.”
I raise my glass and the guys join me. Hands outstretched, with wide smiles, they shout in unison, “To Chris and Serena!”
After clinking my glass against Chris’s, I take a swig as Damon passes in front of us recording a video on his iPhone. I suspect he’s zooming in on Chris right now. My friend’s expression of pure, unadulterated joy is raw and honest. It’s also a first. Never before has he displayed this type of genuine happiness, not even when we won both of our cups with our previous team.
I’m thrilled for him. I am. Yet an emptiness settles within my chest. It isn’t the first time I’ve felt it and, oddly enough, it usually happens when I’m celebrating my best friend’s joy. At his engagement party…at his bachelor party…when we’re planning for his wedding and future. I’m not jealous. No, Chris deserves Serena and their life together. I would be lying to myself if I denied that the thought of finding the right woman and settling down hasn’t crossed my mind. It has. A lot lately.
It’s fucking ridiculous, really. I mean, who am I kidding? My best relationships crash and burn on a good day. So, why am I so desperate to jump headfirst into the deep end—so desperate that I joined the Scorcher dating app? Christ, that’s desperate. No offense to anyone else on Scorcher, but for me, it’s out of my comfort zone and the most reckless move I’ve ever made. Having taken part in my share of brawls and penalties on the ice, that’s saying a lot.
I want a date to Chris and Serena’s wedding, and while there are many women I could pick up, I’d rather take someone I…well, someone I share some bond with. It’s too special of an occasion to share with just anyone. Besides, is it too much to hope for a future with someone? Like Chris has? Like the Mountain has?
The team surrounds Chris, clapping him on the shoulders and congratulating him. I let him enjoy his moment, slipping away to the bar and pulling out my phone. I scan my finger, then open the app. There’s some interest in me. No one knows it’s me—the NHL bad-boy me. I signed up under the name Nicholas Alexander. Yes, my middle name is Alexander. My parents had a warped sense of humor, naming me Nicholas Alexander George. Three first names. That caused a lot of teasing, back when I was a kid and in many locker rooms since.
As for my profile, I used a photo of me without my beard, wearing sunglasses, in an attempt at anonymity. Even though it’s only a couple of years old, no one recognizes me without my beard anymore.
Most of my profile is true, except my outdated profile picture and occupation. My likes are hockey (I’m not hiding that), rebuilding old cars, and cooking. I left out dogs, though ever since Chris found Serena, I’m feeling lonely and have been thinking about getting a dog. I said I’m self-employed, which is a half-truth. I do sell some of the cars I rebuild. I also donate many of them to auctions for the charities I work closely with. It’s the best of both worlds. Rebuilding the rough classics is fun for me, and working with and sharing the ones I’ve put my love into with charities I admire makes it even more rewarding.
Then there are the rare ones—the vintage cars that require more work and aren’t in mint condition when I’m done. Those I collect. Because for me, perfection isn’t defined as flawlessness. No, the flaws comprise my idea of perfection. My definition of perfection is something that needs continued work, continued love. So, those are my hobbies and I have placed them carefully on Scorcher, being mindful of not being too personal. Like omitting the charity info.
Half-truths or not, I’m guilty of misleading Scorcherland and I’m not proud of that. I have no choice, though. How else would I gauge interest, real interest in me, the guy beneath the sports-star veneer, if all women see is my status and wealth? That attracts a lot of women. Not the scars on my face, or my personality. And it’s grown old. Besides, I’d be honest with any woman I went out with. That’s a must. It’s not like I’m leading a double life. I just have a hard time meeting sincere women. With that in mind, Nicholas Alexander’s Scorcher profile was created for this dating experiment only.
No one knows about it. I haven’t even confided in Chris. I’m tight-lipped because I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t have to go through all this to get a worthwhile date, right? Besides, if this were ever to go public, I’d get shit from my teammates, and the opposition would use it against me on the ice. I can’t let that happen. Hell, I’m the one who monitors the opposition’s social media feeds and uses every weakness against them. I won’t hand them ammunition against me.
A blonde named Kristen has messaged me: Hi. She’s a woman of few words. Well, technically, she’s a woman of one word. I click on her profile. She’s cute, with curls, wearing a bright smile, a smile so picture-perfect that she could be a toothpaste model. Kristen, 24. Likes sports, cooking cats. I do a double take, rereading her profile. Likes sports, cooking cats. It’s even more creepy the second time.
Sports I’m into, but cooking cats…that’s a definite no. Maybe Kristen needs to learn about commas or autocorrect. Or, maybe she does like cooking cats. She’s wearing a chef’s hat and while there’s no cat in sight, there is a pot, with a lid covering it, on the stove behind her. There could be a cat inside. No. Just no. No cat killers, even if I am a dog person. Seriously, I’m wondering if I should call the police. Should I report her for animal abuse? Left swipe.
“Nice speech.” T
he bartender with the sexy braids leans against the counter. “ ‘Happily-ever-after.’ Never have I heard a man use that phrase in a bachelor party speech.”
I place my iPhone facedown on the bar and am met with large brown eyes with a glint of humor. Again, they hold mine, and I’m drawn to the prominent gold flecks. Not your usual dark brown eyes, these remind me of amber. I once watched a video on fossilized amber. Her eyes have the same unique qualities. They’re spellbinding, even more so now than before. So much so that I struggle to focus, making sure my reply to her comment is coherent. “I’m a rebel. Besides, I’ve given the engagement party speech, the bachelor party speech, and soon I’ll give the best man speech. I’m running out of material.”
“So, it’s material? You don’t really believe in that fairy-tale crap?” She studies me through narrowed eyes.
She’s a cynic. Duly noted. “I never used to, but my best friend and his fiancée convinced me otherwise.”
“If you say the tooth fairy’s real, I’ll need to card you.” She rests her chin on her palms, her elbows resting on the bar. One of her buttons is about to burst and I’m all for it. Anticipation surges through me, making me hard for her. I concentrate on her last statement. Card me…
Pulling out my wallet, I show her my license. “I made a lot of cash from that tooth fairy and got Matchbox cars, too. Don’t ruin it for me.”
“Those transactions were…well, questionable at best. But I’ll keep my mouth shut. Far be it from me to ruin your childhood.” She checks my ID. Passing my license back to me, she asks, “What will it be, Nicholas? Or is it Nick?”
“It’s Nick.” I wink at her and notice the hint of a smile and deepening of her dimples. She’s a total turn-on and is causing all sorts of naughty thoughts to race through my mind. Though I’m still nursing my bourbon, I order a refill. Just to watch her tight body strut down to the end of the bar. This woman is tall, I’d wager five-foot-nine or ten. With a great ass. With great assets. Plural.
Ice Hard Page 1
