Boarding

by Elise Faber

  Blane crossed over to her acting like he was going to give her another hug . . . but instead moved quickly to grab her head and put her in a headlock. He messed up her hair before letting her go. “Yes, boss.”

  She pointed her finger at him, hair tumbling all over her face. “So. Much Trouble.”

  He saluted. “Sic Dan”—her brother who was currently working as an FBI agent—“on me if you want. But, somehow, I think he’d approve.”

  Grumbling, she fixed her hair and got onto her bike. “You’re lucky I love you.”

  “You’re lucky I love you,” he countered then called to the room at large. “Dinner at my place tonight to celebrate these two jokers.”

  She glared. “It had better be your pasta.”

  “As if I know how to cook anything else.”

  Her lips twitched. “True,” she said, her words halting for a few seconds as she began peddling through a difficult stretch of the program. “But I’ll tell you why you’re the lucky one when it comes to me loving you.”

  His own pulse was speeding up as he got down to work. “Why?” he puffed.

  “Because of this—Mandy!” she shouted before the object of his fascination could slip out the door. “You’re coming to Blane’s tonight, right? You told me earlier that you didn’t have plans, and you’re definitely invited.” She nudged Blane with her elbow and he nodded.

  Mandy’s cheeks were bright red. “I should leave you guys to it.”

  Which was exactly the wrong thing to say in front of a group of players who were in such good shape largely because of her efforts in the training suite.

  The room was filled with urgings for her to come from all sides.

  After a few seconds, she caved like a cheap suitcase. “Okay, okay. I’ll be there,” she declared before leaving the room.

  Brit flicked her eyes to his. “That is why.”

  “You’re an evil genius.”

  A flash of white teeth. “Don’t you forget it.”

  Eleven

  Mandy

  * * *

  What in the hell was she doing?

  Well, technically, she was standing on the front porch of Blane’s house, an engagement gift in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, but the mental chastising wasn’t because of her gift choice or her decision of red wine over white.

  Nope. She was trying to find some distance from Blane, and here she found herself at his house.

  Again.

  What makes an idiot for two thousand, if you please, Alex.

  Then a picture of her face would flash onto the screen.

  She wasn’t going to come, had actually planned to beg off with a headache, until Brit had texted with a picture of her beautiful face pulled into a hangdog expression.

  Don’t flake, please.

  You’re as much a part of this team as I am.

  Come. Please.

  So Mandy had come.

  And now she couldn’t reach the doorbell or the handle. But just as she’d almost resorted to knocking with her skull, the panel of wood swung open and she was face-to-face with Blane.

  Or rather face-to-back, because he wasn’t looking forward. “I’ll just grab it from my car—”

  “Uh—oof.”

  “Wh—shit.” His hands came up to her shoulders, steadying her. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t see you there.”

  Warmth radiated from his fingertips down through the light jacket she wore, through the T-shirt underneath, straight into her skin. It swirled below the surface, shooting sparks out her own fingertips, making them itch with the need to touch. That heat slid down her chest, her stomach, lower.

  So much need from such a simple touch.

  “You okay?” he asked. “I didn’t hurt you, right?”

  She cleared her throat. “Nope. I’m fine.” She held up her full hands. “I come bearing gifts.”

  His smile stole her breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Words wouldn’t come. She wanted to reply that she was glad, too, but instead all the desire for Blane was twisted up with fear and a need to keep herself safe.

  He seemed to realize that fact.

  “Go on in.” He nudged her shoulder gently. “The crew is mostly here. I just need to grab my bag from my car.”

  Mischievousness was rampant in his last sentence.

  She plunked her hands, gift and wine bottle and all, onto her hips. “And what’s in that bag?”

  A grin. “News articles.”

  Mandy raised a brow. “What about?”

  “Stefan’s removal from a few of the most eligible bachelor lists.”

  A few? Ha. Not likely. Still, these were hockey players, and they could take a little ribbing as easily as they gave it out.

  “How soon until Brit guts you?” she asked, stepping inside.

  He strode out onto the porch. “Probably from page one.”

  She laughed, walking past the couch where she’d sat with Blane only the night before and following the sound of voices. They eventually led her into a stunning kitchen.

  Gray cabinets, white countertops, a turquoise backsplash. The space could have been straight out of an HGTV show. And that was all she saw because about ten of the guys were gathered around the huge kitchen island, beers or glasses of wine in their hands. They turned almost as one when she walked in, and then she was surrounded in a sea of greetings and fist bumps.

  Brit emerged from behind them, a spoon in her hand. “Try this,” she said and practically shoved it in Mandy’s mouth. “Isn’t it good?”

  It was delicious, in fact, and probably both the reason the kitchen smelled so good and also why the guys hadn’t strayed far.

  They were probably desperate for a meal that wasn’t approved by Nutritionist-Rebecca.

  “It is really good,” she agreed and handed Brit the gift bag. “Here.”

  “What is this?” Brit asked.

  Mandy set the bottle of wine on the counter. “Just a little something.”

