by Elise Faber
Boarding
Elise Faber
BOARDING
BY ELISE FABER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
* * *
BOARDING
Copyright © 2019 Elise Faber
ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-18-0
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Contents
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Bonus Material
Acknowledgments
For Rachel S,
I see you, girl.
Thank you for always supporting my work.
One
Mandy
* * *
“Less muggles, more magic,” Mandy murmured as she scrolled through her Harry Potter Pinterest board, trying to find the perfect themed appetizers for the movie marathon she was hosting that weekend. She knew she was unreasonably excited about having a party at her new apartment, but this was big.
As in the apartment was the biggest purchase she had ever made.
Smiling, she leaned back in her chair and continued scrolling through her phone. A hockey game was playing in the background, the volume low enough that the announcers’ voices were a muted hum. But that didn’t matter, she would hear if anything exciting happened, the crowd’s cheers would radiate through the concrete layers of the arena to where her office was situated.
Mandy always joked that her office was Harry’s equivalent of his closet bedroom—a tiny cubbyhole in the bowels of the Gold Mine, the home rink for the NHL’s newest team, the San Francisco Gold.
Her office might be small, but the physical therapy space certainly wasn’t.
A half dozen treatment tables were set up in the large room outside her door, each complete with their own built-in cabinets filled to the brim with the best supplies money could buy.
The PT suite tended to be one of the hubs—players always coming in and out, lots of activity, voices, laughter—for her team, second only to the space where they relaxed, ate, played video games, or binged the latest hit on Netflix.
But for the most part, Mandy loved all the activity. She enjoyed the players crossing through to access the weight room, or take a dip in the pool, or soak their aching muscles in the hot and cold tubs. And with the team’s doctor, masseuse, and other support therapy staff’s own small offices surrounding hers, it was hardly ever quiet.
Except now.
While the doctor and his assistant were rink side—near the team in case anyone got injured—the rest of the training staff had gone to grab a bite. She’d stayed behind this time, nibbling on a salad and taking advantage of the mental break by blissfully scrolling through wand-shaped appetizers on her phone.
After the final buzzer, the activity would ramp up again. The players each had their own post-game routines—maybe a massage or a soak in the icy, cold tub, usually some time spent on the exercise bike, slowly cooling their muscles after the strenuous sixty-minute game.
As for her?
Her phone and those magical treats would lay forgotten because she’d be running around like a chicken without its head.
Multiple players would need different treatments, and it was her job to coordinate with the masseuse and the doctor to assess injuries old and new, advise beneficial exercises and stretches, and . . .
She spent most of her time trying to pretend that Blane was just another player.
“Idiot,” she muttered as just his name conjured up all sorts of very unprofessional images into her mind.
Muscles.
The kind that made the spot just below her belly button clench with need.
Strong legs and, good gravy, but his ass.
Hockey players had the best asses.
No pancake bottoms, these men—and women—could fill out a pair of jeans. She wanted to squeeze it, to nibble it, bounce a dime—
Mandy dropped her chin to her chest, losing sight of the Sorting Hat cupcakes she’d been pondering.
Blane with his yummy ass had a unique way of distracting her.
No, it wasn’t even distraction, per se. He had always been able to get under her skin.
And that was very, very bad for her.
“Ugh,” she said, tossing her phone onto her desk and standing, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to sit still now.
Nope, she needed about forty laps in the pool and a good hard fu—
Run, her mind blurted, almost yelling at the mental voice of her inner devil. A good hard run.
Unfortunately, the cajoling tone wasn’t completely drowned out. Some sexy horizontal time with Blane would be more fun—
But the rest of the enticing words were lost as the roar of the crowd suddenly penetrated through the layers of concrete. Her stomach twisted. Mandy could tell, even before her eyes made it to the television, that it wasn’t in celebration of a goal or a good hit either.
This was fury, a collective of outrage.
She was on her feet the moment she saw the prone form lying so still face down on the ice.
Her gut twisted when she spotted the curving line of a numeral two on the back of the player’s jersey.
“Not him,” she said and the words were familiar, a sentiment she had whispered, had prayed a thousand times before. She needed the camera angle to shift, for her to be able to see more clearly who was hurt. “Not him.”
Then Dr. Carter was on the ice and the player moved slightly, rolling away from the camera, giving a full shot of his back and the matching twos adorning his jersey.
Fuck. Not him. Not Blane.
And that was when she saw the pool of blood.
Two
Blane
* * *
Cold.
The ice was cold.
Some part of his brain knew that was an inane thought, even as the rest of him recoiled from the biting freeze. It burned, but not hotly.
Cold. So cold.
And quiet.
Nothing except for the whooshing sound of his breath behind his ears.
Groaning, he tried to push away from the frost, to get onto his back and away, but hands held him in place.
“Let—”
And with that one word, his mind began working fully again. The lights came into focus, the spotted mix of colors of the crowd—mostly black and gold since they were playing at home—as they stared down at him. The arena had gone remarkably quiet, seventeen thousand plus people somehow not making a sound.
A towel pressed to his forehead, and he realized for the first time that he was bleeding.
He winced.
&nb
sp; “Blane,” Dr. Carter said, and he knew his injuries must be serious if more than just Brian—the on-bench trainer—had come onto the ice.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just had my bell rung.”
Dr. Carter ignored him. “We’re going to roll you. Hold still while I put the collar on.”
“What?”
“Hold still.”
Blane froze, finally understanding. He’d figured that he might have a concussion at worst, but he’d had one before, and this wasn’t that. Or at least, he didn’t think so. He wasn’t nauseous, his ears weren’t ringing, but the stern order in the doctor’s voice made him realize that this could be a lot more serious than he’d first thought.
Fuck.
“Steady,” Dr. Carter said, but he wasn’t talking to Blane.
A collar was secured around his neck, and he was carefully rolled to his back and strapped onto a board. Then he was hoisted on top of the stretcher and further strapped in.
“Sorry I’m so heavy, boys,” he joked and was relieved when the group surrounding him all smiled, albeit small ones, but they were still there. Meanwhile, Blane was trying to play it cool, trying not to panic as he attempted to move his toes.
Shit, could he?
Yes. Thank fuck.
His fingers?
A heartbeat that lasted for an eternity before he realized that yes, he could also move his fingers on both hands.
Relief poured through him.
“Let’s go,” Dr. Carter said after a few moments, and they began wheeling him from the ice. It was the strangest thing seeing the arena from this angle, hearing the taps of the players’ sticks, the roar from the crowd, as he was being pushed out on a stretcher, unable to do anything more than give a thumbs-up.
Up off the ice and through the door leading down into the depths of the arena, focusing on the squeaking wheels of the gurney rather than the curt, whispered orders of CTs and MRIs.
He would be fine.
He was always fine.
And plus, he could feel his fingers, feel his toes.
He was fine.
Until he saw her.
Pale, the light brown of her eyes shimmering with moisture. She wasn’t fine. Though she held in her tears, though her chin was lifted and her shoulders straight, Blane knew this all had to remind her of another time, another player.
She thought he didn’t know, that he couldn’t begin to understand.
But of course, he did.
“Stop,” he snapped, half-surprised when the stretcher actually did slide to a halt. “Mandy needs to come with.”
Dr. Carter hesitated for a brief second then began pushing him forward again. “Let’s go, Shallows.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Nodding, she raced ahead of them and pushed open the arena door. An ambulance was parked outside, back panels already open. Mandy waited until they passed through then helped the stretcher into the vehicle, but when she would have hopped back out, Blane gripped her wrist with his only free body part, his fingers.
“Stay.”
A long, slow breath. Her shoulders dropping just the tiniest amount.
The doors closed.
Mandy sat down next to him.
The MRI was loud and Blane had a fucking headache. He’d been in the CT already and frankly felt another scan was unnecessary. But Dr. Carter had ignored him and ordered the test anyway.
“You’ve got a headache and neck pain, Blane,” he’d said. “Yes, the CT is clear, but you still have symptoms. You know I can’t leave it at that.”
So Blane had shut up and acquiesced, knowing that the sooner he did, the sooner he could get the fuck out. But come on, he’d been blindsided by a six-foot-six-inch, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound player skating at full speed. Of course he had pain.
Hell, he’d had pain for the last decade of his career.
Something always hurt. That was the life—a strained muscle, a blocked shot, a stray punch to the face caught during a scuffle in front of the net.
So yeah, he was used to things hurting.
And now the magnets whooshing by his skull over and over again were making his head pound even more.
Funny how that worked.
Finally, the machine shut off and he was spit out, still wearing that damned collar. He was done, so fucking done that he was only a few heartbeats away from tearing that shit off.