  She’d bought the pairs of matching cozy socks a few weeks ago, after Stefan had secretly shown her the options for rings he’d been considering, because one, they were cozy socks and no one could go wrong with cozy socks, and two, they’d made her laugh, emblazoned as they were with “Do these socks make me look engaged?” Then, en route to Blane’s house, she’d stopped at their favorite restaurant on the Peninsula and bought a gift card to round out the silly gift.

  “Stefan!” Brit called, clapping her hands. “Presents!”

  The guys dutifully stopped talking and watched as Brit opened the present.

  “The pink pair is for Stefan,” Mandy quipped.

  He snagged them and held the socks up by his ankle, modeling. “Pink is definitely my color.” He winked, before setting them carefully next to the gift certificate Brit had pulled out. “Thank you for this”—he hugged her—“and your help with the ring.”

  Mandy shrugged. “Of course.”

  “You knew?” Brit gave her squinty eyes.

  Mandy brushed them off. “Of course, I knew.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She tapped her chin, pretending to stare up at the ceiling in intense thought. “Because it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  Brit wrinkled her nose. “I hate surprises.”

  “Lies,” said Mike as he walked into the kitchen with his wife, Sara, in tow. “Sorry, we’re late.” The guys turned to greet him.

  Stefan tilted Brit’s chin up to press a quick kiss to her lips. “He’s right. You love surprises.”

  Brit crossed her arms. “Maybe,” she conceded, flashing Mandy a smile before going over to hug Sara and Mike

  “You’re a good friend.”

  Mandy didn’t jump. She’d felt Blane come into the room a few minutes before, her body intrinsically in tune with his presence.

  Danger. Danger.

  But in that moment, with her friend so happy, with her little surrogate family around her, she couldn’t force the armor back
up around herself. These were people she trusted, people who trusted her.

  She just wanted to relax and not be on edge.

  “She’s easy to be friends with,” Mandy said, smiling up at Blane. “But then again, you already know that.”

  “I’ve got my half of the Best Friends necklace already, don’t try to steal it.”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t dare.” A pause. “Do you still wear it now that she has Stefan?”

  “Every night when I cry myself to sleep.”

  Mandy snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “And you’re beautiful,” he said, making the air hitch in her lungs. “Now, go on.” He nodded in the direction of Sara and Brit, who had been joined by their friend Monique. “Enjoy yourself tonight.”

  Blane slipped back to the stove, stirring a massive pot of sauce, and something inside her tightened further, the tension ramping up so tightly that it threatened to break.

  She forced herself to head over to Brit, Sara, and Monique.

  Instead of letting her last thread of control snap and launching herself into Blane’s arms.

  Enjoy herself.

  Yeah, she had a few ideas about that.

  Sighing, she forced the ideas out of her brain and joined in on the conversation.

  “I can’t believe your drawings are going to be at the de Young,” Monique was saying to Sara.

  “What?” Mandy asked. “Sorry to interrupt, but that’s amazing!”

  Sara glanced down, biting back a smile. “I know. I mean, I shouldn’t say that because it sounds super braggy, but I’m so, so excited.”

  Brit put her arm around Sara’s shoulders. “You’re allowed to be excited. You’ve worked hard.”

  Sara blew out a breath. “You’re right. I did.”

  “Can we all go to the opening together?” Monique asked. “I’ll call up some friends”—she was a former model with designer friends—“and get us all dresses.”

  Brit wrinkled her nose.

  Monique crossed her arms. “It’s either this or wedding dress shopping.”

  Brit made a fake vomiting sound.

  “It’ll be both,” Mandy said, shooting Brit a glance. “You know Monique is the only one we trust with this sort of thing.”

  “Is she?” But Brit was smiling. “Look at you, all gleeful over there. You’ve been trying to get me into one of your designer dresses for months.”

  “That’s because your body is incredible, girlfriend.”

  Brit rolled her eyes. “I acquiesce to your dress up skills. For these two events only,” she hurried to add when Monique’s face went from pleading to ecstatic to overjoyed in the span of a microsecond.

  “No take-backs!” Monique decreed and they all burst into laughter.

  Mandy grinned. “Watch out, Brit, pretty soon you’ll have hired yourself a full-time stylist.”

  Brit stopped laughing. “And now we can’t be friends anymore.”

  “I’ve worked on you in PT for years—you should know I’m impervious to threats by now.”

  Sara cackled. “Owned. And anyway, I don’t see why you’re so against clothes. Like Monique said, your body is incredible, but I’m sure it’s hard to buy something off the rack. It might be easier to let someone dress you properly.”

  “Properly?” Brit huffed. “I have T-shirts and sweats. I’m covered.”

  Monique rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless sometimes, you know that, right?”

  “The last time you tried to get me to wear something it had ruffles!”

  Mandy chuckled as the conversation went on, loving the banter between her friends, the inside jokes and funny references. She about died of laughter after they’d all eaten their fill of the delicious pasta and were gathered in small pockets in the living room, and Blane produced the laminated news articles and tweets lamenting the fact that Stefan—and also Brit—were now officially off the market.