Then Mandy stepped into the room.
And suddenly, he was as well-behaved as a schoolboy.
She had that effect on the whole team.
No nonsense but sweet as hell. Willing to always go the extra mile, to stay late, to research an obscure type of treatment in case it might help with whatever injury they were dealing with.
But recently—fine, pretty much since forever—he’d hidden something else beneath his well-behaved exterior.
Because the moment she’d walked into the room his body had exploded into awareness. His skin went sensitive, his dick—thank God that seemed to be working fine—twitched, and every smart, funny, brilliant thing—ha, perhaps not brilliant, but maybe he could have at least conjured a semi-reasonable sentence—slipped from his brain.
She was gorgeous. Incredible. Amazing.
He wanted her.
Fuck how he wanted her.
But she didn’t want him.
Three
Mandy
* * *
Mandy’s heart skipped a beat at seeing Blane so still on that stretcher. It was just like—
No.
And look how that ended.
No.
“I won’t bite,” Blane said softly. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to. They’ve got me trussed up like a fucking turkey.”
She snorted, the terror that had frozen her in place loosening its grip. “You need to be tied up.”
“Didn’t think you were into kink.”
The deadpan words froze her tongue instead of her brain because the images Blane conjured up with a single sentence were dangerous, oh so fucking dangerous. Trailing her hands down his body for pleasure rather than treatment, savoring the feel of him beneath her palms—hot and hard and rougher than her own skin. Forearms bulging as her fingers trailed lower, wrists straining against her bonds until . . . snap and it became his hands on her.
Sweet baby Jesus, how she wanted that.
And sweet baby Jesus, how disgusting was she?
The man might have a spinal injury and she was undressing him with her eyes, imagining him in bed, not focusing when she should be helping him get better.
Nothing but a disgusting little whore—
“You okay?”
Blane’s question pulled her out of the words, out of another place and time, and guilt swamped her anew.
She was supposed to be taking care of him and instead she was a fucking wreck.
But she also knew how to pull herself out of that particular mindset.
God knew, she’d done it plenty of times.
So she straightened her shoulders and released a long slow breath, letting the tension, the memories, the hurts retreat back into the darker recesses of her mind.
“Sorry,” Blane said just as she opened her mouth to get back on track. “I shouldn’t have gone there.” A hesitation. “Even as a joke.”
A joke.
Here she was fantasizing about his body, about spending time in his bed.
And she was a joke.
Fucking perfect.
Mandy bent and faked tying her shoe, knowing that she was being too sensitive, knowing that she was off her game because of the hit and the potential for a spinal injury and the fact that it had been Blane bleeding out on the ice in that moment. She needed to tuck the shit away, to get her head on straight and focus.
“You don’t have to apologize, Hartie,” she said, gaining some distance by referring to Blane by his most recent nickname, a not very original play on his last name, Hart. “I’ve heard it all before.”
“It was stil
l inappropriate,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Which made it worse. Because even instinctually he wasn’t attracted to her.
So. Much. Ugh.
“It’s fine,” she said, hurrying on when he started to speak again and would have no doubt issued another flipping apology. “Should I wheel you out of here? The docs were gathered over your results a few minutes ago. No doubt they’ll have some answers soon.”
“Yeah.” His eyes flicked over to meet hers as she grabbed on to the gurney and started pushing him out of the MRI suite. “What do they think?” he asked.
She almost made an offhand joke. The MRI was a simple precaution at this point. The concussion protocol had been administered, and Blane had passed. The CT was clear, as were the X-rays. Dr. Carter was just crossing every T and dotting every I.
But it occurred to her that Blane might not know that.
He’d been so calm and . . . himself—agreeable, steady, clear-headed—that Mandy hadn’t recognized that he was holding on to some fear.
Rightfully so, of course.
The collision had been a big one, and any loss of consciousness was serious. Plus, he had a two-inch gash on his cheek that had required both internal and external sutures.
So he might seem fine, and his body might be fine, but that didn’t mean he’d come out of this completely unscathed.
“Gabe thinks you’re clear, last I heard,” she said and brushed a finger over his uncut cheekbone. It wasn’t unmarred, however. A huge bruise was forming, all swathes of blue and black and purple. Not pretty, but standard hockey fare. “Minus the shiner you’ll be sporting for the next while.”