  “I haven’t married him, yet,” Brit grumbled, but her expression was amused.

  “True,” Stefan said, holding up a sheet. “This woman says if I marry her instead, she’ll get my face tattooed on her—”

  Brit snatched the sheet. “So. Much. Trouble.”

  Stefan grinned then kissed her softly on her jaw. “I only want you,” he whispered, softly enough that he’d meant it just for Brit’s ears. Mandy had been sitting on the couch next to them, but now stood and slipped away, wanting to give them their privacy. “It’s only ever been you.”

  Her heart clenched, and if she were being truthful, she was jealous.

  She wanted that.

  Eyes drifting away from the happy couple, her gaze landed on Blane.

  He was watching her, his brown eyes warm. Hopeful.

  She wanted him.

  Twelve

  Blane

  * * *

  His house had cleared out. Only Brit, Stefan, and Mandy were still sitting on his couch. The girls were laughing over some scene from the most recent episode of Real Housewives while he and Stefan were discussing the latest from Pierre, Stefan’s father and also the current owner of the Gold.

  Blane hadn’t been joking about becoming the latest Gold scandal. In the four short years of the team’s existence, they had first weathered sexual assault allegations—the player in question having been rightfully fired and found guilty after a trial—then they had hired Brit, the first female player in the league. After which, the GM had been fired and the board completely dismantled when they’d attempted to extort Brit. That didn’t even include the firestorm of Brit and Stefan’s romance or Mike dating Sara Jetty, the former disgraced—but now reinstated—gold medalist and the media furor that had ignited because of it.

  Walking pantsless out of hospital probably wouldn’t have even made anyone’s radar after all that, but Blane figured he should help PR-Rebecca out as much as possible.

  Especially if he wanted her to make brownies.

  “I don’t want to like him,” Stefan muttered after telling Blane how his father had taken his mother on a trip that summer. “But he makes my mom happy.”

  Which was said with about as much enthusiasm as Blane felt when he was eating off Nutritionist-Rebecca’s meal plan.

  “Well then you have to suck it up,” Blane said. “He’s good for the team.”

  “I guess.” He stood. “Ready to go, babe? We should let Blane get his house back.”

  Brit nodded. “Yes, we should. I’m tired and you have that thing in the morning”—she shot Blane a look that made it clear there was no thing—“oh, but before you go, Mandy,” she said when Mandy stood as well. “You should have Blane give you the name of his cabinet guy. I know you were thinking about redoing them in the apartment, and his are really nice.”

  Mandy’s brows drew down and together. “I—”

  Brit strode over to the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. “Show her the soft-close slides. They can’t slam. Show her.”

  “This has to be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Blane muttered under his breath.

  Stefan snorted before crossing over to Brit and grabbing her arm. “We’ll let you show Mandy your drawers. Later, Blane.”

  Brit gave him a thumbs-up as Stefan hustled her out.

  Neither he nor Mandy moved as the front door opened and closed.

  Then she shook her head and picked up her purse. “I know she’s my friend, but that woman is about as sly as a two-ton bull in a china shop.”

  “I would agree with you.”

  She played with the strap of her bag and addressed the elephant—or bull, rather—in the room. “Brit has apparently decided we’d be good together.”

  “I don’t think she could have made her feelings any more obvious if she tried.”

  She nodded. “I should go.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” he said and began heading toward the front door. “I can bring the name of the cabinet guy in tomorrow if you really do want it. He did a good job.”

  “Soft-close draw
ers?”

  “You know it.”

  She touched his shoulder. “I do want to replace them, so I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  They both hesitated by the closed door.

  Finally, he released a breath. “God. This conversation is the worst.”

  Her laugh was relieved. “It is seriously the worst.”

  “I don’t exactly know how to save it,” he said and then internally rolled his eyes. Smooth, Hart. Real Smooth.

  “I—” She broke off with a sigh.

  “You what?”

  “I can’t lose my job, Blane,” she said, stepping back, eyes glittering with tears. “It’s all I have.”

  “Why would you lose your job, sweetheart?”

  She huffed, turning away for a second before rotating back to face him. “It’s in my contract, Blane. It’s in yours. Fraternizing between the staff and players results in job loss for me and a fine for you.”

  “That’s not—”

  “And furthermore, your contract is up at the end of this year. You can’t afford to look bad, not when it’s possibly your last chance at a really big deal before you retire—”

  Whoa. Retirement? He was, hopefully, years away from considering that.

  “And if you get mixed up with me, sooner or later someone will realize who my dad is, and I can’t—I can’t pretend that he was all great and good and expound to the media about him.”

  Her chest rose and fell in rapid movements.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, placing his hands carefully on her shoulders. “First, you would never have to talk to the media if you didn’t want to—”

  “I’m sure PR-Rebecca would say different—”

  “Never,” he repeated, waiting until her gaze met his, until she saw he meant it. “Second, my contract is my worry. I’ve been doing this for a long time now, and I know how things go. I trust my agent to do his best for me.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” He brought his fingers up to brush her cheek. “And retirement isn’t something that is remotely on my plate—”